‘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 he
r, 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.