Colonel Brandon's Diary

1797

Tuesday 3 January

London is cold and damp. The sky is grey and the streets are dirty. I have diversion here but my spirits are low. I dined with Leyton this evening, but not even his cheerful company could lift my spirits. To have the hope of a life held out to me and then to have it dashed ... I am sick of the winter, and sick of England. I think I will travel as soon as the spring arrives.

Thursday 5 January

I saw Mrs Palmer this morning in Bond Street. I had no desire to talk to her and to hear about the arrangements for Marianne’s wedding, and so I went into a shop, but something must have delayed her, too, because when I came out again she was just passing the door and she greeted me heartily. I tried to hurry away but it was impossible, and, to my surprise, this turned out to be a good thing, for I discovered that all was not well between Marianne and Willoughby; indeed, Marianne had not seen him for months.

‘Has Willoughby left Barton, then?’ I asked Mrs Palmer in surprise, for, although I had met him in town, I had assumed that he would soon be returning to the country.

‘Oh, yes, he left there in November when Mrs Smith sent him to town on business; and he had to oblige her, or she might have cut him out of her will.’

‘But he must have dealt with her business long ago. And yet he has not returned to Barton?’ I asked.

‘No, not for so much as a day.’

‘That is strange, when he is engaged to Miss Marianne. You did say that they were engaged?’ I enquired.

‘Oh, yes, it is spoken of everywhere. Everyone says how lucky she is, for Willoughby has a handsome face and a handsome fortune; or will have, when Mrs Smith dies, and that cannot be long, you know.’

I began to wonder if the engagement was real or if it was just a rumour, and hope stirred within me.

‘Has their engagement been announced?’ I asked.

‘No, to be sure, there has been no announcement,’ Mrs Palmer admitted, ‘but with Mrs Smith so ill, it was not to be expected. They were waiting for her to recover, or, more likely, die, before they announced it. Mama was certain of it. Poor Marianne! She is monstrous unhappy without him. She is quite cast down by his absence. She cannot eat and cannot sleep, for she has great sensibility, you know. Now if it had happened to Miss Dashwood, I dare say she would have sighed and then got on with her needlework, but Miss Marianne roams around the countryside thinking of him, and plays all his favourite songs, and encourages every melancholy feeling. It has quite broken Mama’s heart to see her. So Mama, knowing he was in town and wanting to be of use to the two young lovers, invited Miss Marianne to stay with her when she comes to London, and of course she invited Miss Dashwood, too; so now Miss Marianne will be able to see Willoughby again, for Mama will be here very soon. And if an engagement is not announced before the month is out, then I will be very much surprised.’

I wondered if it was true or if Mrs Palmer was embellishing the story. Was Marianne really downcast? And if so, was it because of Willoughby? Was she coming to town to see him, or simply to enjoy the shops and entertainments that London had to offer? And was she really engaged, or was it just a mistake on the part of Mrs Jennings?

‘My sister is coming to town, too, with her family,’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘How I long to see them all again! Dear Mary and Sir John and the children. We shall all be together again. Will it not be delightful?’ she said to her husband.

‘It will be abominable,’ he said.

‘Mr Palmer is so droll!’ she said with a laugh. ‘He is always out of humour!’

I found myself looking forward to seeing Sir John again, and Miss Dashwood, but my feelings on thinking of seeing Marianne again were more difficult to determine.

I still do not understand them, though I have thought about them all day.

I have a great desire to see her, to hear her voice, and to be with her, but I fear that the anticipation might prove more enjoyable than the event, because if she is still in love with Willoughby, then my meeting with her can bring me nothing but unhappiness.

Saturday 7 January

The time is passing very slowly. I have never known it to go so slow. Marianne will be arriving in town on Monday, and on Tuesday I mean to call.

Tuesday 10 January

I slept badly and rose before dawn, riding down Rotten Row in order to pass the time until I could call on Mrs Jennings. I returned for breakfast, and then, having made myself presentable, I set out.

The morning was cold and a few snowflakes twirled around me as they fell from the overcast sky before dissolving on the pavement, and I was glad to get indoors, where I shed my caped coat, gloves and hat before going into the drawing room. Miss Dashwood was sitting by the fire, sketching, but my eyes were drawn to Marianne, who almost flew into my arms, her eyes bright and her smile one of rapture.

I knew a moment of intense joy as I thought, She is not in love with him! And she is happy to see me!

But then she checked, and her look of relief gave way to a look of anguish, and she ran past me, out of the room.

I was so full of concern that I scarcely heard Miss Dashwood welcoming me, but, recollecting myself, I replied to her, and then said, ‘Is your sister ill?’

‘I am afraid so,’ she said, in some distress. ‘She ... has a headache. She is in low spirits and over fatigued.’

From her awkward manner I guessed that something was wrong, and it did not take me long to realize the truth: that Marianne had heard a carriage and had seen a man entering the room; that she had flown towards him; and then she had realized that he was not the man she wanted to see.

My spirits sank. I could no longer be in any doubt. She was still in love with Willoughby.

I felt myself growing grim as I thought of him. He had not visited her for months at Barton; he had not called on her in London. He had abandoned her, as he had abandoned Eliza. And, as with Eliza, he had not told her that his ardour had cooled. Instead, he had left her to watch and wait for him, in the expectation that he would return.

Miss Dashwood offered me a seat and I took it, then she asked me if I had been in London since leaving Barton, but I believe both our thoughts were elsewhere. Mine were on Marianne. Should I tell her what I knew? Would some knowledge of his true character help her, or would it hurt her more? Or perhaps I should tell her sister and ask for her advice?

Before I could decide, Mrs Jennings came in, and her noisy cheerfulness filled the room. Making an effort, I paid attention to her as she said, ‘Oh! I am monstrous glad to see you. I am sorry I could not welcome you before, but you know one has always a world of little odd things to do after one has been away for any time, and then I have had Cartwright to settle with. Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town today?’

‘I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr Palmer’s, where I have been dining,’ I said, my thoughts still on Marianne.

‘Oh! you did. Well, and how do they all do at their house? How does Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time.’

We continued to talk of her family until she said, ‘Well, Colonel, I have brought two young ladies with me, you see — that is, you see but one of them now, but there is another somewhere. Your friend Miss Marianne, too, which you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr Willoughby will do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very handsome — worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I don’t know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has been dead these eight years and better. But, Colonel, where have you been to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come, come, let’s have no secrets among friends.’

I replied to all her enquiries, but without satisfying her in any of them, for I was not about to divulge the reason for my sudden journey to London and so expose Eliza to gossip.

Luckily, she preferred to talk instead of listen, and continued, ‘We shall soon have an addition to our society. My daughter Mary and Sir John are coming to town, and two of my relations, the Misses Steele, will soon be here as well, for they are to stay with their cousins in Holborn. What fun we shall have when they all arrive!’

Miss Dashwood began to make the tea, and Marianne appeared again, but she said not two words to me. Now that I had leisure to look at her, I found that I could scarcely bear to do so, for her face was pale and drawn, and I believe the sight of her would have wrung a harder heart than mine. She was thinner than the last time I had seen her, too. Her dress hung from her shoulders and her sleeves gaped around her wrists.

I drank my tea.

Then, unable to bear it any longer, for I wanted to take her hand and comfort her, and that, of course, I could not do, I took my leave.

‘You must come and visit us often,’ said Mrs Jennings, as I was going out of the door. ‘Do not wait for an invitation. We will be pleased to see you in Berkeley Street whenever you have time to call.’

I thanked her for her invitation and went back to my lodgings.

Monday 16 January

I dined with Mrs Jennings this evening, and whilst I listened to her talking about her eagerness to see Mary, Sir John and the Misses Steele, I watched Marianne. Her spirits were as changeable as the sky on an April day, ranging from cheerfulness to silence. When cheerful, she sang to herself under her breath, and her face was lit with a brilliant light that made me want to do nothing but watch it. But then the light dimmed, and she plucked at her skirt and paced about the room.

What did it mean?

Did she know that Willoughby had played her false? But no, because then she would not be cheerful. But had he renewed his attentions? No, because then she would not be cast down.

Try as I might, I could not discover the meaning of it, until Mrs Jennings, seeing my eyes following Marianne, said to me, ‘Ah! You see how it is! Willoughby was here this morning, when we were out. He left his card and Miss Marianne found it on the table when we returned. She was vexed with herself for having left the house, and now she can settle to nothing in anticipation of seeing him tomorrow.’

So! He had left his card. Then he had not dropped the acquaintance. But what did he mean by it? If he was in love with her, why was he not with her? And if he was not in love with her, then why had he called?

And if his behaviour was perplexing to me, how much more perplexing must it be to Marianne?

As I watched her, I wished I could bring her some ease. But there was only one man who could do that, and that man was Willoughby.

Wednesday 18 January

I received a note from Sir John, telling me that he and his family were in town and inviting me to dine with them tomorrow, and I was glad to have something to take my thoughts from Marianne, for, where she is concerned, I feel helpless, and that is not a feeling I am used to. Nor is it a feeling I like.

Thursday 19 January

Sir John got up a dance after dinner this evening — a fact which displeased Mary, for she did not want it known that she had given such a small dance with only two violins and a sideboard collation — and I was hoping that it would put some life into Miss Marianne, but the music did little to rouse her, and although she danced, she did so without any spirit. After a while she sat out, saying that she had a headache. Her face looked grey, and what worried me more was that she did not look outwards, at the dancers, but inwards, at her own thoughts.

I hated to see her so cast down. It cut me to the quick. I was about to go over to her and see if I could cheer her, or at least distract her thoughts, when Sir John joined me, saying, ‘Ay, Miss Marianne’s in love all right! I cannot think what Willoughby is about! He should be here by now. I saw him this morning in the street and told him he must come along this evening. Once he arrives, she will be happy enough.’

I looked at her again and thought that she was pale because she was wondering why he did not come, but then I discovered that she did not even know that he had been invited.

I thought, If she looks so ill now, when she believes he is not a guest, how will she look when she learns that he was invited but did not come?

But no one enlightened her, for which I thank God, for I do not think she could have borne it.

And I — I can no longer bear it. Should I say something or should I remain silent? So much depends on whether she is engaged or not. If she is, I cannot speak, for she will not believe me. If not ...

Is there any hope for me? Is there a chance that I might yet win her?

Or must I resign myself to living without her?

I cannot sleep for thinking about it.

Tomorrow I must ask her sister and find out once and for all.

Friday 20 January

I rose early and was at Berkeley Street as soon as it was seemly.

I went in, and as soon as I did so, I saw the servant carrying a letter to Willoughby, addressed in Marianne’s hand.

I felt a cold wave wash over me. If they were openly corresponding, then there could be no doubt: they must be engaged.

Miss Dashwood greeted me kindly, but I could not concentrate on civilities, and I blurted out my thoughts, asking her when I was to congratulate her on having a brother and saying that news of her sister’s engagement was generally known.

‘It cannot be generally known,’ she returned in surprise, ‘for her own family does not know it.’

I was startled.

‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘I am afraid my enquiry has been impertinent, but I had not supposed any secrecy intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of. Is everything finally settled? Is it impossible to — ?’ And then I lost the last vestiges of my control and begged her, ‘Tell me if it is all absolutely resolved on; that any attempt — that in short, concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains.’

For I knew that if Marianne was indeed engaged, then I must endeavour to hide my own feelings and wish her happy.

Miss Dashwood hesitated before replying.

‘I have never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stand with each other, but of their mutual affection I have no doubt,’ she said.

Their mutual affection. Nothing could have been plainer. I felt myself grow cold.

There was nothing left except for me to gather what remained of my dignity and to say, ‘To your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour to deserve her.’

And then, unable to bear Miss Dashwood’s look of sympathy, I took my leave.

Their mutual affection.

The words rang in my ears.

It was worse than an engagement. An engagement might be ended, however unlikely that might be. But mutual affection ... I could not fight against that.

I had only one thing to fight against now, and that was despair.

Tuesday 24 January

I was disinclined for company this evening, but I could not sit at home and brood. I leafed through my invitations and set out for the Pargeters’ party, knowing that it would be well attended and that it would lift my spirits to be in company.

I saw some of my acquaintance there as I waited on the stairs to be received, which made the waiting tolerable. But on entering the drawing room, I received a shock, for there was Willoughby, and he was talking to a very fashionable young woman. From the way their heads were held close together, and the way he smiled at her, it was evident that she was no casual acquaintance, but that he was courting her.

But how could this be, when he was in love with Marianne?

‘Miss Grey is a lucky young woman, is she not?’ asked Mrs Pargeter, seeing the direction of my gaze. ‘Mr Willoughby is popular wherever he goes, and she has done well to catch him. They are well suited, fashionable people both, and with handsome fortunes, for though he has only a small income at present, he has expectations, and she is a considerable heiress with fifty thousand pounds. They make an attractive couple.’

‘A couple?’ I asked, with a peculiar feeling which was a mixture of elation and despair.

‘Yes, the marriage is to take place within a few weeks, and then they are to go to Combe Magna, his place in Somersetshire, where they intend to settle.’

I could not believe it, although why I could not, I did not know, for I had had every proof that he was not a gentleman. And yet this ... It was almost worse than what he had done to Eliza, for it was not thoughtless selfishness, it was wanton cruelty. He knew that Marianne was in town, for he had left his card and he must have received her letters. If he was really betrothed to Miss Grey, then why had he not written to Marianne and explained? It would have cost him nothing, demanded no sacrifice, as marriage to Eliza would have done. It would have taken him a few minutes, no more, and yet he had not even bothered to spend so small an amount of time to write to her and put her out of her misery.

He did not see me, for which I was grateful, for I could not have brought myself to acknowledge him. I was so sickened by his behaviour that I wanted to leave, but there was a crush of people coming up the stairs and it was impossible for me to force my way down them. I retired to the card room, therefore, to fume in silent rage, for it was evident that he had deserted Marianne as callously as he had deserted Eliza, with more cruelty, but — thank God! — to less ruinous effect.

After a few hands of cards I thought the crush would have abated and that I would be able to make my way down the stairs, and so I left the card-table and walked back into the saloon. As I entered it, my eye was drawn to a young woman just entering the room through the opposite door, and I saw that it was Marianne. She was looking very beautiful. Her eyes were bright and there was a spot of colour in each cheek which intensified her loveliness. Her dress was simple, but she needed no elaborate gown to set off her graceful figure. Her manner was animated and her gaze darted hither and hither, and I realized with dismay that she was looking for Willoughby.

At that moment she saw him, and her countenance glowed with delight. She began to move towards him, but her sister held her back, evidently fearing a scene, and guided her into a chair, where she sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature as she waited for him to notice her.

At last he turned round and Marianne started up. Pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, she held out her hand to him. He approached, but slowly, and he addressed himself rather to Miss Dashwood than Marianne, talking to her as though they were nothing more than casual acquaintances, instead of intimate friends.

Marianne looked aghast.

‘Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this?’ I heard her cry. ‘Have you not received my letters?’ And, as he stood with his hands resolutely behind his back, ‘Will you not shake hands with me?’

I saw him take her hand, but only because he could not avoid it, and heard him say, ‘I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope?’

The insolence! It was beyond anything. To speak to her in such a fashion, after the way he had behaved towards her at Barton!

She searched his eyes, as if unable to believe what was happening.

‘But have you not received my notes?’ she cried. ‘Here is some mistake, I am sure — some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby — for heaven’s sake, tell me, what is the matter?’

He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but, on catching the eye of Miss Grey, he recovered himself again, and said, ‘Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me.’

Then he turned hastily away with a slight bow and rejoined Miss Grey.

Marianne was white and stood as one stunned.

I thought, She is going to faint.

I stepped forward, but her sister was there before me and the carriage was sent for, and before very long she had left the house.

I did not linger. I was in no mood for entertainment after what I had just seen, and I was soon back at my club, where my heart was full of love and tenderness for Marianne and where I cursed the name of Willoughby.

Wednesday 25 January

I rose early, too restless to stay in bed, and went riding in the park. Having worked off the worst of my energy I went to Mrs Jennings’s house. I discovered that Marianne was resting, but I spoke to her sister and I soon found that they had learnt from Willoughby that he was engaged. He had written to Marianne pretending that he had never felt anything for her and saying that she must have imagined his regard. He had concluded by saying that he was engaged to Miss Grey and that they would soon be married.

‘That is abominable,’ I said. ‘Worse than I expected. And all this time he has let her suffer, knowing that his passion had cooled and that he had no intentions towards her.’

‘It is despicable, is it not?’ she said. ‘I would not have believed him capable of such a thing.’

‘He is capable of anything! And how is she?’

‘Her sufferings have been very severe: I only hope that they may be proportionably short. It has been, it is a most cruel affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now, perhaps — but I am almost convinced that he never was really attached to her. He has been very deceitful! ’

‘He has, indeed! But your sister does not consider it quite as you do?’

‘You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still justify him if she could.’

I wondered if I should tell her what I knew of Willoughby, but I did not know if it would bring her comfort or only distress her more, and in the end I left without speaking, to curse Willoughby and to love Marianne all the more.

Thursday 26 January

I was thinking over my dilemma this morning as I walked down Bond Street when I saw Mrs Jennings.

‘Well, Colonel! And what do you think of this business between Miss Marianne and Willoughby? I never was more deceived in my life. Poor thing! She looks very bad. No wonder. I can scarce believe it, but it is true. He is to be married very soon — a good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs Taylor told me of it, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say is that if it is true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out. And so I shall always say. I have no notion of men’s going on in this way: and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing down as he has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort, he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with her pretty face she will never want admirers. There is a chance for you now, Colonel.’

Before I had a chance to reply, she went on, with scarcely a pause for breath.

‘Poor girl! She cried her heart out this morning, for a letter came from her mother and it was full of his perfections. Her mother, you see, believes them to be engaged. Ah, me! Miss Dashwood has a sad task before her, for she has to write to her mother and let her know how matters stand. Go to them, Colonel. You will do them good.’

My mind was made up. I would tell Marianne the truth. On arriving at the house I saw that Miss Dashwood, too, looked thinner than formerly; Willoughby’s perfidy was taking a toll on her as well as her sister.

‘I hope you do not mind me calling at such a time, but I met Mrs Jennings and she thought I would be welcome,’ I said. ‘I was the more easily encouraged to come because I thought that I might find you alone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object — my wish — my sole wish in desiring it — I hope, I believe it is — is to be a means of giving comfort — no, I must not say comfort — not present comfort — but conviction, lasting conviction to your sister’s mind. My regard for her, for yourself, for your mother — will you allow me to prove it, by relating some circumstances, which nothing but a very sincere regard — nothing but an earnest desire of being useful — though where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?’

I stopped, for I was finding it more difficult than I had anticipated.

‘I understand you,’ she said. ‘You have something to tell me of Mr Willoughby that will open his character farther. Your telling it will be the greatest act of friendship that can be shown to Marianne. My gratitude will be ensured immediately by any information tending to that end, and hers must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me hear it.’

‘You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October — but this will give you no idea — I must go farther back. You will find me a very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it shall be a short one. On such a subject,’ I said with a sigh, ‘I can have little temptation to be diffuse.’

I stopped a moment to gather my thoughts, and then I gave her an account of the whole: my love for Eliza, her marriage to my brother, her fall, her divorce, her child, and then her daughter’s disappearance.

‘I had no news of her for months, but she wrote to me last October,’ I said. ‘The letter was forwarded to me from Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell. Little did Mr Willoughby imagine, I suppose, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but had he known it, what would it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister?’

‘This is beyond everything!’ exclaimed Miss Dashwood in horror, when I had told her the whole.

‘His character is now before you — expensive, dissipated, and worse than both. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I came determined to know the truth, though irresolute what to do when it was known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then, but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister — but what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with success, and sometimes I thought your sister’s influence might yet reclaim him. But now, I only hope that she may turn with gratitude towards her own condition when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza.’

‘I am very grateful to you, Colonel, for having spoken. I have been more pained by her endeavours to acquit him than by all the rest, for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier,’ she said with gratitude.

‘Thank you, you relieve my mind,’ I said.

‘Is Eliza still in town?’ she asked me kindly, showing a genuine interest in my dear Eliza’s fate.

‘No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains.’

Recollecting then that I was probably keeping Miss Dashwood from her sister, I left her, hoping that she could now give some solace to Marianne.

Friday 27 January

I called on Mrs Jennings today and was warmly received.

‘Ah, Colonel, you have done her good,’ were Mrs Jennings’s first words to me. ‘You have your chance, now. She is yours for a few kind words.’

I had thought about it over and over again, and although I wanted nothing more than to win her, I did not want to do so when she was weak and unable to resist. I wanted her love, not just her acquiescence, and she was in no condition to give it.

‘Oh, I know how it will be!’ she went on. ‘A summer wedding, and the two of you made happy.’

‘Please, I beg you, do not talk of it,’ I said, for I did not want her to distress Marianne.

‘We will all be talking of it soon!’ she said.

Fortunately, she was on her way out and so she could not talk about it any more.

I was announced, and when I went in, I saw Marianne sitting by the fire. I expected her to look disappointed at my arrival as she usually did, but instead she rose and came towards me with an expression of such sweet feeling that I was almost unmanned.

‘How good of you to call,’ she said, with a voice full of compassionate respect. ‘I never knew, never suspected, that you had had such a tragedy in your life. I always thought you a dry and soulless man. How easily we are deceived! And Eliza ... how is she?’

‘She is well, thank you,’ I said, thinking how good she was to trouble herself with Eliza when she herself was suffering.

‘I am glad of it,’ she said sincerely.

She made no further allusion to Eliza, but she asked me if I was enjoying my stay in London, and talked to me for a quarter of an hour. In all that time, she spoke to me as though I was her fellow sufferer in grief, and I felt a pang at her heartfelt generosity, for I had had many years to get over my tragedy, whilst she had had only a day to accustom herself to hers.

Saturday 28 January

I called on Mrs Jennings again this morning and found her from home, but Miss Dashwood was there, whilst Marianne was lying down with a headache.

‘I am worried for her,’ said Miss Dashwood, ‘for although her mind is settled, it is settled in gloomy dejection.’

‘If she should wish to go home before your visit to Mrs Jennings draws to an end, I will be very happy to escort her, and you, of course,’ I said. ‘I am entirely at your disposal.’

‘You are very kind, but we have decided to stay. My mother thinks it for the best, for here in London there are things to distract my sister, whereas at home there is no society or occupation, and every corner will remind her of Willoughby. I hope that, in a few days, she might be able to visit the shops, or go for a walk in the park, and the bustle of the scene will help to distract her thoughts. Then, too, our brother John will be in town before the middle of February, and my mother wishes us to see him.’

‘I think you are wise. Diversion must eventually lift her spirits. I only wish there was more I could do to help.’

‘You have already done a great deal. She no longer tries to excuse Willoughby, and this has given some rest to her thoughts. Then, too, in comparing her situation to Eliza’s, she realizes she is fortunate, which is a further source of — I will not say happiness, for she feels very deeply for your ward — but gratitude.’

Sir John and his wife called at that moment with the Palmers, and they joined in our conversation. Sir John was loud in his indignation.

‘I had always thought so well of the fellow, for I do not believe there is a bolder rider in England! It is an unaccountable business, but I may tell you, Miss Dashwood, I wish him at the devil with all my heart. I will not speak another word to him, meet him where I might, for all the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert, and we were kept waiting for two hours together. Such a scoundrel of a fellow! Such a deceitful dog! Why, it was only the last time we met that I offered him one of Folly’s puppies! And this is the end of it!’

Mrs Palmer, too, was angry.

‘I am determined to drop his acquaintance immediately, and I am very thankful that I had never been acquainted with him at all. I wish with all my heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it does not signify, for it is a great deal too far off to visit; indeed, I hate him so much that I am resolved never to mention his name again, and I am determined to tell everyone I see what a good-for-nothing he is. And to think, he is having his portrait painted and buying a new carriage and a new suit of clothes, whilst your sister is cast down in misery because of him.’

I could tell that such talk, though kindly meant, was distressing to Miss Dashwood, and so I turned the conversation on to less sensitive topics.

The visitors rose at last to take their leave, and I went with them. On the street outside the house, we met Mrs Jennings, just returning from her outing.

‘So, Colonel, have you been proposing to Miss Marianne?’ she asked.

I endeavoured to smile at her sally, but I fear it was more of a grimace.

‘No.’

‘Ah, me, I thought you would be married by Midsummer, but if you do not look sharp, it will not be until Michaelmas!’

Friday 3 February

And so Willoughby is married, and to neither of the young women whom he ought, by rights, to have wed.

They have had a narrow escape. And he, I hope, will think riches a sufficient recompense for the sweetness of the young women he has lost.

Saturday 4 February

I called on Mrs Jennings again today, hoping to learn from Miss Dashwood how her sister had taken the news of Willoughby’s wedding, and I found on arrival that there had been an addition to the party, for some young relatives of Mrs Jennings had just arrived. I was pleased, for I hoped that they might be able to divert Miss Marianne.

‘You must let me introduce you, Colonel. Miss Steele and her sister, Miss Lucy Steele. We met in Exeter, and lord! Wouldn’t you know it, we found out we were distant cousins. So Lucy and Nancy came to stay with us at Barton after you left, and it did my heart good to see all the young people together, Nancy, Lucy, Elinor and Marianne. Well, my dears,’ said Mrs Jennings to her two young cousins, ‘and how did you travel?’

‘Not in the stage, I assure you,’ replied Miss Steele, with quick exultation. ‘We came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend us. Dr Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we’d join him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we did.’

I gave an inward sigh. There was no chance of the Misses Steele diverting Miss Marianne, for they were decidedly vulgar and she could have no pleasure in their company.

‘Oh, oh!’ cried Mrs Jennings. ‘Very pretty, indeed! And the Doctor is a single man, I warrant you.’

‘There now,’ said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, ‘every body laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they are sure I have made a conquest, but for my part I declare I never think about him from one hour’s end to another. “Lord! here comes your beau, Nancy,” my cousin said t’other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the house. “My beau, indeed!” said I, “I cannot think who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine.” ’

As she spoke, I found myself thinking that, although the Misses Steele were decidedly vulgar, they might do Marianne some good after all: Mrs Jennings must have someone to tease about love affairs and marriage, and in Miss Steele she had found someone who enjoyed the teasing as much as she did, so that Marianne would be spared her attentions.

‘Ay, ay, that is very pretty talking — but it won’t do — the Doctor is the man, I see,’ went on Mrs Jennings, enjoying herself heartily.

‘No, indeed! and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of,’ said Miss Steele, in high good humour.

Mrs Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would not, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.

I did not stay long; only long enough to ask Miss Dashwood, in a quiet moment when the Misses Steele were talking to Mrs Jennings, how her sister had taken the news of Willoughby’s marriage.

‘With resolute composure. She made no observation on it and shed no tears, at least at first; but after a short time she could not contain them. However, I hope they will do her good. Now that Willoughby has gone from town there will be no chance of her meeting him, and I hope to persuade her to drive out with me tomorrow. And, once our brother, John, arrives in town, she will go and visit him, too.’

‘If I can be of any assistance, you only have to say.’

‘Thank you. Your kindness and good sense have been a great support to me over the last few days,’ she said. ‘Indeed, I do not know what I would have done without them.’

‘My carriage and my time are at your disposal. A note will bring me to you at any time.’

I stood up to take my leave. As I did so, I heard Mrs Jennings saying to Miss Steele, ‘Miss Marianne had better look out, or her sister will have him yet!’

They giggled, and I felt annoyed, though on behalf of Miss Dashwood rather than myself. She coloured, but then we exchanged glances, for we each held the Misses Steele in the same estimation, and we both knew that Mrs Jennings could not help her nature.

I returned home, sorry that I had not seen Marianne, but full of hope that, now Willoughby was married, she would be able to forget him.

Wednesday 8 February

I dined with Sir John and his wife, and found that they had already met Marianne’s half brother, Mr John Dashwood, who was newly arrived in town.

‘Doesn’t seem to know much about horses,’ said Sir John.

‘Mrs John Dashwood is a woman of elegance and style,’ said Mary. ‘I believe she will be a great addition to our circle. She is particularly happy at the moment because her brother, Mr Edward Ferrars, is about to contract a brilliant alliance ...’

Edward Ferrars. The name was familiar to me, though I could not recall where I had heard it.

‘... with the Honourable Miss Morton, the daughter of the late Lord Morton. She is a very accomplished young woman, for she paints delightfully, and I have it on good authority that her last landscape was exquisite.’

‘Oh, ay, it is a splendid match, for she has thirty thousand pounds,’ said Sir John. ‘A man might buy many a pointer for thirty thousand pounds! Though Mrs Dashwood did not say if he hunted. If he does not, I might ask him to stay with us at Barton.’

At the mention of Barton, I recalled that that was where I had heard the name of Mr Edward Ferrars, and that his name had been linked with Miss Dashwood. I hoped that she, too, was not to be disappointed in love.

‘Ferrars is staying with his sister at the moment. We should see something of him by and by,’ said Sir John.

I found myself interested in making his acquaintance and seeing what manner of man he was.

‘And who do you think we have invited to stay with us?’ went on Sir John.

‘I cannot imagine,’ I replied.

‘The Misses Steele! Delightful girls, eh, Mary?’

‘Indeed, charming girls,’ said Mary.

I was astonished to find anyone could think them charming, but the reason soon became clear: the Misses Steele had made themselves useful at Barton, where they had doted on the children and flattered Mary, and thus had become indispensable.

Tuesday 14 February

I dined with the John Dashwoods tonight, and as soon as I walked into the drawing room, I saw Marianne! It was an unexpected pleasure, for I had not expected to see her there. She smiled when she saw me, and greeted me kindly, but she was otherwise pale and listless. A moment’s reflection, however, showed me that, so soon after Willoughby’s marriage, it was only to be expected.

I accepted her invitation to sit beside her, and I talked to her of music because I thought it would amuse her. I cannot say that I was altogether successful, but at least I gave a new turn to her thoughts, which, in that company, was a good in itself.

Mr John Dashwood made a favourable impression on me to begin with because he had a look of the Misses Dashwood about the eyes, but it soon became apparent that there the resemblance ended, for he had none of their goodness or intelligence.

His wife was very elegant, but in nature she was limited and selfish.

His mother-in-law, Mrs Ferrars, was a proud woman with an ill-natured aspect. For some reason she seemed to have taken a dislike to Miss Dashwood, and from time to time she favoured her with a sour look. Quite why she did not like Miss Dashwood I could not imagine; unless it was that Miss Dashwood, by her breeding, intelligence and common sense, showed Mrs Ferrars to be deficient in all three.

The Misses Steele added their own brand of silliness to the party, and Sir John, Mary and Mrs Jennings made up the rest.

Dinner was announced, and we went into the dining room, where I found myself disgusted by the opulence on display, for, in the midst of so much plenty, Dashwood had spared nothing for his sisters; they were not in London at his invitation but through the kindness of Mrs Jennings, and they were sitting at his table in old dresses.

I tried to tempt Marianne to eat, but she did nothing more than toy with the food on her plate, and she sat still and silent until the ladies withdrew. The gentlemen soon followed, and I was about to go and sit next to Marianne when her brother decided to show me some screens that Miss Dashwood had painted.

‘These are done by my eldest sister,’ he said, ‘and you, as a man of taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether you ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in general reckoned to draw extremely well.’

He might as well have said, ‘Will you not admire my sister, Elinor, Brandon? For she is exceedingly accomplished, and furthermore, she would make you an excellent wife.’

I disliked his attitude, but I praised the screens nevertheless, for they were very well done, and I am very fond of Miss Dashwood.

Mrs Ferrars, piqued by my praise, requested to look at them, but when she had examined them, she dismissed them with a ‘Hum, very pretty,’ and proceeded to say how well Miss Morton painted; Miss Morton being the wife she had chosen for her eldest son, Edward.

I turned away from her in disgust, but a moment later I was pleased that she had spoken, for Marianne was roused from her thoughts by the slight to her sister, and springing up, she took the screens into her own hands.

‘This is admiration of a very particular kind!’ she said. ‘What is Miss Morton to us? Who knows or who cares for her? It is Elinor of whom we think and speak.’ She looked at the screens and admired them herself as they ought to be admired, saying, ‘Look at the workmanship! The taste and the artistry! See how the colours complement each other. This is fine workmanship indeed.’

I loved her for her affectionate heart, and I was overjoyed to see a spark in her eye and some colour in her cheek.

But Mrs Ferrars was not to be outdone, and Marianne, in her weakened state, was no match for her. Having done all in her power to defend her sister, she moved over to her chair, and when Mrs Ferrars renewed her attack, she put one arm round her sister’s neck and one cheek close to hers, saying in a low but eager voice, ‘Dear, dear Elinor, don’t mind them. Don’t let them make you unhappy.’

I was overcome with sympathy for her tender heart. I stood up, oblivious of the company, and went over to her, for her spirits were quite overcome; and in another moment she had hidden her face on her sister’s shoulder and burst into tears.

‘Ah! poor dear,’ murmured Mrs Jennings, handing her some smelling salts, whilst Sir John changed his seat to one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole affair.

In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end to the bustle, and I returned to my seat, only to find myself addressed by John Dashwood.

‘Poor Marianne!’ he said. ‘She is very nervous; she has not Elinor’s constitution, and one must allow that there is something very trying to a young woman who has been a beauty in the loss of her personal attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne was remarkably handsome a few months ago — quite as handsome as Elinor. Now you see it is all gone.’

I was tempted to say, ‘Marianne is the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance; and if you had any sense, you would see that I am in love with her, instead of trying to persuade me to offer for her sister,’ but the evening had had enough dramas, and so I kept my peace.

He invited me to dinner again, and though I had no desire to spend another evening in his company, I knew I would find Marianne at his house, and so I accepted.

To look at her and listen to her, and to be with her: this is my sole delight.

And, if she will allow it, to comfort her and to love her will be the purpose of my life.

Saturday 18 February

I was looking forward to dining with Mr Dashwood this evening, but to my disappointment, his sisters were not there: Marianne had a headache, and her sister had stayed behind to look after her.

His wife’s brothers were there, however, and two more dissimilar men it would be difficult to meet. Mr Robert Ferrars was a coxcomb who waxed lyrical about his new toothpick-case, before telling me that his brother was extremely gauche on account of having been educated by private tutors instead of going to school.

‘If Mama had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself, instead of sending him to Mr Pratt’s, he, too, could have been a man of fashion,’ he remarked.

Mr Edward Ferrars, far from being gauche, was a man of good sense and breeding. He was somewhat shy, it is true, but at least he did not breathe a syllable about toothpick-cases, nor did he lower himself by belittling his brother. Of Miss Morton he made no mention, and I suspect that the idea of a marriage is in his mother’s mind and not his own.

I liked him. He was not the sort of young man it would be possible to know in half an hour, or even half a month, but he had an intelligent mind, and I was sorry when our seating at dinner separated us, for, apart from Sir John, he was the only man there to whom I cared to speak.

Thursday 23 February

Mrs Palmer has had her baby, a son and heir! Mrs Jennings is delighted, and Palmer, though he says little, is evidently pleased; a fact which escapes Mrs Jennings, who cannot understand why he will say that all infants are alike, instead of saying that his son is the finest child in the world.

Saturday 25 February

I was impatient to see Miss Marianne again, but feeling I could not call too early at Mrs Jennings’s house, I called on Sir John instead. To my delight, I found the Misses Dashwood there!

‘I’m a lucky man, Brandon, to have two such pretty young ladies staying with me,’ he said heartily, his good humour making them smile. ‘We hope we will have you for some time to come: Mrs Jennings is besotted with her new grandchild and is out of the house all day, and so we have stolen her guests! Her absence is our gain, eh, Brandon?’

I murmured a reply, I know not what, for my eyes were on Marianne. I was delighted to see that she was looking brighter, and that her cheeks were not so hollow. Sir John’s company, rather than Mrs Jennings’s, was doing her good.

‘I am pleased to see you, Colonel,’ she said, coming forward with a smile.

The warmth of her greeting and the touch of her hand made my heart glow.

‘And I am pleased to see you looking so much better,’ I said.

Sir John being distracted by the children, I sat down with Marianne by the window.

‘Ah, yes, I was not very well the last time you saw me, was I? But I have recovered, and it is in no small part thanks to you. I honour you for taking my sister’s part the other evening. You were generous in your praise, and I could have listened to you for half an hour as you talked of her screens, for everything you said was true. You thought, perhaps, that I was too warm in my support of her — ’

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Quite the contrary, I esteemed you for your love and loyalty.’

‘Ah, yes, I might have expected as much, for you are a man who understands both of those emotions. It does me good to know that there are men such as yourself in the world, else I might be in danger of losing faith. For myself it is nothing; I will never love again; but for my sister, I want only the best: a loving husband, one who is honest and loyal and good; one who will esteem and value her, and make her happy.’

I wondered for a moment if she meant me, but there was a faraway look in her eye that convinced me that she was thinking of someone else, and my heart beat again.

‘You, too, perhaps — ’ I ventured.

‘No. That can never be,’ she said with finality.

I did not press her, for I knew it was too soon, but in time, I hoped, she would be ready to move forward.

I looked around for a new subject. It was not hard to find, for the Misses Steele were also there, sitting at the far end of the room, flattering Mary and spoiling the children.

‘What delightful boys!’ said Miss Lucy, as William and his brother tugged at her hair. ‘I quote dote on them! You are so fortunate to have two such spirited boys. If there is one thing I like in a boy it is spirit.’

‘That is very intelligent of you,’ said Mary. ‘A boy without spirit is something I cannot abide.’

‘No, indeed!’ said Miss Lucy, as William tugged at her sash and ripped it. ‘Quite the worst thing in the world!’

‘They will not be here for much longer,’ said Marianne, following my gaze. ‘They will soon be going to my brother’s house.’

I was even more surprised, for he had only just met them.

‘I see what you are thinking,’ she said. ‘You are thinking it odd that we, who are family, are not invited, when the Misses Steele, who are nothing, are.’

‘I was not presuming to think — ’ I said, for politeness’s sake.

‘Come, let there be no such deceptions between us. We both value the truth. You were thinking it odd, were you not?’

‘Very well, yes, I was.’

‘But you see, it is simple to explain. Elinor and I do not flatter our sister-in-law, nor do we spoil the children. The Misses Steele do both.’

‘You will, perhaps, be happier here than at your brother’s house,’ I said. ‘You will at least be spared the impertinences of the Misses Steele.’

But her spirits, which were not yet strong, had made all the effort they were capable of making for the time being, and she replied, ‘As to that, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me where I am,’ then relapsed into silence.

I tried to lift her out of it, but she had gone where I could not follow, and I could not pierce her sad thoughts.

I did not despair, however, for time will lessen her pain and I am persuaded she has weathered the worst. Young as she is, she will soon begin to take an interest in life again.

I believe that London has done all it can for her. She has diversion here, it is true, but she is hemmed in by a code of conduct that is stifling for her. She will be better once she returns to the country, where her spirit can be free.

Monday 27 February

‘Do the Misses Dashwood ride?’ I asked Sir John this morning.

‘Ay, they are good horsewomen by all accounts. Willoughby was all for giving Miss Marianne a fine piece of horseflesh, Queen Mab, but her mother had nowhere to keep it and she had to refuse.’

‘And you have nothing for them to ride,’ I mused.

‘Mary is no horsewoman,’ he said by way of explanation.

‘I am going to Tattersall’s next week. If I see anything suitable, I will buy it, I think.’

‘What, thinking of inviting them to Delaford, are you?’ he asked.

‘I will have to return Mrs Dashwood’s hospitality,’ I said.

‘Ay, you’re inviting them for their mother’s sake!’ said Sir John, laughing heartily.

I had to bear his teasing, but it was worth it to have discovered that Marianne was a horsewoman, and to learn that I could bring her some happiness.

I am persuaded that she will like Delaford. To be in a place that has no unhappy memories for her will do her good. And once there, she can ride to her heart’s content. The fresh air, the exercise, and the freedom from restraint will all help to restore her spirits.

I am longing to see her happy again.

Thursday 9 March

I ran across Sir John at Tattersall’s this morning as I was examining a grey mare, a neat stepper with a good temperament. He gave me his opinion on the mare, and proceeded to look at road horses for himself.

As he inspected one of the horse’s mouths, he said, ‘Have you heard the news? Edward Ferrars is engaged to Miss Lucy Steele.’

‘What?’ I asked, my hand stilling on the mare’s mane in astonishment.

I could not believe it! A man of Ferrars’s stamp, with all his superiority, to marry a vulgar creature like Lucy Steele?

‘Ay, I thought it would surprise you! “Lord,” said Mrs Jennings, “to think they kept it secret all this time!” Twelve months they’ve been engaged.’

‘Twelve months!’ I exclaimed.

‘True, upon my word,’ he said, laughing at my surprise. ‘No one knew anything about it except her sister Nancy! Met at Longstaple. His tutor was Miss Lucy’s uncle! They took a fancy to one another and got engaged, but never said anything about it because they knew Mrs Ferrars wouldn’t like it. She wanted Edward to go into parliament, or make a noise in some other public fashion, not sink into obscurity; and as for marrying his tutor’s niece, why, she had chosen an heiress for him to marry!’

I remembered her praising Miss Morton and I thought, Little did she know, when she was admiring Miss Morton’s painting, that her son was already engaged!

‘His mother told him of her plans for him, I suppose, and he said that he could not marry Miss Morton, and that is what brought matters to a head,’ I said.

‘No such thing. Miss Lucy’s sister popped the whole thing out! A good creature, but without a grain of sense. Thought Miss Lucy was so well liked by Mrs John Dashwood that neither she nor Mrs Ferrars would object. Went to her as she sat at her carpet-work and let the whole thing out! You can imagine what a blow it was to Mrs Dashwood’s pride and vanity. Fell into violent hysterics immediately; her husband heard her; and then they turned on poor Miss Lucy. Then Mrs Dashwood fell into hysterics again, and the doctor was sent for. And that is how I learnt of it — ’

He paused as the mare was taken away and another one brought for me to inspect, and then continued.

‘ — for after seeing Mrs Dashwood — who is not ill, by the by, but just temporarily overcome — the doctor went on to see Mrs Palmer, who was in a fright about the baby catching a cold or something or other, and there he met Mrs Jennings, who had the whole story out of him.’

‘And you had it from Mrs Jennings?’

‘I came across her just now, on her way home.’

I was amazed at the whole story, but I hoped they would be very happy and I said so to Sir John.

‘Ay, all this fuss about money and greatness, what does it matter, as long as two people love each other, eh, Brandon? There is no reason on earth why Mr Edward and Lucy should not marry, for Mrs Ferrars is very rich by all accounts and may afford to do very well by her son; and though Lucy has next to nothing herself, she will know how to manage on very little, I am sure.’

He left me examining the mare, a bay with good paces, and went off to look at road horses.

I saw three more mares and chose one with a good temperament but plenty of spirit.

I mean to take her to Delaford myself tomorrow, so that she will be used to her new home by the time Marianne arrives.

Friday 10 March

I fell in with John Dashwood on my way to the stables this morning, and as soon as he saw me, he said, ‘Ah! Brandon, you have heard all about it, I suppose.’

I had no desire to talk to him, for his behaviour to his sisters had given me a disgust of him that nothing could overcome, but I could not escape him, for he walked along beside me, talking all the while.

‘Never has anyone been so deceived,’ he said. ‘My poor Fanny! She has borne it all with the fortitude of an angel! She says she will never think well of anybody again.’

She was the most ill-used of women, according to Dashwood, and so was his mother-in-law, Mrs Ferrars; but everything he said made me like them less and made me like Edward Ferrars the more, for he had stuck to his engagement, though his mother had threatened to disinherit him on the one hand, and had bribed him with the promise of riches if he married Miss Morton on the other.

‘I cannot understand it,’ said Dashwood as we crossed the road. ‘He will be penniless if he marries Miss Lucy, for his mother will never see him again; and she has made it clear that if he enters into any profession with a view of better support, she will do everything in her power to prevent his advancing in it.’

I wondered if he was speaking in jest, but he was quite serious; then I wondered if he could be sane, for he evidently thought that Mrs Ferrars had been sensible to act in such a manner.

‘He left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know; for we of course can make no inquiry. It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. We must all feel for him, and the more so because it is totally out of our power to assist him.’

‘As it was out of your power to assist your sisters,’ I remarked, but he did not understand my sarcasm.

‘Quite. I knew you would understand. The price of everything these days — ’ he said, shaking his head. ‘And there is one thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all — his mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle that estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward’s. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the business. Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely.’

‘But not sincerely enough to help him,’ I remarked as we arrived at the stables.

He did not understand me, and when he opened his mouth to continue, I said that I was leaving for the country shortly and that I would bid him good day.

‘Oh, yes, you must be going to visit your estate, a fine estate, by all accounts. My sister, Miss Dashwood — ’

‘Good day, Mr Dashwood,’ I said firmly and went inside.

The carriage was soon ready, and with Cinnamon tethered to the back of it, I set out for Delaford.

Saturday 11 March

Cinnamon is now in the Delaford stables, and I am looking forward to seeing Marianne ride her.

Eliza and the baby are thriving. I think Willoughby’s recent behaviour has done Eliza good, for she has ceased to speak of him in affectionate terms, and she has begun to see him differently.

She would not think badly of him when he hurt her because her own feelings were too closely involved. But when he deserted Marianne, she felt compassion for her fellow sufferer, and when he then went on to marry Miss Grey, for the sake of her fortune, she could begin to see him in his true colours, as a mercenary, shallow man, who thought of no one’s feelings but his own.

I left her playing with the baby and returned to the house.

There was a messenger there, waiting for me, and on asking him his business, I discovered that Dewson, the rector, was dead; a sad blow, for I had always held him in affection, but at almost ninety years of age he had had a good life and I gave thanks for it.

Sunday 12 March

Today’s service was taken by Mr Walker, the curate, and I found myself wondering whether I should offer him the living, but then I remembered that Edward Ferrars said he was intending to go into the church, and I thought, Here is a way for me to help him.

I am only sorry that the living is so poor and that the parsonage so small, but both are capable of improvement, and it will at least give him an income and somewhere to live.

Tuesday 14 March

I was hoping to offer Ferrars the living this morning, but on reaching town I realized that I did not know where he lived. I made enquiries but I could not discover Ferrars’s address, for his sister went into hysterics when I called on her and I did not know where else to apply. And then I remembered that Mrs Dashwood had spoken of inviting him to Barton Cottage, and I thought that the Misses Dashwood might be able to help me.

I went, therefore, to Mrs Jennings’s house, where I found Marianne playing the piano. I did not like to disturb her, for although the air was a sad one, it seemed to be giving some relief to her feelings.

Instead, I spoke to Mrs Jennings, who welcomed me with. ‘Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Misses Dashwood, for they are to go to Cleveland with the Palmers for Easter. They will not come back to me afterwards, for they are quite resolved upon going home from there. How forlorn we shall be when I come back! Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two cats.’

I was pleased rather than otherwise, for I felt that London had done all it could for Marianne, and that it must now be up to her home and her mother to complete her cure; after which I hoped that she and her family would accept an invitation to stay with me at Delaford.

Mrs Jennings turned her attention to some matters of her own, and I was free to speak to Miss Dashwood. I followed her over to the window, where she had gone in order to see the print she was making more clearly.

‘I have heard of the injustice your friend Mr Ferrars has suffered from his family,’ I said. ‘Will you be so good as to tell him that the living of Delaford is his if he think it worth his acceptance, for unfortunately it is a poor one.’

She was astonished, and seemed at first stunned, but she soon recovered and thanked me warmly, saying that she was sure he would be grateful for it, and saying also that she was sure I would be pleased with him, for he was a man of great worth, with good principles and disposition.

‘I wonder, would you tell him about it? I know him so little I would not know how to speak to him. I would not wish him to feel under any obligation to me,’ I said.

‘I will undertake it with pleasure, if you are sure it is really your wish to give such an agreeable commission to another,’ she said.

‘It is. Perhaps you know where he is to be found?’

‘I believe he is still in town; fortunately I heard his address from Miss Steele.’

‘I only wish the living was better and the parsonage was larger,’ I said.

‘The smallness of the house, I cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income.’

I was surprised to hear her speak of a family.

‘I fear I have given you an exaggerated idea of the worth of the living,’ I said. ‘This little rectory can do no more than make Mr Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry.’

‘That will be for him to decide,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ I replied, though I still thought, privately, that it would be impossible.

I took my leave soon afterwards and returned to my lodgings in St James’s Street. I had not been there for very long when Ferrars was announced.

‘Brandon,’ he said, on entering the room, ‘I have just come from Miss Dashwood, and I must give you my thanks, my sincere thanks, for thinking of me and standing my friend.’

He did not seem particularly pleased, despite his words, and I wondered if it was because the living was such a poor one, but then his manner was explained when he said that he would not be able to take it up at once as it would be several months before he could be ordained.

‘As to that, there is no hurry. I will make arrangements to cover the period in between, and I hope to see you at Delaford Parsonage by Michaelmas.’

He thanked me again, and I said, ‘I hope you and Miss Lucy will be very happy.’

His manner was diffident, but he thanked me for my good wishes, and then went on his way.

Friday 17 March

‘So, Brandon, you have given Ferrars the living of Delaford, eh?’ said Sir John, when I called in on the Palmers this morning. ‘Capital, capital! He seems like a fine fellow. Audacious, too! Marrying Miss Lucy! Ay, she’s a sly puss! Never said a word about it, not though she stayed with us for months. Can’t say I wonder at it. Afraid of his mother, and right to be afraid, too. Cast him off without a penny! Can’t think why. Nothing wrong with Miss Lucy. No fortune, of course, but Ferrars had enough for two. Ah, well! It’s worked out well for us. Now we get to see both of you when we come to Delaford.’

‘We are going to Cleveland shortly, for the Easter holidays, ’ said Palmer. ‘Charlotte has had enough of town and wants to go home with the baby. Will you join us?’

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ I said, for it meant I would be with Marianne, and I was looking forward to seeing her recover her health and vigour.

‘The ladies will be taking two days on the road. It will be easier for Charlotte and the child that way. But we need not travel so slowly. I have some business to finish in town, and I propose to start out the day after my wife but arrive not many hours later.’

I said that this suited me, and it was agreed.

Monday 3 April

I seem to have spent the last few days being thanked for my small kindness, for this morning, when I called on Mrs Jennings to tell her that I would be going to Cleveland, I found Marianne alone, and as I hesitated by the door, she sprang up and took my hands.

‘Oh, I am glad to see you. I have been wanting to thank you for helping Edward ever since Elinor told me of it. You have been a true friend to him when those who should have been his friends, his own family, deserted him. But you are a man who knows the meaning of loyalty, as I am only too well aware. Will you not sit down? Mrs Jennings is visiting Charlotte, but she will be back directly.’

She waved a hand towards the sofa and I was pleased to see that her wrist was not so thin as formerly.

‘And so Edward is to live at Delaford,’ she said, as I sat down.

‘He is.’

A variety of emotions flitted across her face and then she said, with a sigh, ‘How difficult everything is! A few months ago, I would not have thought ...’ Her eyes left mine and wandered unseeingly around the room. Then they came to rest on a picture her sister had been painting. ‘But perhaps there is still some hope, if not for me, then ...’ Her eyes found mine again. ‘The living is not enough for him to marry on, I believe you said?’

I could not follow her thoughts, but I replied to her question, saying, ‘No, I do not see how it can sustain a family.’

‘How could it? With only two hundred a year, they will not be able to marry.’

‘I do not believe so, though Sir John seems to think they will manage. I dined with him at the Palmers last night. Mr Palmer was good enough to invite me to Cleveland.’

‘Ah, Cleveland,’ she said, her face falling.

‘You do not want to go? I thought you would be glad to leave town, with its unhappy memories.’

‘And so I am. And yet I was happy here, too. I cannot forget that when I arrived, I was full of hope. I sat by that window, I played that pianoforte, when I waited for him to call.’

‘But in the country you will be able to enjoy the wide-open spaces, taking country walks — ’

‘Do not tempt me with country walks, for it was on one such walk that I met him,’ she said in agitation.

‘The variety of scene will lift your spirits, I hope,’ I said.

‘It is too near ...’

I understood her, for Cleveland was in the same county as Willoughby’s seat.

‘You thought to go into Somersetshire in happier circumstances. ’

‘How well you understand me,’ she remarked, looking at me with gratitude. ‘You are the only one who does. Elinor tells me that we will not be near him there, but she does not understand that being in the same county will be torment to me. It is good of you to listen to me. I cannot burden Elinor any further, she has her own troubles, and Mrs Jennings is not someone I can confide in. But to have you here as my friend eases my mind more than I can say.’

‘I am only too happy to do anything I can to help you,’ I said sincerely.

‘I am glad you are coming with us to Cleveland.’

The simple sentence meant more to me than she could possibly know.

‘I ...’ I cleared my throat. ‘I am looking forward to it, too. You will be staying at Cleveland for a week, I understand?’

‘Yes. And then I can go home, to Barton, and to Mama.’ At that moment, Mrs Jennings entered the room and I told her that I was to join her in the country. She was pleased, and we all parted in the certainty of seeing each other again before very long.

Thursday 6 April

Palmer and I left London this morning and stopped at Reading. Tomorrow we will reach Cleveland.

Despite her protestations to the contrary, I hope that the change of scene will do Marianne good.

Friday 7 April

We arrived at Cleveland just as the light was beginning to fade, but as we turned into the drive, I could see that it was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping lawn. There was no park, but the pleasure-grounds seemed tolerably extensive, with an open shrubbery and closer wood walk. The drive wound round a plantation, past lawns dotted over with timber — a mixture of fir, mountain-ash and acacia, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars — and took us to the front door.

We were soon inside. It was a tranquil scene. Mrs Jennings was sitting with her carpet-work, Marianne was playing the pianoforte, and Miss Dashwood was reading.

‘Oh, Mr Palmer, we thought you would never get here!’ said Charlotte. ‘We have held dinner back on purpose. You will like to dress first.’

‘The day a man needs to dress in his own home after spending all day in the saddle is not one I want to see. We will have it at once,’ he replied tersely.

‘Mr Palmer is always so droll!’ said Charlotte, nevertheless giving the order, so that before very long we were in the dining room.

‘How was your journey?’ asked Miss Dashwood.

‘Very good,’ I said.

‘It was barely tolerable,’ snorted Palmer. ‘Potholes all the way.’

‘We thought you might have found it difficult going in the rain,’ said Elinor.

‘We had no rain,’ I said.

‘No? It has been raining all morning here.’

‘But it has not prevented us having a high time,’ said Charlotte. ‘What do you think we have been doing, Mr Palmer? We have been showing baby to Mrs Harding.’

‘Ay, a finer child never drew breath, so Mrs Harding said, and she should know, for she has been housekeeper here for twenty years,’ said Mrs Jennings.

‘One child is much like another,’ said Palmer provokingly.

‘Why, Mr Palmer, how can you say so?’ exclaimed his wife and her mother.

‘There is every difference in the world between children, and if yours is not the most intelligent child I have come across in many a long day, then my name is not Jennings,’ finished that lady.

He only snorted, but when they are not by, he praises the infant fondly enough.

I was glad of a hot meal, and afterwards my eyes were drawn to Marianne as she sat at the pianoforte.

I saw Mrs Jennings watching me and I became aware that I was staring, and so I said to Miss Dashwood, ‘I have in mind some improvements which I mean to make to the parsonage at Delaford when I return. The house is capable of extending at the rear, and a new room might be built above the kitchen. The two front rooms could then be knocked into one, and, with some new decorations, I believe it may be habitable by the time Mr Ferrars has been ordained.’

She listened to my plans whilst carrying on with her needlework, and I tried to keep my eyes away from Marianne until it was time to retire.

Saturday 8 April

Rain kept us indoors today. Palmer and I whiled away the morning with billiards, for he has a fine billiard room, and this afternoon we joined the ladies. Mrs Jennings was sitting over her carpet-work and Charlotte was playing with her baby. Miss Dashwood was engaged in needlework and Marianne sat with a book.

‘She always finds her way to the library, wherever we stay,’ said Miss Dashwood.

When Marianne put aside her book, I engaged her in conversation and told her of my library at Delaford.

‘I hope you and your family will visit me there. You will be able to see your friends in the parsonage, and you may have free rein of my library. There are many books I am sure you would enjoy. Have you read Cowper?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘But I have not been able to find all of his work.’

‘Then you have a treat awaiting you. And there are some plays I believe you will also enjoy.’

‘Your library is well stocked?’

‘With older volumes, yes, for my grandfather was very proud of the library, but with newer volumes, no. My father was not fond of books, and although I have been adding to it ever since I inherited, and have purchased some modern tomes, I still have some way to go before I can claim it is a fine library.’

‘Our library at Norland was also neglected,’ she said. ‘I used to dream of buying every new volume of poetry and filling the shelves with all my favourite works. Indeed, I thought that if I were to come into a fortune, I would like nothing better than to send for all the newest works from London.’

‘Then perhaps you will help me choose some books when you come and stay at Delaford with your mother and sisters.’

‘I would like that. And Edward, perhaps, might be able to use the library, too.’

‘Of course,’ I said, but mention of Edward seemed to have upset her, and she fell silent.

Sensing her mood, I agreed to Palmer’s suggestion that we should have a game of cards, and Marianne sought solace once more in her music.

Monday 10 April

The weather was again wet, and when I returned from the billiard room, I was alarmed to find that Marianne, who had gone outside after dinner, had not returned.

‘She should not be outside in such weather,’ I said to her sister, for the rain was pouring down outside the windows.

‘She often likes to walk in the evenings. I do not believe she can bear to be indoors.’

I sat and talked to her, but my eyes were always looking through the window for Marianne. I pictured her running through the woods, trying to ease her spirits by fresh air and exercise, and I wished the sun could have shone for her. A smiling April would have done much to heal her heart, I was sure.

She returned at last, wet and bedraggled, and looking no happier for her exercise.

‘There, now, you shouldn’t be sitting in those wet shoes and stockings,’ said Mrs Jennings when she entered the room.

‘I am too tired to change at the moment,’ said Marianne as she settled herself into a chair by the fire.

Nothing more was said, but it was some time before she retired to her room to change, and I was not surprised when, this evening, she complained of a sore throat and head.

‘You do not look very well,’ said Mrs Jennings, with maternal solicitousness. ‘You must have a tincture.’

‘No, it is nothing, or at least, nothing a good night’s sleep will not cure,’ said Marianne.

‘I will go upstairs with you,’ said Miss Dashwood, laying down her needlework.

‘There is no need, but I think I must retire.’

She bade us good night, and we were left to pass the evening without her; not a great loss to the others, but a sad blow to me, for her presence is becoming more and more necessary to me. When I see her, when I hear her, I am happy; and when she is not there, I feel as though a part of me is missing.

Tuesday 11 April

I was pleased to see Marianne appear at breakfast this morning, and I asked her how she did. She replied that she was well, but though she tried to convince herself that she was indeed the same as always, it soon became apparent that she was not. She sat over the fire, shivering, for most of the day, and when she was not by the fire, she was lying on the sofa, too listless to read.

I was astonished at Miss Dashwood’s composure, for, although she tended her sister during the day, she seemed to think that a good night’s sleep would mend matters, whereas to my eyes her sister was really ill.

However, I could say nothing beyond a general wish for her improved health, but I could not sleep when I retired to my own room and spent most of the night in pacing the floor.

Had I been too sanguine in believing her to be recovering from Willoughby? In a low mood, I thought that I had, for she had not recovered from him at all. And my hopes that she could love me were equally ill-founded. I had been too optimistic. I had thought that she would recover from Willoughby, fall in love with me and that we would be married.

What a fool I had been.

Wednesday 12 April

Marianne joined us for breakfast this morning, but it soon became obvious that she could not sit up, and she retired, voluntarily, to bed.

‘Poor girl, she is very bad,’ said Mrs Jennings, with a shake of her head. ‘Miss Dashwood, I advise you to send for Charlotte’s apothecary. He will be able to give her something to make her feel better.’

‘Yes, indeed, Mama, we must send for him at once,’ said Charlotte.

‘You are very kind,’ said Miss Dashwood, and her ready compliance showed me that she, too, thought the case to be serious.

The apothecary came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet by pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and by speaking of an infection, gave instant alarm to Charlotte on the baby’s account.

Mrs Jennings looked grave, and advised Charlotte to remove at once with the baby.

Palmer at first ridiculed their fears, but their anxiety was at last too great for him to withstand and within an hour of the apothecary’s arrival, Charlotte set off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of Palmer’s, who lived a few miles from Bath.

She urged Mrs Jennings to accompany her, but Mrs Jennings, with a true motherly heart, declared that she could not leave Cleveland whilst Marianne was ill, for, as Marianne’s mother was not with her, she must take her place.

I blessed her for her kindness, and I regretted that I could do nothing except be there, in case the ladies should have need of me.

I took out my frustrations on the billiard table, and did not retire until the early hours of the morning.

Thursday 13 April

If Marianne had not fallen ill, she would have been on her way home by now, for she and her sister were due to leave Cleveland today, but she is still too ill to think of travelling.

I am beside myself with worry. She should be getting better, but she seems to be getting worse. If only I could go into the sick room! Then I could see how she fared. Her sister tells me that she is tolerable, but I fear the worst. I imagine her pale and drawn, with dark rings under her eyes, and no matter how much I tell myself that I must not indulge in such fancies, I cannot help it.

Not wanting to be a burden to Mrs Jennings, I offered to leave the house, even though my heart cried out against it, but she, good soul, would not hear of it. She said that I must remain, or who would play piquet with her in the evening when Miss Dashwood was with her sister?

Her words came from the goodness of her heart, for she knew of my feelings for Marianne, and I thanked her silently for allowing, nay, encouraging me to remain.

Palmer encouraged me, too, for he had decided to follow his wife, but he did not like to leave the ladies alone, without anyone to assist or advise them should they need it.

And so it was settled that I should stay.

Friday 14 April

The apothecary called again this morning. He was still hopeful of a speedy recovery, but I could see no sign of it. Miss Dashwood and Mrs Jennings were kept busy all day nursing the patient, and when I asked Mrs Jennings how she went on, she told me that Marianne was no better.

I did not retire until late, in case I was needed, but even so, once I reached my bedchamber, I could not sleep. I could only pace the floor and think of Marianne.

Saturday 15 April

‘I knew how it would be,’ said Mrs Jennings, as we sat together this evening. ‘Right from the beginning, I knew how it would be. She was ill, poor girl, but would not acknowledge it, and so she made herself worse before she gave in to nature and took to her bed. It is because she has been lowered by a broken heart. Ay, Colonel, I have seen it before, a young girl fading away after her lover proves false. Willoughby! If I had him here, what would I not say to him, behaving in such a way to my poor young friend. I hope he will be sorry when she dies of it.’

I tried to reason myself out of believing that death would follow, particularly as the apothecary did not seem despondent, but when I had retired and I was alone, I could not help giving in to gloomy thoughts and fearing I would see Marianne no more.

Sunday 16 April

The dawn dispelled my gloom, and I told myself that this was nothing but a common cold; neglected, it is true, but otherwise susceptible to a warm bed and tender care. In a few days, Marianne would be sitting up; in a few days more, she would leave her room; and before the week was out, she would be well again.

The apothecary confirmed my views when he came again this morning, saying that his patient was materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom was more favourable than on the previous visit.

Reassured, I went to church for the Easter service.

When I returned, I found that Marianne was still improving.

Miss Dashwood, confirmed in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness.

‘I am relieved that I made light of the matter to my mother when I wrote to her to explain our delayed return,’ she said to me, as we sat together whilst Mrs Jennings took her turn in the sick room. ‘I would not have liked to worry her for nothing. As it is, I believe I will be able to write again tomorrow and fix a day for our return.’

But the day did not close as auspiciously as it began. Towards the evening, Marianne became ill again, and when Mrs Jennings relinquished her place to Miss Dashwood, she looked grave.

‘I do not like the look of her. She is growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before,’ she said, as she entered the drawing room.

Miss Dashwood rose.

‘It is probably nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have her bed made,’ she said. ‘I will give her the cordials the apothecary supplied, and they will let her sleep.’

She left the room, and Mrs Jennings and I settled down to a hand of piquet.

‘Poor girl, I do not like the look of her,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Mark my word, Colonel, she will get worse before she gets better.’

Her words proved prophetic. As I went upstairs when Mrs Jennings retired for the night, I heard a cry coming from the sick room: ‘Is Mama coming?’

I paused on the stairs, anxious at the feverish sound of her voice.

‘But she must not go round by London,’ cried Marianne, in the same hurried manner, ‘I shall never see her if she goes by London.’

A bell rang, and a maid hurried past me.

Recalled to myself, I went downstairs again, where I paced the length of the room, wishing there was something I could do to help. Another moment and Miss Dashwood entered.

‘I am anxious, nay, worried, very worried,’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘My sister is most unwell. If only my mother were here!’

At last! There was a way in which I could help.

‘I will fetch her. I will go instantly, and bring her to you at once,’ I said.

‘I cannot impose on you ...’ she began, with a show of reluctance.

‘It is no imposition, I assure you. I am only too glad to be able to help.’

‘Oh, thank you! Thank you,’ she said. ‘I do confess it would relieve my mind greatly if she were here.’

‘I will have a message sent to the apothecary at once, and I will be off as soon as the horses can be readied.’

The horses arrived just before twelve o’clock, and I set out for Barton to collect Mrs Dashwood and bring her to her daughter.

Monday 17 April

I arrived at Barton Cottage at about ten o’clock this morning, having stopped for nothing except to change horses, and braced myself for the ordeal to come. I knocked at the door. The maid answered it, and Mrs Dashwood appeared behind her, already dressed in her cloak.

Her hand flew to her chest as she saw me.

‘Marianne ...’ she said in horror.

‘Is alive, but very ill. Miss Dashwood has asked me to bring you to her.’

‘I am ready. I was about to set out, for I was alarmed by Elinor’s letter, no matter how much the tried to reassure me, and I wanted to be with Marianne. The Careys will be here at any minute to take care of Margaret, for I cannot take her into a house of infection, and as soon as they arrive, we will be on our way. But you are tired. You must have something to eat and drink.’

I shook my head, but she insisted, and as we had to wait for the Careys, I at last gave way. I ate some cold meat and bread, washed down with a glass of wine, and I felt better for it. The Careys arrived just as I was finishing my hasty meal.

‘Don’t you fret,’ said Mrs Carey to Mrs Dashwood. ‘I’ll take care of Miss Margaret. You go to Miss Marianne, my dear.’

‘Bless you,’ said Mrs Dashwood.

I escorted her out to the carriage, and we set off.

‘My poor Marianne, I should never have let her go to London alone,’ she said. ‘I should have gone with her, but I had no idea! I believed in Willoughby. He was well known and well liked in the neighbourhood. I never suspected ... I thought she would have such fun in London, but instead she found nothing but misery and mortification. And now this! Is she very ill?’

I could not deceive her, but I said that the apothecary was hopeful.

‘And Elinor? What does she think?’

‘That her sister will be more comfortable when you are at Cleveland.’

‘Then pray God we will soon be there. It is terrible, terrible. Oh, my poor Marianne! I should never have encouraged her attachment to Willoughby, but he seemed perfect in every way: young, handsome, well connected, lively; matching her in spirits and enthusiasms; sharing her taste in music, poetry, and everything else they discussed. They seemed made for each other. And yet he deceived her, abandoned her and married another. I should have made enquiries as soon as I saw her preference; I should have ascertained what kind of man he was, instead of relying on the assurances of Sir John which, though kindly meant, were based on nothing more than the fact that Willoughby was a fine sportsman and a good dancer. I should have asked her if they were engaged, instead of feeling I could not speak of it. I thought too much of her privacy and not enough of her health. Oh, what folly!’

‘You cannot blame yourself,’ I told her.

‘But I do, Colonel, I do!’ she said in anguish. ‘And now she is ill ...‘’

I tried to comfort her.

‘It is no good,’ she said, ‘I can see by your face that she is very ill. Tell me truthfully, do you think she will die?’

‘Oh God, I hope not!’ I cried, unable to contain my feelings any longer.

She regarded me in surprise, and then a look of understanding crossed her face.

‘You care for her as much as I do.’

I could not deny it.

‘I love her,’ I said wretchedly.

She took my hand.

‘I am so pleased,’ she said, with a tearful smile.

Her kindness cut through the last of my restraint.

‘It is hopeless,’ I said. ‘Even if she recovers, it is hopeless. She can never love me.’

‘You are wrong, Colonel. She can, and I believe in time she will. She is an intelligent girl, for all her sensibility, and she cannot help but see, when her hurt has subsided, that Willoughby was nothing but a tawdry tale bound in gilt and leather, whereas you, dear Colonel, have in you the poetry of Shakespeare, though your cover is not so fine. If she lives ...’ Her voice broke, but then she recovered herself. ‘... If she lives, it will be my greatest happiness to do anything within my power to promote the match.’

‘You are too good,’ I said, overcome. ‘But I hope for nothing for myself. If I can but see her well, I will be happy.’

‘Amen,’ said her mother.

We both of us wished the journey over and at last ... at last ... we approached Cleveland.

‘Good Mrs Jennings! To stay with Marianne. But Elinor, my Elinor....’

The carriage stopped, and without waiting for anyone to open the door for her, without waiting even for the steps, she sprang out and ran to the door.

I was beside her; I lifted the knocker; it dropped with a hollow sound; and the door was opened by the butler. Miss Dashwood was behind him and received her mother, who was nearly fainting from fear.

‘It is all right, Mama, it is all right! The fever has broken. She is sleeping peacefully.’

Marianne, well! I thanked God.

I stood back so that mother and daughter could comfort each other and then, seeing that Mrs Dashwood was trying to walk into the drawing room, but that she was still weak with shock, I supported her on one side whilst her daughter supported her on the other, and between us we helped her into the room.

She began to cry with joy, and embraced her daughter again and again, turning to press my hand from time to time, with a look which spoke her gratitude and her certainty of my sharing it.

As soon as she had recovered herself, she left the room with her daughter, and the two of them went upstairs to see Marianne, whilst I sank into a chair. All the anxiety of the last few days flowed over me, and I sat still and silent until the weakness had passed, and then I gave thanks, over and over, for her life being spared.

Tuesday 18 April

I woke at three o’clock this morning, sitting in the chair in the drawing room. I was stiff and uncomfortable, but my discomfort was soon banished when I remembered that Marianne was out of danger.

I went into the hall and, passing the maid coming downstairs with a bowl of water, asked if Marianne was still sleeping.

‘Yes, sir, sleeping like a baby,’ said the maid happily.

I returned to my room where, stripping off my clothes, I fell into bed.

I awoke early, feeling much refreshed, and was soon downstairs. The news from the sick room was still good, and I made a hearty breakfast, then went out for a ride. The world was new-dressed in the freshest of greens, the leaves unfurling from the trees, and the pine cones budding on the branches. I rode on, breathing deeply, filling my lungs with the air that was rich with the smell of spring, and as I did so, I found hope stirring in my breast. Hope!

I tried to fight it down, but it would not be denied. Marianne was on the way to recovery. The world, which had been dull and hard and grey, was full of joy and optimism, from the brilliant blue of the sky to the diamonds of dew that caught the sunlight and reflected it in rainbow hues.

I rode until I had rid myself of all my energy and then returned to the house.

I went inside and found Mrs Dashwood sitting down to breakfast. Her cheerful look showed me that her daughter continued to mend.

‘Ah, Colonel, I am so pleased to see you. Is it not splendid news? Marianne has passed a quiet night. Her colour is good and her pulse strong. We will have her well again before long.’

I could not hide my delight.

‘To have a true friend such as you, Colonel, has been a great relief to me, and to Elinor. She has spoken of your steadfast friendship, and she is as grateful for it as I am. And she is just as pleased about your attachment to Marianne.’

‘I should not have spoken to you as I did last night,’ I said, for I had not asked her permission to court Marianne.

‘Come, now, you are made out of flesh and blood, Colonel, and not stone. Could you help speaking in such circumstances? And I am very glad you did. Only give it time, and I am sure you will have your heart’s desire. Marianne’s heart is not to be wasted on such a man as Willoughby. Your own merits will soon secure it.’

‘I allowed myself to hope for it once, but after seeing her so ill, I believe her affection is too deeply rooted for any change, at least not for a great length of time; and even supposing her heart again free, I do not think that, with such a difference of age and disposition, I could ever attach her,’ I said.

‘You are quite mistaken. Your age is an advantage, for you have overcome the vacillations of youth, and your disposition is exactly the very one to make her happy. Your gentleness and your genuine attention to other people is more in keeping with her real disposition than the artificial liveliness, often ill-timed, of Willoughby. I am very sure myself that had Willoughby turned out to be as amiable as he seemed, Marianne would not have been as happy with him as she will be with you.’

I could not help but be cheered by her words, for I knew that it meant I had her permission to court her daughter and win her, if I could.

Saturday 22 April

Marianne was well enough to move into Mrs Palmer’s dressing room today, and Miss Dashwood said, ‘My sister would like to see you, Colonel.’

‘Me?’ I asked, surprised.

‘Yes,’ she said with a smile.

I followed her to the dressing room, where I was relieved to see that Marianne was sitting up, but horrified to see her so thin and pale. There were dark rings under her eyes, and a lack of animation in her eye.

‘Ah, good Colonel, it pains you to see me like this,’ she said, seeing my expression.

‘It does,’ I confessed, going down on one knee beside her sofa, so that I could be on a level with her.

‘But if not for you, it would be far worse. You brought my mother to me, and for that I can never thank you enough.’

‘No thanks are needed,’ I assured her.

‘But I wish to thank you anyway,’ she said warmly, and with more animation. ‘I have been very much deceived in one friend this year, but I have been humbled by the devotion of another.’

Devotion. Yes, she had chosen her word well, for I was devoted to her.

‘Anything I can do for you, you have only to name it,’ I said.

She gave a weak smile.

‘There is nothing more I need, only to be here, with my friends.’

‘And to get strong,’ put in her mother.

‘Yes, indeed, to get strong.’

She sank back, and I stood up, for I did not want to tire her. I left the room, and as I went downstairs, I did not recognize myself in the mirror, for I looked so different. I wondered what the difference was, and then I saw that I was smiling.

Monday 24 April

‘Mrs Jennings, I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for all you have done for my daughter,’ said Mrs Dashwood at breakfast this morning. ‘To stay with her and care for her, when your own daughter has just had a child, was friendship indeed.’

‘I couldn’t do any less, not when she was my guest,’ said Mrs Jennings good-naturedly. ‘I’m just glad it all turned out so well.’

‘Marianne is so much recovered that I think it is safe to move her, so we must trespass on your hospitality no longer. ’

‘My dear Mrs Dashwood, it is no trespass, I do assure you. You must stay here as long as you like,’ she said.

‘That is very kind of you, but I think it is time for us to go home.’

‘You must accept the use of my carriage,’ I said. ‘It will make Miss Marianne more comfortable on the way.’

‘Colonel, you have done so much for me and my family, you have earned the right to call my daughters Elinor and Marianne.’

I thanked her.

‘I accept your offer of the carriage. You must reclaim it by visiting us in a few weeks’ time, when Marianne has fully recovered. ’

I was delighted to accept the invitation.

Wednesday 26 April

The morning was all bustle as preparations were made for the Dashwoods’ removal. Maids ran to and fro with rugs and stone hot-water bottles for Marianne, to keep her warm on the journey; footmen carried boxes and bags downstairs, and coach-men loaded them on to the carriage.

When all was ready, they took their leave, with Marianne taking a particularly long and affectionate leave of Mrs Jennings, for I believe she felt she had neglected her hostess’s kindness in the past, and then I handed her into the carriage.

‘Thank you for all you have done for me,’ she said to me in heartfelt tones.

I pressed her hand, and then said, ‘Have you everything you need?’

‘Yes, thank you, everything.’

Her mother and sister joined her in the carriage, and then it pulled away.

I left soon afterwards, having thanked Mrs Jennings for her hospitality, and returned to Delaford.

Friday 28 April

The weather was wet, but I scarcely had time to notice it as I went over the accounts and paid attention to business which I have been lately neglecting. I was glad to be busy, and I talked over the planting of new timber with Havers, as well as the building of a new wall at the bottom of the long field and the extension of the home farm.

Saturday 29 April

I spent the morning on estate business, and this afternoon I went to the stables to see Cinnamon. She was looking sleek and healthy.

From there, I walked over to the cottage to see Eliza. I found her playing with the baby in the mild spring sunshine. She sprang up, delighted to see me, and came towards me dandling Elizabeth in her arms.

‘She looks just like you,’ I said, as I took the baby. ‘She has your eyes and your smile.’

She chucked her daughter under the chin, and we talked of the baby until she began to cry. I handed her back to Eliza and then went on to the parsonage. I looked around it, inside and out, and made a note of the repairs that needed carrying out, and then returned to the mansion house, where I pored over the accounts until bedtime.

Tuesday 2 May

I took Tom Carpenter over to the parsonage today and I pointed out everything that I wanted him to attend to. He told me that he could have the work finished in a month.

‘But the roof needs fixing,’ he said, as he felt the wall. He took his hand away and it was damp. ‘I’ll send Will over to look at it this afternoon.’

From the parsonage I returned to the mansion house. I passed Robert Lambton on the way, and I stopped to talk to him, for he had been on his way to see me. He wanted to take over the derelict barn at Four Lanes End, and I was pleased to learn that his farm was prospering enough for him to need it.

‘Ay, I am doing very well,’ he said.

As he spoke, his eyes strayed over my shoulder, and, turning my head, I saw what had caught his eye. It was Eliza, who was in the garden of her cottage again, playing with the baby. I had forgotten how beautiful she was, for I had grown accustomed to her face, but Robert had not forgotten, and as he watched her, it was clear he was attracted to her. He knew her history, for in such a small village nothing could be kept secret, but still he watched her, and I found myself thinking that if a good man such as Robert Lambton should fall in love with her, then what a happy outcome of all the past year’s trials it would be.

Thursday 4 May

I walked down to the parsonage this morning, and I saw that the works were proceeding as quickly as could be expected. Then I went to see Eliza. Knowing that Robert would be at Four Lanes End, I suggested a walk and I bent our steps in that direction. Sure enough, there he was, overseeing the work on the barn.

I introduced him to Eliza and he greeted her with respect. After some minutes talking to him about the barn, we went on our way, and his eyes followed us.

I returned to the mansion house at last and ate my dinner in solitary splendour.

I miss Marianne.

Friday 5 May

The wet weather reminded me that the path by the river needed raising so that it will not flood next year, and I gave instructions for the matter to be attended to.

Monday 15 May

I received a letter from Mrs Dashwood this morning. Marianne is growing in strength daily and is now well enough to be allowed outside when the weather is fine. She ended her letter by inviting me to stay, and I wrote back at once to accept.

Tuesday 16 May

I dressed slowly this morning, for I was apprehensive about going to Barton, and as I travelled to Devonshire, I wondered if Marianne would ever see me as a husband, or if she would never see me as anything more than a friend.

Wednesday 17 May

I reached Barton in good time, and I knocked on the door and was shown in. Marianne was sitting by the window, and I was heartened to see how well she looked. She had lost her pallor and her skin was as brown as it was when first I saw her last year. Her figure, which had been gaunt after her illness, had regained its fullness, and she was blooming.

She sprang to her feet when she saw me and came forward to welcome me with a smile.

‘We did not look for you so soon. You are very welcome.’

Then Mrs Dashwood came forward and welcomed me.

‘We have missed you. We have all missed you, have we not, Marianne?’ she said.

‘Yes, indeed, Mama,’ said Marianne, looking at me warmly. ‘We always miss our friends. Do sit down, Colonel. How was your journey?’

‘It was excellent, thank you,’ I said, looking at her all the while.

‘This is a day for visitors,’ said Mrs Dashwood, as tea was brought in, ‘for we have another guest.’

‘Oh?’ I asked, wondering who it could be.

‘Yes. It is someone you will like to see, for it is Edward Ferrars,’ said Marianne. ‘He is presently out walking with Elinor.’

‘We have a great deal to tell you, have we not, Marianne?’ said Mrs Dashwood.

‘We have,’ said Marianne.

‘You see, Colonel, Mr Edward Ferrars is soon to be my son-in-law. He and Elinor are engaged.’

‘But I thought he was engaged to Miss Lucy?’ I asked in surprise.

‘And so he was. But the engagement was not to his liking. He had entered into it as a very young man when he was far from home, and when he later realized that she did not have the qualities he needed in a wife, it was too late; they were already engaged. To make matters worse, Edward then met Elinor and discovered that she was exactly the sort of superior young woman he ought to be marrying.’

‘And I gave him the living of Delaford, thinking I was helping him,’ I said, with a shake of my head.

‘It was very kind of you. You were a true friend to him,’ said Marianne. ‘You were not to know that he did not look forward to the marriage.’

‘He thought the case was hopeless, for he would not go back on his word to Lucy. But then the engagement became known and he was cast off by his mother, who made the estate over to his brother, Robert,’ said Mrs Dashwood.

‘At which Lucy, although protesting that she did not mind being poor, went to see Robert, pretending that she needed his advice,’ said Marianne. ‘Lucy is very pretty, and Robert is very stupid, so that it did not take her long to win his affections, and she married him quickly, before he could change his mind. Leaving Edward free.’

‘Free to marry Elinor,’ I said. A smile spread across my face. ‘But this is wonderful news.’

I saw Marianne looking at me, startled.

‘It is wonderful news?’ I asked, wondering if there was any part of the story I did not yet know.

‘Oh, yes, quite wonderful,’ said Marianne. ‘It was not your comment that startled me, it was your smile.’

‘Marianne!’ said her mother.

‘I have never seen the Colonel smile before,’ she said, unabashed, as she continued to watch my face, and I was pleased to see that, although her recent experiences had tempered her outspokenness, they had not rid her of it altogether. ‘You look different when you smile.’

‘Then we must make sure the Colonel has plenty to smile about in the coming months,’ said Mrs Dashwood, with a kind look towards me.

At that moment Ferrars and Elinor returned from their walk, and I sprang to my feet.

‘You see,’ said Margaret, who followed them into the room, fresh from playing in the garden. ‘I told you that Elinor’s beau’s name began with an F!’

We all laughed.

‘Allow me to congratulate you,’ I said. ‘Elinor, I am more pleased than I can say.’ I turned to Ferrars and shook him by the hand. ‘You are a lucky man.’

‘I know,’ he said with a smile. ‘I must thank you again, properly this time, for the living. It was a very great kindness to give it to me when I had no claim on it, save that of mutual friends. When you first made the gift, I am afraid I was ungrateful, for I feared that it would hasten a marriage that was distasteful to me, and yet which seemed unavoidable. Yet now I can thank you from the bottom of my heart.’

‘And I must thank you, too,’ said Elinor. ‘You have been a true friend to all my family.’

‘I only wish I could do more.’

‘As to that, I hope that I might now be able to help myself,’ said Ferrars. ‘I aim to go to town in a few days’ time and see if it is possible to be reconciled with my mother. Now that Robert has married to displease her, she may look kindly on me once more.’

We were interrupted at that point by Sir John, who had brought the mail. He was surprised to see me but made me welcome, and invited me to stay at the Park, an offer I accepted as Mrs Dashwood’s house was full.

He was soon apprised of Elinor’s betrothal, and he offered his heartiest congratulations. Then, after sitting with us for a time, he went to give his wife the news.

‘Is there anything from Mrs Jennings?’ asked Mrs Dashwood as Elinor sorted through the letters. ‘I can never thank her enough for looking after Marianne, and she promised to write to me and let me know how Charlotte and the baby are getting on.’

‘Yes,’ said Elinor.

‘Read it to me, would you, Elinor dear?’ she said.

Elinor began to read, and the letter, which a few days before would, I am sure, have caused pain, caused only mirth.

‘What do you think? Lucy has deserted her beau, Edward Ferrars, and has run off with his brother! Poor Mr Edward! I cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort him.’

‘I think I will leave the task of comforting him to my sister! ’ said Marianne.

‘And here is another letter,’ said Elinor. ‘It is from John.’

‘Ah! Let us hear what your brother has to say,’ said Mrs Dashwood.

The letter began with salutations, but soon began to talk of Robert Ferrars’s marriage.

‘Mrs Ferrars is the most unfortunate of women,’ read Elinor. ‘Robert’s offence was unpardonable, but Miss Lucy’s was infinitely worse. I have made up my mind not to mention either of them to Mrs Ferrars ever again, and I beg you will do the same; and, even if she might hereafter be induced to forgive Robert, his wife will never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with which everything has been carried on between them only made the crime worse, because had any suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage. I am sure you will join with me, Elinor, in thinking that it would have been better for Lucy to marry Edward, rather than to spread misery farther in the family.’

At this, we all laughed again.

‘But finish the letter,’ said Mrs Dashwood.

‘Mrs Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward’s name, which does not surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been received from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear of offending, and I shall therefore give him a hint, by a line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper submission from him, addressed perhaps to his sister Fanny, and by her shown to her mother, might not be taken amiss, for we all know the tenderness of Mrs Ferrars’s heart and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be on good terms with her children. ’

‘A letter of proper submission!’ Edward said. ‘Would they have me beg my mother’s pardon for Robert’s ingratitude to her and breach of honour to me?’

‘You may certainly ask to be forgiven,’ said Elinor, ‘be cause you have offended. And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent in her eyes as the first.’

He had nothing to say against it, but, feeling that it would be easier to make concessions by word of mouth rather than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing to his sister, he should go to London, and personally ask for her help.

‘And if they really do interest themselves in bringing about a reconciliation,’ said Marianne, ‘I shall think that even John and his wife are not entirely without merit.’

‘What do you say to the idea of calling in at Delaford on your way to London?’ I said. ‘You can see the parsonage, and we can decide on some improvements. Then I can set the work in hand.’

He agreed to the proposal and then suggested to Elinor that they should resume their rambles around the countryside. Mrs Dashwood having some housekeeping to attend to, and Margaret running out into the garden once again to play, Marianne and I were left alone.

‘And so, Colonel, I find I cannot cling to my belief that second attachments are unpardonable: Edward’s love for Elinor is a second attachment, and if I were to follow my former philosophy, then he would be condemned to a life of misery with Lucy, instead of a life of happiness with Elinor,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘And yet, perhaps in some cases it might not be possible to make a second attachment, if the first was felt too deeply,’ she went on, shaking her head. Then she raised her eyes and looked into mine. ‘You loved deeply once. Do you believe it is possible, after such an attachment, to be happy again?’

‘For a long time I thought not, but now, yes, I do think it is possible,’ I said.

‘I hope you are right,’ she said with a sigh, ‘otherwise I am destined for a lonely life.’

I said gently, ‘I do not believe that that will be your fate.’

Saturday 20 May

Ferrars and I arrived at Delaford this afternoon. He complimented me on the mansion house, and then we walked down the road to the parsonage.

‘This is better than I expected, much better,’ he said. ‘From what you had told me, I was expecting some dilapidated cottage, but it is a house of good proportions and not inconsiderable dimensions.’

‘It can be added to,’ I said. ‘It would be easy to build on at the back and build another room above. The gardens, also, are capable of improvement.’

He cast his eye over the whole, and then we went in.

‘It needs new papers,’ I said, ‘and carpets on the floor.’

‘I am sure Elinor will want to choose those. I will leave it all to her,’ he said. ‘I am a lucky man, Brandon. A few weeks ago I despaired of happiness, but fate has delivered it into my hands. Now all it needs is for my mother to relent, and I will have more happiness than any man has a right to expect. I hope the same good fortune might befall you.’

He looked at me knowingly, and I could not help smiling, and he said that he hoped we would be very happy.

‘Nothing is certain,’ I said.

‘What in life is certain? But that does not mean you cannot hope. Hope is every man’s friend.’

We went out into the garden.

‘I can imagine Elinor here, cutting flowers for the house,’ he said.

‘The wall can be moved to make the garden bigger,’ I said. ‘If you take it out as far as the orchard, it will be a pretty size.’

We went on discussing improvements, and by the time we had done, we both began to feel that the parsonage could be turned into something like a gentleman’s residence without too much trouble or expense.

Tuesday 23 May

Ferrars left for London today. I wished him luck, and I felt he would need it, for a mother who could cast aside her son for so slight a reason was not a mother who could be relied upon to reinstate him in her affections.

Friday 26 May

I spent the morning catching up on estate business, and this afternoon I went to see Eliza. I arrived at the cottage in time to see Robert Lambton leaving it. He asked me if he might come and see me tomorrow morning, and I said yes. It was obvious from his manner that he did not want to talk to me about the farm, and from Eliza’s smiles I am expecting a happy interview.

Saturday 27 May

Robert Lambton came to see me this morning. He was embarrassed, and hummed and hawed, and he obviously did not know how to begin.

He started at last, however, and, haltingly, told me that he had fallen in love with Eliza and asked for her hand in marriage.

‘And what does she say?’ I asked him.

‘I was so bold as to ask her, and she said yes,’ he said.

‘Then it only remains for my to give you my blessing ...’ I said. I was sorry I could not give her a dowry, for although I owned a great deal of land, I had very little in the way of money, the estate not being a wealthy one. And then I realized that it was in my power to give them something after all, and I added ‘... and Four Lanes farm.’

He looked at me in amazement.

‘And Four Lanes farm?’ he asked, stunned.

‘I will have the papers drawn up tomorrow. You will be a landowner, Robert.’

‘I never expected ...’ he began.

‘I know, and that is why I am so happy to give it to you. You are the very man I would have chosen for Eliza. She has had a great deal of unhappiness in her life, but now she has found happiness with you. I am more grateful to you than I can say.’

He thanked me from his heart and went to tell Eliza the good news.

She came to call on me this evening and told me they would be married in the autumn. She asked me if I would give her away, and I told her I would be proud to do so. She has matured a great deal over the last few months and improved in character and spirits, so that I have no doubt that she and Robert will be happy.

Tuesday 30 May

I had hoped to hear something from Ferrars, telling me of his luck in London, but there was still no letter this morning. If I have not heard anything by tomorrow, I think I will go to Barton and make enquiries there. It is as good an excuse as any for seeing Marianne again!

She likes me, I know.

It now remains to be seen if she can ever love me.

Thursday 1 June

Sir John was happy to see me, as always, and laughed at me for my frequent visits. I replied by saying that he must come and visit me soon at Delaford, and he readily agreed. Then I walked down to Barton Cottage.

Margaret was playing in front of the house, whilst Marianne was cutting flowers.

She welcomed me with a smile.

‘I have heard nothing from Mr Ferrars, and I could wait no longer, so I thought I would come and see if you had any news. Has Mrs Ferrars relented towards her son?’ I asked.

‘She has,’ she said, cutting a final bloom. ‘But poor Edward has had to endure a great many lectures in order to bring it about. But will you not come inside? Margaret, run and fetch Elinor and Mama. They have just set out for a walk,’ she explained to me.

‘I would not wish to disturb them — ’

‘They can walk at any time. They would much rather see you, I am sure,’ she said.

I followed her into the cottage.

‘And has Mrs Ferrars restored him to the position of an elder son?’ I asked.

‘No, that would be too much to hope for. She has promised him ten thousand pounds, which is the sum she gave to Fanny on her marriage, but other than that she is content for him to take holy orders for the sake of two hundred and fifty pounds a year. And this, when his brother has a thousand a year! But it is enough. Now that Elinor has Edward, she needs nothing more to be happy.’

Mrs Dashwood and her daughters returned at that point, and the subject was much discussed.

‘Edward meant to tell you himself. He intended to call at Delaford on his way here,’ said Elinor.

‘I should have waited for him, but I was eager to discover the news.’

‘And I admire you for it,’ said Marianne warmly. ‘Where our friends are concerned, how can we abide any delay which will prevent us from learning of their happiness?’

‘Edward is expected here in a few days’ time,’ said Elinor. ‘You must stay and see him.’

‘Thank you, I will. And then you must all come to Delaford. You will be able to see the parsonage, and,’ turning to Elinor, ‘tell me what improvements you would like me to make.’

‘You are very kind, Colonel. I can think of nothing I would like better,’ she said.

I waved her thanks aside, and Mrs Dashwood said that she and her family would be glad to accept my invitation.

And so I am to have them at Delaford! Marianne is to see my home for the first time. And, perhaps, if fortune favours me, it will be her home soon, too.

Friday 2 June

Sir John called at the cottage this morning to invite the Dashwoods to dinner. Mrs Jennings was with him.

‘What a time we’ve all been having!’ she said. ‘Was there ever such news! Lucy engaged to Mr Edward Ferrars and then marrying his brother instead! And you, my dear,’ to Elinor, ‘you are to marry Edward, and never a thing did I suspect! How you must have laughed at me.’

‘I assure you — ’

‘You young people with your assurances. I never was more taken in, though I should have known. “His name begins with an F,” Miss Margaret said. And I never thought, when I met Mr Ferrars, that he was an F! And you, Miss Marianne, looking blooming, when I thought Willoughby had killed you. Ah, was there ever such a scoundrel, leading you on when all the time he was engaged to someone else.’

‘He did sincerely love Marianne,’ said Elinor, with a glance at her sister. ‘He came to see her when she was ill, and he confided his feelings to me.’

I had never suspected it, but in a few words she said that Willoughby had arrived at Cleveland when I had gone to fetch Mrs Dashwood, and that he had protested his affection for Marianne, saying that he had always loved her but that he had been forced into marriage with Miss Grey by poverty as Mrs Smith, hearing of his behaviour towards Eliza, had disinherited him.

Mrs Jennings was horrified, though whether she was more horrified to discover that Willoughby had seduced an innocent or that she had not been apprised of the gossip, it would have been difficult to say. But now that Marianne was no longer in danger she was willing to forgive him.

‘Ah, well, I dare say it was not his fault,’ she said.

‘No indeed. Nothing is ever Willoughby’s fault,’ said Marianne, with surprising asperity. ‘I have heard all his excuses, for he was good enough to make them to Elinor when I lay ill and in danger because of his behaviour, and they are compelling indeed. It was not his fault that he seduced an orphan; instead it was her fault for not being a saint. It was not his fault for leaving her without giving her his address; for, if she had had any common sense, she could have discovered it for herself.

‘It was not his fault for refusing to marry her when his relation, Mrs Smith, discovered his conduct and told him he must, for how could he be expected to marry a young woman who could bring him nothing except the child he had given her, and of whom he had already tired? Only a woman of Mrs Smith’s purity, and with her ignorance of the world, could have expected such a ridiculous thing.

‘And it was not his fault that he made love to me whilst Eliza was alone and discarded in London; nor that he abandoned me when Mrs Smith disinherited him and ran off to London, where he married the first heiress who would have him.’

‘My dear ...’ began Mrs Dashwood in surprise.

‘No, Mama, I must speak. I have given the matter a great deal of thought, and though to begin with I was soothed by his race to my bedside, I soon saw that it was all of a piece with his earlier behaviour. If a man were judged by words, then Willoughby would be a great man indeed. But his actions, what of them? When he came to my bedside, he was already married to another woman, and he was betraying her trust by visiting me, as he had earlier betrayed mine by leaving me. And yet did he see this betrayal? No. He saw only what he always saw, that he had been cruelly used by everyone about him, and that he himself was innocent. The orphan who had not resisted his determined seduction; the benefactress who expected him, oh! how unreasonably! to marry the mother of his child; the wife who did not love him; and the wild young girl in Devonshire who threw herself at his head, driving around the countryside with him unchaperoned and giving him a lock of her hair; all these conspired against him. There could be no blame attached to him, for if they had behaved in such reprehensible ways, then what could they expect?’

‘Marianne, you do not know that he has said any such thing about you!’ said her sister. ‘He loved you, I am sure of it.’

‘Or so he said to you, but what did he say to his wife, and to his London friends? How did he explain my behaviour at the party? As the distress of a young girl he had encouraged and then abandoned, or as the wild behaviour of an unprincipled girl whose family were careless of her honour? A man who can blacken the character of one woman behind her back can do the same to another.

‘I was deceived in him because I saw what I wanted to see. I used no judgement, no discretion ... I was so young; I, who thought myself grown up. Willoughby was my idea of perfection, and yet, for all his handsome face, he was nothing but a libertine, concerned with his own pleasure and careless of anything else.’

‘Well!’ said Mrs Jennings.

‘Ay, he was a rogue, for all he had a pretty little bitch of a pointer,’ said Sir John. ‘I wonder if he might sell her?’

‘Never did I think I would see the day when she would speak so of Mr Willoughby,’ said Mrs Jennings, ignoring Sir John. ‘However, it is just as well, for he is not a young man I would like to see attached to one of my family. And now, I have been thinking: Sir John, we must invite Miss Steele to stay, for she is all alone now her sister has married, and as the doctor hasn’t come up to scratch, we must find her another beau.’

He was delighted with the idea and said they must invite her at once.

‘Have you really recovered from Willoughby?’ I asked Marianne as, Sir John and Mrs Jennings departing, we set out for a walk, falling some way behind the others.

‘I am. I feel I can see him now with perfect clarity, and I am ashamed that I almost died because of him. I have matured, I hope, since then, and discovered that unbridled sensibility is not the good I once thought it to be, for it clouds wisdom, judgement and common sense. I allowed myself to fall in love with Willoughby without truly knowing him. And once he left me, I gave way to my sensibility again, making myself ill, so that I almost died. And for whom did I almost die? A man who did not deserve my love.

‘I mean to become more rational in the future; indeed, I have already sketched out a programme of self-improvement. I mean to rise at six and spend my time between music and reading. Our own library is too well known to me to be resorted to for anything beyond mere amusement, but there are many works well worth reading at the Park and you have been kind enough to say that I may borrow some books from your library. By reading only six hours a day, I shall gain in the course of a twelvemonth a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want.’

‘It does not all have to be study,’ I said to her. ‘You must have some amusement as well.’

‘I never want to slip back into my old ways, and this is how I mean to avoid it.’

‘You never will. You have experience to temper you, and friends to help you. Keep some of your sensibility, Marianne. Your warm and open nature brings a great deal of pleasure to your friends. You look surprised. But it is not given to everyone to enjoy life as you do. Your vitality lights up the morning as the sun lights up the sky. Where would we be without it?’

‘Willoughby said many pretty things to me but none, I think, as pretty as that,’ she said, looking at me warmly. ‘He recited poetry and so his compliments were other men’s words in his mouth. They could have been said by anyone, to anyone. But your words are about me and me alone. And they are from the heart.’

I was about to speak, but at that moment the others turned back and hailed us, saying, ‘We have walked far enough for one day. Margaret is tired.’

‘I am not!’ said Margaret, though she was dragging her feet.

‘Very well then, I am tired,’ said Elinor.

We fell in with them and returned to the house. I stayed for tea, and then made my way back to the Park.

‘You look cheerful, Brandon,’ said Sir John.

‘I feel cheerful.’

‘Wooing going well, eh?’

‘You should marry her tomorrow, Colonel. What’s to stop you?’ said Mrs Jennings.

‘Nay, never rush your jumps, eh, Brandon?’ said Sir John.

I bore their raillery easily, because for the first time I feel I am certain of success.

Monday 5 June

I set out for home today.

Wednesday 7 June

Edward Ferrars arrived at Delaford this afternoon. He will be staying with me often over the next few months so that he can oversee work on the parsonage.

‘Have you and Elinor set a date for your wedding yet?’ I asked.

‘Not yet. We want to wait until I have been ordained, by which time work on the parsonage should be complete. With luck we will be married by Michaelmas. I was wondering, Brandon, if you would stand up with me? I had always thought I would ask my brother, but as things now stand between us, I cannot bring myself to ask him. He rejoiced in my downfall, and he is not a man I wish to have at my wedding.’

‘I would be honoured,’ I said.

Thursday 8 June

The house is almost ready for my other visitors. Mrs Trent has worked wonders. Rugs have been beaten, curtains washed, mirrors polished and furniture dusted, so that everything shines in a way it has not shone since my mother was alive. The garden, too, has had some much-needed attention, with grass cropped, trees pruned and flowers trimmed.

The recent fine weather has resulted in a profusion of blooms, and everywhere there is scent and colour.

I have sent out invitations to a ball, and I am looking forward to seeing Marianne’s reaction to my home.

Friday 9 June

I went out riding with Ferrars this morning, knowing the Dashwoods would not be arriving until this afternoon or even this evening, but after a cold collation I could not bring myself to leave the house. Ferrars went down to the parsonage to oversee the workmen, and I remained behind to attend to my accounts.

At last their carriage arrived. I heard the wheels crunching on the gravel and the horses’ hoofs, and I ran to the door, then slowed my pace as I went outside.

The carriage rolled to a halt, and I saw Marianne’s face at the window, looking out on to what I hoped would one day be her home. Her face was alight with pleasure, and I knew she approved of the drive, the grove and the edifice. I only hoped she would be as well pleased with the inside.

I opened the door and the coachman let down the step, then I handed Mrs Dashwood and her daughters out. I escorted the ladies inside, where they looked about them with interest.

‘You have a very fine property here, Colonel,’ said Mrs Dashwood. ‘The hall has noble proportions. The staircase reminds me of Norland. Does it not remind you of Norland, Marianne?’

‘Perhaps, but it is not as big. It is lighter, however; the staircase at Norland was always rather dark.’

‘And gloomy,’ said Margaret. ‘I didn’t like the picture of Great-great-grandfather Charles.’

‘Margaret!’

‘Well, I didn’t,’ said Margaret. ‘He always looked very fierce.’

We went into the drawing room and I saw its beauty anew, with the windows cut down to the floor, revealing the gardens and parkland beyond. I saw Marianne’s eyes linger on the fire-place, an ornate piece of marble which I have always admired, and then rove over the console tables, with their vases of fresh flowers, and the damasked sofas, newly covered, and the Aubusson rugs.

‘It is a beautiful room,’ said Marianne. ‘Elegant and refined. ’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Elinor.

‘But more than that, it has heart,’ said Marianne.

Tea was brought in, and afterwards we walked down to the parsonage, where Elinor and Edward had an affectionate meeting.

The ladies were delighted with the parsonage.

‘It is far bigger than I imagined,’ said Elinor, ‘and the prospect is pleasing.’

‘More than pleasing, it is quite beautiful,’ said Marianne, going over to the window. ‘Look, you can see right down the valley. With the river winding its way through it, it is a lovely sight. It will be equally beautiful in winter, I believe.’

‘It will need new curtains and so forth,’ I said to Elinor, ‘but I am sure you will enjoy choosing them.’

‘Yes, indeed. I think green for the parlour, with gold curtains. Mama, what do you think?’

‘I think that would look very well,’ said Mrs Dashwood. ‘A plain wallpaper or a stripe?’

‘A stripe, I think.’

‘And perhaps I can beg the portrait of Great-great-grandfather Charles to hang in Margaret’s room,’ Elinor teased her.

‘Will we be staying with you?’ asked Margaret eagerly.

‘Often, I hope, when the work is complete.’

‘And until then, you are welcome to stay with me,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you would like to see some more of the estate?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Margaret. ‘Can we see the mulberry tree?’

‘Of course, if you want to,’ I said, mystified.

‘Mrs Jennings has told me all about it. She said that she and Charlotte stuffed themselves when they came here!’

We all laughed, and I remembered Charlotte and her mother, eating the fruit fresh from the tree, with the juices running down their chins.

‘I am afraid you will not be able to do the same. They will not be ripe until the autumn,’ I told her.

‘We will just have to come back again, then, will we not, Mama?’ she asked her mother. She turned to her sister. ‘Elinor, you must invite us in October. Mrs Jennings says the Delaford mulberries are the best she has ever tasted.’

‘And what else did she tell you?’ I asked Margaret, as we set off towards the walled garden.

‘She told me about the dovecots and the stewponds and the canal. Can we see the canal?’

‘We will go and see it once we have seen the mulberry tree.’

‘And the other fruit trees, too?’

‘Margaret! The Colonel will think you are nothing but a walking stomach!’

‘Well, and perhaps I am. Mrs Jennings says she likes to see a girl with a hearty appetite.’

We came to the door into the walled garden. Once inside, it was hot, for we were sheltered from the breeze. There was the gentle buzzing of bees, and the scent of lavender, and the flutter of colour as butterflies flew from one plant to another, their iridescent wings gleaming in the sunlight.

‘Apple trees,’ said Margaret, ‘and pear trees, and — oh, look, Mama, there is the mulberry tree!’ She ran over to it and examined the fruit. ‘You will have a good crop,’ she said to me. ‘I will have to tell Mrs Jennings.’

‘You must help me to plan the parsonage garden,’ said Elinor to her sister.

Marianne went over to the sundial in the middle of the garden and ran her finger tips over the brass gnomon, letting them run over its filigree before falling to the dial, and tracing the shadow.

‘Five o’clock,’ she said. ‘Is it accurate?’ she asked me.

I took out my watch.

‘Five past five,’ I said.

‘Then it is very near.’

She walked round the garden, taking everything in, as Margaret continued to extol the virtues of apples, pears and plums, and Elinor and Edward talked about their plans for their own garden, whilst Mrs Dashwood sat on a seat in the shade.

We decided, as we left the garden, that we would not venture further, for Mrs Dashwood was tired from the journey.

‘You are here for a month,’ I said. ‘There is plenty of time to explore the estate.’

We returned to the house. I changed quickly and then waited in the drawing room for the ladies.

Marianne entered the room in a white muslin gown whose simplicity showed off her beauty. She wore long white gloves and a simple string of pearls at her neck, and I imagined her portrait hanging in the hall.

‘You are smiling again,’ she said to me teasingly.

‘I have plenty to smile about,’ I returned.

I gave her my arm, and we went into dinner.

Afterwards Marianne played for us, and this time it was no melancholy air but a lively sonata, full of energy and spirit.

Saturday 10 June

I gave a small dinner party for some of my neighbours this evening, ostensibly to introduce Edward to some of his future parishioners but also to introduce Marianne to intelligent people who would stimulate her and provide her with the sort of company she needs. After a winter spent with Mrs Jennings, I delighted in seeing Marianne discover the joys of talking to people who could arouse her interest in the world and enlarge her mind.

Her ideas were questioned and she defended them well, or thought about them and adapted them in the light of new information.

I saw her take a step into a larger world, one not bounded by the garden of Barton Cottage, or the downs beyond, or the drawing rooms of London, but one that opened up new vistas of exploration for her to enjoy.

Afterwards we got up a dance, and Marianne danced with me twice, a fact which delighted me as she favoured the other gentlemen with no more than one dance apiece.

Friday 16 June

Elinor and Edward went down to the parsonage this morning, and we went with them, taking a detour to see the canal. Then Marianne, Margaret, Mrs Dashwood and I returned to the house by way of the stables.

‘There is something I want to show you,’ I said to Marianne, as we outstripped the others. I took her into the stable yard and we stopped by Cinnamon’s stall. The mare nuzzled Marianne, who stripped off her glove and put out a hand to stroke her nose. At the same time I, too, put out my hand to stroke her and our fingers touched. I withdrew my hand at once, and she blushed and took refuge in stroking the mare and fussing over her, but I thought, We will be married soon, and we will be very happy.

‘She is for you to ride whilst you are here,’ I said.

‘For me? Oh, thank you,’ she said, abandoning restraint and putting her arms round Cinnamon’s neck, telling her how beautiful she was and breathing in deeply to catch her smell.

‘How I have missed the stables at Norland,’ she said. ‘Do you have anything I can give her?’

One of the grooms stepped forward with a carrot, and Marianne fed it to the mare whilst the two of them became acquainted.

‘Mama! Mama!’ she said, as soon as Mrs Dashwood and Margaret caught up with us. ‘Look! The Colonel says I may ride her whilst I am here.’

‘Can I go with you?’ asked Margaret.

‘Of course,’ I told her. ‘I have a horse that would suit you, too.’

‘I need you this morning, Margaret,’ said her mother. ‘But that must not stop you,’ she said to Marianne and myself. ‘It is a fine morning for a ride.’

‘I am not dressed for it,’ said Marianne, looking reluctantly at her gown.

‘I am sure the Colonel will not insist on your wearing a habit today,’ said Mrs Dashwood.

Marianne turned to me, and for answer I instructed the grooms to saddle the horses. I helped Marianne to mount, and Mrs Dashwood and Margaret waved us out of the stable yard.

Marianne had a graceful seat and rode well, and soon we were cantering across the fields, sharing the exhilaration of the early summer morning, with its smell of wild flowers and its cooling breeze.

‘I had forgotten how much I loved riding,’ she said, as we came to the road and slowed to a walk. ‘We must do it every day.’

‘I can think of nothing I would like better,’ I told her.

She began to look around her.

‘Is this a turnpike road?’ she asked me.

‘Yes.’

‘And it is very near the house.’

‘About a quarter of a mile, yes.’

‘Then you must always have something to look at. I like seeing the bustle and the activity,’ she said. ‘It is very quiet at Barton, but here there must be carriages passing all the time, and it will be very convenient for travelling.’

‘It is.’

‘Have you ever been to the Lake District?’ she asked me. ‘It is supposed to be very beautiful.’

‘No, I have never been, but I hope to go there one day soon.’

‘So do I. I have seen so little of the world; indeed, I have seen little of my own country. You, on the other hand, have travelled a great deal,’ she said, then she gave a grimace and I looked at her enquiringly.

‘I used to laugh at your experiences,’ she said apologetically. ‘I thought myself so superior, mocking you for your talk of the heat and the mosquitoes, but in fact it was my own experiences that were paltry, and not yours. I had not even been to London at the time! I knew nothing of the world beyond Norland and Barton, and yet I thought I knew so much. But now I want to know more. I want to go to Scotland, and if peace is declared, I want to travel to the Continent. And I think I would like to see India, too. What was it like?’

I told her of the burning heat and the vivid colours; the shimmer of the air in the morning; the pungent spices, and the exotic scents of jasmine and musk.

She listened intently and said, ‘There is so much of life I have yet to see. I am humbled to think of it. If I had succumbed to melancholy, I would have missed the chance to see all the wonders that life has to offer, but now I hope that one day I may have a chance to experience them all.’

So engrossed were we in our conversation that it was not until I heard the church clock striking that I realized we needed to turn for home.

We followed Mrs Dashwood and Margaret into the house. Hearing our footsteps, Margaret turned round and said, ‘Oh, here is Marianne with her beau.’

‘Hush! Margaret,’ said Marianne blushing.

But she was smiling as she said it.

Friday 11 August

We had a celebratory dinner this evening, for Edward has been ordained.

‘It won’t be long before you move into the parsonage, eh?’ said Sir John, who arrived to stay with us yesterday.

‘We hope to wait until the work is finished before we marry,’ said Elinor.

‘Lord! If you wait for the workmen to finish you will be waiting for ever,’ said Mrs Jennings. ‘There is always some delay. You had better marry at once and have done with it.’

Elinor and Edward exchanged glances, and it was clear to all of us that the same thought had been in both their minds. Before the evening was over, they had decided to marry anyway, saying, ‘I am sure we can tolerate the inconvenience.’

‘You must get married from Barton,’ said Sir John.

‘Ay, Sir John, the very thing. We’ll hold the wedding breakfast at the great house,’ said Mrs Jennings.

‘We could not possibly impose on you ...’ began Mrs Dashwood, but she was talked down, and I believe she was happy for Sir John and Mrs Jennings to have their own way.

‘Three weeks for the banns to be read,’ said Sir John musingly. ‘Then you’ll be marrying in September.’

‘And I’ll be visiting you in the parsonage by Michaelmas, just like I said,’ remarked Mrs Jennings.

She was so pleased about it that no one reminded her she had been intending to visit Edward and Lucy, instead of Edward and Elinor!

Monday 11 September

Elinor and Edward were married this morning.

As they set out on their wedding tour, Marianne said, ‘You are a good friend to all my family, Colonel. Without you, Elinor’s marriage could not have gone ahead, for she and Edward would have had nowhere to live.’

‘I hope that, one day, you will see me as something more than a friend,’ I said to her.

‘A second attachment for both of us,’ she said. ‘I do not know exactly what happened in your past, only that you had an unhappy love affair ... do not speak of it if you do not wish ...’

But I found myself telling her about it, ending with Eliza’s death.

‘She died in your arms,’ said Marianne. ‘To think, I judged Willoughby on his handsome face and engaging manners, believing him to be a romantic hero because he carried me home when I sprained my ankle. But beneath his smiles and teasing, he was a wastrel. And yet I dismissed you entirely, though you were ready to elope with your love when your father forced her into a hateful marriage, and you sought her out and protected her when she needed you most, caring nothing for the fact that she had fallen into disgrace. You looked after her daughter, fighting a duel in order to protect her honour, and then brought her here, where she could be happy. You have loved and suffered, and yet it has not made you bitter, for you have the courage to love again. It is you who are the figure out of romance.’

‘Marianne,’ I said. ‘I have no right to hope. You have your life before you ...’ I became suddenly tongue-tied. Now that the moment had come, I was unaccustomedly nervous. ‘But if you ever — if I might — if you think — I am putting this badly — but if you should ever want my hand as well as my heart, it is yours.’

‘You have given me so much already that I should decline, but I cannot deprive myself of such a gift,’ she said, her face turning towards mine until our lips met.

At last we parted, and she blushed.

‘Am I to take it that you will?’ I said.

‘Yes, thank you, Colonel — ’

I smiled to hear that word, for the last time, on her lips.

‘James,’ I said.

‘James,’ she said. ‘I accept.’

Tuesday 12 September

What pleasure it is, to know that our betrothal has given pleasure to all our friends. After accepting their congratulations we walked in the garden.

‘I have loved you for so long, I can scarcely believe that, at last, I have the right to call you mine,’ I said.

She looked at me in surprise.

‘You have loved me for so long? Pray, when did you begin? I thought your feelings were quite new.’

‘My dearest Marianne, you are the only one who has not noticed! I have been in love with you for months; since before Christmas. Your open heartedness, your energy, your honesty, your eagerness and your tempestuous nature delighted me and brought me back to life.’

‘Then Mrs Jennings’s teasings were true?’ she asked.

‘They were.’

‘I thought it was absurd of her to tease you in such a manner. I pitied you for your age, which seemed very advanced, and indeed it was, next to my youth and immaturity. But now, although I am still young in years, I am no longer young in understanding. I have loved and suffered, and I have seen my sister do the same. I have been ill, and my life has been despaired of, and I have seen my mother look old and grey because she feared I would die. I have come back from the brink of death, and I have discovered that the sun still shines without Willoughby, that the wind still blows, and that there is poetry still in life, though I have found it where least I looked for it. I have learned to look beneath the surface of things, and now, I believe, our ages are not so very different; indeed, that the years that lie between us are a good, rather than an evil, for you have a great deal to show me; not just picnics and parties, enjoyable as they are, but matters of deeper import, too. Willoughby was a shallow pool, but I have found a river in which to swim.

‘I have been born to an extraordinary fate, have I not?’ she said, stopping and turning to face me. ‘For I have discovered the falsehood of my own opinions, and now it only remains for me to counteract them by my conduct.’

‘Which can never fail to please me,’ I said tenderly. ‘You have restored me to life, and together we will be happy.’

I kissed her and then we walked on, arm in arm, planning our wedding trip to the Lake District and talking happily of the future.