Colonel Brandon's Diary

1796

Tuesday 5 January

I laughed at Mrs Jennings three years ago for saying that children grow up very quickly, but Eliza is growing up before my eyes. She has gone to Bath with a school friend, Susan Southey, whose father, a man I know to be respectable, is visiting the town in order to take the waters. I am persuaded that she will enjoy herself, for bonnets seem to form the chief part of her conversation and there are plenty of bonnets in Bath!

I have decided to buy her a new horse. She will need something better than her pony when she joins me for Easter.

Tuesday 19 January

I had a letter from Eliza this morning, telling me all her news.

I have never seen so many shops, she wrote. Susan needs a new bonnet and her maid is taking us to the milliners this afternoon, then we are going to the circulating library. There are some very fine books on history to be found there.

I smiled at the notion of her carrying home a pile of books on history. If she shared her mother’s tastes, she would be carrying home a pile of books on poetry, or the latest romances!

Thursday 4 February

Eliza has disappeared! Oh God, where is she?

Southey’s letter reached me this morning, and couched in roundabout terms, he told me that Eliza had vanished. I was immediately alarmed and I set off for Bath at once.

Southey, looking very frail, could tell me nothing except that Eliza and Susan had gone out walking on Tuesday and that they had become separated.

‘Susan did all she could to find her friend but at last she had to return home alone,’ he said. ‘She hoped to find Eliza waiting for her, but alas! that was not the case. We kept expecting her at any minute, but when it grew dark and there was still no sign of her, I felt I ought to write to you.’

‘And did you not send the servants out to look for her?’ I enquired.

‘I am a sick man, I cannot think of everything,’ he said peevishly. ‘If I had known what sort of girl Eliza was, I would not have invited her to keep Susan company.’

I fought hard to master my temper, for he was ill, confined to his chair. I saw that he could tell me no more and so I said, ‘Might I speak to Susan? ’

‘She can tell you nothing. Poor Susan is as much in the dark as I am.’

But I was determined, and Susan was brought into the room. I questioned her closely, and grew cold at what I heard, for it became clear that, because of her father’s ill health, the girls had been free to go out without an adequate chaperon. Susan’s maid was meant to go with them, but it soon became clear that she had a sweetheart, and that she was in the habit of allowing the girls to range over the town and make what acquaintance they chose whilst she conducted her own dalliance.

‘That was very wrong of her,’ said Mr Southey.

I pressed Susan, but she declared that she knew no more: that she and Eliza had gone out for a walk, that her maid had stopped to speak to her sweetheart, that Eliza and Susan had walked on together, that they had been separated in a crowd, and that Susan had had to return home alone.

As she spoke, I was convinced that she was lying. There was an air of obstinate and ill-judged secrecy about her. She kept giving me sly looks, to see if I believed her, and I was convinced that, at the very least, she knew more than she was saying. But question her as I might, she would not admit to knowing what had happened.

I left the house at last, disgusted with Susan, and set about conducting my own enquiries, but I could find no trace of Eliza.

I returned, at last, to the inn, where I wrote to Sanders, telling him that I needed his help, and then I set myself to thinking.

Either Eliza was ill, or she had been abducted, or she had run away with someone. The more I thought about it, the more I thought that the last of these was the most likely, for only a love affair could have caused Susan to remain silent.

But why had Eliza run away? If she had met a man, a good man, I would not have stood in her way, even though she was only sixteen. My spirits sank. She had not met a good man. A good man would not have run off with her. She had met a scoundrel. And now she was at his mercy.

I thought hard. Where would he have taken her? But my spirits sank again, for he could have taken her anywhere.

Then I realized that he must have had some sort of conveyance. I asked again at the inn, and then at all the stables in Bath, but I discovered nothing.

Then he must have had his own carriage, which meant that he was a man of means. And he had taken her, for what purpose? To set up as his mistress? Surely Eliza would never have consented to such a thing. But with no mother to guide her ... and then I grew cold, for I thought of another possibility: Eliza, knowing that her mother and I had planned to elope, would have been an easy target for a plausible villain. If he had said that he loved her and if he had promised to take her to Gretna Green ...

But perhaps he had. Perhaps I was worrying precipitately. Perhaps a letter would arrive in the next few days explaining everything.

I clung to the hope, the better to sleep, for I needed sleep in order to be able to search again, refreshed, on the morrow.

Friday 12 February

It is more than a week now since Eliza disappeared and still no news. Surely she would have written to me if she was married? But she might be enjoying herself and her new life too much to think of me. She might write in another week.

I must hope so, for I have been able to discover nothing and Sanders has had no better luck. I mean to keep searching, and I have told him he must do the same.

Saturday 12 March

It is over a month now since Eliza disappeared and there is still no news. I dread to think what might have happened to her. If she was alive, surely she would have written to me? She would want my congratulations if she was married, or my help if she was not. Surely I should have heard something?

Friday 26 August

I met Sanders in London, and my hopes were dashed again as he told me he had no news. In seven months I have discovered no trace of her.

I retired at last to my club, where I met Sir John Middleton. He greeted me cheerfully, for I had not told him about Eliza.

‘You must come to visit us next month, Brandon,’ he said. ‘We have not seen you at Barton for months.’

I was glad to talk to him, for his good cheer lifted me out of my own gloomy thoughts, and I accepted his invitation with gratitude.

‘Good, good. We will make you very welcome, and we will be able to offer you some new company. A relative of mine, Mrs Dashwood, who has recently been widowed, has come to live at Barton Cottage with her daughters. The cottage is only small, but it is capable of improvement, and if the ladies like it, I will alter it according to their taste.’

‘You do not have to introduce me to new company in order to induce me to visit,’ I said. ‘I am very happy with the company I always find at Barton.’

‘But you will not object to finding some new faces when they are there,’ he said jovially. ‘Four ladies! A mother and three daughters, and lucky for me that it is so, for a mother and three sons would have not been to my taste. The sons might have been sportsmen, and if so, I would have been obliged to offer them my game. And if they were not sportsmen, it would almost have been worse, for I would have found precious little to talk to them about. But it is different with ladies. Ladies never take a man’s game! I saw them once, many years ago, pretty little things, and I believe they are held to be very handsome now that they are grown.’

‘I am sure they are,’ I said as we went into the dining room.

‘It is about time you married, Brandon. Yes, I know you have had your share of unhappiness, but that is in the past. You need to look to the future. You are still young. A wife is just what you need.’

‘I have no intention of marrying,’ I said to him shortly, and then I was sorry for my bad manners, for he only wanted to help.

‘Well, you know best,’ he said.

We talked of other things as we ate: of his family and the political situation, of the price of corn and new ideas in farming; and then we parted, he to go back to Barton and I to return to my rooms.

And now my thoughts are once again with Eliza. That she has run off with someone I am sure. As long as she is happy, that is all I ask. But why does she not write to me?

Monday 5 September

I arrived at Barton Court today and I was glad to be among friends.

After admiring the family and greeting Mary, I walked down to Barton Cottage with Sir John. He was eager to show it to me, and to point out what he had thought of doing for the Dashwoods’ comfort.

The day was fine and the walk was a good distance, not so close that the inhabitants of each house would be forced into constant company, but not so far that walking between the two residences was difficult.

We came to the cottage at last, and I was surprised at its appearance, for it looked more like a house than a cottage. It was regular in shape and the roof was tiled, whilst there was a small green court in the front with a wicket-gate leading into it. There was not a trace of thatch or honeysuckle anywhere.

‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked as we stopped at the gate.

I cast my eyes over it and saw that it was in a good state of repair. The roof was sound and the paint on the door and windows was new.

‘From the outside, it looks well enough,’ I said.

‘Come and see it inside.’

We went in. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square, and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bedrooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many years and was very convenient in its arrangement.

‘The situation is good,’ said Sir John.

He looked out of the window at the high hills which rose immediately behind and at no great distance on each side. Some of them were open downs, the others were cultivated and woody. I went to join him at the window and saw the village of Barton nestling against one of the hills.

‘The prospect in the front is even more extensive,’ he said, moving to a different window. It commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. ‘Well, what do you think. Will they like it?’

‘I am sure they will,’ I said, thinking that they were fortunate to have found such a home, and such a good neighbour and relative as Sir John.

‘Ay, it will do.’

We walked back to the house and found that the children were downstairs with their nurse. John was well grown for six, whilst William was not far behind him, and Anna-Maria was growing into a pretty girl. Mary indulged them and Sir John played with them until they began to grow fractious, whereupon their nurse took them upstairs again.

‘I tell you, Brandon, you should be setting up your nursery, ’ he said to me.

‘I hope they play,’ said Mary, ignoring him. ‘I am very musical, and if the Misses Dashwood choose to entertain us, I shall not say them nay.’

Tuesday 6 September

‘I think I will just go down to the cottage and see if the Dashwoods have arrived,’ said Sir John as he pushed his chair back from the breakfast table this morning.

‘You will do no such thing,’ said Mary. ‘It is far too early for them to have arrived, and even if they have, the last thing Mrs Dashwood will want is a visitor. She will have enough to do without a stranger to take care of.’

‘A stranger?’ he asked, astonished.

‘A stranger, for that is what you must be to begin with. She will want to set her house in order before she receives guests.’

Sir John hummed and hawed but at last he gave way and said that he supposed he could wait until tomorrow to see them, but that Mary must take the blame if they felt themselves slighted.

I suggested we go for a ride, and he was happy to fall in with the suggestion, for he likes to be doing something.

‘What do you make of John Dashwood?’ he asked me, as we rode out to the hills. ‘Mrs Dashwood’s stepson, you know, and half brother to the girls. Inherited the family home when his father died but made no provision for his father’s second wife and left her to the mercy of a distant relative. Seems bad to me.’

It seemed bad to me, too, but I said only, ‘We know nothing of the circumstances.’

‘Ay, you are right, though what could prevent a son doing right by his father’s wife I do not know. Family is family, and a man should take care of his own. Though lucky for me he did not, eh, Brandon? It will do us good to have some new faces to look at.’

Wednesday 7 September

Sir John lost no time in looking at his new faces. As soon as he had finished breakfast, he said, ‘No one can object to my calling on my cousins this morning, I am sure. I am determined to walk down to the cottage and greet them. The girls will not remember me, for they were very small when last I visited them, but Mrs Dashwood will know me. I am looking forward to seeing them all again. Will you come with me, Mary?’

‘Certainly not. I do not believe Mrs Dashwood will be ready for such a call. But pray tell her I will call on her as soon as it is convenient for her to receive me,’ said Mary.

He left, intent on making the new arrivals welcome, and I went out with the dogs, returning to find that Sir John was in the drawing room, regaling Mary with an account of his visit.

‘Charming people,’ he said, ‘and what handsome girls! The youngest is only thirteen, but the other two are older and are both out. What manners! And what pretty faces! Oh, it will do us good to have them about the place. We will find them husbands, eh, Mary? And then we will have a wedding or two to look forward to. I have promised to send them my newspaper every day, and to convey their letters to the post for them.’

‘Did Mrs Dashwood say when she would be receiving?’ asked Mary, ignoring most of his speech.

‘She was touched by your message, my love, and said she would be happy to welcome you at any time.’

‘Then I will go tomorrow,’ said Mary. ‘I do not wish to be backward in showing them any courtesy, for they have suffered a grievous loss. I wish to make them welcome here. I think I might take the children with me. They cannot help but be cheered by the sight of my two splendid boys and my beautiful little girl.’

Thursday 8 September

Sir John and Mary visited the cottage today. In the end they took little John with them and left the two younger children behind. The visit went well, and they have invited the Dashwoods to dine with us tomorrow.

Friday 9 September

Sir John spent the morning visiting the neighbouring families in the hope of procuring some addition to our society this evening, but it was a moonlit night and everyone was already engaged.

‘I never thought I would consider it unlucky to be giving a dinner on a moonlit night, but so it is, for if it were dark, then there would be plenty of families sitting at home.’

‘And therefore not willing to visit us,’ said Mary.

‘What? Not willing to come such a short step, and with the offer of a carriage being sent for them if necessary? But at least your mother is coming,’ he said. ‘She will be here before the Dashwoods arrive — ’

‘As long as she has a tolerable journey,’ Mary put in.

‘And will cheer the young ladies. She will be able to tease them about their beaux!’ he said with a laugh. ‘Young ladies always like to be teased about their beaux.’

I thought of Mrs Jennings, with her jokes and laughter and vulgar humour, and I wondered what the Dashwoods would make of her.

The post arriving at that moment, I saw that I had a letter from Sanders. I excused myself and retired to my room where I opened it eagerly, but Sanders had no news. I put my disappointment aside as best I could, but I was in no mood for company, and when the Dashwoods arrived, I was silent and grave.

My silence was not noticed, however, for Sir John and Mrs Jennings were boisterous enough, with Sir John asking his cousins how they liked the cottage and Mrs Jennings teasing the Misses Dashwood about the beaux they had left behind.

Miss Marianne was asked to sing after dinner, and the music roused me from my melancholy thoughts. I turned to look at her, and as I watched her, I was struck by how difficult the last few months must have been for her. She had lost her father; after which she had had to leave her home, travelling across the country to live in a small cottage, when she was used to a mansion house. She had found herself in a strange place with strange people, far from her friends, far from everything, save her family, that she knew and loved. And I was aware of all this because it was all going into her music. Her feelings of loss and heartbreak were pouring out of her through her voice and her fingers.

I could not take my eyes away from her. The emotion on her face was now light and now shade, now sadness and now regret; and the room faded and I saw nothing but Marianne until the song had finished.

I came to myself, to find that the others were chattering, and I thought, How can they chatter when such music is being played?

I walked over to the piano, and as Miss Marianne was about to leave the piano stool, I said, ‘Will you play this?’

‘Gladly,’ she said.

I opened the music and she settled herself again, resting her hands over the keys, and then began to play. I stood by the piano, the better to listen to her, and I turned her music for her when she needed it.

There was a pause when the song finished, and I was ashamed to find that there was no applause, for the song had certainly deserved it. Then Mary, remembering her duties as hostess, said how delightful it had been and asked Miss Marianne to play ‘The Willow.’ Miss Marianne and I exchanged surprised glances, for she had just played that very song.

I pulled another piece of music forward and asked her if she would not sing that one instead.

When she had finished, the others did not even look up from their conversations, and I said, ‘A very pretty song.’

‘Pretty?’ she asked me, turning towards me and arching her eyebrows.

‘You do not find it so?’ I asked her.

‘No, I do not,’ she said, and as she continued her voice became passionate: ‘Haunting, yes; lyrical and wistful; but pretty, no.’

I was surprised, for she was very forthright for someone so young, and my eyes followed her as she returned to sit beside her sister.

‘Well, Colonel, and what do you think of Miss Marianne? ’ asked Mrs Jennings when the Dashwoods had gone. ‘You seemed mightily taken with her.’

‘She is charming,’ I said.

‘Charming? Ay, that she is, and pretty, too. Just the match for a man such as yourself, a fine bachelor with a good bit of property.’

‘I scarcely know the lady,’ I returned. ‘Besides, she is too young for me.’

‘Tush! What’s a few years in a marriage? Nothing at all. A rich man like you, Colonel, should be married, and who better than Miss Marianne? You could listen to her play the pianoforte every night! Ay, I saw you attending to her, and what more proof of love could there be than that?’

‘I like music,’ I said.

‘But not as much as you like Miss Marianne, eh, Colonel?’ she said.

I could do nothing to curb her, for with her own two daughters married, she has nothing better to do than to try and arrange a marriage for everyone else.

Monday 12 September

We dined with the Dashwoods at the cottage, and I took Miss Marianne in to dinner. I wondered if I would be disappointed in her, if the extraordinary qualities I had found in her music and the forthright opinions it had called forth, would not be found elsewhere; but to my pleasure I found her to be just as interesting when we were discussing other subjects.

She was generous in her praise of her sister, amiable in her attentions to her mother, and interesting in general conversation, displaying a lively mind and a quick intelligence, as well as a great degree of sensibility.

She spoke of the home she had left behind, the woods and gardens, the walks and the view, and as she talked about it, I saw it all before me, with its fine prospects and its sheltered groves.

‘It must have been difficult for you to leave it, but you find your new home some consolation, I hope?’ I asked her.

‘What can console me for the loss of such a home, where every tree was known to me? ’ she asked. ‘But we can certainly never thank Sir John enough for his kindness. My sister-in-law’s behaviour made it impossible for us to remain at Norland, and we had to live somewhere. If Sir John had not offered us a home, I do not know what we would have done, for we could find nothing in the neighbourhood of Norland to suit us. It must have been difficult for us to live there in any case, for we would have had Norland before us always, and yet we would not have been able to call it home.’

As she spoke, I was reminded of Eliza, for Eliza, too, had dearly loved her home.

My thoughts went from Eliza to her daughter, and as the ladies withdrew, I fell silent. I knew I should rouse myself, that it was unbecoming of me to be so morose, that I should help Sir John to entertain his guests, but I could not shake off the gloom that had taken hold of me and I spoke no more.

Tuesday 13 September

I was hoping to take Miss Marianne in to dinner at the Park, but instead I found myself escorting her sister, a sensible young woman with a fund of interesting conversation. I think I entertained her, even though my attention kept drifting to Miss Marianne.

‘You will be having visitors of your own before long, now that you have arranged the cottage to your own satisfaction,’ said Sir John to Mrs Dashwood. ‘You must be wanting to see your friends.’

‘Yes, indeed. We are hoping that one of our friends, Mr Edward Ferrars, will soon honour us with a visit. He has an open invitation,’ she said.

‘Ferrars? Ferrars? Can’t say I know the name.’

‘He is the brother of our sister-in-law,’ said Miss Marianne. ‘He is a fine young man, full of sense and goodness, and loved by us all.’

‘Does he hunt?’ asked Sir John.

Miss Marianne could give him no particulars, and Sir John remarked that he hoped that Ferrars did not enjoy the sport, for then he would be very glad to see him.

Miss Marianne was again prevailed upon to play, but Sir John talked all the way through her performance; Mary upbraided him, saying, ‘My dear John, how can you talk when we are being so entertained? I do not understand how anyone can be distracted from music.’ However, she herself was distracted a minute later by her children, saying, ‘No, William, do not plague your brother. I am sure he does not want his hair pulled. No, my love, he does not.’ Four-year-old William argued, thinking it a huge joke, whilst Mrs Jennings declared, ‘There’s nothing I like better than a good tune,’ and kept the beat, out of time, with her fan.

Miss Marianne persevered against this lack of attention for as long as she could and then left the pianoforte, out of spirits. I was about to go over to her and compliment her on her taste when Sir John distracted us all by saying that we must get up a picnic whilst the weather held.

Miss Marianne’s spirits were at once restored.

‘Oh, yes, Sir John, that would be delightful,’ she said. ‘I am sure there are some notable beauty spots hereabouts, and I would relish the opportunity of seeing them. There is so much of Devonshire I have to discover, and I would like to begin. Mama?’

‘It is very kind of you, Sir John,’ said Mrs Dashwood with a smile. ‘We would like it very much.’

‘Good, good, then that’s settled. We’ll get up quite a party, with the Careys, the Raistricks, the Kellys and one or two other families, and have a high time of it.’

A date was set for Saturday.

Saturday 17 September

A fine day for our picnic. We met in front of the house and set out at about ten o’clock. I rode beside Sir John’s carriage and as I did so I could not help admiring Miss Marianne. Her face was truly lovely, with a brown skin, tanned by the summer sun, and a brilliant complexion. Her features were regular, her smile was sweet and attractive, and her eyes were dark. It was not their colour which attracted me, however, but the life in them, for they contained a spirit and an eagerness which reminded me of my true self, the self that saw the pleasure in life, the self that I had lost when I lost Eliza.

‘You have a comfortable carriage,’ said Mrs Dashwood, as Sir John and I rode along by its side. She was sitting facing forwards, with her parasol held over her head.

‘Ay, and one I wish you would borrow so that you could mix more in the neighbourhood. It is always at your disposal, and there are any number of families who would be pleased to see you. They are gentlefolk, all, and I am persuaded they will make up to you for the friends you have left behind. You must ask for the carriage any time you want it.’

‘Thank you, you are very good, but we must not presume too much on your hospitality,’ she said, politely but firmly, and I realized that she did not want to be too far beholden to Sir John; she was a woman who liked her independence. ‘Besides, there are plenty of families in walking distance of the cottage. ’

‘And I believe we have met them all, save the family who lives in the house along the valley,’ said Miss Marianne. ‘Do you know the one I mean? The ancient mansion house about a mile and a half from the cottage. Margaret and I are planning to visit it the next time we walk in that direction. Do you know who lives there?’

Her sister, Margaret, who, at thirteen, had been too young to join us for dinner, was excited to be joining us for the picnic. She added her own eager enquiry as to the inhabitant of the house.

‘Oh, yes, we want to know the name of the house and to find out who lives there,’ she said.

‘That would be Allenham,’ said Sir John. ‘Mrs Smith lives there.’

‘Mrs Smith? Does she have any children?’ asked Miss Marianne.

‘No, she is elderly. She keeps to her house; she is too infirm to mix with the world.’

‘Then I believe we now know all our neighbours, or all those who are well enough to go into company,’ said Miss Dashwood.

We reached the picnic spot in little more than an hour. The carriages rolled to a halt and we assembled on a flat stretch of grass about halfway up the hill.

‘Can we not go to the top?’ asked Miss Marianne.

‘It is too steep for the carriages, but we can walk, if you have a mind,’ said Sir John.

Some of the older people chose to remain where they were but the rest of us began to climb the hill. Margaret ran ahead, frolicking from one side to the other and climbing the boulders that lay scattered about, until at last we reached the summit.

‘Was this not worth the climb?’ asked Miss Marianne, as she gazed rapturously at the view, looking across the rolling downs to a glimmer of blue on the horizon, the sea. She began to murmur:

‘This sceptred isle,

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

This other Eden, demi-paradise,

This fortress built by Nature for herself,

Against infection, and the hand of war

This happy breed of men, this little world,

This precious stone, set in the silver sea,

Which serves it in the office of a wall,

Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands,

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

‘And it is still England, though I am so far from home,’ she concluded in a low voice.

There were murmurs of approval and I became aware of my surroundings once more, for I had been carried away by her poetry. There had been a strength and a vigour about her voice that had made the words, still echoing in my ears, seem fresh and new.

We strolled around the summit until the wind rose and began to blow cold, then the others set off down the hill. Miss Marianne lingered, however, turning to face in the direction of Norland whilst the wind threatened to rip the hat from her head.

‘Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man’s ingratitude.’

Her words were heartfelt, and I knew where her thoughts were tending. I wanted to speak to her and to bring her some heart’s ease, if I could, for I could tell that her feelings were both strong and painful.

‘It hurt you when your brother failed to provide for you,’ I said.

It was all she needed, and her thoughts came pouring out of her.

‘He promised our father on his deathbed that he would look after us, and yet he did nothing to help us. He and his wife arrived as soon as the funeral was over, without even giving Mama any notice of their arrival. I can still remember the look on her face when the carriage rolled up to the house and she realized that they had come to haunt us in our grief. They established themselves in the house and behaved as though it belonged to them, as though we were nothing but guests, and unwelcome guests at that. Poor Mama! How she suffered. I was angry, but Elinor said that I must hide my feelings, that Fanny and John had done nothing wrong, that it was their house from the moment my father died, and that they had a right to move in as soon as they pleased. But courtesy, common courtesy, should have prevented them from taking over with such speed and reducing my mother to the state of being a visitor in her own home!’ she broke out. ‘Poor Mama was so hurt by Fanny’s insensitivity that she would have quit the house at once, but my sister Elinor — my sensible sister — counselled against it.’

‘Perhaps she did not want a breach with your brother?’ I suggested.

‘You are right, but what price did she pay? Putting on a false face, and expecting me to put on a false face also. For my own part I was ready to leave the house at once, to save Mama from such cruelty, even though it would have hurt me terribly to leave without saying goodbye to all the places that I loved: the stream where it met the river, dimpling all the way, the corner of the walled garden, best garden of the world. And yet I would have left them all at once if Mama had asked me to.’

She spoke with passion, and I was struck by her words, because I saw that her interest in poetry was not that of the dreamer; no, for she wanted to pull the poetry into the real world rather than turning the real world into a poem.

I found myself growing more and more intrigued by her, for I had never come across that blend of sensibility and strength in a woman before.

‘You think me very impolite, I dare say, for speaking my mind,’ she continued, looking at me defiantly. ‘I have erred against every commonplace notion of decorum, I am well aware of it. I should have said that my brother John is a fine man and that his wife Fanny is a beautiful and accomplished woman. I should have spoken of their dear little boy and said how much he had grown. I am sorry to disappoint you, Colonel, but I disdain such spiritless deceit.’

And then, before I had time to reply, she called to her sister, ‘Come, Margaret, let us run down the hill!’

And the two of them were off, fleet of foot, racing towards the picnic spot with the wind in their faces and their gossamer dresses blowing around their ankles.

But as I watched her go, I thought that she had wronged me when she had said that I wanted her to speak of commonplaces, for that is something I abhor. Indeed, one of the things that I liked about being in the army was that the men spoke their minds, and that, therefore, I quickly gained a knowledge of character that has stood me in good stead ever since.

But women ... I wish I understood them half so well.

For the most part they are so well bred that it is impossible to find out if they have any thoughts and feelings at all, let alone to find out what those thoughts and feelings might be.

Not so with Miss Marianne, who is as open and as honest as the day; squally in temperament, now stormy, now shining; and who interests me more than any woman I have met since Eliza.

I followed her to the picnic site. About halfway down I came across Miss Carey, who was doing something with the lace of her shoe. As I approached, she rose and said, ‘My lace has broken, Colonel, would you offer me your arm.’

‘Willingly,’ I said.

But as I gave it to her, I was struck with the difference between her and Miss Marianne, for I suspected that her broken lace was a ruse. It would have been disdained by Miss Marianne, for if she had wanted to walk down the hill with me, she would no doubt have said so and scandalized the entire party!

We reached the picnic spot. It was sheltered from the wind, and a milder air prevailed.

Mrs Jennings gave us a knowing look as we joined her on one of the rugs, and when the picnic was over, she called me a sly one and said that Miss Marianne had better look sharp lest Miss Carey should steal her beau.

Miss Marianne, overhearing her, glanced at me, and all of a sudden I saw the disadvantages of total honesty, for, by her look, it was clear that she did not know whether to reprimand Mrs Jennings for her impertinence or laugh at her for her absurdity.

Alas for my pride! The disparity in age might not trouble Mrs Jennings, but it was obvious that it troubled Miss Marianne; indeed, that it rendered the idea of a connexion between us ridiculous in her eyes.

Perhaps, when she has grown up a little, she will not see it as such a disadvantage, for despite my protestations I find myself increasingly attracted to her. She has a vitality that has aroused my interest in life again.

Sunday 18 September

‘Well, Colonel, have you decided which one it is to be?’ asked Mrs Jennings good-naturedly this morning as we returned from church. ‘Miss Marianne or Miss Carey? ’

‘I have no intention of marrying,’ I said, to silence her.

‘Intention? Intention? Of course you have no intention, no man ever does. Mr Palmer had no intention of marrying my Charlotte until I put it to him. “Wouldn’t you like a pretty little thing like that for a wife?” I asked him, and he had to admit that he would.’

‘Ah, yes, Sir John told me Charlotte was married. I congratulate you.’

‘Never a better man was there than Mr Palmer, unless it is Sir John,’ she said with satisfaction.

I was glad to have diverted her and, the children entering the room at the moment, I was left in peace.

Tuesday 20 September

I declined to accompany Sir John on his walk this morning, for I had some letters to write, but when he returned he had something to tell.

‘I called in at the cottage on my way home,’ he said.

‘And how are the Misses Dashwood?’ asked Mrs Jennings, with a knowing glance at me. ‘Was Miss Marianne at the pianoforte, practising for the Colonel? I tease her about it often and often. “What! Are you setting your cap at him? And a good thing, too, for he is worth winning!” Ah, yes, Colonel, you are in luck there!’

‘Not a bit of it,’ said Sir John. ‘You have missed your chance, Brandon. Miss Marianne has another beau now.’

He told us that she had been out for a walk with her younger sister when it had come on to rain. Running down the hill to get home, she had fallen and sprained her ankle, and a passing gentleman had rendered her his assistance by carrying her home.

‘What a pity it didn’t happen yesterday. You were out in the rain then, Colonel. I distinctly remember you coming in from your ride with your hair all soaking wet. If you had only gone out this morning instead of writing letters, it could have been you carrying her home!’ said Mrs Jennings to me. ‘But you were too slow!’ She turned to Sir John. ‘What is his name? I must know who to tease her about the next time she dines here, for if there is one thing a young lady loves, it is being teased about her beaux!’

I thought that she had entirely misjudged Miss Marianne, and said so, but she only laughed and said, ‘Tush! Colonel, and what do you know about it? But never fear, we will find you another wife. Oh, yes, one will come along, I have no doubt of it, one even handsomer than Miss Marianne. A man of your fortune was not meant to be single.’

‘You will never guess who it was,’ said Sir John, eager to impart his news.

Mrs Jennings abandoned her teasing of me and looked at him impatiently.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Willoughby!’ he declared, with the air of one who surprises the room.

‘Willoughby!’ she said with delight. And then said, ‘I do not recognize the name. No, I do not know him, I am sure.’

‘Perhaps not, but I do, and he is a very good fellow, I assure you. He is down here every year. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England.’

‘Well, then!’ said Mrs Jennings. ‘A fine catch, by the sound of it.’

‘He is at that. A pleasant, good-humoured gentleman, with the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw, though the ladies could not tell me if she was out with him today.’

‘Never mind about his pointer. Tell me more about him,’ said Mrs Jennings. ‘Is he young, old, handsome, rich?’

‘Young and handsome, certainly, and a fine dancer into the bargain. I remember last Christmas, at a little hop at the Park, he danced from eight o’clock till four, without once sitting down.’

‘That is something in his favour, for I’ll wager Miss Marianne likes to dance. And does he have a house here?’

‘As to that, no,’ Sir John admitted.

‘Then what is he doing here?’

‘He is staying with Mrs Smith.’

‘Mrs Smith? The lady at Allenham Court?’ asked Mary.

‘He is some kind of relation, her heir by all accounts,’ said Sir John.

‘Her heir,’ said Mrs Jennings, impressed. ‘So he will inherit Allenham? ’

‘He will indeed, and a tidy sum besides. And that is not all,’ said Sir John. ‘He has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire.’

‘Then he is very well worth catching,’ said Mrs Jennings. ‘I would like to see her well settled. You will have to look sharp, Colonel, else you will lose her!’

‘I put in a good word for Brandon, never fear,’ said Sir John, looking at me. ‘Told her you would be jealous if she did not take care. I teased her about setting her cap at you. “That is an expression which I particularly dislike,” she said!’

He laughed uproariously and I imagined Miss Marianne’s pained expression at his coarseness.

Mrs Jennings joined him, slapping her knees as she rocked back and forth.

Gradually they sobered.

‘I promised to ride over to Allenham and see Willoughby tomorrow, and invite him to dinner on Friday,’ said Sir John.

‘You had better look lively, then, Colonel, if you want her. You had better speak on Thursday!’ Mrs Jennings said.

I took no notice of her, but I could not help feeling an interest in Willoughby, all the same.

Friday 23 September

We were a small party at dinner, just ourselves, the Dashwoods and Willoughby.

He was as young and handsome as Sir John had said, but although he was charming, lively and amusing, being fond of singing and dancing, and an expert in flirtation besides, I thought little of him for I had met his kind before. I knew that he would also be shallow and selfish, caring nothing for anyone’s feelings but his own. A not uncommon type: adept at making friends but not at keeping them, easily distracted and unreliable.

Miss Marianne was, however, attracted to him, for he was, at first glance, very desirable. They spent the evening talking together with great animation. She had neither shyness nor reserve and she spoke about her thoughts and feelings with such rapturous delight that it was small wonder that he agreed with her on everything, or, if he disagreed, he did so only for the pleasure of letting her talk him round. Who would not have agreed with so much beauty?

She had only to mention a book and it was a favourite of his; or to say, rapturously, that Mozart was divine, in order to have him say that Mozart was the only composer who deserved the title of genius; or to speak slightingly of second marriages to find out that he, too, thought that second attachments were impossible.

I could not agree with her on the latter, and I was surprised to find that my feelings on the subject had changed, because, for a long time, I thought the same. But I am beginning to think that second attachments, happy second attachments, might be possible: Miss Marianne is the child of a second marriage, and her mother has nothing but good to say of her experiences.

Saturday 24 September

I cannot decide if I am grateful to Willoughby for making Miss Marianne happy or if I am jealous of him; though to be jealous of him seems absurd, when he is so much younger than I am, and when there is nothing of substance about him, and when, indeed, I am not courting Miss Marianne. He sings, he dances, he charms — because he can do nothing else. As I watched him talking to her this evening, I found myself wondering if, when the first flush of excitement has passed, he will be enough for Miss Marianne, for she is intelligent and she feels things deeply, whereas he is all surface, with nothing underneath.

Monday 26 September

Miss Marianne again spent the evening talking to Willoughby, to the exclusion of everyone else. I found myself in conversation with her sister, and before long we were talking about my experiences in the Indies.

‘I have always wanted to travel,’ she said, ‘but I have not had the opportunity to do so. Was it very different there?’

‘It could scarcely be more different,’ I said, and I proceeded to tell her all about the heat and the mosquitoes, a little about the political situation and a great deal about the bazaars, with their fine silks and jewellery.

‘And are the animals as strange as I have heard?’

Encouraged by her interest, I told her about elephants and tigers, and she listened with attention, asking sensible questions.

As we spoke, I thought of the difference between the two sisters. Miss Dashwood was quiet and conventional, with a great fund of common sense, whilst Miss Marianne was open and lively, with a spirit that had reawakened my own. I had forgotten how good it felt to be fully alive, to be stimulated by the world around me instead of being half-dead to it. I glanced again at Miss Marianne and I thought, It is Marianne who has brought me back to life.

After dinner, Mrs Jennings said, ‘I hear you are a good dancer, Mr Willoughby.’

‘As to that, I cannot say, but I certainly enjoy dancing.’

‘As do I,’ said Miss Marianne.

‘Then we must have a ball. Sir John! What do you say? We must give the young people an opportunity to dance.’

‘A splendid notion,’ said he, eager, as always, for company and amusement.

‘Oh, yes, an excellent idea!’ said Miss Marianne.

‘We will have it next week. Nothing grand, just fifteen or twenty couples, but mind, Willoughby, I have told the ladies how you danced until the early hours the last time I saw you, and you must not let me down.’

‘I believe I can safely undertake to do the same, if Miss Marianne will honour me by partnering me,’ he said.

She readily agreed, and Mrs Jennings said, ‘You must claim a dance, too, Colonel, and you had better do it now, before there are no dances left.’

I asked Miss Marianne for a dance and she gave it to me, and then I asked her sister, too, whilst Miss Marianne returned to her conversation with Willoughby.

But next week when I dance with her I will have her to myself, and I find I am looking forward to it.

Wednesday 28 September

‘A fine time we are going to have of it, Brandon. We shall be twenty couples,’ said Sir John this evening, rubbing his hands in glee as he waited for the first of his guests to arrive.

‘There is nothing better than a ball,’ said Mrs Jennings. ‘You mark my words, Colonel, there’ll be plenty of young ladies for you here. Willoughby can’t take them all!’

The guests began to arrive. The Dashwoods were first, and I could not help my eyes going to Miss Marianne, for her vitality lit up the room. She turned her head this way and that, and I knew she was looking for Willoughby.

The music began and I led Miss Dashwood onto the floor. When our dance was over, I danced with Miss Carey and then it was time for me to claim Miss Marianne. She was silent and I did not start a conversation, for I was content to watch her. She took delight in the music and her step was graceful and elegant.

After dancing with me she partnered Willoughby again. She had already danced with him twice, and I saw her sister looking anxious because if anyone noticed that she was dancing with him for a third time, it would arouse comment.

‘No one else will notice,’ I said to Miss Dashwood reassuringly.

‘But you did,’ she remarked.

‘Ah, yes,’ I admitted, for I could not deny it. ‘But that is because ...’ She looked at me curiously and I said quickly, ‘I happened to notice.’

Only when I had spoken did I realize how lame the conclusion had been.

I saw a thoughtfulness spring into her eye, and I thought, I must be more careful. I must not give her the impression that I am interested in her sister.

But as I thought it, I realized that I was interested in Miss Marianne, and not just as a friend and neighbour of Sir John’s. I was interested in her as a young woman.

Thursday 20 October

Our round of pleasure continues. Today we had a party on the water. Marianne and Willoughby contrived to be alone together in their boat, and everyone had grown so used to seeing them together that their behaviour did not occasion comment. I found myself wondering how long it would take her to see that he was all charm and nothing else.

‘This is what I like,’ said Sir John, claiming my attention as we returned to the shore. ‘To be out in the open with friends. We must do it again next week, as long as the weather holds.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Marianne eagerly. ‘I am sure it will. Did you ever see such an autumn?’

She looked around her ecstatically, taking in the blue sky, and against it the russets, browns and golds that shone in the sunshine as the trees put forth their autumn colours. And indeed it was a lovely sight, for the scene was reflected in the water, doubling its beauty and making it glow.

‘Never,’ said Willoughby.

‘Full many a glorious morning have I seen

Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye

Kissing with golden face the meadows green

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.

‘But never a morning as glorious as this one.’

‘La! Listen to them!’ cried Mrs Jennings.

‘It is Shakespeare,’ said Miss Marianne.

‘Ay, I dare say it is,’ replied Mrs Jennings, ‘and very pretty it is, too, with all its flatterings and kissings. I never knew a beau for so much poetry!’

I turned my attention to him and I wondered if I had been mistaken in him. Had I allowed my wishes to colour my judgement? Had I seen in him a shallow wastrel because that was what I wanted to see? Sir John, Mrs Jennings, the Dashwoods, all saw a charming, lively young man who was a good match for Miss Marianne.

Doubts assailed me. But they were soon dispelled. He would grow cold, I was sure of it. His kind could not settle for long, nor even remain with one set of people, because, having used up their scanty store of conversation, they had to move on in order to have something to say to someone else.

Friday 21 October

Another ball.

As I was sitting out beside Miss Dashwood, Mrs Jennings came over to us and told us that Mrs Carey was about to marry again, having been a widow for five years. Then she left us to go and share the news with Miss Marianne.

‘Though what she will make of it I cannot imagine,’ I said to Miss Dashwood as Mrs Jennings hurried away. ‘I remember her saying that she does not believe in second attachments.’

‘Her opinions are all romantic,’ she agreed. ‘But they must inevitably change, becoming settled on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation before long.’

I could not help my thoughts returning to Eliza at the words, for she had been forced to abandon her romantic opinions on her marriage. But alas! Common sense and observation had led her on to a dangerous path, for seeing other people embark on affairs, she had done so herself, to disastrous effect.

Without realizing it, I spoke my thoughts aloud, saying nothing of Eliza, but remarking that when the romantic refinements of a young mind were forced to change too rapidly, they were frequently succeeded by opinions which were all too common and too dangerous.

She looked at me strangely, and feeling some explanation was necessary, I said, ‘I speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who from an enforced change — from a series of unfortunate circumstances ...’

I stopped, for I could not say more without telling her the whole, and indeed, I had already said too much, for I saw from her expression of sympathy that she had guessed something of my past.

Not wanting to betray myself any further, I asked her if she was ready to dance again, and learning that she was, I led her out on to the floor, where I was silent and grave, lost in my thoughts, only rousing myself when the dance was over, and even then, only so far as necessary in order to retire to the card room.

Saturday 22 October

I now know why Miss Dashwood offered me such ready sympathy yesterday, for it seems that she has troubles of her own. As we sat talking this evening, it appeared that she had left someone behind at Norland. It came out when Mrs Jennings, teasing Margaret, said, ‘You must tell us the name of the young man who was Elinor’s particular favourite at home.’

Margaret, too young to dissemble, turned to her sister and said, ‘I must not tell, may I, Elinor? ’

This of course made everybody laugh, and Miss Dashwood tried to laugh, too, but I could tell it cost her an effort. I was about to distract Mrs Jennings when Marianne turned red and, in an effort to defend her sister, turned to Margaret and said, ‘Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them.’

‘I never had any conjectures about it,’ replied Miss Margaret; ‘it was you who told me of it yourself.’

Sir John and Mrs Jennings laughed heartily, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more.

‘Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it,’ said Mrs Jennings. ‘What is the gentleman’s name?’

‘I must not tell, ma’am. But I know very well what it is, and I know where he is, too.’

‘Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say.’

‘No, that he is not. He is of no profession at all.’

‘Margaret,’ said Miss Marianne, with great warmth, ‘you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence.’

‘Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F,’ said Margaret tartly.

I was about to speak when Mary, who disliked the vulgarity of such raillery, said that it rained very hard. I immediately joined in with a comment on the weather, so that the conversation could not return to its painful subject; painful for Miss Dashwood if no one else. I wondered about her young man, and I hoped her love would prosper. And then I thought how beautiful Miss Marianne had looked when she had sprung to her sister’s defence.

Miss Marianne subsided, going over to the card-table, where she made a four with Willoughby, Sir John and Mrs Jennings. Willoughby cheated himself to help her, and I found myself thinking that, although for the time being she found such chivalry charming, there would come a time when it would not be enough to hold her attention.

Monday 24 October

Sir John, always in need of diversion, asked me today if we could get up a party to go and see my brother-in-law’s place at Whitwell.

‘If you wish it, yes,’ I said.

‘Capital! This is a treat,’ he said to Mrs Dashwood. ‘Bran don’s brother-in-law is abroad and allows no one to see the house when he is out of the country as a general rule, but he allows Brandon to take friends there.’

‘The grounds are very beautiful,’ said Mary.

‘Indeed they are, and I am a good judge, ma’am, for I have taken parties there twice every summer these past ten years. There’s a lake for sailing — you will enjoy that, eh, Miss Marianne? ’ he asked, turning towards her, and I saw her smile. ‘We will take some cold provisions and ride in open carriages so you ladies can enjoy the view, as long as the weather is fine.’

‘I am doubtful of that,’ said Mrs Dashwood, ‘since it has rained every day for the last fortnight.’

‘All the more reason for it to stop tomorrow,’ said Sir John. ‘There cannot be any more rain up there!’

Mrs Jennings laughed heartily.

‘I am sure it will be fine,’ said Miss Marianne, much taken with the idea. ‘An outing to a great house is, above all things, the one I would enjoy the most.’

‘And I,’ said Willoughby.

‘How good are the roads?’ asked Mrs Dashwood.

‘Very good indeed. It will not take us above an hour and a half to get there, or two, if we admire the views along the way.’

‘I will bring my curricle,’ said Willoughby. He turned to Miss Marianne. ‘I hope you will do me the honour of travelling with me? ’

‘Oh, yes!’ she said.

‘You will come in my carriage, I hope,’ said Sir John to Mrs Dashwood.

‘I am not sure I will be able to join you, for I fear I have a cold coming on,’ she said.

I noticed that she looked pale, and that she held her shawl closely about herself.

Miss Marianne looked dismayed and Miss Dashwood looked concerned.

‘You should stay at home, Mama,’ she said. ‘An outing in this cold weather will do you no good.’

‘I am probably making a fuss about nothing,’ she said. ‘I am sure I will be better by morning.’

‘You must take care of yourself. No need to fear for the young ladies, they will be safe with us,’ said Sir John.

‘Indeed, I think you had better not go, Mama,’ said Miss Dashwood.

‘I will see how I feel tomorrow. But I would not spoil your pleasure, my dears. You will like to see the house, and then you will be able to tell me all about it when you return. Sir John will see that you come to no harm.’

‘No, indeed, ma’am.’

It was settled, then, that we should all assemble at the Park at ten o’clock, where we would have breakfast together before setting out.

Tuesday 25 October

The night was wild, with heavy rain, but it stopped by eight o’clock, and by ten o’clock, when we were all gathered together, the morning was favourable. The clouds were dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared.

‘You see, I told you it would be fine,’ said Miss Marianne, as we sat down to breakfast.

We were just about to eat when the letters were brought in. I took mine without any real interest, for I was looking forward to the outing, but as soon as I saw the handwriting on the second letter, all thoughts of the outing were driven from my mind, for it was from Eliza! I stood up and immediately left the room, for I knew that I would be unable to disguise my feelings when I read it.

I retired to my chamber where I opened it and scanned it quickly, seeing that it had been written in great agitation.

I have no right to appeal to you, I thought it would be settled by now, I thought we would be married, he said we had only to wait until she died, it could not be more than a few weeks, and then we would be happy. He said she had had a turn for the worse, he said he had to leave but that he would come back for me. He left no address, I asked for none, thinking he would only be gone a short while, but it is months — months! — and my time is near. Help me, please! Oh! I do not deserve it, but I don’t know what to do.

I felt a rush of relief as I read it, for she was alive! But it was mingled with anger at her seducer — for I could no longer doubt what had happened — and sorrow that she had been used so ill, and compassion for her distress. And over it all I felt guilt that I had not looked after her better.

I made my plans quickly. Her address was on the letter. I packed and returned to the dining room.

‘No bad news, Colonel, I hope,’ said Mrs Jennings, as soon as I entered the room.

‘None at all, ma’am, I thank you,’ I said, for I was resolved to protect Eliza’s reputation as far as I was able. ‘It was merely a letter of business.’

‘But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Come, come, this won’t do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it.’

‘My dear madam,’ said her daughter, ‘recollect what you are saying.’

‘Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin is married?’ said Mrs Jennings, without attending to her daughter’s reproof.

‘No, indeed, it is not.’

‘Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well.’

‘Whom do you mean, ma’am? ’ I asked, colouring a little.

‘Oh! you know who I mean.’

I ignored her remark and said briskly to Mary, ‘I am particularly sorry that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town.’

‘In town!’ cried Mrs Jennings. ‘What can you have to do in town at this time of year?’

‘My own loss is great in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell,’ I said.

I saw their disappointed faces, but it could not be helped.

‘But if you write a note to the housekeeper, will it not be sufficient?’ said Miss Marianne.

I did not like to disappoint her, but I said, ‘I am afraid not.’

‘We must go,’ said Sir John good-humouredly. ‘It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all.’

‘I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!’

‘If you would but let us know what your business is,’ said Mrs Jennings, ‘we might see whether it could be put off or not.’

‘You would not be six hours later,’ said Willoughby, ‘if you were to defer your journey till our return.’

‘I cannot afford to lose one hour.’

I heard Willoughby say in a low voice to Miss Marianne, ‘There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold, I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing.’

‘I have no doubt of it,’ came her mocking reply.

I was annoyed, because his influence on her was not a good one, but I let them think what they would, for I had to go.

‘There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old, when once you are determined on anything, ’ said Sir John. ‘But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Misses Carey come over from Newton, the three Misses Dashwood walked up from the cottage, and Mr Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell.’

‘I am sorry to disappoint you all, but I am afraid it is unavoidable. ’

‘Well then, when will you come back again?’

I was about to reply when I was spared the necessity by Mary’s intervention, and I was grateful for her good breeding, which made my going easier.

‘I hope we shall see you at Barton as soon as you can conveniently leave town,’ she said, ‘and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return.’

I silently thanked her for her kindness, but said that, as I did not know when I would have the power to return, I could not engage for it.

‘Oh! he must and shall come back,’ cried Sir John, with ill-timed jocularity. ‘If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him.’

‘Ay, so do, Sir John,’ cried Mrs Jennings, ‘and then perhaps you may find out what his business is.’

‘I do not want to pry into other men’s concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of,’ he said with a wink.

To my relief, my horse was announced.

‘You do not go to town on horseback, do you?’ asked Sir John in surprise.

‘No, only to Honiton. I shall then go post.’

‘Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. ’

I took my leave, saying to Miss Dashwood, ‘Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter? ’

‘I am afraid, none at all,’ she replied.

‘Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do.’

I bowed to Miss Marianne and left the room. As the door closed behind me, I heard Mrs Jennings saying to Miss Dashwood in a low voice, ‘I can guess what his business is, however. It is about Miss Williams, I am sure. She is his natural daughter. ’

I was not surprised to hear her say so, for she had intimated her belief to me in the past, but I wished she would have kept quiet, all the same, the more so because she was wrong in her conjecture.

But I had no more time to waste on thoughts of Mrs Jennings. My horse was ready, and I was soon away.

Thursday 27 October

As soon as I arrived in London, I went immediately to the address Eliza had given me in her letter. I was relieved to see that, although nothing grand, it was at least respectable. A maid-servant let me in, and when I asked for Eliza, a woman came bustling from the back of the house. She was clean and homely, and said to me, ‘Did I hear you say you’d come for Eliza? Mrs Williams? ’

I started at the use of Mrs, and I wondered if she was, after all, married, but then I realized that she would not have used her own surname if that had been the case.

However, her landlady thought she was married, and I did not wish to disabuse her of the notion.

‘Yes, I have.’

‘At last! I’ve been expecting someone to come for weeks past.’ She turned to the maid. ‘I’ll take care of this,’ she said.

‘Yes, Mrs Hill.’

The maid departed.

‘ “Write to them,” I said to her,’ continued Mrs Hill, leading me into the house. “Your family’ll help you. You shouldn’t be on your own, not in a state like this.” But, “I don’t like to trouble them,” she said. “Where’s the trouble?” I said, but you know how women are in her condition. You’ve come with news of Mr Williams, I hope? Have you found him.’

‘I regret to say that I have not.’

She shook her head and clucked her tongue.

‘It’s a bad business. I said to my sister, “What’s the world coming to when fine young gentlemen abandon their wives?” and she said, “He could be dead,” and I said, “I’m sure I hope he is, for at least that would explain it, only he seemed too young to die.” And then she said, “Maybe he’s got the smallpox,” but as I said to her, “I hope it’s not the smallpox. Just think of my sheets,” so then she said he probably dropped off his horse, as gentlemen have a habit of doing.’

By this time we had reached a set of rooms at the back of the house and she knocked on the door.

‘Mrs Williams. Mrs Williams, my dear. Here’s your cousin come to help you.’ She turned to me. ‘I’ll fetch you some tea,’ she said to me, as she opened the door. ‘I’m sure you could do with some, and her, too, poor mite.’

I thanked her and entered the room. It was shabbily furnished and the paper was peeling off the walls at the corners, but it was clean, and to my relief, there on the sofa was Eliza.

She sprang up on seeing me, her face a mixture of misery, shame, joy and despair. Her flowing gown rested on her front and I saw that her time was near. She put her hand to her back to support herself and I moved forward quickly, helping her to sit down again, but not before she had thrown her arms round my neck and wept great hot tears.

‘There, now, there is nothing to cry about,’ I said. ‘Every thing will be all right. You may depend on me. I am here.’

She wiped her eyes with her hand, and the sight of it set my heart aching, for, despite her condition, she was still such a child.

‘I did not know if you would come,’ she sniffed.

‘You should have trusted me; you should have written to me sooner. I have been so worried about you, not knowing where you were, whether you were safe or happy, nor even knowing if you were alive or dead.’

She hung her head.

‘I wanted to write to you, but somehow there was always something to prevent it,’ she said in a small voice.

‘You had better tell me everything, from the beginning,’ I said, sitting down on a chair by her side, for I thought it would be a relief to her to tell me all. ‘You met him in Bath?’ I prompted her, when she did not begin.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was there visiting friends.’

‘Does he have a name?’ I asked her.

‘He does, but I cannot tell you.’

‘You mean you will not. Why is it such a secret? He has seduced you, Eliza. He deserves to be brought to account for his crime.’

She shook her head. I tried to coax her but she was resolute, and I pressed her no further, hoping she would tell me of her own free will before much more time had passed.

‘Your friend knew him? ’ I asked her.

‘Yes, Susan knew everything. We met him in the circulating library one morning, when we were exchanging our books.’ Her voice took on strength, and her face gained some animation. ‘He was lively and friendly, and we saw no harm in talking to him, for he was a gentleman, and we were in a public place with lots of people around us. Indeed, he seemed to know most of them. He had many friends, and it was clear that he was well thought of and well respected. He talked to us about the books we were borrowing, and he recommended some we should try. They were perfectly respectable, and we thanked him for his recommendations. He made us a bow and he said he hoped we would enjoy them. As we went home, Susan said he had been much taken with me. I thought so, too, but as it had been a chance encounter, I did not think I would see him again.’

‘But you did?’

She nodded.

‘Yes, we seemed to be always coming across him.’

‘When you were out without a chaperon?’ I asked her.

‘We did not go out alone. Susan’s father was infirm, but he always sent her maid with us.’

‘And did she stay with you? ’

‘No, not all the time,’ she admitted.

‘But Susan was always with you? ’

‘Yes, for the most part.’

I looked at her enquiringly.

‘Once, I met him without Susan, for we were late leaving the house and so Susan went on to the milliner’s with her maid, where she had some business, whilst I went ahead to the library. I met him on the way and he carried my books for me. How he made me laugh!’ she said, her face brightening as she spoke of him. ‘He was always so good-humoured. And after that, I seemed to be always seeing him. He offered to escort us home one day and we accepted his offer, but then, as we were walking past the coachmakers, he said he had to collect his curricle. He said he would take us home in style, but as there was only one spare seat and as Susan had some shopping to do, it was arranged that he should take me home and that Susan would join me there later.’

‘And her maid went with you? ’

‘No, her maid went with Susan.’

‘And did she not object to your going in the curricle alone?’

‘No. She said I was a lucky girl to have such a treat.’

I gave a sigh. ‘I see.’

‘And then he offered to take me driving the following day, and Susan and I met him at the corner of the street. She was a great friend to me. She knew I was falling in love with him, and so she helped us to see each other. I had told her all about my mother, you see, and how my mother had been prevented from marrying the man she loved, and how it had ruined her life. And so Susan said nothing to anyone, for she was not going to behave like Mama’s maid and betray me.’

‘And did you never think that it was wrong?’ I asked her.

‘How could it be wrong to fall in love?’ she asked me innocently.

‘And could you not have told me about him?’ I said gently.

‘He said we would surprise you, and how romantic it would be to elope.’

I shook my head, and she looked perplexed.

‘I thought that you, at least, would understand, for you were going to elope with Mama.’

‘That was different,’ I said. ‘Your mama and I had known each other for many years. We knew each other in all our moods, and we knew that we could trust one another. We intended to marry in church, and we only planned to elope because my father wanted to force your mother into marrying someone else. But no one was trying to force you into a distasteful marriage, my dear.’

The door opened and the landlady entered with a tray of tea. I eyed the cups dubiously, but it was obvious that Eliza was used to drinking from cracked cups, for she set them on the table without a thought and proceeded to pour the tea.

‘He’s dead, is he?’ asked Mrs Hill, hovering by the door. ‘I knew how it would be.’

Eliza’s eyes filled with tears.

‘Indeed, he is not,’ I said.

‘Ah, well, that’s a blessing,’ she said. ‘It’s an injury, I suppose. I was talking to my brother. “There’s a lot of people falls down stairs and breaks their neck,” he said to me. Poor dear,’ she added, looking at Eliza.

‘Thank you, we must hope for the best,’ I said, not wanting to give her any details, and then waited until she left the room.

Eliza handed me a cup of tea. I took it and drank it, more to encourage her than because I wanted it, and she seemed better for the drink.

‘You said you eloped, but in your letter you said you were not married?’ I asked her.

Her eyes filled with tears.

‘No. But he said we would be. He told me we would be married as soon as we reached town. It would be easier in town, he said, because no one would know us there and so no one could object on account of my age. And then we would go to Delaford and see you.’ She smiled. ‘I was looking forward to it so much. I wanted you to meet him, for I was sure you would like him. And it pleased me above all things to know that I would be a respectable wife and that you would be able to acknowledge me as your friend and that you need not be ashamed of me.’

I was startled.

‘I have never been ashamed of you!’

‘Susan’s maid said that people whose parents were not married are always a source of shame to those around them.’

‘Susan’s maid would have been better attending to her own concerns,’ I said angrily. ‘But go on. What happened when you reached town?’

Her face fell.

‘He found there was something wrong with the licence. I do not know what it was, something trivial, but it meant he would have to get another one. But then there was some difficulty about it, so he decided it would be better if he contacted a church in the neighbourhood and asked them to read the banns. So then we had to wait another three weeks for the banns to be read.’

I began to see how it had happened. She had been lured to London with the promise of marriage, and then lured to stay by circumstances; which, I did not doubt, had been manufactured, for her seducer must have known that no clergyman in England would officiate at a marriage with a sixteen-year-old bride unless her parents or guardians approved of the match.

‘And after the three weeks were over?’ I asked.

‘The clergyman who was to perform the ceremony was ill,’ she said.

She turned her handkerchief over in her hands, and I knew she suspected that it was a lie, but that she did not want to face it.

‘So you had to wait until he was better?’ I asked her gently.

‘Yes.’

‘And did you speak to the clergyman yourself?’ I asked, though I knew it was a vain hope.

‘No. I did not need to,’ she said. ‘He told me that everything was arranged and I believed him. He is a good man, he loves me. I know he does.’

‘If he was a good man, he would not have deserted you,’ I said gently.

‘He didn’t desert me. He had to go away for a while because his benefactress was ill, and then he was going to find a house for us to live in when we were married. He promised me he would come back soon, but it has been two months and I am dreadfully worried,’ she said, looking at me with sick apprehension. ‘I think something must have happened to him.’

‘It is possible,’ I said, more to soothe her pride than for any other reason. ‘If you give me his name, I will make enquiries and find out what has become of him.’

She did not want to do so, for I could tell that she was afraid of what I would say to him when I found him, but at last, reluctantly, she gave in.

‘His name is Willoughby,’ she said.

I stared at her, aghast. Willoughby! She could not have given me any name that would have shocked me more.

But then, as I thought over the matter, I realized it must be another Willoughby. The man I knew might be shallow and frivolous but he was at least a gentleman; he could surely not be so base as to leave a sixteen-year-old girl alone in London whilst she was carrying his child, and then go to Barton and make love to another young woman without a care in the world. No, it was impossible.

‘What is his Christian name?’ I asked.

‘John,’ she said. ‘Here, I have a sketch of him.’

She raised herself on her elbow and opened a small book which lay beside her. She turned the pages until she came to the sketch of a young man. It was poorly executed, but the likeness was unmistakable.

I shook my head in dismay.

‘Do you know him? ’ she asked.

‘I am sorry to say that I do.’

I did not want to hurt her, but I knew that she had to be told. As gently as I could, I told her that I had spent the last few weeks in company with him, that he had been happy and care-free, and that he had never once mentioned her, nor thought about her, for he had been courting another.

‘No! It cannot be true!’ she said, falling back on the sofa.

‘It gives me great pain to say it, Eliza, but I am afraid it is so,’ I said.

‘I do not believe it!’ she said, rallying.

‘Then you must ask Sir John Middleton,’ I said. ‘You have paper on your table. Write to him and ask him if he knows a man named Willoughby.’

‘I never suspected ...’ she said, ashen. She looked at the paper and then said, ‘No, I will not write. I know you to be honest. If you say it is so, then it must be so. But Willoughby. To have abandoned me, promising to return, and then to leave and never to think of me again? Do I mean so little to him, and his child, too?’ she asked, as fresh tears began to fall.

‘Hush,’ I said. ‘You are with friends now.’

I knew that friendship could do little to alleviate her suffering, but what it could do would not be wanting.

‘He is not the man I thought he was,’ she said, drying her tears. ‘And I? What am I? I am not the person I thought I was, either, for I thought I was a dearly loved woman who eloped with her fiancé, but instead I am a dupe. And yet I love him still. Oh! I have been so wrong. I cannot bear it.’

She covered her face with her hands, and I put her head on my shoulder whilst she wept until she could weep no more.

‘Never fear, you are not alone,’ I told her. ‘As soon as your lying-in period is over, I will take you to the country. There you can grow strong and happy again.’

‘Strong, perhaps, but I do not believe I will ever be happy again,’ she said sorrowfully.

I made allowances for her circumstances and her condition, and soothed her and talked of pleasanter things. But she did not listen to me. Her mind was still in the past, with Willoughby.

Friday 28 October

I have found a nurse for Eliza, and hired a maid and a manservant to look after her, and installed her in more elegant lodgings, but now the only thing I can do for her is to sit with her and cheer her until her child is born, for her time is very near. She does not complain, though I can see that she is in discomfort, and she has begun to show an interest in her life after her child is born, for I tempt her with thoughts of her own establishment in the country, where she and her child can be together.

Wednesday 2 November

My feelings are all confusion, for Eliza has had her child, a girl, as like her mother as it is possible for a newborn baby to be. I am thankful for her safe delivery, and full of tenderness when I look at the child, but I am conscious of feelings of guilt as well, for I should have protected her from such a fate.

However, there will be no debtor’s prison for her, no consumption, no early death. I will make it my business to see that she is well cared for. I am convinced that she is young enough to regain her spirits and that, in time, she will be happy again.

Friday 4 November

Having seen Eliza through her ordeal, my thoughts turned to her seducer, and I went in search of Willoughby. I was about to board the stage and travel back to Barton when a chance remark from an acquaintance told me that he was in town.

‘Saw him at my club last night,’ said Gates.

‘Thank you, you have spared me a journey, and an embarrassing scene at the end of it,’ I said, for I had not been looking forward to confronting Willoughby at Barton, where it would worry my friends and neighbours. ‘Is he staying at the club?’

‘No, he is in lodgings.’

‘Do you happen to have his direction?’

He gave me the address and I went there straight away. Willoughby was out, but I said I would wait and the landlady let me in. I sat and waited an hour for him. He entered in high good humour, looking as handsome as ever, and with not a care in the world.

‘What, Brandon? I never thought to find you here. I thought you were attending to urgent business,’ he said impudently. ‘Well, what is it then? You must have some reason for coming here, and I cannot suppose it is for the pleasure of my company. You never struck me as a man who courted pleasure! Indeed, the last time I saw you, you were doing everything in your power to avoid it.’

I took my glove and slapped his face. He looked startled, and his hand went to his cheek, and then he laughed.

‘What! Are you calling me out! I cannot believe it. For laughing at you? No, that is impossible. For what then? I have done nothing — unless you wish to call me out for taking Miss Marianne for a drive when you were called away?’

‘I am not here about Miss Marianne, though, God knows, if I were her brother, I would be tempted to give you a thrashing, ’ I said. ‘I am here about Eliza Williams.’

‘Eliza Williams?’ he asked incredulously, and then something wary entered his eye and the smile left his face. ‘I know no one of that name.’

‘Then let me refresh your memory. She is the young girl you met in Bath, and then seduced and abandoned,’ I said.

‘Oh, hardly that. She took no seducing — ’ He stopped as he realized that he had admitted to knowing her, but then he shrugged and went on, ‘And as for abandoning her, I did no such thing.’

‘You left her alone in a strange city where she had no friends,’ I said, restraining the impulse to knock him down. ‘The very circumstances that should have aroused your compassion instead aroused your cruelty. She was an orphan, with no one to protect her, and so you used her as you pleased.’

He shrugged, and said, ‘And if I did, what business is it of yours? You cannot mean to champion every waif and stray you discover. Not even your chivalry would stretch to that.’

‘She is my ward,’ I said.

He went pale.

‘Your ward?’ he asked, and he put his hand out behind him and supported himself on the back of a chair.

‘Indeed. My ward. I am here to tell you that you must marry her. You cannot give her back her heart, but you can at least give her the protection of your name,’ I said shortly.

‘Marry her? Come, now, Brandon, you cannot expect me to marry her. She is not at all the sort of girl I would wish to marry, and besides, she has not a penny to her name. A man does not marry his mistress, Brandon, you know that,’ he said, gaining courage again and smirking at me insolently.

‘She is not your mistress. She is a young girl of good family who has been cruelly deceived. I have been lenient with you in offering you a chance to marry her, but I confess that I am pleased you have refused, for I would not have liked to see her tied to a man of so little worth. If you will give me the name of your seconds, we will meet at a time and place of your choosing and settle this matter.’

‘Now look here, Brandon, you are a man of the world. Let us settle this as men of the world.’

‘That is what I am here to do.’

‘On the field of honour? Oh, come now, Brandon, you are making too much of it. I am sure she will be happy as long as she has an income. I am not rich, but I can give her something, I am sure. And then, when Mrs Smith dies and I inherit my fortune, I can give her something more. I will set her up in her own establishment, with a maid and everything comfortable.’

‘If you will not repair the damage you have done to her by marrying her, then you will name your seconds. Which is it to be?’

He protested, but as he was adamant that he would not marry her, there was only one course of action open to me.

Leaving him, I sought out some of my friends from my regiment. As luck would have it, Green and Wareham were in town. I made my way to their lodgings and I found them in their shirtsleeves, cleaning their pistols.

‘Brandon! Come in, man, come in,’ said Green, as he opened the door.

I went in, and found that Wareham, too, was at home.

‘Good to see you again, Brandon,’ he said, looking up from cleaning his gun.

‘And you.’

After the customary greetings, I said, ‘Gentlemen, I am not here on a social visit. I am in need of your help.’

They looked at me curiously and Green said, ‘That sounds serious.’

‘It is,’ I said, taking off my hat and gloves. ‘I need you to act as my seconds.’

They were immediately alert, and wanted to know all the details. As soon as I had satisfied them as to what had happened, they agreed at once to act for me.

‘The dog!’ said Green.

‘He should have been in the army. It would have taught him a sense of duty,’ said Wareham.

‘I would not have wanted a man like that in my regiment,’ I said, to which they both agreed.

‘You have challenged him already?’ asked Green.

‘Yes. I have just come from his lodgings.’

‘You know we will have to give him a chance to marry her?’ said Green. ‘There is a code of conduct in these things and we must stick to it, if we want to consider ourselves gentlemen. ’

‘Of course. I have already given him a chance and he told me he would not marry a penniless girl.’

Green’s face showed his disgust.

‘Nevertheless, we have to give him another chance,’ said Wareham.

‘As my seconds, I would expect you to do no less.’

‘What weapon do you think he will choose?’ asked Green with interest.

‘A pistol, I suspect. He probably fences, but I doubt if he has any experience with a sword.’

‘And will you agree to his choice?’

‘I will.’

‘Whatever it is?’

‘Whatever it is.’

‘He will be able to choose the ground,’ said Green.

‘Let him,’ I said. ‘It makes no difference to me where I fight him.’

‘Then we will go and see him now, and return as soon as possible,’ said Wareham, reaching for his coat.

They left me to kick my heels whilst they sought out Willoughby and returned just over an hour later.

‘Well?’ I demanded.

‘He still refuses to marry her. He says he would rather die at once than die a slow death being married to a woman with nothing to recommend her but a beauty which has now surely gone.’

‘It is a pity he did not think of that before he seduced her,’ I remarked. ‘And what weapon has he chosen?’

‘Pistols. The place to be Hounslow Heath, the time tomorrow at dawn.’

‘That suits me well.’

‘Where are you lodging?’

‘In St James’s Street.’

‘Then we will meet there in the morning and travel to the heath together.’

Saturday 5 November

I slept soundly and I was roused by my valet well before dawn. The morning was cold and I dressed with alacrity, eating a hearty breakfast before Green and Wareham called for me. I put on my coat, grateful for the warmth of its capes. Then, donning my hat and gloves, I went out into the mist-shrouded morning.

Lighted flambeaus pierced the gloom, their flames flickering fitfully as they strove to push back the dark, revealing the grey streets beyond.

I heard the muffled cry of the night watchman, ‘All’s well.’

‘All’s well for some,’ said Green, as I climbed into the carriage.

‘For us,’ I said. ‘I am ready to finish this business.’

‘Ay,’ said Wareham. ‘Let us be done with it.’

The carriage pulled away. The horses’ hoofs sounded strangely muted, and the turning of the wheels was no more than a grating whisper as the carriage bumped over the cobbles.

‘This damnable fog,’ said Green, peering out of the window. ‘I hope it clears by the time we reach the heath, or you will not be able to see each other, let alone fire.’

We were in luck. When we stepped out onto the heath, we could see for twenty paces, enough for our business.

There was no sign of Willoughby’s carriage.

Ten minutes later Willoughby arrived, attended by two men who looked nervous, as well they might. They were dandies, not soldiers, and had probably never been seconds in their lives.

‘I will give him another chance to change his mind,’ said Green.

He went over to Willoughby, they had words, and Green returned, saying, ‘The duel is to go ahead. It is for you to choose the distance, Brandon.’

That done, the seconds met in the middle and loaded the pistols in each other’s presence to ensure fair play, then Green and Wareham returned to hand me my weapon.

‘Willoughby’s man is to count the paces. After the count of ten, you may turn and fire at will. Is this agreeable to you? ’

‘It is.’

‘Then let us get it over with.’

I removed my coat. Across the heath, Willoughby removed his. The fog was lifting minute by minute, and I could see him clearly. We came together and stood back to back. His man counted the paces. One ... two ... three ... four ... five ... I thought of Eliza abandoned and left all alone ... six ... seven ... eight ... nine ...

‘Ten!’

I turned.

He turned, too, his arm already raised. He rushed his shot, firing without taking proper aim, and the bullet went wide, so wide I did not even feel it pass. He blanched, and dropped his arm. I saw his knees begin to buckle. I lifted my arm. And then he turned and I thought that he would run. But the horrified look on the faces of his seconds curtailed his cowardice, and he turned back towards me, white-faced and trembling, then turned sideways to present as small a target as possible.

For Eliza, I thought.

I took aim.

But as I did so, I saw not Willoughby and not Eliza, but Marianne. I imagined her face as she heard that Willoughby was dead; I imagined her grief, and I was horrified, for, if she was still enamoured of him, she would not grieve easily or quietly, but would suffer with all the depth of her being. If I killed him, I would cause her great pain, and with her nature, it was a pain she would not be certain of overcoming. And so I raised my arm and fired into the air.

Willoughby fell to his knees, and had to be assisted to his feet by his seconds.

I walked over to him and looked at him in disgust.

‘You are not worth shooting,’ I said.

Then Green brought me my coat, and we climbed into the carriage. It pulled away, jolting over the heath before turning on to the road.

We went back to Green’s and Wareham’s lodgings. By the time we reached them, a wind had sprung up, and it had driven most of the fog away, revealing a cold, clean light as a pale sun broke through the clouds.

‘You deloped,’ said Wareham, as we went inside. ‘Why?’

‘Because there is another young woman caught in Willoughby’s toils,’ I said, as I took off my outdoor clothes and threw myself into a chair, ‘and I feared that, if I killed him, she would love him for ever.’

‘Another one?’ said Wareham. ‘How many women does the fellow have?’

‘A face like that brings them fluttering like moths to a flame,’ said Green, as he sat down on the sofa, flinging his arm along the back of it.

‘Ay, I wish I had his handsome features,’ said Wareham, laughing, as he caught sight of his crooked nose and scarred cheek in the glass. ‘It would make a change. I would dearly love to have all the women dangling after me. I would parade myself through the ballroom and pretend not to notice them following me, then I would turn around, astonished, and smile, just so’ — he simpered — ‘and bow’ — he bowed low — ‘and consider which lucky lady to take onto the floor. And then consider which lucky lady to take into my bed!’

‘Whereas I do have his handsome features,’ said Green.

‘True, but in all the wrong places!’ said Wareham.

‘Brandon is the handsome one amongst us,’ said Green.

‘Which is like saying the clean one amongst chimney sweeps!’ said Wareham.

‘Perhaps he is handsome enough to win the lady for whom he spared Willoughby’s life,’ said Green.

‘I cannot think what you mean,’ I said.

‘No?’

‘No.’

They roared with laughter, and Green leapt on me and wrestled me to the ground.

‘Admit it!’ he said as he held me down.

I threw him off, and in another minute the positions were reversed.

‘Never!’ I said.

‘Never?’ said Wareham, adding his strength to Green’s.

They had me!

‘Oh, no, you don’t get up until you admit it,’ said Green, as I struggled.

‘Very well,’ I said, pretending I was beaten. ‘She is someone I met at Barton.’

They let me up and I dusted myself off before launching myself at Green, and then Wareham, catching them off guard and knocking them down one after the other.

We wrestled for some time until at last we were out of breath, and Green said, ‘Well, what is her name?’

‘A gentleman never bandies a lady’s name.’

‘Camilla,’ guessed Green.

‘Arabella,’ said Wareham.

‘Griselda!’ said Green.

‘If you must know, it is Marianne,’ I said, sitting up, for I knew that I could trust them and that her name would go no further; and, moreover, I was longing to speak of her.

‘Marianne,’ said Green thoughtfully.

‘Be still my beating heart!’ said Wareham, clutching his chest.

‘And is it serious?’ said Green.

The mood changed and they both looked at me expectantly.

‘Yes, I think it is,’ I said.

Green let out a whoop! and Wareham clapped me on the back.

‘At last! You have been unhappy for long enough,’ he said.

‘And look set to be unhappy for some time to come,’ I said. ‘The lady has no interest in me. The last time I saw her, she was besotted with Willoughby.’

‘She will not be so besotted when she discovers his true character,’ said Green. ‘You have only to tell her about Eliza and she will be cured of her affliction. No woman could love him after that.’

I sat down and rested my elbows on my knees.

‘It is not so easy,’ I said.

‘Why not? If you like her, and you can show him to be a scoundrel — ’

‘That is just why I cannot tell her. It cannot come from me or it would look like jealousy.’

‘Is that really the reason?’ asked Green, as he continued to look at me. ‘Or is it because you think that she would hate you for destroying her dreams?’

‘Both,’ I admitted.

‘Then what are you going to do?’ asked Wareham.

‘I am not sure. His presence in town is perhaps a sign that he has already tired of her, in which case she might already be aware of his true character, and she might even now be rejoicing in the fact that she has escaped him. And if not, I am hoping that she will soon realize his heart is not deep enough for her.’

‘And then you can court her,’ said Green.

‘Yes, I can.’

To court Marianne, I thought, and I smiled. What could life offer me that was better than that? Unless it was to win her.

Wareham was growing restless, for he was a man of action, not words, and he jumped up as soon as I had finished, saying, ‘Well, that is settled then. Just remember to invite us to the wedding! And now we must have something to eat! There is nothing like a duel to sharpen the appetite. You will stay for a second breakfast, Brandon?’

‘No,’ I said, rising, too. ‘I want to go and see Eliza, and then I am going to Delaford, to look at the cottages on my estate and decide which one of them would make the most suitable home for her.’

They bade me farewell and I went to Eliza’s lodgings, stopping at the shops on my way to buy her a new comb to cheer her. I chose one with a mother-of-pearl inlay, and I was rewarded by her delight in it.

‘It is so pretty,’ she said.

‘And how are you feeling today?’

‘Much better, and longing to be up again,’ she said.

‘It will not be long now.’

I told her I was going to Delaford to choose a cottage for her.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. ‘I am so weary of the town. I am longing to be in the country again. Even in the winter it is better than being here, where there are nothing but grey streets outside the window. Have the leaves fallen yet at Barton?’

‘They have just started to fall.’

‘I want to walk in the copse and kick the leaves and see them swirl up in the air and hear the dry crackle as they swish to the ground,’ she said with a sigh.

‘It will be soon, Eliza.’

I praised the baby, who was sleeping in the crib, before I left, and then set out for Delaford.

Tuesday 15 November

I have found a suitable cottage for Eliza, one I am persuaded she will like. It is a pretty building with a small garden, and it has views down the valley. I have given instructions for one or two improvements to be carried out, and as soon as she is well enough to travel, I mean to take her there.

Friday 18 November

I returned to town and told Eliza about her cottage. She was cheered by the news, and she is looking forward to the move.

I have some business to attend to, but then I will accompany her to Delaford, and afterwards I will return to Barton, where I hope to find that Miss Marianne has recovered from her infatuation with Willoughby, and that I can court her.

I want to arouse her interest in the wider world and to stimulate her intelligence, which must be wasting away with only Sir John and his family, good though they are, for company; I want to discuss with her books she has never thought of, poems she has never discovered; I want to show her places she has never been.

I want to open up the world for her, as her sensibility has opened it up once again for me.

Monday 21 November

I was walking down Bond Street this morning when I saw a familiar face, that of Mrs Jennings’s daughter, Charlotte; Charlotte Palmer as she is now, for of course she has married. After introducing me to her husband, a grave-looking young man of some five or six and twenty, with an air of fashion and sense, she told me that her mother, sister and brother-in-law were well, and that their children were thriving. And then she confounded me by saying:

‘There is a new family come to Barton Cottage, I hear, by the name of Dashwood. Mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr Willoughby, of Combe Magna.’

My spirits sank, and all my ideas of showing Marianne a wider world evaporated like the morning mist.

She was in love with him. She was going to marry him.

There was no hope for me.

Should I have told her? Should I have made her aware of his true character? Should I have prevented her engagement?

I was so lost in my thoughts that I scarcely heard the rest of Mrs Palmer’s speech, though she talked for some time, saying how glad she was to hear of the engagement; how everyone in Devonshire thought Mr Willoughby extremely agreeable; and how nobody was more liked than Mr Willoughby wherever he went.

She paused, and I roused myself, for it was necessary for me to say something, though I scarcely know what I said.

‘There will be another wedding in Barton before long, I dare say,’ she continued, and I forced myself to concentrate on her conversation. ‘Mama says that the Dashwoods have had a young man to stay, a Mr Edward Ferrars, and that he is sweet on Miss Dashwood.’

I remembered Miss Margaret saying that her sister had left someone behind, and that his name began with an F. It seemed likely that the elusive gentleman was Edward Ferrars, and if he was worthy of her, then I was happy for her.

But I could not concentrate for long, and I was glad when the Palmers left me.

Should I have spoken? Should I have said something?

I asked myself the questions again and again.

But it was fruitless to speculate.

Marianne was engaged to Willoughby. My chance to speak had gone.

She was lost to me.

Wednesday 7 December

Eliza is recovering her strength rapidly, and although I have not yet finished my business in London, tomorrow I mean to take her to Delaford. Her spirits are changeable, and I am persuaded that, once she is in the country, they will settle into a cheerful pattern.

Thursday 8 December

We travelled slowly, to make the journey easier for Eliza and the baby, and we both enjoyed the leisurely pace. The weather was fine and bright, with brilliant skies, and the countryside was beautiful in its bareness, with the traceries of small twigs showing up against the sky.

Saturday 10 December

We arrived at Delaford this afternoon, and we were glad to get out of the carriage. Eliza looked at her new home with happiness and walked round the garden, which was brightened by some colourful foliage, before going inside.

She was delighted with the house, and with the nursery, which I had had newly papered, and with her bedroom, which had a large window looking down the valley.

‘I will have to see about finding you a companion, but you have Susan and John to look after you for the moment, and I will be here as often as I can. You will want to rest now, I dare say, but I will call for you in the morning and we can go for a walk, if you are feeling well enough, and then we can go to the mansion house and you can choose some books from the library or whatever you wish.’

She thanked me with a smile and I left her arranging her new home.

And now it only remains for me to see her cheerfully settled and then I can return to London, to see to my unfinished business there.