I saw Becoming Jane today and I bawled like mad. So, a tribute to Jane Austen & Tom LeFroy!

This takes place between Edward’s proposal to Elinor, and the wedding at the end.

Or scorn or pity

On me take,

I must

The true relation make.

I am undone

Tonight.

I am undone tonight…

Love in a subtle dream disguised,

Hath left my heart and me surprised.

Whom never yet he doth attempt awake—

When will he tell me

For whose sake?

Marianne Dashwood’s audience sat quietly as she performed for them at the piano-forte. There were five people listening:

Two were holding hands, basking in the light of new engagement.

One sat on the carpet, leaning against her mother’s skirts. The mother watched her second daughter at the instrument, with tears in her eyes.

And the last almost did not seem to hear the music, but gazed upon its performer as though upon an angel.

He did me the

Delight or spite;

But leaves me to inquire,

In all my wild desire,

Of Sleep again,

Who has his aid,

And Sleep,

So guilty and afraid,

As since he dares not come

Within my sight…

As the music came to an end, Marianne’s listeners clapped more than politely.

Marianne stood and curtsied to her family.

Elinor smiled and leaned over to whisper in Edward’s ear. The affianced couple stood up, so suddenly that everyone stopped clapping.

“Elinor and I are going to take a walk down to Barton Park,” Edward announced. “Excuse us—Miss Marianne, Miss Margaret, Mrs. Dashwood, Colonel…” They left.

Silence ensued.

Then Mrs. Dashwood said to her youngest daughter: “Margaret, didn’t I hear you promise earlier to go over your French verbs…upstairs?”

“I—wha—” spluttered Margaret; but with a sense of tact that surprised everybody, she stood and said, “Yes, Mama. Let us go upstairs then.”

Mrs. Dashwood and her daughter proceeded from the room, and all was quiet again, except for the faint sound of Margaret’s voice from upstairs. “Le premier verbe, c’est ‘être’. Je suis…tu est…il est…elle est…on est…nous sommes…vous êtes…ils sont…elles sont. Le deuxieme verbe, c’est…”

Marianne still sat at the piano, rigid, unmoving, scarcely daring to breathe, or even look at Colonel Brandon. She stared at the intricate script across the top of her music that spelled The Dreame. There was a tiny speck of ink near the m in dreame. Such an interesting speck, really.

Colonel Brandon had also remained in his seat, watching Marianne try not to look at him. He was aware that they had been purposely left alone, and was struggling to compose himself, in order to take advantage of it. Realising he must get through the embarrassing ordeal, or explode, he very abruptly stood and crossed the room to where Marianne sat at the piano-forte.

“I am delighted to see that you not only learned, but perfected the piece in my absence of only three days!” he exclaimed.

“It took me really only two,” murmured Marianne. Then thinking this to be a very supercilious remark to make, she added, “It is a lovely piece, is it not?”

“It is. I discovered it whilst in London finding your piano-forte, and thought you might like it.”

“Oh, I do love it! The best aspect of music,” continued Marianne, “is that one may say things in song, to certain people, that they might never have the courage, opportunity or recklessness to speak in prose. Do you not agree?”

“I do agree,” said Brandon in a low voice. “I agree very much.”

Marianne smiled a little, but it soon faded; and she stood. Looking at Brandon very seriously, she said, “I am a selfish creature, Colonel Brandon, and I apologise, but I must know: When you sent The Dreame to me, were you thinking of my interests, or of my romantic situation?”

Brandon took Marianne’s hands in his. Tenderly, he murmured, “Of your romantic situation, I hope.

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

Marianne smiled up at him. “You may, Christopher Brandon…but you need not…for I already know.”