John Dashwood had never had an especially good handle on his own emotions: how to take them, treat them, give them any proper headway or lack thereof. In fact, emotion in general - in any form, from anyone - was enough to make him squirm. This was, he suspected, the reason he and Marianne had never formed a terribly tight bond, given his squeamishness and her aching heart. Nevertheless, grief had united them all, in a way - and blood had done that at their very births. Oh, it had been odd to watch his father remarry a woman not much older than himself and odd to watch him start a new family, but even for all their profligate feelings, they were each dear to him. They were his sisters and, deep down, John no longer felt sure he'd been entirely right in sending them away. Naturally, there was no questioning Fanny: she was right, of course - as she always right - his father had no idea of giving them money...But perhaps John ought to have done, anyway. It seemed they were in rather dire straights...and the house seemed all the more quiet and melancholy, now that they were gone.
The library had always been a room of comfort for the entire Dashwood clan. From boyhood with both his own parents, to teenage years when his father had remarried, gathered with his sisters and step-mother, and father...With a fire, this room had been terribly pleasant, though it seemed somehow colder, now that he was all that was left (granted, he reasoned, he had let the fire run down). He hadn't done well by his own grief and it seemed worse now.
His refuge didn't last long. Fanny was already speaking as she entered, gesticulating and disapproving. John swallowed hard. She looked terribly glamorous in the light of the fire as it flickered in her lustrous locks and brightened her gown. He was on the verge of inviting her to sit peacefully with him by the fire, but she was speaking...and that wasn't Fanny, in any case.
"I-I can't imagine it being quite so odiferous, my love," he began, timidly. "Afterall, the house is quite large...You can't smell the books all the way in our room, I'm sure." His effort was to be reasonable but, swallowing hard, he wondered if he'd succeeded at all.
He stood slowly, clearing his throat. "You know, my father was quite fond of these old books." He gestured towards them, before dropping his arm as a bout of nerves overtook him. "He dedicated much of his life to collecting and preserving them. It is really quite a rare treasure trove here...I imagine, I would imagine the whole lot is quite costly in nature. Perhaps our friends should rathe rlike to see such an impressive collection," he suggested. Quickly, he lowered his eyes. Afterall, the house was a woman's domain and he feared he'd overstepped his bounds.