high on a plate of her mother's best china.
“We are to dine at the Park this evening, Marianne,” Margaret continued. “Mrs Jennings arrived yesterday to stay with Sir John and Lady Middleton and they are all anxious to see you.”
“Oh no, please, Mama, say it is not so,” groaned Marianne, helping herself to a scone and jam. “Can we not have a nice, quiet evening here all by ourselves? It is so long since I have seen you.”
“I thought we had agreed not to say anything on the matter yet, at least until Marianne had got back her breath after her journey,” Mrs Dashwood admonished, casting a frown in Margaret's direction as she poured tea from a steaming silver pot. “Mrs Jennings called early this morning with Sir John and they were most insistent. Oh, you know how it is, Marianne. They would brook no refusal.”
Marianne could not help but feel pity for her mother whom she was sure still felt indebted to Sir John for his kindness to them. When the Dashwoods had been forced to leave their ancestral home at Norland in Sussex on the occasion of their stepbrother's inheritance, Sir John Middleton, Mrs Dashwood's cousin, had stepped in and offered them a cottage on his Barton estate. Marianne was certain that her mother wished she were in a position to decline their invitations more often but felt obliged to accept them. As a dependent relative, her own desires were not taken into consideration.
“I suppose we have no choice, but Mrs Jennings will have me worn out before the evening is begun,” sighed Marianne.
“Do not be so unkind,” her mother answered. “Remember that old lady has been immensely good to us in more ways than I can ever repay.”
Mrs Dashwood referred, Marianne knew, to the time after her great disappointment with Willoughby when Mrs Jennings had nursed and looked after Marianne as if she were her own child. Mrs Dashwood was eternally grateful to the lady, though the reasons for that gratitude were hardly ever mentioned now or discussed at Barton Cottage. The unspoken words hung in the air above their heads like grey spectres, together with the recollections of all that had passed to make her former love's name an anathema. John Willoughby's crimes were never discussed.
Margaret had excused herself shortly after this exchange to make ready for their expedition, returning moments later in a blue kerseymere pelisse with a bonnet of the same, trimmed with ribbon. She made a pleasing picture. Margaret was not as dark as her elder sister; she had a fair complexion and light brown curls to frame her countenance. Her eyes were the blue of April forget-me-nots but still there was something of her sister's spirit in them. The contrast, however, was like ice and fire: against the black gypsy eyes of Marianne, Margaret's were frozen shards of sapphire.
“My little sister, you are growing into a fine young lady!” Marianne exclaimed at the sight of her. “Come, we must hasten to the chaise or there shall not be a decent muslin left in all of Exeter.”
“Do take care, my darlings,” cried Mrs Dashwood as she waved them off at the door. She could not help but be pleased and proud as she watched the carriage bowl away, the sight of her pretty daughters enough to produce a lump in her throat and a tear in her eye.
Chapter 5
They were set down by the square of the New London Inn, so that they could work their way down the High Street and not miss a single shop or market stall. Exeter was teeming with people and carriages, all seemingly unaware of the other as they set about their determined business. There were so many stalls with traders thrusting their wares under the girls’ noses as they attempted to pass, that there was scarcely any room to manoeuvre. Trays of sticky buns, held head high, wafted tempting smells of freshly baked treats. Panniers of ruby apples and yellow pears, swaying from the hips of ruddy-cheeked girls, scented the air with the perfume of a September orchard, whilst tiers of orange pumpkins arranged along the wayside impeded their every step. Waggons and carts rumbled down the street, piled high with sacks, boxes, barrels, and packages. A flock of sheep were being shepherded by two small boys wielding sticks, along with a barking dog who leaped and snapped if any chanced to stray too far. Geese and ducks waddled in formation down the central thoroughfare as though they owned the road, as a young girl with a basket of eggs called out to passersby to try her goods. Marianne and Margaret wove their way through the teeming tapestry of market town life, calling to one another to look in a particular shop window or laugh at some amusing sight. They soon found themselves on the corner of Queen Street, close by their favourite linen drapers. On entering the shop, they found it to be as busy inside as out. Every mother and daughter in Exeter, it appeared, had chosen to arrive at the same time, all jostling for a chance to view the latest muslin, lutestring, and satin.
“Margaret, what do you think of that one?” Marianne asked, pointing to a fine white mull draped in the window, embroidered with gold thread, which glimmered in the sunlight.
“It is very beautiful,” sighed Margaret, “but I fear it will cost the earth!”
“I have not brought you here to discuss finances,” Marianne scolded, “I have promised you a ball gown of the highest quality, and that is what you shall have!”
“But there is a very good white satin laid out on the counter which would make a very pretty gown. And though I must admit the mull is quite the most divine gauze I have ever seen, I could do very well with the other.”
Margaret could see the shopkeeper deep in conversation with a very smartly dressed young woman who was ordering yards of the glossy fabric which waved like the sea over the counter, rippling over the edge onto the floor. The elegant plumes on her grey hat were nodding as she talked. There was quite a queue forming, the mother before them muttering under her breath at the time it would take to get to the front, as her daughter complained that there would be no satin left if the lady preceding them was any indication to go on. Another assistant appeared to alleviate the restless crowd and at last they moved forward.
“Let me indulge you this once, Margaret,” Marianne insisted. “Henry Lawrence will be used to seeing women of his acquaintance attired in the very finest clothes; I cannot have you look anything but your very best.”
“Very well,” laughed Margaret, “so long as you promise not to speak of that man again. I am well aware you have married me off to him and I am certain that he and I will never suit.”
“How can you say such a thing? I have heard he is a very handsome man, cultured and charming. Every report declares him to be just the sort of gentleman you like.”
“There has never been a man yet who has had the power to engage my heart.” Margaret picked up a pair of long kid evening gloves from the display by the window. She turned them over but was not really examining them at all. She was lost in thought, wondering if she should confess her folly to her sister. Marianne was engrossed on the other side, in admiration of a bolt of crimson velvet, but declared it as being too dark for such young skin.
“Actually, that is not entirely true,” Margaret persisted, although not understanding quite why she was willing to confess her old, childish fantasies.
Marianne turned, all astonishment. “Tell me, Margaret, who is this paragon, this nonesuch, this nonpareil?”
“Do you promise not to reprimand me if I dare tell?” Margaret looked into her sister's eyes, and then sighed. “Oh, it is so silly, I wish I had not said a word. It was just a youthful infatuation. What will you think of me? You will be very cross with me.”
“My goodness, Margaret, you are serious. I detect a broken heart. Whoever this gentleman is, I hope he knows of your feelings. And why should I reproach you? Margaret, it is no secret that I have been very foolish in the past and gave my heart where I ought not.”
The mother and daughter who stood directly in front of them chose this moment to give up and strut out of the shop, complaining in loud voices that they were forced to go elsewhere. Marianne sighed with relief. They were now directly behind the lady dressed in grey and she looked to be almost finished. The back of her pelisse pronounced a most elegant cut and expensive taste. The shopkeeper asked for directions to send her parcels and Marianne heard her announce in a loud voice, so that everyone should take note of it, that all packages should be delivered to Devonshire House, West Southernhay.
“Did you hear that?” whispered Marianne. “The very smartest part of town. No wonder she is so keen for the whole shop to hear of it! Now, where were we? Ah, yes, you were about to reveal your lover's name.”
