Because most philosophies that frown on reproduction don't survive.

Monday, November 08, 2021

Mrs. Dashwood, 6


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Voices in the hall announced the return of the party to the nursery, and a moment later Sir John and Lady Middleton entered. Marianne followed a moment later, in a fine flush which her mother instantly recognized as the clear sign of temper being held imperfectly in check. Lady Middleton was telling some interminable story about the antics of her child, the sort of thing which only a mother can appreciate. The child’s mother, that is; anyone else’s mother would have rather decided opinions on whether a child’s tantrum were a sign of its adorable independent mind, and anyone not so fortunate as to be a mother would be bored to tears. Marianne was clearly bored to something — her eyes flashed with the fire of all the remarks she was biting back. She threw herself on the sofa next to her mother.

“My head aches so,” she said, just in a tone calculated to fall just barely out of earshot of Lady Middleton and Sir John, who could not be detained for a moment from recounting all the nursery news to Mrs. Jennings. “Who was it who said that children should be seen and not heard?”

“You have never heard it from me, my love,” said Mrs. Dashwood mildly. “As a result, I am sure that some of our own guests may have felt overwhelmed by the effusions of little girls, as you recall that you yourself once were. Allow me to present you to Colonel Brandon. My second daughter, Marianne. I should present my eldest first, but she seems to be detained.”

“How do you do, Miss Marianne,” said Colonel Brandon, standing as he had been ever since she and Lady Middleton entered the room, but as he bowed to Marianne he clutched the back of the chair as if he wished to sit down.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Marianne, with a perfunctory nod. “Elinor and Margaret are still upstairs with the small heathens. Mama, can you not tell Lady Middleton that I am taken ill and must go home? I am sure that Sir John would lend me his carriage.” 

“I am sure that you will rally admirably, Marianne, and spend the evening behaving exactly as you ought,” said Mrs. Dashwood with asperity. 

Marianne, chagrining her mother by the barest scraping of courtesy to the Colonel, drifted to the window and gazed over the lawn with romantic disdain. 

“I must beg your pardon, Colonel Brandon,” Mrs. Dashwood said, suddenly unwilling for this serious man to think poorly of her children and their upbringing. “Marianne is so tall that I sometimes forget how young she is, and still practicing the courtesies that come naturally to adults.”

“Not so naturally to all adults,” said Colonel Brandon. “Miss Marianne reminds me very much…,” and he hesitated, “…very much of a young lady I once knew, who also suffered from the sick headache when she was vexed. Forgive me! I do not doubt that her headache is genuine.”

“Marianne’s headaches are sometimes most conveniently timed for allowing her to avoid precisely what she does not wish to do,” said Mrs. Dashwood almost snapped, but quickly recovered herself. “The loss of her father was a grievous blow to her health and her manners both. But you must forgive me, I fear. I do not mean to offer excuses for rudeness, nor to pour out my small history of family sorrows. No family is immune to mortality. I am sure that the sad story is so familiar that there is no need for me to play upon your kind sympathies.”

“You could never do so, ma’am,” he said. “Indeed, I have every confidence that the example of loving parents will guide your daughters even through the temporary trial of youth. The young lady I spoke of had not the advantage of Miss Marianne; she had nothing but wealth, a poor substitute for a mother’s counsel.”

“The poor dear! Even a mother’s counsel is imperfect sometimes. But to be without it entirely!” Mrs. Dashwod sighed. “It is a difficult thing to raise a child, sir, and it seems impossible to do everything well.”

He sighed too. “It does indeed.”

The summons to dinner came, and the Colonel offered Mrs. Dashwood his arm. “Come, you shall tell me all you know about raising daughters, and I will promise to nod attentively and exclaim in all the right places.”

Mrs. Dashwood laughed. “Oh sir, I would not presume so far upon your patience, nor am I convinced that I know enough about the topic to advise anyone.”

“Be assured that you know more than I do,” Colonel Brandon said, with no sign of raillery.

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