Friday 18 November
I returned to town and told Eliza about her cottage. She was cheered by the news, and she is looking forward to the move.
I have some business to attend to, but then I will accompany her to Delaford, and afterwards I will return to Barton, where I hope to find that Miss Marianne has recovered from her infatuation with Willoughby, and that I can court her.
I want to arouse her interest in the wider world and to stimulate her intelligence, which must be wasting away with only Sir John and his family, good though they are, for company; I want to discuss with her books she has never thought of, poems she has never discovered; I want to show her places she has never been.
I want to open up the world for her, as her sensibility has opened it up once again for me.
Monday 21 November
I was walking down Bond Street this morning when I saw a familiar face, that of Mrs Jennings’s daughter, Charlotte; Charlotte Palmer as she is now, for of course she has married. After introducing me to her husband, a grave-looking young man of some five or six and twenty, with an air of fashion and sense, she told me that her mother, sister and brother-in-law were well, and that their children were thriving. And then she confounded me by saying:
‘There is a new family come to Barton Cottage, I hear, by the name of Dashwood. Mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr Willoughby, of Combe Magna.’
My spirits sank, and all my ideas of showing Marianne a wider world evaporated like the morning mist.
She was in love with him. She was going to marry him.
There was no hope for me.
Should I have told her? Should I have made her aware of his true character? Should I have prevented her engagement?
I was so lost in my thoughts that I scarcely heard the rest of Mrs Palmer’s speech, though she talked for some time, saying how glad she was to hear of the engagement; how everyone in Devonshire thought Mr Willoughby extremely agreeable; and how nobody was more liked than Mr Willoughby wherever he went.
She paused, and I roused myself, for it was necessary for me to say something, though I scarcely know what I said.
‘There will be another wedding in Barton before long, I dare say,’ she continued, and I forced myself to concentrate on her conversation. ‘Mama says that the Dashwoods have had a young man to stay, a Mr Edward Ferrars, and that he is sweet on Miss Dashwood.’
I remembered Miss Margaret saying that her sister had left someone behind, and that his name began with an F. It seemed likely that the elusive gentleman was Edward Ferrars, and if he was worthy of her, then I was happy for her.
But I could not concentrate for long, and I was glad when the Palmers left me.
Should I have spoken? Should I have said something?
I asked myself the questions again and again.
But it was fruitless to speculate.
Marianne was engaged to Willoughby. My chance to speak had gone.
She was lost to me.
Wednesday 7 December
Eliza is recovering her strength rapidly, and although I have not yet finished my business in London, tomorrow I mean to take her to Delaford. Her spirits are changeable, and I am persuaded that, once she is in the country, they will settle into a cheerful pattern.
Thursday 8 December
We travelled slowly, to make the journey easier for Eliza and the baby, and we both enjoyed the leisurely pace. The weather was fine and bright, with brilliant skies, and the countryside was beautiful in its bareness, with the traceries of small twigs showing up against the sky.
Saturday 10 December
We arrived at Delaford this afternoon, and we were glad to get out of the carriage. Eliza looked at her new home with happiness and walked round the garden, which was brightened by some colourful foliage, before going inside.
She was delighted with the house, and with the nursery, which I had had newly papered, and with her bedroom, which had a large window looking down the valley.
‘I will have to see about finding you a companion, but you have Susan and John to look after you for the moment, and I will be here as often as I can. You will want to rest now, I dare say, but I will call for you in the morning and we can go for a walk, if you are feeling well enough, and then we can go to the mansion house and you can choose some books from the library or whatever you wish.’
She thanked me with a smile and I left her arranging her new home.
And now it only remains for me to see her cheerfully settled and then I can return to London, to see to my unfinished business there.
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 sai
d 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 worrie
d 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.