Margaret awoke next morning to the sense that somehow the world was different to the one she had known the day before. Her bed chamber was not suffused with the glorious sunshine of the past week, but as gloomy and dark as it ever was in winter. The windows were spangled with frosty ferns and ice blossoms, and the familiar sounds of London outside seemed muffled with a curious resonance. Carriage wheels and horses’ hooves were barely audible, and the customary calls of the milkmaids and muffin sellers echoed as though they were calling out of a long tunnel. She got out of bed to pull back the muslin from the window, shivering with the cold as she did so. The sky, dark as a woodpigeon's breast, was filled with floating crystal feathers swirling down to earth to alight on grey rooftops swathed in swansdown, icy pavements and the cathedral tracery of dark boughs. Looking up at the leaden skies, she watched the snow's twirling progress from the heavens, blinking as each sparkling flake hurtled into her line of vision. Margaret wondered if Henry was looking out at the snow, too. The remembrance of yester- day's news came to her in sudden recall. At least she now understood why he had behaved in such a cold manner. Pulling the coverlet off the bed, she arranged herself on the window seat to watch London turn white and sort out her thoughts. There was something so underhand about the whole affair with Henry that she could not get out of her head, which, combined with the memory of their last outing together, puzzled her exceedingly. Perhaps Marianne was right. Lady Lawrence must be implicit in his change of heart. But if that was the case, then surely she was better off without a man who could be so easily persuaded to marry someone else. She couldn’t deny that she had seen admiration in Henry's eyes for Mademoiselle de Fontenay. No, more than that, she had seen true love between them. It made her angry to feel how she had been duped, deciding there and then that she would never trust a man again, nor give away her heart so readily.
Marianne awoke late. When she eventually sat up in bed to observe the state of the weather, her spirits sank. The snow was drifting up to the railings and settling like thickly folded cotton sheets blanketing every surface, making the street outside look more like a scene from a country landscape. There would be no chance of travelling today, and she would be very lucky to even manage to send a letter to tell her mother of delays. And what of the weather in Lyme? Brandon would not be able to travel if the roads were bad. In any case, he did not seem to be in any hurry to return to London if the contents of his last letter were anything to go by. Perhaps the snow would be descending on Delaford also. She knew Mrs Dashwood would understand and wait for news. But if Marianne could not send a letter home, then surely none would be delivered in London either. However, at that very moment, as if the fates decided to prove her wrong, a knock at her door brought a pile of post and a mysterious parcel, which she was informed had been hand delivered. A quick perusal of the handwriting on each revealed that she had received news from her mother, Elinor, and William. On examining the parcel, the recognition of the script had the effect of disturbing her mind with sensations she could hardly describe. It was put aside; she did not want to unwrap it immediately. Marianne opened her letters first, saving Brandon's until last.
February 4th
Wolfeton Fitzpaine
My dear Marianne,
I write with good news. Lizzy has turned the corner at last and we believe she is on the road to a full recovery. Eliza wishes me to thank you for your kind letters—they have been a true source of comfort. She is quite worn out with tending to the child; I have rarely seen such tender devotion or such capability. I wish you had made up your mind to travel with me; for I am sure if you could meet them you would hold them in the same esteem as I do. I have tried to make their home as comfortable as is possible whilst I remain here, but Eliza has a very independent streak and there are only so many gifts and offers of help as I am able to bestow upon them. But despite their lack of riches and their humble way of living, I have never witnessed such a harmonious household with boundless love, joy, and laughter to make me quite envious of their situation. I think you would be very taken with their cottage, Marianne. Eliza's talent for making
something special out of the most unpromising materials have produced a warm and cheerful home, from the fashioned drapes at the windows to the carefully tended kitchen garden, her accomplishments with so very little would astound you, I am certain. Now the child is out of danger theirs is the happiest abode you can imagine. I wish you could see little Lizzy; I am sure you would love her as I do. She is growing into a very pretty girl; her hair has become quite dark and has a natural curl. Her manners are unaffected and she is unspoiled, making her quite the little heroine of the village. Despite their situation, the people round about have taken them to their hearts, and since I have been here they treat me with equal cordiality. Never a day goes by without a visit from some kindly neighbour bringing a posset of herbs or a mustard plaister. It gladdens my heart to see it and to know that when the time comes for me to leave I shall be able to do so in the sure knowledge that they will be well cared for when I am gone.
If all goes well, it will be in my power to return in another week. Of course I must be satisfied that my charge is truly recovered; there is a danger of a relapse and it would be pointless for me to make a journey too soon only to find that I am required to come back again.
I trust you and Margaret are enjoying yourselves in London. I suppose the delights of all the city has to offer would always be preferable to life in a cottage.
I remain,
Your loving husband,
William Brandon.
Marianne tossed aside the letter in frustration. All her jealous suspicions surfaced with a greater resentment than she had ever felt before. “It is clear,” she thought, “that Eliza intends to beguile and captivate my husband with her charms and talents.” To what ends, she did not want to envision. Miss Williams and her daughter had seduced him as surely as she believed the first Eliza had done so and Marianne could only feel animosity toward them. She hated William at this moment, for choosing to spend his time with Eliza and more so for loving her daughter with a tender affection he did not seem to bestow on his own child. Besides his obvious infatuation of the Williams family, Marianne was disturbed by the apparent lack of feeling or any sense of true devotion toward herself. His final words were deficient of any real sense of passion or love, she thought. Suspecting that he had transferred his affection, she reasoned that it was only too apparent that this was the case. But what she would do about it, as yet, she could not decide. Venting her feelings of frustration in a single cry, which echoed in the empty silence of her room, did not assuage her emotions. As the snow fell out of the sky her anger turned to bitterness.
In her fury she had almost forgotten the package, tightly bound in string and brown paper. Her trembling fingers could not untie the knots, so gummed were they with red sealing wax, and her stomach churned with anticipation. She hardly wanted to acknowledge her excitement and eagerness to discover its contents. Climbing out of bed, she fetched her scissors from the drawer of her dressing table and with a satisfying scrunch the string was cut. Marianne tore at the paper and found within the layers a slim volume, a book of poetry. Her fingers stroked the leather cover and traced the embossed name on the spine of her favourite poet, William Cowper. Skimming the pages to find her best-loved poems, the book fell open at the place where a piece of folded paper had been inserted. She read.
February 5th
My Dear Mrs Brandon,
Words cannot express my gratitude to you for your kindness to me yesterday. I think I have probably asked too much of you and will understand if you feel you cannot help me. I hope you know that my intentions have only been to right my mistakes; though I fear I shall never truly be able to reverse every wrong I have inflicted, especially those crimes committed against the dearest and loveliest creature I ever had the good fortune to know.
I wished to send you wildflowers, which I recollect were always your favourite, as a symbol of my gratitude, but as there are a scarcity at this time of year and are hardly to be found in London at all, I hope you will accept this “Winter Nosegay” which so eloquently laid down in this tome provides all the sentiment I could wish to express.
I am yours ever,
John Willoughby.
Marianne read the poem, one she knew well but with a sense that she was reading it for the first time. It was the last verse that she read over and over again.
Folding the paper, she replaced it between the pages and, clasping the book to her breast, smiled for the first time that morning.