Author's Note:

Greetings and salutations, fan fiction readers! It's been quite some time since I last made an appearance here, has it not? This time around, I've been planning my wedding! (EEEEEE!) Yes, yes, Beta Mistress Best Friend of the Bride would say that's no excuse to stop the word flow, and my writing should only be enhanced rather than made to suffer for personal experience with an engagement and wedding to execute. Perhaps she is right... but enough of the explanations for my absence! I am returned to give you something of the Austen flavour!

This entire novel has its inspiration from Alan Rickman's dear expression from the 1995 film adaptation, when Marianne thanks him for bringing her mother to Cleaveland after her frightful illness. He will always be my Colonel Brandon, and though I tried to stay true to Miss Austen's original text, I admit I took liberties wherever it meant more of an Alan Rickman flair. The man will be sorely missed.

A Sensible Solution

Chapter One

Marianne sat up straight in bed, clutching the covers around her shaking form as she took great, heaving gasps of air. It had happened again; even in sleep her mind would not relent, and plagued her with the feelings and images of a day she would much rather leave forgotten in the past. She sank back into the covers, trying desperately to lie still and breathe quietly so as not to wake Elinor again.

She did not know—could not know the burden on her heart. For this was a pang too grievous to share; too ruinous for them all. It did not matter that he was in the wrong. The world did not forgive a ruined woman, regardless of who was to blame. There would be no justice for Marianne. There would be no happy marriage built on her foolish ideals of romantic love she once believed in. There would be no marriage at all were the scandal to be known. She shivered violently and not from the cold.

Being so incapable of showing feelings or expressing opinions which were not her own, neither was Marianne able to admit a change in sentiment, especially one so strong as her attachment to Mr. Willoughby of Allenham. She had once believed he still loved her, that his greatest sin was in loving her too much, and if she could only see him, speak to him, and assure him that she forgave any perceived trespasses he would not be ashamed to return to her and continue as they had been in Devonshire. She truly believed that his actions before his departure from Barton, though repugnant to all decency, were simply a consummation of his grand passion for her rather than a crime against her person, and she had come to town with the distinct purpose of proving her defence of him to be founded in truth. But the silence which her letters were met with was the first blow in a succession of hard realities to end her sad conviction, and the rest came in forms far harder to dismiss. Poor, foolish Marianne never would have thought the sullying of her innocence to be cruel until it was followed by a dismissal.

For weeks she had done little but pine and cling to the unfounded hope that the only thing keeping Willoughby from her was malicious slander that had reached his ear by way of some vile creature that wished her ill. Who might have cause to hate her so thoroughly, and succeed in turning his head so completely after all that had passed between them, even she could not easily conjure, but day by day as her sense of loss increased, Marianne found some new subject to imagine motive for the cruel act, and no amount of Elinor's caution would dissuade her from the suspicion.

However, several encounters with Willoughby, and one appalling letter in his own hand drove the tender feelings and any hope of his acquittal out of Marianne's breaking heart. At the same time that she wrestled with the inevitable truth that Willoughby, and Willoughby alone was to blame for his actions, an awful suspicion regarding the consequence of those actions crept into her mind, and the stirrings of its beginning with the struggles of before created such a conflict of emotion that she was rendered quite unable to act as she was used to.

Marianne became pensive. She could hardly speak of her suspicions; neither could she enter into conversation with that open and impassioned nature of hers when she was so uncertain of her true feelings on anything that had ever mattered to her, now that Willoughby was a villain and it was possible she was to be cast down as the lowliest of wretches.

Becoming ill at the thought, Marianne fumbled with the cupboard at their bedside and retched into the bourdaloue. There was no escaping Elinor now. She would awaken and try to understand what troubled her sister.

Elinor was well aware all was not right with Marianne, but found her so distressed when pressed on the matter that she soon relented in her questioning and only asked how she could soothe the night terrors that had begun mere days ago. They had not crossed paths with Willoughby of late, and as no sister letter had arrived to distress Marianne anew, she could not conceive of anything that might shake her so.

Marianne could not offer reply to Elinor's queries. Not only because she could not bear to tell of the whole sorry business, but the tenderness with which Elinor posed her questions brought such crippling sobs that it was impossible to speak a word. She could only cling to whatever was near enough to hold onto in the hopes that the feel of tangible objects would steady her in some small way.

She knew she must look horrific. Her eyes were sunken and glassy, her figure increasingly changing, to the point that even Mrs. Thornton commented on the ill fit of her gowns.

She would have liked to stay in and not show herself in society, whatever politeness demanded, but she could not avoid it. The Dashwood sisters had come to London expressly to enjoy its lively diversions, and to decline each invitation seemed a poor way to thank Mrs. Jennings for her hospitality. With each and every torturous obligation to go calling, to attend assemblies, and overall give the impression of a lady of enjoyment, Marianne found her only measure of comfort in the possibility of Edward's being present, for if her happiness was forever lost, she would not refuse an invitation that might further the happiness of her beloved sister.

But oh, it was hard! So very hard to have all of the worst confirmed by his outright slighting of her, witnessed by Marianne herself, in the interim of her most furious of struggles.

When first she had seen him since the dreadful affair, the pain had been acute, indeed. Though more than two months time had passed since he stood before her in the flesh, Marianne could not have fully prepared for the shock of suddenly spying him less than twenty steps away as they entered the crowded room. She was spared the torture of pretended niceties, as he was much engaged with the company of a fashionable young lady, who she would later learn the identity of. This too spared her the obligation of explaining her sudden inability to compose herself, and those close to her made up their own minds as to why her complexion turned deathly white, breath refused her lungs, and her legs buckled beneath her. Elinor and the Colonel had supported her feeble walk to the carriage but she could not so much as lift her head in gratitude for his help, though Elinor had the good mind to do so. Perceptive as she was, Elinor still thought her great distress was over the loss of Willoughby as a suitor; as if she pined for him and his attentions like the lovesick fool she had been. If only it were so. If only the unbearable ache in her heart and the twisting in her gut were from unrequited love, then she might more easily forget him as the Colonel surely had forgotten his infatuation with her.

But it was not unrequited. She knew in her heart, and if there were a deeper place to know such a thing, it was there too that Willoughby had loved her—did love her, and she could not so easily relinquish her long-stated belief that one did not love so completely only to forsake all in the face of fifty thousand pounds. It was not possible. It should not be possible.

As they did during such nights of anguish, Marianne found her thoughts turning to the Colonel and his behaviour in comparison to Willoughby's. She had mocked his suit before; derided his age, and made sport of his sombre demeanour. How circumstances had changed! Now she was the one worthy of derision and mockery, and how he would count himself fortunate indeed for not openly attaching himself to a woman who would become so debased. Prudence did not seem so boorish and constricting to Marianne any longer. Elinor was right. She should have taken care. The mere thought of her past exhibitions were enough to make her stomach turn again.

The telltale sign of Elinor's consciousness was felt in the warm hand on Marianne's back. "Dearest, are you certain you are not ill?"

She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a towel and spoke with a steady voice. "I am quite well, Elinor. Or I shall be in the morning. It is only some bad poultry."

"We had the same supper, Marianne, and I did not lose mine in the chamber pot."

"You have always had a stronger constitution than I. Go back to bed. I assure you I am well," she lied.

With a small sigh that betrayed her scepticism, Elinor shifted back under the covers, struggling to find a new place of warmth after much of it had escaped the confines of the bed sheets.

Marianne knew she was selfish for not returning to her side at once and offering what added warmth she could to their coverlet, but tonight she felt the closeness oppressive and sleep only intensified the emotions she was loathe to dwell upon.

It might have been bearable, had he shown any sign of cruelty from the start. She then could have hated him better, berated herself for more specific failings of judgement. But he was perfect. So affable, attentive, and utterly charming. Even now it was difficult to think of the Willoughby who wooed her as the Willoughby who forced her to his bed on the day that should have brought about his proposal. Perhaps all men were such; hostile, manipulative braggarts who played a pretty part in order to have their way. But she could not believe that, truly. Though her trust had been permanently shaken, she could not believe such things of dear Edward. She could not believe them of Colonel Brandon.

Yet again, Marianne found herself wishing she were more like her sister. Wise, resolute Elinor, who never let her emotions get the best of her behaviour.

Marianne was resolute in one thing, and that was putting an end to a great portion of her troubles by confirming a nagging suspicion once and for all. Since she was unable to sleep, she readied everything she would require for her morning walk. The little yellow card with the pencilled address she took out from her bag and read once more, though she'd already memorised it with her continued staring. Her hair she plaited and pinned in a simple but serviceable style. The worn, black cloak that Elinor had wondered at her packing she kept hanging on the outside of the wardrobe so as not to make any additional noises by the opening of doors and cupboards when she decided to leave.

She had thought to go hours from now, nearer daybreak, but as the minutes passed and the silence in the room threatened to engulf her, she was overcome with a great anxiety to have done at once and not to wait for morning's first light.

She felt every bit of a woman of ill repute, slinking out of the apartment under the cloak of darkness, terrified that every flicker of light was intended to expose her and her destination. Where she was going was not too far. No one in Mrs. Jennings's company would ever travel to that part of the city on purpose, but it was as easy to find as it was to avoid. The only thing that mattered to her now was anonymity.

She prayed that Elinor would not wake too soon and rouse the house, fearing Marianne had run away in a fit of fancy. She was not prepared to flee Elinor's side and forge a life alone yet. Perhaps, if the question she was to have answered at the place of her destination yielded the discovery she feared, then she might consider the possibilities and manner of departure.

Tonight, however, she was simply tired and sore; sore of heart and sore of body. Her greatest fear lay not in what troubles awaited her down the dark alleyways of the hardened and desperate, but what discoveries might be brought to light by the end of her journey.

I will be posting updates every Wednesday evening, sometime after I return from work. (After 8PM PT) If you find you're impatient to read the rest, this novel is available in its entirety on Amazon, under my truer name; Beth Poppet.