A Summer Shower (Charles Edward Perugini)

Later that day, as the sun passed its height and began its descent, and after Marianne had completed many of her tasks for the day, she and Margaret slipped out the back door of Barton Cottage, intent upon finding a short moment of refreshment that could only be truly found in a walk.

“Do you think we will meet Colonel Brandon?” Margaret asked.

“I should think not,” Marianne replied, though she secretly hoped they might. She had thought of little else all day other than if Colonel Brandon would like the music she played, if he had read the book she was reading, if the picture she was painting would be to his taste, if he preferred large gardens or small, and how he would look sitting near the window in the sitting room with a cup of tea in his hand and a charming, pensive look on his face. It seemed as if he had filled every corner of her mind.

“Well, I hope we do.” The words were tossed over Margaret’s shoulder as she skipped ahead. Stopping, she turned back toward Marianne. “Do you think it will rain? The clouds are very heavy.”

Marianne knew that being caught in the rain, something both Elinor and Mama cautioned them against, was a favourite thing for her daring youngest sister. “If we are, we mustn’t get too wet, or Elinor will scold.”

Margaret’s nose wrinkled as her lips pursed. “And Mama will make us drink that horrid tea.”

“We will stand under a tree if needed.”

Marianne had no desire to drink Mama’s horrid tea or catch a chill since the first was unpleasant and the second would mean not being able to leave her room and missing many chances to see Colonel Brandon. It would be lovely to have him call and inquire after her health, of course, but to have to lie in bed while knowing he was entertaining Elinor was not something she wished to have to endure.

As those heavy clouds would have it, Marianne and Margaret did indeed find themselves standing under a large tree as sheets of rain fell on the ground around the tree’s dense canopy with very few drops making their way through the leaves near the trunk where they stood.

“Blast!” A gentleman slipped as he descended the hill in front of where they stood.

“Are you well?” Marianne called. She hoped he was because she did not relish the idea of having to leave her place and venture into the downpour to help him.

“Yes,” he called back as he picked himself up off the ground and continued running toward them. “Only my pride is damaged,” he added as he joined them under the tree. “Do you have room for one more in your leafy fortress?”

Margaret giggled and assured him that they did.

“Mr. John Willoughby at your service,” he said with a bow before taking up a position next to the tree’s trunk. “And who might I have the pleasure of meeting?”

“I am Miss Marianne Dashwood, and this is my sister, Miss Margaret Dashwood.”

“Dashwood, you say? I had heard there was a new family at Barton Cottage named Dashwood – a lady and her three beautiful daughters, as it was told to me. You obviously must be two of those beauties, for even the greyness of the day seems lessened in your presence.”

They were very pretty words, and Marianne could not help but feel them profoundly. A lady always enjoyed being told she was beautiful.

“We just arrived at Barton Cottage,” Margaret assured their companion. “It is much smaller than Norland, which is where we used to live, but it has Mama, so it is perfect, really.”

Perfect was not precisely the word Marianne would use for Barton Cottage. However, she could agree with Margaret that it was small and made that much more bearable because their mother was there.

Still, she missed Norland and its large, bright rooms and fine fittings. However, she did not miss her brother’s wife, who had become the mistress of Norland in their mother’s place after their father had died, and the absence of Fanny Dashwood was the one thing that made Barton Cottage preferable to Norland.

No, that was no longer true she thought with a smile. There was now also Colonel Brandon. His presence in the area made Barton Cottage quite desirable as a place to live.

“You are the second gentleman I have met today when wandering these hills,” Marianne said to Willoughby. “I shall have to make it a habit to walk here often, so that I might make more friends. You are from the area, are you not, Mr. Willoughby?”

Willoughby chuckled. “Indeed, I am. My aunt has an estate not far from here. It will be mine eventually.” He turned to rest just his shoulder against the tree as he spoke to her. “Besides myself, whom might you have been fortunate enough to stumble upon today?”

“Colonel Brandon,” Margaret answered. “Although I did not meet him. I have only met you. But Marianne met him and told me about him, so I am eager to make his acquaintance.”

“Brandon is at Barton Park?”  Their companion seemed to shift uneasily. “I had not heard he had arrived.”

“I think he has only just arrived,” Marianne said.

“I wonder how long he will stay?” Willoughby mumbled.

“He did not say,” Marianne answered even though she was certain he was not asking to get a reply but rather just thinking aloud. “However, I can ask him tonight when we dine with Sir John.”

“Oh, oh, look!” Margaret cried. “We should walk in the rain more often, Marianne. Look, it is Sir John, and someone is with him. Is it the colonel?”

“Well, speak of the devil,” Willoughby muttered.

“Yes,” Marianne answered her sister with a curious look at Willoughby, “that is Colonel Brandon.”

“A right old bore if ever there was one,” Willoughby said. “But a pleasant enough fellow.”

“A bore?” Marianne said in surprise. “I did not think such about him when we met.” She had not found one thing about the colonel that seemed boring.

Willoughby shrugged. “It happens as one grows older they say.” He lowered his voice. “He has a child.”

“He does not!” Marianne cried.

“Oh, he does, although he does not claim her as his child but rather his ward. I met her this past season in Bath. That is how I know the colonel to be a bore. It is through her account. He was dead set against her travelling to Bath for some time. She had to work on him most diligently to be allowed to go. He’d rather she stayed home and did her studies and nothing else, for he wishes for her to be a governess or to find a position at a school.”

“He does not want her to marry?” Margaret asked in surprise.

“He is not married himself. I doubt he places much value in the institution, but, seeing as he will not claim her as his, she has very little standing, you know. He will, of course, have some coin set aside for her, but she said he had no desire to promote her to society.”

“How dreadful!” Margaret cried. “How old is she?”

“Sixteen perhaps,” Willoughby replied.

“That is almost how old Marianne is!”

“Margaret!” Marianne chided. She did not like what Mr. Willoughby was saying and was feeling very much like Elinor at the moment, which made it impossible for her to approve of Margaret’s entering into gossip so readily. Colonel Brandon was not a dishonorable bore. He could not be. Could he be?

[from Moring Mist, a Nature’s Fury and Delights novelette]