Colonel Brandon's Diary

  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 jou
rney?’

  ‘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.’