Chapter Nineteen
Spring drifted by in a succession of happy nothings. Marianne felt that though she and her Colonel experienced their honeymoon weeks much later in their marriage than most couples, there was nothing wanting in the ways they sought to make up for the past. There had never been a time that Colonel Brandon might have been accused of being inattentive to his wife, but he pursued her with a renewed joy that could only come of receiving and returning love free of doubts and distraction. Everyone remarked on his youthful expression, the lightness in his step, and how well marriage suited him in every way. There was a tendency towards mirth that had been previously unseen in the Colonel, and those that knew him well were gratified to notice it. That Marianne found her happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing member of their familial acquaintance. She would never be as prudent or settled in disposition as Elinor, but it was her open affability and eagerness in her husband's company that gave him such joy, and his seriousness and stability anchored her otherwise unbounded nature.
The business of her care during the last four months of her condition were carefully attended to by a midwife who came recommended by Mrs. Pickard, and whose knowledge and capabilities were well investigated by Dr. MacKay before he followed his friend back to the Indies for their charitable work for the impoverished there. Though the Colonel's original prerogative was to begrudge any and all orders of Dr. MacKay, the proof of his wisdom found in Marianne's good health, and his subsequent departure from that country made it far easier for the Colonel to accept his newfangled notions and allow Marianne the freedom she craved.
Summer came upon the little cottage of Elinor and Edward just as it did for those at the Great House, though the manner of its approach differed for the two households. Along with a good crop of strawberries and a most surprising excess of dairy products from the Ferarrs's cows came the news that Elinor was in the family way. She had none of the inducements to lie-in from her husband as Marianne had at first, for even if the inclination to have her do so had come upon him in some inexplicable brain fever, it was impossible for their livestock and crops to be properly tended to without her constant labour. When economies allowed, they did hire a village boy to help with the more strenuous tasks, but the majority of the work must be done by Elinor, and she would have it no other way. Besides, she did not trust the village boy, and though she could not say precisely what caused her mistrust, she was certain there was something sly in the nature of his doings. He did not cheat them, kept strictly to his hours, and worked well and hard, but he seemed more interested in the happenings at Delaford than one would consider entirely natural from a field hand's son. Elinor asked him once if he knew the Colonel, or her sister, Marianne at all, or if he had any dealings with them that would cause such a curiosity, but he turned such a violent shade of red and denied the charge so emphatically that she ceased to pester him about it, afraid she had embarrassed him dreadfully, and decided that foolish paranoia might be a symptom from her maternal condition.
Mrs. Dashwood, who never lost her favouritism for Marianne, found a new purpose in fussing over Elinor and her situation, and she would stay at the Great House as much to find ways for her and Margaret to alleviate some of Elinor's burdens as to be near Marianne through her last months of expecting.
It was mid-morning on one fine summer day when Marianne felt the distinct pains and rush of expelling fluid to announce that the time drew near for her child to be born. It was near the hour when Mrs. Dashwood was wont to set off for the parson's cottage, but Marianne's predicament kept her from donning hat and shawl, and she hastened instead to be by her side and fulfil any requests of her daughter that the attending maid was unqualified to take care of, or the midwife unable.
Margaret stayed sulking in her room, for she was not needed to tend to Marianne, nor was she able to walk to Elinor's without someone to escort her. Her mother tried in vain to tempt her out of doors if only to play with the dogs, but Margaret had been looking forward to learning Elinor's recipe for Shepherd's Pie and was stubbornly inconsolable. Mrs. Dashwood soon gave up on her and left her to her own devices while she saw to Marianne. Elinor was sent for with the understanding that she was to come only if she could possibly be spared from home. She arrived within the hour.
Colonel Brandon took up a post outside the door, pacing to and fro like a madman, until Marianne asked after him enough times for the midwife to permit his presence. Marianne sat very near the edge of the bed; eyes shut, hands on her belly, and grimacing against what appeared to be a severely unpleasant sensation. She was in one of the spare rooms; close as any chamber was to the linen closet and kitchen. The posts of the bed had strong tassels tied to it, presumably for Marianne to grasp hold of, should the pain be more than simply grimacing could endure. Elinor sat behind her as a support, speaking to her quiet encouragements now and then when she thought it fitting.
The midwife gave the Colonel a sharp look as he entered, placing a sheet over Marianne's previously exposed thighs. Colonel Brandon graciously withheld his scoffing. There was nothing of Marianne he had not seen before in their intimacy, and it was absurd to assume modesty at such a time as this. When Marianne's pains had dissipated for the time being, she greeted her husband with far more welcome than the midwife.
"They tell me you are not to be here," she said wearily, though seemingly more at peace to see him near, "but I am stubborn and insisted. Though Mrs. Clintock says she may throw you out at any moment."
This produced a snort from the midwife. "So long as he stays well out of my way, I'll try to tolerate him. A husband in the birthing room," she shook her head. "Never heard of such a thing."
Colonel Brandon attempted to show his goodwill by not answering her in like manner. He wished to be of some use to his travailing wife, but could find no employ that was not already taken up by Mrs. Dashwood, Elinor, or Mrs. Clintock for obvious reasons. He did not see that he did any more good standing stoically by while Marianne suffered so terribly than he had done by pacing outside the chamber, but after each of her bouts with the intensifying labour pains, she would search for a glimpse of him and seem to draw some kind of solace merely by seeing that he still stood by. By and by, he did draw up a chair, and felt a little less foolish sitting out of the way of the bustling women while remaining close enough for Marianne's comfort.
When the time for delivery drew nigh, and Marianne was instructed to shift to the edge of the bed so that she might begin the most exhausting process of delivering the child, Colonel Brandon spent the majority of those hours wringing his hands and offering silent prayers to the heavens. If he felt as if this day would never end, he could hardly imagine what poor Marianne suffered.
She had been pushing for some time, and was very close to delivery when the midwife demanded to know why the maid was taking so long with the fresh supplies she'd asked for nearly a quarter of an hour ago. Mrs. Dashwood hurried to find the maid and urge her on, but rather than find the girl she sought, another maid was almost collided with, begging to know where the Colonel might be.
The commotion could be heard outside the chamber as the door was left ajar, and Mrs. Dashwood's shrill exclamation was loud enough to be carried to Marianne's ears.
"Whatever the matter is, it can wait. See to it that the linens are brought up at once! The Colonel cannot speak to you now, as he attends his wife who is ready to have his child at any moment!"
There was an intelligible answer from the maid—her voice not being nearly as insistent or her tone as authoritative as Mrs. Dashwood's, but the returning queries made it clear what had harried the maid so.
"Why should Willoughby be here?! He has no business with my daughter any longer! And certainly not at such a time as this! Tell him to be off! And for heaven's sake, bring me those linens!"
The nature of this revelation sent Marianne into a near fit of hysterics, and the rosy hue in her cheeks caused from her exertions was turned a sickly white. "He is come for the child!" she said wildly, already panting heavily with labour. "He will take our little one!" Thus saying, she clutched at the tassels and groaned as another pain came upon her and the midwife encouraged her to push again. When she had done, the frightful exclamations began anew that Willoughby intended on snatching their child away, and the Colonel feared she would work herself into such a state that might cause danger to either herself or the infant she currently struggled to bring into the world.
Elinor also tried to soothe her sister, and redirect all her effort into the birth of her child, but she would not be persuaded to any semblance of calm until Colonel Brandon swore to take care of the matter and left her with Elinor for support, and Mrs. Dashwood who had finally discovered the missing maid and extra linens.
The Colonel made his way out to the foyer, where Willoughby had forced his way in, causing the maid who had been pushed aside the greatest distress. She knew it was not her station to open the door, but Mr. Meren was helping Sophie and the others access all the locked cupboards to collect supplies for the midwife, and he could not be spared in that moment, so she had gone to see who was there, but the gentleman had pushed his way right through, and she was terribly ashamed, but "please don't sack me, sir."
Colonel Brandon assured the maid she was in no danger of losing her place, and sent her to help the others in any capacity she was able. Though his words were gentle, there was a hardness in his tone that was easily explained by the venomous look he was bestowing upon the unwanted guest in his home.
Willoughby's nervous demeanour and dishevelled appearance bespoke of his harried journey there, and the knowledge he had of some emergency, though how he might possibly come to know the time that Marianne was about to give birth, Colonel Brandon could hardly imagine.
Willoughby opened his mouth to speak the first word, but the Colonel stopped him short by striking a heavy blow to his mouth. He raised him from the ground with a strong grip on his poorly kempt shirt, and dragged him towards the door from where he meant to throw him out onto the gravel.
"M... Marianne..." Willoughby sputtered, his words thick from his newly swollen cheek and mouth filling with blood. "Is she well?"
"My wife is none of your business," the Colonel growled, "and if you do not leave this property and swear never to return, I will finish the job I began when I challenged you for her honour."
"I must know," he begged desperately, not bothering to rise from the prostration Colonel Brandon's evicting him from the house had reduced him to. "I must know she is well and... and the child is safe. Please, I beg of you. I am but dust and ashes before you," he grovelled pitifully. "I have tried every tactic imaginable just to hear word of her. I even hired a village boy to keep me informed, should anything befall her! Only tell me she is well, Brandon! I beg of you!"
Hateful as the man before him was, ruinous as he'd been to the women Colonel Brandon cared for, he was not entirely impervious to Willoughby's wretched pleadings, and told him, "She is overtaken by fits whenever she knows you are near. That is all I will tell you of the matter. That is all the answer I will grant you. Prolonging your stay is a danger to both her and the child she struggles to bring into this world. You know I am not a jesting man, and I intend to make good on my threat if you do not leave our home at once."
"Will you not send me word when the worst of it is over? Can you not pity me at all? Enough for the smallest of notes! I must know she lives."
"The time has long passed since you had any right to know what befalls her. You shall know of her fate no sooner than the rest of those too far outside our acquaintance to warrant direct contact."
"And the child?"
"Belongs to me."
Willoughby's expression was one of such confusion, that the Colonel almost thought he'd been struck mute. He regained his faculties enough to sputter, "You... you cannot mean to... You really mean to raise...?"
"Willoughby," the Colonel uttered through partially clenched teeth, "though you may find it beyond your capacity to care for other men's offspring, including the fatherless daughters you so readily abuse and abandon for your own pleasure, I am not so basely inclined and will gladly raise the child as my own son or daughter, despite the unfortunate truth of their begetting. The world will know the child as mine, sparing Marianne any blight on her reputation, and you will have no part in its life, or ours for as long as you remain living."
He did not wait for an answer. Having made it abundantly clear that he had every advantage over Willoughby in situation, legal prowess, and even personal happiness, the Colonel strode back into his grand home, and shut the door on the rouge outside.
Returning to the spare chamber, nursing only a moderate pain in his knuckles, he was struck with a great and sudden foreboding as he approached the shadow of the threshold. The heavy door had been left open, and an unnatural silence had befallen the room. For a bleak moment, the breath left his lungs, the ability to move forsook his limbs, and he knew true terror at the pounding of his heart that throbbed in his chest. What the silence meant, he dared not imagine. He could not even pace, could not even open his mouth to request some sign of life from within. Something like a cat's mewl reached his ears, and it was followed by the gentle noise of feminine laughter.
"Colonel!" Elinor exclaimed as she hurried out the door with an armful of soiled linens, "You mustn't be afraid of her! Go in and meet your daughter!"
He passed the watchful midwife and the gore of afterbirth without hesitation. He had eyes only for Marianne and her wellbeing, although his attention was distracted by the tiny, wrapped bundle she held in her arms. Marianne's brow was furrowed, though in deep fascination rather than fear or consternation; she was pale, but not fearfully so. Her eyes were bright and merry, no longer wild, her mouth slightly ajar as she stared at what she held. "Where is the Colonel?" she murmured, almost as if to the bundle itself, "Where is my husband?"
"I am here, my love," he intended to announce, but the words came forth in a reverent whisper.
She looked up at him, eyes filling with tears, though she was no longer in distress. Willoughby was entirely forgotten in the joy she derived from that small, wrapped thing in her arms. "I wished to be certain of you," she said. "Come and take my hand. It is easier when you hold me like this. Tell me all will be well, dearest. Tell me we will love her, and not ever let on that hers was a painful beginning."
He stared into the round, pink face of Marianne's daughter—their daughter—and wondered at the softness of her cheeks, the daintiness of her features, and the serenity of her expression under such conditions as being newly born. He felt his heart twist with a new dread as he gazed at the tiny girl. How could he call himself a man worthy of this child and her mother's love if he ever let anything befall her? The thought of it made him reel, and he was forced to tighten his squeeze on his wife's hand to chase away the prospect of such a thing.
"Never," he declared. "She shall know no hurt if I can do anything in my power to prevent it. I swear to you, I will always take care of you both. Our Mary will never want for anything."
"Mary," she breathed, and rubbed her nose against the babe's own, being that her hand was still securely clutched in the Colonel's and not free for petting her little one. Mary's nose crinkled at the contact, and she mewed again, this time a little louder; perhaps even angrily at the disturbance. "It is not so different from 'Marianne,' is it?" she teased. Then speaking to her daughter directly, she said, "Did you hear your Papa, Miss Minney Brandon? You shall be cared for always. For you are ours to love, and we shall love you well."