Thursday 5 January

I saw Mrs Palmer this morning in Bond Street. I had no desire to talk to her and to hear about the arrangements for Marianne’s wedding, and so I went into a shop, but something must have delayed her, too, because when I came out again she was just passing the door and she greeted me heartily. I tried to hurry away but it was impossible, and, to my surprise, this turned out to be a good thing, for I discovered that all was not well between Marianne and Willoughby; indeed, Marianne had not seen him for months.

‘Has Willoughby left Barton, then?’ I asked Mrs Palmer in surprise, for, although I had met him in town, I had assumed that he would soon be returning to the country.

‘Oh, yes, he left there in November when Mrs Smith sent him to town on business; and he had to oblige her, or she might have cut him out of her will.’

‘But he must have dealt with her business long ago. And yet he has not returned to Barton?’ I asked.

‘No, not for so much as a day.’

‘That is strange, when he is engaged to Miss Marianne. You did say that they were engaged?’ I enquired.

‘Oh, yes, it is spoken of everywhere. Everyone says how lucky she is, for Willoughby has a handsome face and a handsome fortune; or will have, when Mrs Smith dies, and that cannot be long, you know.’

I began to wonder if the engagement was real or if it was just a rumour, and hope stirred within me.

‘Has their engagement been announced?’ I asked.

‘No, to be sure, there has been no announcement,’ Mrs Palmer admitted, ‘but with Mrs Smith so ill, it was not to be expected. They were waiting for her to recover, or, more likely, die, before they announced it. Mama was certain of it. Poor Marianne! She is monstrous unhappy without him. She is quite cast down by his absence. She cannot eat and cannot sleep, for she has great sensibility, you know. Now if it had happened to Miss Dashwood, I dare say she would have sighed and then got on with her needlework, but Miss Marianne roams around the countryside thinking of him, and plays all his favourite songs, and encourages every melancholy feeling. It has quite broken Mama’s heart to see her. So Mama, knowing he was in town and wanting to be of use to the two young lovers, invited Miss Marianne to stay with her when she comes to London, and of course she invited Miss Dashwood, too; so now Miss Marianne will be able to see Willoughby again, for Mama will be here very soon. And if an engagement is not announced before the month is out, then I will be very much surprised.’

I wondered if it was true or if Mrs Palmer was embellishing the story. Was Marianne really downcast? And if so, was it because of Willoughby? Was she coming to town to see him, or simply to enjoy the shops and entertainments that London had to offer? And was she really engaged, or was it just a mistake on the part of Mrs Jennings?

‘My sister is coming to town, too, with her family,’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘How I long to see them all again! Dear Mary and Sir John and the children. We shall all be together again. Will it not be delightful?’ she said to her husband.

‘It will be abominable,’ he said.

‘Mr Palmer is so droll!’ she said with a laugh. ‘He is always out of humour!’

I found myself looking forward to seeing Sir John again, and Miss Dashwood, but my feelings on thinking of seeing Marianne again were more difficult to determine.

I still do not understand them, though I have thought about them all day.

I have a great desire to see her, to hear her voice, and to be with her, but I fear that the anticipation might prove more enjoyable than the event, because if she is still in love with Willoughby, then my meeting with her can bring me nothing but unhappiness.



Saturday 7 January

The time is passing very slowly. I have never known it to go so slow. Marianne will be arriving in town on Monday, and on Tuesday I mean to call.



Tuesday 10 January

I slept badly and rose before dawn, riding down Rotten Row in order to pass the time until I could call on Mrs Jennings. I returned for breakfast, and then, having made myself presentable, I set out.

The morning was cold and a few snowflakes twirled around me as they fell from the overcast sky before dissolving on the pavement, and I was glad to get indoors, where I shed my caped coat, gloves and hat before going into the drawing room. Miss Dashwood was sitting by the fire, sketching, but my eyes were drawn to Marianne, who almost flew into my arms, her eyes bright and her smile one of rapture.

I knew a moment of intense joy as I thought, She is not in love with him! And she is happy to see me!

But then she checked, and her look of relief gave way to a look of anguish, and she ran past me, out of the room.

I was so full of concern that I scarcely heard Miss Dashwood welcoming me, but, recollecting myself, I replied to her, and then said, ‘Is your sister ill?’

‘I am afraid so,’ she said, in some distress. ‘She ... has a headache. She is in low spirits and over fatigued.’

From her awkward manner I guessed that something was wrong, and it did not take me long to realize the truth: that Marianne had heard a carriage and had seen a man entering the room; that she had flown towards him; and then she had realized that he was not the man she wanted to see.

My spirits sank. I could no longer be in any doubt. She was still in love with Willoughby.

I felt myself growing grim as I thought of him. He had not visited her for months at Barton; he had not called on her in London. He had abandoned her, as he had abandoned Eliza. And, as with Eliza, he had not told her that his ardour had cooled. Instead, he had left her to watch and wait for him, in the expectation that he would return.

Miss Dashwood offered me a seat and I took it, then she asked me if I had been in London since leaving Barton, but I believe both our thoughts were elsewhere. Mine were on Marianne. Should I tell her what I knew? Would some knowledge of his true character help her, or would it hurt her more? Or perhaps I should tell her sister and ask for her advice?

Before I could decide, Mrs Jennings came in, and her noisy cheerfulness filled the room. Making an effort, I paid attention to her as she said, ‘Oh! I am monstrous glad to see you. I am sorry I could not welcome you before, but you know one has always a world of little odd things to do after one has been away for any time, and then I have had Cartwright to settle with. Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town today?’

‘I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr Palmer’s, where I have been dining,’ I said, my thoughts still on Marianne.

‘Oh! you did. Well, and how do they all do at their house? How does Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time.’

We continued to talk of her family until she said, ‘Well, Colonel, I have brought two young ladies with me, you see — that is, you see but one of them now, but there is another somewhere. Your friend Miss Marianne, too, which you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr Willoughby will do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very handsome — worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I don’t know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has been dead these eight years and better. But, Colonel, where have you been to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come, come, let’s have no secrets among friends.’

I replied to all her enquiries, but without satisfying her in any of them, for I was not about to divulge the reason for my sudden journey to London and so expose Eliza to gossip.

Luckily, she preferred to talk instead of listen, and continued, ‘We shall soon have an addition to our society. My daughter Mary and Sir John are coming to town, and two of my relations, the Misses Steele, will soon be here as well, for they are to stay with their cousins in Holborn. What fun we shall have when they all arrive!’

Miss Dashwood began to make the tea, and Marianne appeared again, but she said not two words to me. Now that I had leisure to look at her, I found that I could scarcely bear to do so, for her face was pale and drawn, and I believe the sight of her would have wrung a harder heart than mine. She was thinner than the last time I had seen her, too. Her dress hung from her shoulders and her sleeves gaped around her wrists.

I drank my tea.

Then, unable to bear it any longer, for I wanted to take her hand and comfort her, and that, of course, I could not do, I took my leave.

‘You must come and visit us often,’ said Mrs Jennings, as I was going out of the door. ‘Do not wait for an invitation. We will be pleased to see you in Berkeley Street whenever you have time to call.’

I thanked her for her invitation and went back to my lodgings.



Monday 16 January

I dined with Mrs Jennings this evening, and whilst I listened to her talking about her eagerness to see Mary, Sir John and the Misses Steele, I watched Marianne. Her spirits were as changeable as the sky on an April day, ranging from cheerfulness to silence. When cheerful, she sang to herself under her breath, and her face was lit with a brilliant light that made me want to do nothing but watch it. But then the light dimmed, and she plucked at her skirt and paced about the room.

What did it mean?

Did she know that Willoughby had played her false? But no, because then she would not be cheerful. But had he renewed his attentions? No, because then she would not be cast down.