Chapter Fifteen
On the night of Marianne's confession, she and Colonel Brandon shared a bed. It was not in the manner of couples consummating a marriage, for even though Marianne had made it known that such intercourse would be welcome, the Colonel was most careful for her and the growing child in every way imaginable. It took her an excessive amount of reassurances to even bring him to hold her to him as they slept, and she was not persuaded that he slept very comfortably after all, for he was stiff and slow to movement the following morning.
It was not, perhaps, the most romantic of ways to awaken; urgent for the chamber pot, with a husband groaning over his sore joints and then pretending he had done so such thing, but there was a strange charm to their complaints in that it felt quite the usual thing for a married couple to do, and it was the first time since her wedding Marianne felt truly married. For while they were not engaging in such intimate acts that bawdy novels proclaimed essential, and even better authorities accepted as necessary for making two as one, still they were comfortable with one another's morning practices; a world in which only the most intimate of relations and trusted of servants were permitted.
Despite her romanticising the simple voicing of bodily needs, Marianne took issue with the Colonel's constant fear of her causing herself or the babe injury, and told him so as they took their tea in her boudoir. He seemed incapable of allowing her so much as to prepare the tea, but bade her let the servant see to it while she sat and waited for it to be brought to her. It was not such an unpleasant situation altogether, but it reminded her of the thousand other little things she might not wish to be protected from quite so religiously.
"Colonel," she said, once the servant had gone, and they had exchanged morning greetings befitting a tea service, "I am not so delicate a creature that I will break by one wrong touch or movement. As unkind as my presumptions upon your person being decrepit in its agedness was, you must see how your treating me as fragile is also unpleasant."
He frowned in disagreement whilst passing her a fully doctored cup of tea—her second already. "It was not until I held you that I realised how... truly with child you are."
Marianne laughed, embarrassing the Colonel. "I could not be more or less with child! I either am or I am not!"
"I... cannot know how to elaborate on my meaning without giving insult," he sniffed, hiding his discomfort with a prolonged sip of tea.
"You meant that I have become quite round, and you did not notice until you tried to wrap your arms around my girth? But Colonel, you have never held me before to have a comparison!"
His expression indicated that it was not a fact he particularly cared to have verbalised. "I confess it is strange to share a bed, and to be close to you, and to touch you where I know the child lives and grows."
Marianne paused, trying to appreciate the peculiarity of his situation. "The woman in London who confirmed my condition told me a great many things I had not known before, regarding conception and childbirth. At the time I thought it much more than I should ever hope to know, but now I almost wish I'd been more curious, and asked her my own questions."
Without being too pronounced in her implications, Marianne went on soberly, surprising herself by her composure. "She claimed there was no danger to either me or the baby to engage in intercourse, and I thought it cold comfort at the time as I never imagined I'd be using it as argument against my husband. For my husband," she amended, smilingly.
The sideways glance he afforded her was brief, but full of meaning. "It is not only your safety, and that of the child's that I am anxious for. I do not wish to disturb you. You sleep so sweetly, and I am afraid of waking you by turning too often."
"You forget that I shared a bed with my sister for most of my life," Marianne reminded him. "Besides cold feet there is little that disturbs my sleep once I have begun it."
"Much like your love, your sleep is constant, is that what you mean to tell me?"
"You are quite poetic this morning, Colonel."
"I have a wife who is teaching me well." So saying, he abandoned his drained teacup for a much sweeter pursuit of kissing his rosy-cheeked wife.
It was not many days before Marianne changed her tune, and the amorous ideas that were so encouraged by her one morning over tea were suddenly abhorrent to the extreme. She still would not hear of lying-in, but took her walks in every kind of weather, except those expressly forbidden by the Colonel, and as he usually accompanied her, there was little she could do against his wishes.
Food became a challenge rather than a joy, as something that would tempt her one day might have a nauseating affect the very next. Marianne wondered how she would ever have borne her condition in a marriage without wealth, as she was certain her fickle palate was not conducive to economical living.
She confessed as much to Elinor, who smiled in her knowing way and said it was fortunate, then, that Marianne would never have to know the necessities of economising. Marianne then realised that Elinor would have to bear all of her pregnancies without the constant aid of monetary provisions, and she blushed and tried to rescind her remark. But Elinor was not offended in the least, and had every confidence that when her own time came, she would manage contentedly, just as she had always managed.
Edward and Elinor were as industrious as she could have hoped and a great deal more besides. Amongst her home improvements, their ministering to the parishioners day and night—for neither of them could close their ears to the needs of those less fortunate, no matter the hour—and the care and feeding of their livestock, Elinor had little time for making social calls, though she visited the great house as often as she could. Marianne began to feel with some resentment that they lived in two separate worlds. She still longed for her sister's presence, her confidence, and her company, but life amongst grand rooms with a host of servants at her disposal called for concerns of a very different nature from Elinor's. It was not as if the two sisters could not sympathise with each other, or struggle to comprehend the problems of the other, but their daily duties and preferred recreations were so removed from one another that Marianne sometimes found herself thinking wistfully of their girlhood, and regretting she had not taken better care of their friendship before adulthood and married life had inevitably estranged them in certain aspects of their lives.
Their one constancy was the Sabbath, when all the villagers gathered at the chapel, and after Edward's sermon, he and his wife took lunch at the great house. The four people so dear to each other spent the whole of the afternoon in the best of company, until they gathered with the parishioners again for Evensong, and then at last to part ways.
Marianne thought marriage made vast improvements to Edward's character. When his natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open and affectionate heart. At ease with his wife, he was far less inclined to ramble sardonically, or give opinions Marianne found of ghastly poor taste. Their disagreements were far less of an incredulous, baiting nature, and more amiable discussion. Yet, her marriage to Colonel Brandon had also tempered Marianne, and she was far less inclined to find fault with people in general, least of all her brother-in-law who clearly made her sister so very happy.
It was one Sunday afternoon, a very fine day in late spring, while Elinor and Marianne took a turn about the grounds—not too far, as Elinor was aware that prolonged wandering by Marianne made the Colonel nervous—as they passed the hedgerow and out of sight of the windows, that a particular person of worthy note, though not of worthy character, came upon them suddenly, causing Marianne to stumble back in fear and surprise.
As the imposing figure drew nearer, he pushed his hat over his brow so as to obscure his identity from any who might be watching from afar, though there was no mistaking whose dark riding coat cloaked his shoulders, nor whose horse he now walked by the bridle.
Though startled to see him come upon them so suddenly, Marianne had regained her composure in an instant, only holding a little tighter to Elinor's arm, hoping it was not a visible shift in her posture. She had sometimes thought of what she might say to him if such a circumstance presented itself, as impossible as it seemed, and now that he stood before her with at least the good sense to look something like ashamed, she was thankfully not at a loss for words.
"What business have you here, Mr. Willoughby?" she addressed him with a cold formality that made him falter unbecomingly.
He was so disturbed by the lack of warm reception that instead of answering her directly, he cast his gaze here and there in distracted thought. He looked very well. That is to say, if a man ever looked well whilst suffering the deepest affliction of the soul, it was Willoughby who wore it thus. Regret had carved deeper lines in what was visible of his brow and the shadows around his mouth, marking him as one well acquainted with grief. His eyes were suited to the melancholy that had taken permanent residence within them, and he was still every fulfilment of a romantic figure that a lady might be seduced by. More so, even, as the features so full of masculine confidence had sunken to a visage that begged for comfort and consolation.
Marianne inwardly cursed him for maintaining all the outward appeal of a man who lacked every inward virtue. Elinor offered to escort Marianne inside at once and send Willoughby away with the Colonel's help if necessary, but she declined the offer, stating, "I am not afraid of him now, Elinor. I want an answer."
Still refusing her the answer she desired, in a voice hoarse and low he asked a question of his own. "Is it true?"
"Is what true?" She could not imagine he meant to question the validity of her marriage so late since its event, but a cruel foreboding chilled her heart nonetheless. "I can neither affirm nor deny your suppositions without some indication of what you desire to know; and that so desperately that you must trample upon my convenience and appear before me without warning."
"You are with child," he stated. "You cannot deny that much, for even if the rumours were to be disbelieved, the looseness of your gown betrays the truth behind your silence."
Though her cheeks turned crimson, Marianne held his gaze steadily. "What has that to do with you?"
"Is the child mine?" When she refused an answer by word of mouth, and her eyes burned fiercely in hot indignation, he accepted it as affirmation. "It is. Of course it is," he exhaled sharply. "That would explain your hasty marriage and the ridiculous duel... Why you would otherwise marry such an odious, hateful...?"
"Take care, Mr. Willoughby," Marianne rebuked, no sweetness whatever in her tone. "You are on my husband's property, slandering his good name as you address his wife."
"His good name," he jeered. "Yes, the Colonel is good, indeed, if he has not spoken of divorce and plans to raise the child here. Or does he not know? Have you tricked him into believing the child is his?"
"I do not keep secrets from my husband," she returned, then striking him a blow more crushing than any she had yet produced, "I love him too well for that."
"You cannot mean it," he said, clearly tortured by the very notion. "Marianne, you do not know what I have suffered over you. What I have suffered with a wife I do not love and could not love, for I love you alone. I love you still. Do not wound me so by making false professions, for my anguish could not be any deeper, or felt more keenly with each passing moment. My regret could not be more torturous than it is now."
"You think I pretend to love my husband in order to spite you?" Marianne realised her voice had heightened in volume, and she lowered it again to say sadly, "No, Willoughby. Your self-love must run deeper than any regret if you truly believe it possible. I love Colonel Brandon with all of my heart; the heart that you abused so thoroughly, and abandoned so quickly. We will raise the child to know him as its father, and you will have nothing to do with either me or the child, of that I can swear to! What was your purpose, Willoughby? Did you think to find me as miserable as you? Did you think to earn my forgiveness by speaking ill of my husband and comparing our situations? If I was inclined to forgive you, even for myself, when I consider all that the Colonel has done for me, and suffered for my sake, and continues to suffer because of my foolishness in chasing you and encouraging you, I cannot bear to even think of forgiveness."
Trembling with the onslaught of emotions, and causing Elinor to grow anxious with concern for her, Marianne decided it was time they went back to the house, and she indicated her departure by informing Willoughby he "had better go, lest she set the dogs on him."
She stood her ground with great determination until his repeated pleas were finally given up as fruitless. She continued to stand firm until he had mounted his horse and rode off with backwards glances now and then, still unwilling to fully accept that Marianne meant all that she had said to him.
When he was far beyond the grounds, and had become less than a dark smudge against the backdrop of the sky and hills, Marianne allowed Elinor to walk her home. Though she shook so violently, and stumbled so often that Elinor finally forced her to sit upon the first patch of green they came upon and ran straight to the house, calling for the Colonel all the way in a fashion most unlike her self-possessed nature.
Author's Notes:
Thank you, lovely readers, for your consistent interest in this work, despite my inconsistency in updating it here. I promise I haven't been purposefully tantalising you in order to boost the book sales on Amazon! (Do authors do that?) Although, I am very thankful for those of you who have loved my book enough to own it on their Kindles or bookshelves.
Some life updates...
We now live in a rural area with no WiFi. Obviously, this makes everything that requires internet more complicated, as we use our mobile phones as hot spots whenever we need to do anything internet related on the laptop.
Baby Poppet is due the end of next month, so I'll STRIVE to post the rest of this story before he arrives! I'm also working hard to finish a novel about seamen and sirens before the due date. It's a story heavily inspired by H2O characters, but in a more fantasy/old timey world than the Jonathan Shiff production. I'm still debating whether or not to post it here under AU H2O fiction. I'd hate to be a tease with yet another novel. :P