Chapter Text
The afternoon was still and grey; the gentle light falling through the tall window of Barton Cottage lent the small parlour a quiet dignity. Mrs. Dashwood sat upright in her chair by the fire, the deep brown of her simple gown emphasising the serious expression upon her face.
Colonel Brandon stood before her, his hat held firmly in his hands, with the posture of a man who knows his words carry weight. His dark coat and immaculate cravat spoke of solid care rather than ornament.
“Mrs. Dashwood,” he began, in a voice which, though steady, was pitched somewhat lower than the distance between them required.
She inclined her head slightly, a sign that she was prepared to hear him.
“It is my wish,” he continued, “to make known to you that I intend to seek your daughter Marianne’s hand in marriage—but I hold it my duty to first seek your judgement. I am well aware, Ma’am, that the difference in our ages is not insignificant, and that my circumstances, however honourable, are not without their peculiarities. Yet I may say that my regard for Miss Marianne is neither fleeting nor lightly conceived, but the result of a steadfast conviction that her happiness is dearer to me than my own.”
“Colonel,” she said at last, “it speaks much in your favour that you have thought first of my duty as her mother, rather than of Marianne’s heart alone. You know as well as I that my consent will not be enough to decide the matter. But if Marianne…”—here she allowed herself the gentlest of smiles—“…if she should be inclined to accept your proposal, she will have no objection from me to fear.”
The Colonel, a man generally known for his reserve in all outward demonstrations, lowered his gaze and bowed, with an expression that conveyed both gratitude and the firm resolve to be worthy of the happiness now placed within his reach.