Miss Marianne persevered against this lack of attention for as long as she could and then left the pianoforte, out of spirits. I was about to go over to her and compliment her on her taste when Sir John distracted us all by saying that we must get up a picnic whilst the weather held.

Miss Marianne’s spirits were at once restored.

‘Oh, yes, Sir John, that would be delightful,’ she said. ‘I am sure there are some notable beauty spots hereabouts, and I would relish the opportunity of seeing them. There is so much of Devonshire I have to discover, and I would like to begin. Mama?’

‘It is very kind of you, Sir John,’ said Mrs Dashwood with a smile. ‘We would like it very much.’

‘Good, good, then that’s settled. We’ll get up quite a party, with the Careys, the Raistricks, the Kellys and one or two other families, and have a high time of it.’

A date was set for Saturday.

Saturday 17 September

A fine day for our picnic. We met in front of the house and set out at about ten o’clock. I rode beside Sir John’s carriage and as I did so I could not help admiring Miss Marianne. Her face was truly lovely, with a brown skin, tanned by the summer sun, and a brilliant complexion. Her features were regular, her smile was sweet and attractive, and her eyes were dark. It was not their colour which attracted me, however, but the life in them, for they contained a spirit and an eagerness which reminded me of my true self, the self that saw the pleasure in life, the self that I had lost when I lost Eliza.

‘You have a comfortable carriage,’ said Mrs Dashwood, as Sir John and I rode along by its side. She was sitting facing forwards, with her parasol held over her head.

‘Ay, and one I wish you would borrow so that you could mix more in the neighbourhood. It is always at your disposal, and there are any number of families who would be pleased to see you. They are gentlefolk, all, and I am persuaded they will make up to you for the friends you have left behind. You must ask for the carriage any time you want it.’

‘Thank you, you are very good, but we must not presume too much on your hospitality,’ she said, politely but firmly, and I realized that she did not want to be too far beholden to Sir John; she was a woman who liked her independence. ‘Besides, there are plenty of families in walking distance of the cottage. ’

‘And I believe we have met them all, save the family who lives in the house along the valley,’ said Miss Marianne. ‘Do you know the one I mean? The ancient mansion house about a mile and a half from the cottage. Margaret and I are planning to visit it the next time we walk in that direction. Do you know who lives there?’

Her sister, Margaret, who, at thirteen, had been too young to join us for dinner, was excited to be joining us for the picnic. She added her own eager enquiry as to the inhabitant of the house.

‘Oh, yes, we want to know the name of the house and to find out who lives there,’ she said.

‘That would be Allenham,’ said Sir John. ‘Mrs Smith lives there.’

‘Mrs Smith? Does she have any children?’ asked Miss Marianne.

‘No, she is elderly. She keeps to her house; she is too infirm to mix with the world.’

‘Then I believe we now know all our neighbours, or all those who are well enough to go into company,’ said Miss Dashwood.

We reached the picnic spot in little more than an hour. The carriages rolled to a halt and we assembled on a flat stretch of grass about halfway up the hill.

‘Can we not go to the top?’ asked Miss Marianne.

‘It is too steep for the carriages, but we can walk, if you have a mind,’ said Sir John.

Some of the older people chose to remain where they were but the rest of us began to climb the hill. Margaret ran ahead, frolicking from one side to the other and climbing the boulders that lay scattered about, until at last we reached the summit.

‘Was this not worth the climb?’ asked Miss Marianne, as she gazed rapturously at the view, looking across the rolling downs to a glimmer of blue on the horizon, the sea. She began to murmur:

‘This sceptred isle,


This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,


This other Eden, demi-paradise,


This fortress built by Nature for herself,


Against infection, and the hand of war


This happy breed of men, this little world,


This precious stone, set in the silver sea,


Which serves it in the office of a wall,


Or as a moat defensive to a house,


Against the envy of less happier lands,


This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

‘And it is still England, though I am so far from home,’ she concluded in a low voice.

There were murmurs of approval and I became aware of my surroundings once more, for I had been carried away by her poetry. There had been a strength and a vigour about her voice that had made the words, still echoing in my ears, seem fresh and new.

We strolled around the summit until the wind rose and began to blow cold, then the others set off down the hill. Miss Marianne lingered, however, turning to face in the direction of Norland whilst the wind threatened to rip the hat from her head.

‘Blow, blow, thou winter wind,


Thou art not so unkind


As man’s ingratitude.’

Her words were heartfelt, and I knew where her thoughts were tending. I wanted to speak to her and to bring her some heart’s ease, if I could, for I could tell that her feelings were both strong and painful.

‘It hurt you when your brother failed to provide for you,’ I said.

It was all she needed, and her thoughts came pouring out of her.

‘He promised our father on his deathbed that he would look after us, and yet he did nothing to help us. He and his wife arrived as soon as the funeral was over, without even giving Mama any notice of their arrival. I can still remember the look on her face when the carriage rolled up to the house and she realized that they had come to haunt us in our grief. They established themselves in the house and behaved as though it belonged to them, as though we were nothing but guests, and unwelcome guests at that. Poor Mama! How she suffered. I was angry, but Elinor said that I must hide my feelings, that Fanny and John had done nothing wrong, that it was their house from the moment my father died, and that they had a right to move in as soon as they pleased. But courtesy, common courtesy, should have prevented them from taking over with such speed and reducing my mother to the state of being a visitor in her own home!’ she broke out. ‘Poor Mama was so hurt by Fanny’s insensitivity that she would have quit the house at once, but my sister Elinor — my sensible sister — counselled against it.’

‘Perhaps she did not want a breach with your brother?’ I suggested.

‘You are right, but what price did she pay? Putting on a false face, and expecting me to put on a false face also. For my own part I was ready to leave the house at once, to save Mama from such cruelty, even though it would have hurt me terribly to leave without saying goodbye to all the places that I loved: the stream where it met the river, dimpling all the way, the corner of the walled garden, best garden of the world. And yet I would have left them all at once if Mama had asked me to.’

She spoke with passion, and I was struck by her words, because I saw that her interest in poetry was not that of the dreamer; no, for she wanted to pull the poetry into the real world rather than turning the real world into a poem.

I found myself growing more and more intrigued by her, for I had never come across that blend of sensibility and strength in a woman before.

‘You think me very impolite, I dare say, for speaking my mind,’ she continued, looking at me defiantly. ‘I have erred against every commonplace notion of decorum, I am well aware of it. I should have said that my brother John is a fine man and that his wife Fanny is a beautiful and accomplished woman. I should have spoken of their dear little boy and said how much he had grown. I am sorry to disappoint you, Colonel, but I disdain such spiritless deceit.’

And then, before I had time to reply, she called to her sister, ‘Come, Margaret, let us run down the hill!’

And the two of them were off, fleet of foot, racing towards the picnic spot with the wind in their faces and their gossamer dresses blowing around their ankles.

But as I watched her go, I thought that she had wronged me when she had said that I wanted her to speak of commonplaces, for that is something I abhor. Indeed, one of the things that I liked about being in the army was that the men spoke their minds, and that, therefore, I quickly gained a knowledge of character that has stood me in good stead ever since.

But women ... I wish I understood them half so well.

For the most part they are so well bred that it is impossible to find out if they have any thoughts and feelings at all, let alone to find out what those thoughts and feelings might be.

Not so with Miss Marianne, who is as open and as honest as the day; squally in temperament, now stormy, now shining; and who interests me more than any woman I have met since Eliza.

I followed her to the picnic site. About halfway down I came across Miss Carey, who was doing something with the lace of her shoe. As I approached, she rose and said, ‘My lace has broken, Colonel, would you offer me your arm.’