The Warleigh Hall Press Jane Austen Series

Chapter 1

‘And who, pray,’ asked Lady Catherine, in her superior fashion, ‘might that lady be?’

‘Heavens,’ said Susan, ‘I had never heard that Mrs Brandon was in town again. It has been this long age!’

‘Mrs Brandon?’

‘Colonel Brandon’s widow, your Ladyship, these two years, perhaps.’

Lady Catherine sniffed. ‘She looks excessively young to have been widowed. Did her husband die in France?’

‘No, though he served in India. He left her exceedingly comfortable however, with a property in Dorsetshire and a house in South Audley Street.’

‘Her air is not unattractive,’ her Ladyship pronounced, after further inspection. ‘Or, at least, one sees a great many worse.’

‘Marianne was always admired, for her music as well as her height and air. Might you condescend to meet her?’

‘Oh, I think not. It never does to put oneself out – except for the nobility, of course.’ Susan hid her amusement at this pretty sentiment. Later, she found herself asked to introduce the same lady to a young man of her acquaintance.

‘Which do you mean?’ she asked him.

‘The one with the astonishing eyes.’

‘Astonishing – oh! You mean Mrs Brandon. I should be delighted to introduce you, but you must promise to behave, for she is such a pet of mine!’ And, after he had laughingly agreed, ‘My dear, permit me to introduce Mr Henry Crawford, who has every advantage! He is not only tolerably amusing and quite frighteningly well-read, but dances like an angel, besides.’

Marianne thought Mr Crawford well-built, and his bow very graceful. However, he was only of medium height, his swarthy complexion not particularly to her taste, and she vaguely recalled having heard something to his disadvantage… He gambled, perhaps, or had reneged on a debt? – something of that sort.

He said something kind about her loss – as had everyone – and she felt the usual little stab at the reminder. She rather wished Lady Susan had remained, as that feather-tongued lady was perfectly capable of sustaining a conversation singlehandedly. As it was, she was obliged to murmur, ‘Thank you. It is, indeed, a great loss!’ ‘I knew the Colonel well, at one time,’ said Crawford.

Very eagerly, ‘Did you, sir?’

‘Long before your marriage, we were often together, at Brooks’s and at my uncle’s house.’

‘How strange,’ cried Marianne, who had taken an instantaneous dislike to Admiral Crawford, ‘that I never heard that your uncle and Brandon were acquainted!’

‘It was many years ago. How long do you intend to remain in town, if I may ask?’

‘Long enough to attend some concerts and plays – and to make a change from the country.’

‘I trust that these will answer! – yet dare not detain you longer, when so many others must be longing to renew your acquaintance.’

This seemed to Marianne excessively gallant, though she found Crawford’s manners infinitely superior to his uncle’s. As she moved through the rooms she decided that it must have been Admiral Crawford, rather than his nephew, with the dubious reputation. Had he installed his mistress in his London mansion, upon the death of his wife, or something equally scandalous?

Once the concert started, the music claimed her. There was a brilliant soprano and a flautist entirely convinced of his own brilliance… along with a hum of converse from those only in attendance in order to possess the right to an opinion. Marianne was diverted by the Durand sisters’ protestations of delight and by the famously tone-deaf Lady Catherine de Bourgh beating time with one finger. She was grateful, too, for the Willoughbys’ absence, though she would likely encounter them at some point.

Then her attention drifted… What, after all, was the difference between feeling oppressed in town or in the country? For the quietness and retirement of Delaford had begun to feel oppressive – and the seclusion she had initially craved near-insufferable!

Her mother had said, ‘My dearest Marianne, I should not hesitate, in your place, to return to town. Just at present, you need to avoid the place where you and Brandon were so happy. In town there will be new performers to inspire you, new acquaintance to intrigue you, new plays to enjoy… You will feel a great deal more energy in town, I am sure!’ But all that Marianne felt later, as her maid Sally attended her, was exhaustion.

‘Did you enjoy the concert, ma’am?’

‘Oh, the music was delightful! It was just the fuss and bustle that seemed – too much.’

‘Well, ma’am, you have not been in town for a while. And you did look exceedingly well, though I say it who ought not.’

‘Truly, you ought! You made me look far better than I could ever have contrived, and mended my bodice besides.’

‘If I might be so bold, ma’am,’ said Sally, after a moment, ‘you might eat a little heartier – Cook noticed that you scarcely touched your lunch.’

‘I hope she will not take it amiss! – I seem to have very little appetite.’

‘But that shall soon return, I am sure.’

Her hair completed, Marianne thanked her and lay down in the smaller bedroom, for she had not yet been able to return to the room she had shared with Brandon. She plucked up her leather journal, but lacked sufficient energy to write in it. Her spaniel uttered a little bark in his dreaming, and so she jumped down – the dog less than impressed by the attention – and returned with him in her arms. The spaniel was the nearest creature to a child that she possessed, and she loved him unreasonably… but then, she had always loved unreasonably! The dog resigned himself to his elevation and, eventually, his mistress drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 2

(From Marianne’s journal)

How strange it was, after recollecting Willoughby last night, to see him this morning, and so unexpectedly besides! I had called on Lady Middleton in Conduit Street – she as vague and self-centred as ever. We had scarcely settled the likelihood of a shower – and my own boredom already intense – when ‘Mr Willoughby’ was announced.

Upon seeing me, Willoughby turned white, bowed awkwardly and instantly dropped my gaze. I scarcely knew what was said – by any of us – before he, confusedly, mentioned having sent his card up to Sir John. He, once summoned, seemed in still greater haste to depart – perhaps embarrassed to be still intimate with Willoughby, after all that occurred three years ago? Meanwhile, Lady Middleton – perhaps out of an excess of good breeding – appeared to have entirely forgotten that Willoughby had broken our nearengagement. Though it might have been absence of mind, for when did she ever consider anything beyond herself and her children?

The gentlemen departed, she suddenly recollected that I ‘cared for music’ – as if music was a relative who was not expected to live. She wondered aloud if I might enjoy hearing her little Annamaria perform, a form of torture, of course, that I could not refuse. The child proved strikingly unaverse to display, for she attacked the pianoforte with such determination that I almost feared for its condition… Still, I was grateful for a moment in which to recover. For he had not known where to look – and neither had I.

Upon returning to South Audley Street, I went directly to my own instrument, in hopes of washing Annamaria from my head and Willoughby from my heart. But, as ill-luck would have it, my music fell open to a song above which I had copied a few lines of Cowper’s:

Oh! then indulge thy grief, nor fear to tell

The gentle source from whence thy sorrows flow!

Nor think it weakness when we love to feel,

Nor think it weakness what we feel to show.

I dissolved at once. I recollected the very day when I had transcribed it, upon Willoughby’s departing, and the misery which had engulfed me, in that moment… What a disadvantage it is to feel everything as powerfully as I!

After luncheon, I told Mason, our butler, that I was considering returning to the country earlier than planned, but he only remarked that it was often damp there in the spring. But what have I to fear from illness now?

Chapter 3

(From Marianne’s journal)

‘How are you, my sweetest love?’

Now I was not entranced at being Susan’s sweetest love, but I bore it, aware of the extent of that young lady’s influence – for Miss Susan Smithson, ever since Lady Catherine de Bourgh so publicly patronised her, has succeeded in prising open the tight-clamped lid of the ton. In fact, it was only during the end of my second week here in town that I felt equal to letting her know that I had chosen to receive on Thursdays. Even before my bereavement I had occasionally found ‘Lady’ Susan’ exhausting (‘Lady’, of course, being a jest of the celebrated Romney’s, when he was first painting her portrait).

When I thanked her for coming, Susan said lightly, ‘Not at all! Lady Catherine’s every friend has rushed to visit her – making quite three friends in all – yet still rendering me de trop… But my dearest angel, whatever have you got on?’

Now Sally had persuaded me to don my dark violet gown – rather against my conscience, though sufficient time has elapsed since Brandon’s death for it to be correct. I inquired, wryly, what was amiss with it, and she cried, ‘The colour, of course! Violet is wretchedly draining for those of our shade of complexion – though your eyes are so marvellously dark, and mine so tediously grey.’

‘The loveliest eyes in England!’ I teased, for so – ’twas rumoured – Romney had christened them.

‘That fellow will say anything for attention, I vow! – and really, you ought to have the new sleeves. Yours, I promise you, are never worn beyond the country. No one at court has worn those these three months.’

I observed that I was not at court – a mere country widow – but Susan paid not the slightest attention. ‘A creamy yellow, with a velvety texture, perhaps gold-coloured ribbons. That is your colour, I suspect, though – such a shame – there is no fabric about with which to experiment. Perhaps with just an edging of velvet about the hem – though not as broad as Queen Charlotte’s, which makes her resemble an overstuffed cushion.’

I could not help laughing. ‘You are doubtless in the right, but why should I waste a moment caring about gowns? I have no interest in attracting attention, I assure you. That part of my life is over.’

‘Heavens! there is nothing in that. So everyone says, at least at first. Till boredom sets in – or else a shortage of money.’

‘But who could ever be bored while there is music to play and books to read? As for money, Brandon left me far more than I could ever require – and then, though this is not widely known, there was the shock of my half-brother’s will!’

‘Your half-brother?’ she inquired, suddenly alert.

‘Quite between ourselves, till he was on his own deathbed, our father’s dying wishes seemed entirely forgot. But then – how his conscience smote him!’

‘So you are even better-off than I had supposed!’ she cried, eyes glowing. (I have often noticed that, lovely as Susan is, she is at her loveliest when contemplating money.)

Knowing her propensity to exaggerate, I hastened to lessen her expectations, ‘No doubt I am badly-off indeed compared to some in town, but I am content with very little. As I told Brandon, when we decided to part with the house at Bedford Square, this is smaller, quieter, and much more to my taste.’

Susan glanced around, pursing her lips. ‘The ceilings are charmingly high and the curtains delightful, but your furniture lacks the lightness of the latest designs from the continent.’

‘And will continue to lack it, I assure you,’ said I, as Mason presented me with a card.

‘I would be charmed to assist, having a provoking abundance of taste!’ she said, adding, ‘Your house resembles yourself. The bones of the place are all perfection – as for the rest, you do not care… Your ornaments would be better suited to some ancient dowager, I vow – Did not the Colonel drown you in jewellery?’

‘Till I persuaded him to desist. Jewels encumber one so. Oh! ’tis Crawford’s card.’

‘How perfectly delightful! I adore him!’ cried Susan. And then, ‘Why, Henry Crawford, you fickle creature! – It has been this long age since last you called at Grosvenor Square!’

‘But that, you know, is entirely your own fault, for your tame dragon is so often lurking there!’ said he, very lightly.

‘You must not call Lady Catherine a dragon, nor – dare I say it – tame!’

‘True, she is the doughtiest in the West End of London, and revels in her dragonry, besides. I have sometimes marvelled at just how stiff a port the good Sir Lewis must have needed, to nerve himself to make the offer.’

‘He was devoted to her!’ cried Susan.

‘Of course. But one suspects that his blood coursed rather swifter as he popped the question, all the same… Though a youthful Lady Catherine is scarcely imaginable. Was she as masterful at twenty as she is at fifty? Was Sir Lewis, having obtained the honour of her hand, obliged to cower in his bedroom when he had displeased her, or to forbear to follow the hunt without permission? Or – likelier – is her commanding air instead the result of possessing noble blood, a handsome figure and Sir Lewis’s fine fortune?’

‘I know her Ladyship only by reputation,’ said I, ‘but I cannot imagine her ever being very different.’

My comment caused Susan to recollect me – I have often noticed that, when men are about, ladies become no more to her than the paper on the wall. She instantly said, ‘But, my dear Crawford, you could not have chosen a more charming time to call, as it is a man’s opinion that we require – and a man of taste, besides.’

‘Then you are quite out of luck for, as to taste, even my sister believes me entirely deficient.’

‘Nonsense! No man deficient in taste could have selected so exquisite a waistcoat.’

‘He could, I assure you, had he the sense to don the waistcoat his manservant had selected.’

‘How vexing you are!’ she pouted. ‘But now, observe Mrs Brandon, I beg. Have you ever seen so perfect a complexion worsetreated? Purple, I vow! I was entreating her, when you arrived, to have a gown made up in creamy yellow. Would not she outshine all London in cream satin, with the new sleeves?’

‘Mrs Brandon would be all loveliness, in any gown,’ said he quietly, rather to my embarrassment, before adding, ‘Just as you are, yourself. Why, you might be sisters!’

At this, Susan tapped him on the knee. (How I envied such impertinence and freedom!) ‘Nay, for she has such height, such distinction – I am a mere wood-sprite, by her side! Oh, ’tis criminal to treat such advantages so rashly. But we shall resume the subject once Mr Crawford has gone away, for young men make ten thousand calls while we might contrive two, on purpose to remind the ton of their existence… I believe there is a concert this evening, as well.’

‘There is. Have you heard Giornovichi on the violin, Miss Smithson?’

‘I have not,’ said Susan. ‘But Sullivan says, should the Romans be missing their organ grinder, he knows where he might be found.’

I felt a little shocked at this, for had I not heard Susan herself, not three days ago, describe Giornovichi as a divinity? – But then, she was always a little wayward – really, a female rattle, were it acceptable to describe a lady thus (which it is not). This encounter served to prove, to me at least, not only that Susan and Mr Crawford are exceedingly well-acquainted, but that he is not truly plain. He is not handsome, but he has a vitality and countenance that compensate. He is as vital as Susan is, herself!

Chapter 4

(From Marianne’s journal)

I dreamed last night – as far as I remember, for the first time in months. And what I dreamed was strange and apocalyptic, of a great wave, hundreds of yards high, crashing down upon Delaford… (Delaford! How mad was this? So far from the sea! – though the wave in my dream was tall enough to have menaced the highest cathedral.) I awoke as the clocks struck three, and did not sleep again for hours.

Mrs Jennings – as chatty and gossiping as ever – called this morning and, almost before quite removing her bonnet, ‘Now, my dear, you must indulge me, for we were always the best of friends and your sisters just the same. You are a great deal too young and – to speak plain – a great deal too pretty not to re-marry. No twentyyear-old with a fine manor, a house in town and a tidy bit of money need pine away on her own like so raddled an old creature as myself – Though, mark you, Mr Jenkins did once say that, had I fancied it, he would have liked it above all things, for his own wife – when she was alive, of course – could never be silent, not to save a human life. But that, you know, would have been quite impossible!... At any rate, were she by, your mama would agree with me, though ’tis lucky she is not, for the wind is due east, and her leg troubles her when the wind is easterly, and if southeasterly pretty much the same.’

Half-amused and half-annoyed, I recollected the many times Mrs Jennings had tried even Elinor’s patience… I miss Elinor, though she has withdrawn from us since her boys were born – or perhaps it was I who withdrew, during Brandon’s last illness? I suddenly realised that Mrs Jennings was waiting for me to answer some question, I had no notion which. I hastily agreed and she said, ‘I am glad to hear it! In that case, I shall call for you at seven tomorrow.’

I was too ashamed to admit that I had been too preoccupied to understand where she might be taking me, so I begged Sally to inquire of Mrs Jennings’s maid whether it was a concert or an exhibition, before choosing a gown. ‘A very new play, but clever and amusing, I understand,’ Mrs Jennings told me in the carriage, ‘though the principal actress’s behaviour apparently no better than it ought to be. Still, it will take you out of yourself… A lady ought not to frowst about the house all day, as my dear mama always said!’

We had scarcely settled in our box when I saw, in the next box but one… Willoughby.

He was with his wife, or so I presumed – a slim, pointedfeatured woman wearing pearl ornaments in her ornate dark curls.

She ought to be pretty but somehow is not – perhaps her features are a trifle sharp? – nor did her husband appear to attend to her very particularly, but spent a great deal of time in conversation with a stout young fellow, instead.

Mrs Jennings said, ‘The Willoughbys are in town, I see… His wife will not care for young Thorpe, and there I must say that I quite agree with her. As for Willoughby, I have not spoken to him these three years, I assure you, not since he behaved so wickedly to you, though Sir John himself will chat away to anyone, from an earl to a chimney sweep, and nothing in the world to be done about it.’ Now, I did not wish to look – or, at least, to be seen to look – and yet, at one point I secretly felt so certain that I was being observed that I did. I found his gaze fixed on me, so sorrowfully, and hurriedly turned back to my companion, my heart hammering wildly.

During the next act I kept recollecting what Elinor had mentioned, of his sudden arrival at Cleveland, just as my fever had passed crisis-point. But had she done justice to what he had told her? Despite her rigid notions of honour, I have never felt certain on this point, for Elinor was always critical of Willoughby, even censoring his wish to give me a beautiful horse – one ‘exactly calculated to carry a woman’ – thanks to some scruple or other of her own. As Willoughby himself remarked at the time, ‘Some ladies, my dear Marianne, carry notions of economy to the point of ridicule!’ Also, Elinor was forever objecting to our private jokes, to our dancing together more than twice at the local balls – why, even to our being seated at the same pianoforte, without which we could never have attempted a single duet!

I have never thought of it before, but Elinor’s distaste for emotional excess might perhaps explain her partiality for Edward. Both of them are clever, worthy and generous, but not in the least passionate… Nature never throws them into ecstasies – poetry and music scarcely touch them – their feelings are so calm, so rational, that they appear more like long-acquainted friends than a married couple! This does not make them wicked – though once I might have thought so. Instead, such reserve merely feels stifling to me, like choosing to remain indoors on some perfect day, never even lifting one’s gaze to enjoy the sunlight flooding through the window….

It was on just such a perfect day at Barton – during one of the first walks permitted me after my putrid fever – when Elinor admitted that Willoughby, having heard reports that I was dying, had rushed to Cleveland. (Mama had confessed to me that my life had been despaired of, though I had not the slightest recollection of it – but she said not a word of Willoughby.) Yet how can I be certain, three years having since past, that Elinor told me all? She believed W. to be unsteady, unreliable, someone hazardous to know. When I locate the section in my earliest journal, I find this:

‘He came, with four horses?’ I asked incredulously.

‘He did, whirling up the drive in a great tumult, while I was supposing that Mama had thrown economy to the winds! I never imagined that he would dare to come to Cleveland, after all that had occurred in town.’

‘He could not have expected to see me!’

‘Quite. His avowed object, instead, was to see me. First, in order to be assured –’

‘– that I lived, I suppose,’ I interrupted.

‘That was my own thought, but he had already learned as much, from the Palmer’s garrulous housekeeper. Once I confirmed that you had indeed turned the corner, I certainly expected – I certainly hoped – that he would leave. Why, I even doubted his sobriety, when he did not!’

‘His sobriety!’ I repeated.

‘Anyone would have doubted it, Marianne, though he gave me his word that he was as sober as I… His true errand then became clear. He had come to beg for your forgiveness – no, seriously, it was very little less. He accepted that he had treated you ill. He even described himself as having behaved like a scoundrel –’

‘A scoundrel!’

‘I believe that was his word – which I could not, in all conscience, deny – and of his having deserved to lose you. He went on to describe himself as having been helpless, between his aunt’s intense displeasure, the pressure of his debts, and his love for you. However, the only way he could propitiate his aunt was to secure his position properly, through marriage. He left us at Barton, that day, with no other object in view.’

‘Debts? What kind of debts?’

‘As he did not elucidate,’ said Elinor dryly, ‘I know not what manner of temptation he found so irresistible!’

‘And he claimed he had loved me – yet we were never properly engaged.’

‘True, but it was very little less. He did not merely mislead you, Marianne – he misled our entire acquaintance! Mama expected your marriage – I expected it – and so did the Middletons, our every other relation, and Brandon himself! But it was always expediency with Willoughby – expediency, selfishness and folly. I found what he told me rather shocking, but I trust I did not show it.’

‘I trust you likewise told him that he had long since been forgiven?’

‘I did,’ said Elinor, ‘and that did silence him. ’Tis possible that he even regretted his wild journeying about the country, at that point.’

I doubted this – I strongly suspected, instead, that he had been too much moved to speak. I said, ‘I am very glad that you told him – glad too that he wished to be forgiven. But said he nothing about that terrible evening, when he denied knowing me before all the world?’

‘No.’ But there, I believe that Elinor lied. I am almost certain, she did it so badly! No, Willoughby – knowing him as I do – must have mentioned how that evening had affected him.

‘And then, the letter? Said he nothing of that?’ I asked.

‘He did, indeed – for I charged him with it, and he denied having written it! He claimed his wife had done it all, beyond the forming of the words upon the paper.’

‘His wife?’

‘So he, at any rate, pretended. Yet the business had only just been settled, the date of the wedding agreed, and it would doubtless have cost Willoughby a great deal – of money and of trouble – to break through the engagement. Probably, he has since learned to see the shame of it.’

But I still believe – then, as now, in this moment – that his wife had written it. I have often imagined her confusion at my behaviour that terrible evening. Indeed, everyone present must have suspected some closeness between Willoughby and myself, and some level of self-deception on my part likewise – unless they had thought me entirely mad! In short, Sophia Grey (as was) must have suspected something.

While in this very journal, I confided my suspicion that a woman must have been complicit in his letter – though I had thought of his aunt, and not of his intended…

Finally, I asked Elinor if Willoughby had suggested that any feeling for me still endured. Elinor did not – quite – meet my gaze as she responded, ‘Why, he wished you very well and very happy! How could you have ever been contented, had you married such a man as Willoughby?’ And I agreed, though it went against every motion of my heart. I begged her to tell Mama, as she had been so warmly attached to W. before. (I left it to Elinor’s judgement to decide what to tell Margaret, for Willoughby had used to tousle her hair and tease her, and she had loved him like a brother.)

Mama referred to it yesterday, and in exactly the manner I might have expected: ‘I am glad to learn that Mr Willoughby repents all that occurred – but nothing, my dearest child, can alter a mercenary nature. And it grieves me to say it, but his must be most mercenary. Why, when confronted with reduced circumstances, he instantly sacrificed his passion to his convenience! Can you imagine your own father – or such a man as Colonel Brandon – doing the same?’ (How Mama longs for Brandon and me to wed – never realising that it is not in any woman’s nature to love twice… To me, the very notion is inconceivable!)

But now it feels as if Elinor has, with that finicky precision of hers, cut off every hope that I ever cherished – like some plant that failed to fit within her border… Poor Elinor! She means, I know, to protect me from my feelings, never realising that, without strong feelings, I might as well have died at Cleveland!... Of course, she herself has recently been obliged to endure a great deal – in part, thanks to my own impulsiveness. But I still doubt that she told me all – because she did not dare. And now that I have written it, I look at it and tremble.

Because she did not dare.

Marianne closed the journal, thinking, ‘That was before I had learned to love Brandon, of course, which altered everything!’ And yet, though she had loved her husband both fiercely and tenderly, she had never once denied that Brandon had been her second love. And, recalling that long look from Willoughby in the theatre, she thought again: because she did not dare.

How ironic it was that she, who had so fiercely and so publicly maintained that no heart could love twice, had proved this notion to be untrue! And then she blushed at something she had never thought before. Could it be that she was as entirely mistaken now as she had been three years ago? Where there had been a second love, and one as powerful as the first, was it so unthinkable that – perhaps when she was very much older – there might be even a third? But no,...