The Excursion to Whitwell, Part 7

The morning, though it offered no relief, brought composure to some of the cottage's inmates. At her elder sister's request, Marianne resolved not to speak of what was foremost in her mind. It was trying, but she did not want to add to Elinor's suffering by disregarding her wishes.

Edward, however, made such an effort on Marianne's part unnecessary. He shocked them all at breakfast by declaring his intention of leaving the following day. Elinor and Marianne looked at each other. Margaret and Mrs. Dashwood were more vocal in reaction to the news.

“But you have only just arrived!” said Margaret with a pout.

“What!” Mrs. Dashwood cried. “You would desert us so soon? That is hardly friendly!”

“My dear madam,” Edward said, looking chagrined, “you must know I mean no insult. I would not go if my business were not of the utmost importance.”

“But Edward, has there been a letter that I am unaware of? What business can take you from us so cruelly?”

“There has been no letter,” he admitted. “It is just that in talking with Miss Dashwood,” he said with a glimpse at Elinor, “and with Miss Marianne, I have become convinced there is a matter that I must deal with swiftly.”

Mrs. Dashwood looked between Edward and Elinor, and a broad smile replaced her frown. “Oh! Oh, of course!” She beamed. “Are you certain you cannot stay a little longer?”

“Mama!” Elinor said, blushing.

Had Marianne been next to Elinor, she would have grasped her hand in support, but Edward sat between them. She felt the strangest impulse, one she could not recall ever having felt before: the desire to check her mother! It was obvious Mama thought Elinor and Edward newly engaged and that Edward was off to town to clear the way with Mrs. Ferrars or some such thing. Mrs. Dashwood's murmurs of “my dear Elinor” and “dear Edward” said so as plainly as her looks of expectant jubilation.

“I fear disappointing you, Madam. Your words shame me,” Edward said. “They make it even clearer that I have left my business far too long.” Mrs. Dashwood, caught up in her own happiness and in making little asides to Margaret, hardly seemed to remark his speech. Edward then turned to face Elinor and spoke in a low voice to her, which Marianne only just overheard. “I am uncertain of my success, but I must make an honourable attempt to end, if nothing else, the secrecy that has bound me for so long.”

“I understand,” Elinor said in response as she looked steadily at him. “As I said before, we will be your friends regardless.”

As they were leaving the table, the letters were brought in. Marianne eagerly took them up. One of them caught her eye, and she gasped. She had looked for news every day from London, and here it was at last! ‘Mrs. Dashwood’ was written across the envelope, but Marianne recognised the hand and could not but consider it her right to open the missive. Either Sir John had not fetched the post for them today, or he had not looked too closely at this letter—else they would have been subjected to half an hour of his garrulous curiosity before they would have been allowed to read it. Whichever was the case, she was grateful.

“Mama,” she said, trembling a bit and smiling a great deal, “it is from town!”

“Open it at once!” said Mrs. Dashwood. “Tell me how our dear colonel does.”

“Our dear colonel?” Marianne heard Edward ask as she fumbled with the seal. Her mother's interest she had anticipated, but the only pleasure she found in Edward's was that he had begun to sound like his old self again. She turned her back on their scrutiny and kept to her task. At last her fingers cooperated, and she had the paper unfolded in her hands. A second letter slid into her palm, and her eyes opened wide. He had written to her! Not just to them, but to her! He had received her note and written one in return! Her mind shouted this truth over and over, and she marvelled that the words did not pour from her lips in a mad refrain. She had expected a few lines in the letter to her mother, as in his last, but not this. She would have fled the room to read her private correspondence, but her mother waited to hear the colonel's news, so she concealed her letter in the folds of her dress.

“Marianne?” Elinor asked. “Is everything well?”

“He writes,” she answered, trying to keep her breathing calm enough to convey the message, “that he is well. His...oh.” She must not be explicit, for Edward did not know. “All is well, as much as it can be.” How fortunate! He must be so relieved! “His business in town draws to a close. He removes to the country any day now.” He had also written that he was gratified to have heard from them the very day after his arrival. How glad was she that he had received her letter so quickly!

“Does he still mean to come to us?” her mother asked.

“Yes, but his time is not yet his own.” She gave the paper to her mother. “He says we should direct any further correspondence to Delaford.”

Marianne looked about to find Edward regarding her with keen curiosity. Had he seen something? Did he suspect her?

How she ached to be alone with her letter and her thoughts!

“Edward,” she said, “forgive me, but I cannot say—I cannot.” She would not rattle off the colonel's history like so much village gossip, as much as she trusted Edward. She certainly could not talk about Willoughby to him. But she need not say a word. Elinor would manage it all; Elinor would know which parts to tell and which to conceal.

Marianne took a step away. “Elinor,” she said gravely, “you have my leave to tell him anything you like. I shall go out while the day is fine.”

“Yes, go and enjoy the sunshine, all three of you,” Mrs. Dashwood urged them, “since Edward's time here is to be so short.” She took Margaret's arm and whispered to her, which resulted in the latter's giggles as they left the room.

Marianne lingered behind until Edward and her sister had disappeared round the side of the house. She took a different path, one towards the downs.

It required the greatest patience, but Marianne waited until she had reached a spot she was certain could not be viewed from the house or the road. Only then did she pull out the letter and open it.

My dear Miss Marianne,

You cannot know the joy your letter brought, nor the shock. I was at first relieved to apprehend that you were in no danger, then unwilling to credit that your mother would write in such a manner, and at last delighted that the signature should confirm my wildest hopes—unless, of course, it was actually young Miss Margaret who penned that note!

You may wonder at my levity, but your concern for me, so promptly and frankly expressed, has set my own concerns, and I daresay propriety, at naught. I know not when I have felt so light at heart. Even the circumstances that brought me to London no longer dampen my spirits.

I was not at leisure to match your promptness, but your forthrightness I shall repay with my own. There is much I would ask of you, tempted as I now am to believe it possible that you may in time, perhaps, feel all that I could wish. If I am being a fool in thinking so, pray, tell me that frankly too, and forgive me. I shall bear it bravely for the sake of maintaining your friendship, which I value beyond words.

Yours with deepest gratitude,

J B

Marianne read it again from beginning to end.

Colonel Brandon's words exhibited a strength of feeling that could not but please her. Their intensity resonated with her, and their boldness attracted her.

And then to tease her about Margaret! And her mother! He could not have thought for more than half of a moment that her mother had written that letter. His sense of humour did not disappoint.

The colonel was no fool, but was he being foolish to hope in this case? She smiled wonderingly at his consideration. He had taken all the awkwardness out of his application. She need not be other than herself in response to him. If she wanted him only as a friend, she would say so, and that would be the end of it. They would, as Elinor had told Edward, remain friends regardless of her answer or inclination.

He knew her so well, it seemed, but she was just beginning to know him.

She knew why the colonel had not caught her notice before. He was not handsome. He was not young. He was not charming.

Yet her acquaintance with one who was all those things had gone so completely wrong.

Mr. Brandon did not talk a great deal in company—that is, his conversation had not drawn her attention. She did not know if he liked to sing, though she was vaguely aware that he appreciated good music. She knew nothing of his favourite poets or whether he cared for dancing. She had disregarded him too frequently to now find herself mistress of his tastes and habits.

She did know his character. Brandon was responsible, compassionate, and generous. Moreover, he appreciated her strength; he would not expect her to shrink back with maidenly delicacy in the face of difficulty. This was not a man who would patronise her or employ misdirection. He would talk to her, and he would listen, too.

This was the man she had wished to reassure and comfort, from whom she had waited eagerly these weeks to hear the smallest news.

Marianne walked about the downs—more carefully than was her wont—and thought of James Brandon. Might the resulting shiverings and stirrings be the blossoming of love? She could not say. She was confident, however, of one thing:

She was determined to find out.

* * *

When Marianne returned indoors, she saw that the others were there before her. Edward was talking with Elinor of Norland and some changes Fanny had proposed. Marianne decried them, and the three spent a merry time suggesting ways to thwart Fanny's plans, Edward's opinion being wholly on their side of the matter.

“I have too many pleasant memories of that place to wish for any such alteration,” Edward told them.

Marianne nodded, approving. Then she happened to look at his hands. “Your ring is gone!” she burst out.

After a tense moment, Edward acknowledged it. “One day soon,” he said, “I hope to tell you everything, but for now I can tell you this much: I have decided to act in accordance with integrity as far as possible, and my heart and conscience will not allow the wearing of that ring as things stand. It has served its purpose, or what I suspect was its purpose, in having been given me. There can be no more need for it here.”

He said nothing more of the ring, and soon, joined by the rest of the family, they were again discussing the particular and general beauties of Sussex.

* * *

Edward was ready at an early hour. This time when he took leave, there was no question of his partiality in Marianne's mind. He thanked her mother very prettily in heartening contrast to his speech upon first arriving. His adieu to her and to Margaret was all that a brother's should be. Even better, his look and manner when bidding farewell to her elder sister, while everything proper, were such as to leave no doubt that wherever his body may be, his heart would remain in Devonshire.

As Marianne drew her arm through Elinor's and stood watching the lone rider disappear from view, she hoped the next visit from a single gentleman of their acquaintance would bring them nothing but good news.

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