By the following Tuesday, Colonel Brandon was feeling stronger and looking more like the man Marianne had married. He wanted to be out of bed and up and about. Eliza and Marianne had a great deal of trouble trying to keep him to his bed, but were very encouraged by his hearty appetite and the return of lively spirits. The very next day he appeared at the breakfast table, washed, shaved, and in his clothes, much to the consternation of the two young women.
“I have trespassed upon your kindness long enough, Eliza,” he said, sitting down and helping himself to a hearty bowl of porridge. “I cannot thank you enough for your pains, but it is high time my wife and I left you to yourselves. Now Lizzy is coming along so well I would hate to be the very reason she has a relapse.”
“Your home is my home, William, you know that,” Eliza answered. “It has been a pleasure to have you here. You know full well I could never have nursed Lizzy on my own, and I am certain that if you had not been here, I might have been telling a different story now. And, Mrs Brandon, I have so long wished to make your acquaintance; it has been a delight to have you here, too. I only wish I could have made your stay more comfortable. It has been an enormous honour for me to have the company of William's beloved wife; I hope you do not mind when I say that although I never had a sister, I now feel as if I had gained one!”
Marianne felt very humbled at this little speech. Indeed, every day she had been in the cottage had taught her something more about true humility and humble modesty. Eliza was entirely selfless, which made Marianne only remember her own pride and shameful attitudes towards the Williamses with regret and sorrow.
“Well, I have been thinking,” said Colonel Brandon, “that if you approve, Marianne, we shall repair to the Three Cups Inn in Lyme for a few days before making the journey home to Delaford. If I am to convalesce, I have a fancy to do it whilst watching the sea through my window.”
“I should like it very much if you are sure you are strong enough to make the journey,” answered Marianne, rather nervous at the prospect of being alone with her husband at last. But she had known this time would come, she reminded herself, and was prepared for whatever lay ahead. And besides all this, she had another problem pressing on her mind. Having written to Margaret twice and having received no reply on either occasion, she was starting to worry. Marianne could not think what to do; she did not want to alarm her mother, Elinor, or William, who was looking so much better. Perhaps she should write to Mrs Jennings. After all, Margaret was young and forgetful. It had most likely slipped her mind to reply and she would not even consider that Marianne might be worried. Even so, her mind was disturbed by Margaret's lack of correspondence. There had not even been a single enquiry asking after William.
The Brandons left shortly after breakfast for the short journey down into Lyme. The town wore a cheerier prospect this morning with a pale sun glittering on the water and the bustle of townsfolk about their business. As soon as they had secured a room, the Colonel expressed a desire to walk. Marianne tried to protest against such a scheme, saying that he should lie down and rest, but Brandon would not hear of it. He could think of no exercise to do him better on such a fine March day with a fresh breeze to blow away the cobwebs than to enjoy a walk on the Cobb. They set off down Broad Street and turned onto the Walk, neither of them saying very much. Marianne was feeling very tired, the last few days had taken their toll. But even putting aside the effort it had taken of looking after her husband day and night, she admitted to herself that she was not feeling quite well.
At last they turned onto the Cobb and, exclaiming at its treacherous height, encountered fresh, salty winds, which buffeted them along, so that they were forced into a trot. They laughed into the wind and were caught by salt spray dashing over the high walls; it was a heady mixture of elation and fear. Marianne felt she might be blown over the edge at any moment and clung onto her hat and William's arm for dear life. They were nearing the end, where on both forks of the harbour wall, they could see the waves leaping and crashing over onto the stones to trap the unwary. Despite the sunshine, up here on the highest level, the gales from every compass point squalled and stormed. They were blown from side to side by the wind. Teetering on the edge, Marianne wondered what it would be like if she were to be blown right over and onto the treacherous rocks to meet with death down below. It would be so easy to slip and trip down into the glassy depths of the bottomless sea.
“Come away from the edge, Marianne,” William cried, as his wife let go his arm to stand swaying on the brink, watching the waves crashing on the rocks, drawn by the mesmerising mass of water, breaking and foaming incessantly. A wave of nausea swept over her as she looked down. The wind was blowing so hard it took her breath away. Marianne looked up to regard William's anxious face. Dear, sweet William, she thought, how could I ever have doubted him? As she watched him walk towards her, she was stopped again by another sensation, which almost overpowered her. She really was not feeling very well, her stomach was churning, and she felt so light-headed she had to stand still to try and compose herself. Another gust almost blew her off her feet and as Brandon reached her side she gave in to the consciousness that she was slipping away. William seemed to be somewhere at the end of a dark tunnel where she could not reach nor hear him. Marianne slumped in Brandon's arms much to his great alarm; her eyes were closed, she did not breathe, and her face was like death. The horror of that moment to Colonel Brandon, who caught her up, kneeling with her in his arms, looking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of silence.
“Marianne, my darling, please open your eyes. Whatever is the matter? You do look most ill!”
Marianne lay in his arms, still and pale. Brandon laid her down to determine whether she still breathed and was immediately rewarded by the sight of her eyes opening.
“Thank God, Marianne,” he called, as she struggled to sit up. “I thought you were lost to me!”
“I have not been feeling quite well all morning. I think I fainted,” Marianne managed to say.
“Come,” William said picking her up in his arms, “I think you need some rest.”
As they reached the start of the Cobb, the sight of the Colonel carrying Marianne had the fishermen rally round, eager to help. A messenger was sent and a chair fetched to convey Mrs Brandon back to the inn. Brandon insisted upon fetching the doctor immediately and Marianne was put to bed. The doctor was with Marianne for a short while and, having assured Colonel Brandon that his wife was in good health and that there was nothing to be unduly concerned about, he left after giving orders that she have plenty of bed rest for the next few days.
Colonel Brandon could hardly wait to see Marianne. He entered the room, rushing to her side to plant a kiss on the top of her head. Marianne sat up in bed, her colour restored, but she was looking rather grave.
“How are you, Marianne?” William asked, taking up position on the side of the bed. “Please forgive me, I should never have suggested a walk; you must be worn out with looking after me. I was very thoughtless.”
“No, William, you are never thoughtless,” said Marianne quietly. “Only your wife has that distinction.”
“Come now,” said Brandon, tucking the covers carefully around her, “you are overwrought and not yourself. I think a little sleep is in order.”
“No, William, I cannot sleep. I must talk to you, though I fear the outcome. I must tell you what happened in London, knowing that as soon as it is told you will despise me forever. Especially now, I must tell you the truth.”
William took her hand in both of his with such tenderness that Marianne could not think how to begin to tell him the horror of all that had taken place. How could she spare him?
“I do not wish you to tell me anything, Marianne. All I desire is that you love me, and I know that to be the case. I have a very good idea what may have happened to you, but I do not blame you, nor do I blame Mr Willoughby, you will be surprised to learn.”
Marianne stared at her husband in shock. She could hardly believe what he was saying.
“Men are foolish creatures, Marianne. They think all they need do is set up a wife with a home, a child, and a pocketful of pin money. They think that is all there is to marriage. They go about their own concerns without giving a thought to the lives of the women they leave behind. I have been guilty of neglect. Eliza told me as such, though I did not want to listen.”
“You have not neglected me.”
“On the contrary, I am guilty as charged. You were merely nineteen when I married you, a girl with no experience of the world who was thrust into the life of hostess, wife, and mother, with a large house to command before you were ready. Small wonder that you seemed desperately unhappy at times. I had lived your life span twice over by the time you came to Delaford and had many experiences to draw on in times of difficulty. Eliza reminded me of her mother's fate. My brother's cruelty and disregard made his wife turn to another for solace, and though he was the truly guilty party, she paid the ultimate price when he divorced and abandoned her. If she had been loved, as she ought to have been, she would never have suffered as she did. I too am as culpable as he. I have not taken such care of you as I should and have been guilty of spending too much time on matters of business and on matters of duty. I am sorry for it, but I only have myself to blame.”
“William, you don’t know what happened.”
“But I do. I left London when you most needed me. I had seen the way Willoughby was behaving toward you and I was still determined on going to see Eliza and Lizzy. If I had chosen to leave in the morning instead of rushing off in the middle of the night, or if I had asked you to come with me in any way that might have tempted you to accompany me, I am certain we would not be having this conversation. If I had loved you as I ought to have done, or half as much as you have loved me, you would not be lying there so ill and forlorn. Eliza made me see how difficult it must be for you to have her constant presence in your life. I want you to know I have never loved anyone as much as I love you. Can you ever forgive me?”
“William, can you ever forgive me?”
“Hush, Marianne, all that matters is that you came back to me. All I wish is for your happiness, and having you returned to me I can only say has made me the happiest of men.”
Marianne, unable to contain her emotions a moment longer, burst into tears. How would she ever deserve this worthy man? How would she ever be able to love him enough to return the devotion he lavished upon her?
“Please do not cry; you will become ill again. I cannot bear to see you ailing,” he began, reaching out to brush away her tears.
“Oh my darling,” she said, raising her eyes to his with a look of adoration, “I am not ill, on the contrary.”
William looked at Marianne, who was now smiling, almost laughing at him. She took his hand, holding it against her body as she watched his expression change. “I have some news, which I hope will please you. William, my love, you are going to be a father again.”
Colonel Brandon's joy knew no bounds. Throwing his arms about his wife, he cried, “Is it really true?”
Marianne nodded. “The doctor just confirmed it. I wondered why I had been feeling so strange of late. And then I remembered the delectable afternoon we spent before Lady Jennings's evening party.”
She blushed. Colonel Brandon was gazing at her with love in his eyes. “Which puts me in mind,” she whispered in his ear as he bent to kiss her. “You are looking very tired, my darling. I think it is time for your afternoon rest.”