Chapter Sixteen

Colonel Brandon had been watching at the windows for some time in anticipation of his wife's return to the house, wondering why he had not gone with her rather than allowing her only Elinor for company. The weather was fine, and gave no cause for worry, but he did not like it when the sisters slipped out of view behind the shrubbery and continued their walk beyond it so that he could not see Marianne.

Edward tried to be sympathetic, but he understood it was not the same for him. Elinor was of a much sturdier constitution than Marianne, and was also not with child. He had it from Elinor that Marianne was prone to fainting spells, and as he knew so little of them—except that his mother was forever threatening to be stricken with one as soon as things failed to align with her wishes—he could not know the fear of anticipating a genuine episode. He attempted to distract the Colonel from his incessant scowling at the empty drive and pacing to and from the view, but when all his conversations ran dry and failed to draw Colonel Brandon's attention away from the window, he tried instead to cheer him with assurances of the sisters' safety; the agreeable weather, and Elinor's good sense and ability to care for Marianne should anything go amiss.

At such a statement, Colonel Brandon snapped his head to attention, paying heed to Edward's attempts to distract him for the first time that afternoon. "What might go amiss?" he questioned, his countenance grave and serious.

"Nothing with Elinor beside her," Edward reassured him. "I am certain they will return soon, before we set off for the chapel again."

"Marianne has little concept of time, especially when she is out walking," Colonel Brandon replied, his voice softening at the image it provided of his wife's blissful revelry in nature. "I... cannot tell you why, but I am strangely fearful for her whenever she is out of my sight. It is selfish, perhaps, to worry so relentlessly over her and place troublesome restrictions on all her favourite pursuits." He had recently begun to limit the hours she dedicated to difficult compositions, lest she weary herself with eye strain, or sit too long on the unmercifully hard piano bench. "But I have suffered great loss over the course of my life, and I am not willing to part with the most precious thing I have obtained in all my years. Not while I can do any small thing to prevent her from harm, or keep her from the slightest sorrow."

"Two precious things," Edward murmured, following his gaze out the window. "For she carries your child."

Colonel Brandon resumed his steadfast watch and quietly echoed, "Two precious things."

A voice, unfamiliar in its pitch and urgency, carried his name to his ears, just as Elinor's form appeared below, running towards the house with no sign of Marianne in tow.

"Elinor!" Edward cried in surprise, giving no heed to where he set his half-empty glass of sherry. "That is Elinor! Elinor is... is running! Whatever can the matter be?"

Both gentlemen were upon the drive before Elinor had reached the door. Edward took her by the arms to steady her as she was quite out of breath, and Colonel Brandon waited only long enough for her to gasp out, "Marianne is quite overcome... on the lawn by the roses. She... cannot walk... Willoughby..." and he was bolting towards his wife as fast as he had ever run to escape death in battles long past.

She was cold when he reached her, and still trembling uncontrollably. He did not think it the weather that made her so, as there was more danger in browning one's complexion from lack of a proper parasol than suffering from a chill, but he removed his coat nonetheless, and wrapped her in it before lifting her into his arms and bringing her to the house.

Marianne was distraught, and her eyes wild and unseeing, but when the Colonel set her down on the chaise and made a movement that might have been interpreted as his preparing to let her go, she would not allow it, but begged hysterically that he stay with her. In her panic, she was completely unconcerned with the way she'd caused her bonnet to loosen and hang from her neck while her hair grew unruly.

"I will not leave you," he assured her, pulling her into his lap so that she might cling all the tighter to him. Despite the additional weight of the babe, he found her surprisingly light and wondered how dainty she must have been before the child had grown so. He felt a pang of envy that Willoughby had known what it was to have that delicate creature in his arms while Marianne was still untouched by his cruelty, and then a sense of triumph overruled that it was he who was the victor in holding both wife and child now. His "two precious things," as Edward had so innocently declared them.

Marianne was growing warmer from their closeness, but something caused her to shiver into his shirt as she said, "I lied to Elinor. I told her I was not afraid of him, but I was! I was!"

He gently tugged the length of ribbon to release her completely from the confines of her bonnet, soothing her hair as he bid her tell him what Willoughby had done. "Has he hurt you, my love? Shall I finish the job I'd begun and dispatch him to his eternal fate?"

Her head shook in the negative. "He did not hurt me, nor threaten me. Not in looks or gestures so pronounced. It is not Willoughby's way to announce his intentions to use a person ill. His manner is generally persuasive enough not to require such tactics. But still, I was so frightened."

"He is gone?" he asked gruffly, and eased somewhat to hear her whimpered assent. "I will never leave your side again," he swore.

Marianne shook her head against his chest again. "Do not blame yourself, dear Colonel. You are not responsible for Willoughby's actions."

"I am responsible for you," he argued.

Knowing she would never persuade him otherwise, nor did she think it necessary to try, Marianne pushed gently against him to wrap her arms about his neck and look into his eyes for comfort. "He said that I could not love you," her voice and lip trembled in unison. "He claimed that I only pretended love in order to spite him and make him suffer. You must not believe it, Colonel!" she cried in agitation, "You must know that I am sincere when I say that I love you!"

"I know, my Marianne."

She drew some comfort from his declaring so, and her trembling became less pronounced, her voice quavered less, and her body relaxed. Still, she did not sound quite like herself as she asked, "What if he tries to take our child? What if he turns him against us?"

"Marianne, I swear to you upon my life that John Willoughby will not take our child. He relinquished any right to the child when he abandoned you both, he confirmed his unworthiness by marrying Miss Grey, and as he has no proof to make claims by, the law would also side with us. He could not be so irrational as to attempt to claim the child. It would be too much of a risk to his finally acquired assets, too damaging to his pride. He must have some sense of preservation for his own reputation."

"You are right, of course," she nodded, but still victimised her bottom lip while indulging in darker anxieties. "Willoughby loves himself too dearly to risk it all for a child—even his own flesh and blood. I was frightened for nothing."

"Anything that causes you such grief cannot be nothing," the Colonel gently reprimanded her. "And I believe Elinor would agree with me. I have never seen your sister in such evident distress before today. Shall I send for her?"

"Yes! Oh, poor Elinor to be frightened so!" Marianne in her haste removed herself from the Colonel's lap and tried to stand without assistance, promptly teetering and nearly swooning onto the floor. Colonel Brandon put a stop to her nonsense at once, telling her to stay on the couch until he brought Elinor and they would decide together how best to make Marianne at ease again.

Even in her state of dizziness, Marianne was able to tease him about tricking her into her confinement. "I will only rest until I am feeling well again. I refuse to be shut up in a room for months on end, even one as pretty and comfortable as this one."

Colonel Brandon offered her a half smile that was partially condescending, but also conveyed his willingness to forebear with his wife's insistent declarations as to how she was to spend the rest of her pregnancy—at least for the time being.

Elinor set to work seeing to Marianne's physical needs before asking any questions about the incident she had just borne witness to. Once enough pillows had been acquired—for Marianne declined the Colonel's offer to be moved to the bed—a servant was sent for tea and a few tempting sweets. Elinor settled herself in the chair Colonel Brandon had moved by the chaise so that she could sit by Marianne, and the Colonel, clearly serious about his promise not to let Marianne out of his sight, took up the remaining seat across the way. He intended on keeping himself as unobtrusive as possible, as he could sense Elinor was eager to speak with Marianne, but there was no place that would keep him far enough from hearing, yet close enough to see.

Elinor was by no means discomfited by the Colonel's presence, but took Marianne's hand in her own and asked as if they were entirely alone, "Dearest, what affected you so about Willoughby's appearance? I know you loved him once, but I had thought... you did tell me that was all past and over with. You were not moved to regret by his account, were you?"

"No, Elinor! Oh, no," she said decidedly. "Though I pity him greatly, there is no... Lingering affection—no question of anything of that nature! I was startled, though, and ill-prepared. All wretched memories of the day of his betrayal came flooding into my mind and I was unable to push them away. In my mind's eye, I could see in perfect, wretched detail the hour this child was conceived, and yet... as he stood there, brooding, and miserable, and wicked as ever he was, I still thought him handsome! I still thought him worth feelings of sincere pity! There was no temptation for me to feel anything kinder than that, but still I was overcome. I felt the pain of him anew. And I felt sick to think he might try to claim this poor child borne of violence. Our child must not know of Willoughby," she repeated. "It cannot."

Elinor paled considerably, and as she tightened her hand to keep it from shaking, asked, "Whatever do you mean, dearest? What violence was there in your child's conception?"

Marianne studied Elinor a moment, finding it strange that she had never learned the manner of their relations in Devonshire. She supposed she had never spoken of it, and had chosen instead to bear all of Elinor's remarks against her character as testament to the irrevocable loss of her virtue as a thing deserved, but how much time had she let slip by before making it a priority to let Elinor know? After complaining to Colonel Brandon of secrets and gulfs, she felt ashamed of her hypocrisy. "I was not brought willingly to Willoughby's bed," she said at last. "I was seduced to his home, but not into his bed. Any indiscretion on my part was wrong, I know that well enough, but I did not allow him to kiss me, to touch me, to... lie with me as we were not yet bound by oath or covenant to each other." Elinor could not help but be aware of the way Colonel Brandon shifted in his seat, no doubt practicing the greatest self control in not rushing to Marianne's side, or verbally interjecting his loathing of the scoundrel in question.

Marianne closed her eyes and heaved a deep sigh. "I told myself afterwards that he had a right; that it was only his uncontrolled passion for me that made him unable to wait for marriage. I convinced myself that he had loved me so dearly that he could not keep himself from me, and that this act was his tragic way of bidding goodbye for the length of our separation. I truly believed we were good as engaged and he had every intention of returning to me once he'd secured his inheritance. But then his manner of departure was so swift, so... devoid of all warmth. The drive back to the party was grave and quiet. He answered only in distracted, half-smiles that worried me, but still did not warn me." Marianne stopped, frowning in silence for a moment. "Then he went to London, and though we followed soon, I dreaded the sight of him as I tried convincing myself he would come to me and makes things right. I still believed that he loved me, even then."

"Marianne..." Elinor stroked the back of her hand, hoping to show her through the action that she meant no accusation through her questioning. "You do not... think that way now, do you?"

"No. I have seen what love is through my husband," here her eyes shifted to dwell upon the quiet man across the room, and she smiled. "I have seen it in his behaviour, and in yours, Elinor. Even in Edward's, though there were moments I doubted him," she added with an attempt at levity. "I know now what Willoughby truly is, and where his heart lies, for it is not what we say or think that defines us, but what we do. Willoughby did not love me. He wanted me, perhaps, but he did not, and does not love me. Not in the way he should. But he has got his just desserts. You saw how miserable he is."

"I tend to think him not miserable enough."

"I tend to agree," the Colonel put darkly.

"And I do not blame either of you, but I am satisfied if he lives a long and healthy life with Mrs. Willoughby to administer the consequence of his sins all the while. I will be content, knowing the pain he will endure each time the name of our child is mentioned with the last name of Brandon as a testament to what he forsook for his current misery. Perhaps he deserves worse, but I cannot desire more than that. What I do desire is to rest, and for you both to stay near me a little while, until I am quite asleep."

This was an agreeable notion to both of Marianne's attendants, and as she slept, one watched on motionlessly from afar, and the other stayed near enough to smooth her hair and clutch her hand in intervals. Elinor had remained a quiet listener through the greater part of Marianne's recounting of her abuse, but now that there was no distraction to the murmuring of her own thoughts, she was beset by remembrances of all the harsh words she had ever judged her sister by. She could lay no blame of returning silence at Marianne's feet; she who kept so much hidden in her own heart, and spoke only of duty and principle. It was no wonder Marianne felt she could not be fully open about such an egregious attack.

It pained her to imagine all those months of suffering Marianne endured alone. Worse than alone, for Elinor had not been very kind concerning Marianne's predicament, treating it as a consequence of foolish inclinations and a weakness of character; something that required an immediate and practical solution. Now as she watched the soft rise and fall of Marianne's breaths, the pallor of her features, and considered the reaction she'd had at Willoughby's appearance only an hour past. Elinor laid her head on the edge of the chaise and wept for her poor, dear Marianne.

Much had changed since that whirlwind courtship, both in the sisters' convictions and situations. Marianne no longer believed in saying everything on her mind at any given opportunity, and Elinor no longer was certain it was always wisest to choose prudence over passion. So long as there was a proper balance of the two, if the sisters could influence each other, they would both be the better for it.

As her tears subsided, and she was able to regain hold of her emotions once more, Elinor heard the Colonel stirring anxiously from his position across the way, and suddenly she longed for the embrace of her own husband—no doubt sequestered away in some nook downstairs, reassessing his sermon from the morning, and picking it to pieces in his solitude. Elinor dried her eyes with the handkerchief she kept always on her person, and rose to leave the Colonel to be the one Marianne awoke to.

Watching him take her previous place to tend ever so carefully to his sleeping wife, Elinor thought that it was more than the sisters who had changed for the better.