The children had been in exceedingly high spirits all evening, owing no doubt to their delight at having their parents home again, both in good spirits and good health. Rambunctious antics had ensued. At last Marianne had insisted that it was time for all of them to retire, and Colonel Brandon had herded his boisterous sons upstairs.
Before joining him to settle the four boys, she had stopped at Elinor's room. Her daughter had been subdued at their family dinner and a careworn strain showed beneath her father's smiles, although clearly she and Colonel Brandon had made up their quarrel. She had, in fact, been sitting in her father's lap before all the Brandon children came upstairs, and had bid him goodnight with a genuinely affectionate hug and a kiss on his cheek..
There was still such bittersweet newness in the thought of her daughter--her firstborn--being already out of the nursery wing of the house and ensconced in her own private quarters. Colonel Brandon worried enough about her for both of them, but Marianne would admit to herself that-- more and more--she searched the beloved little face for traces of the angelic baby she had cradled at her breast and felt a pang each time she realized how far these sweetly dimpled features had receded as a face more and more like Marianne's own emerged each day.
Her birth had seemed such a miracle to Marianne, not the less for being her baptism into the experience of motherhood, but also because Elinor was truly the embodiment of her parents' loving union, conceived in the first hours they had spent together as husband and wife, and the beginning of another irrevocable bond between them that bought them even closer than they would ever have dreamed possible in the first nine months of their marriage. And now--so soon!-- they were entering upon an era where there would be much more at stake than whether this or that gown had been soiled as she played, or her face was presentably clean to appear at the dinner table. The new chapter in Elinor's life would bring with it joys and sorrows of an intensity hitherto unimagined by her, and all too familiar to her parents. And whether or not they were ready to let her turn that page, the story would progress. No amount of maternal or paternal love could keep their adored girl forever a child. The events of today had signaled this clearly enough.
Marianne had drawn back the rose-coloured velvet hangings which surrounded Elinor's bed, and settled herself on the soft floral counterpane, reaching out to stroke one little cheek as her daughter lay propped up against her pillows, clutching the doll Colonel Brandon had carved for her. The little girl had thrown back the covers and scrambled towards her mother, who had slid backwards to the centre of the bed. Marianne had laid back and reached a brush from the night table, sat up, and began to brush her daughter's hair in long, soothing, even strokes as Elinor sat cross-legged on the bed with her back to her mother.
They sat like this for some time without speaking. Finally Marianne began, "You and your father--everything is resolved between you?"
Elinor nodded, but volunteered nothing.
"He was very worried about you, my poppet," Marianne prompted.
"I know. But I wish he would not worry, Mama. I am not a little girl!"
Marianne stopped brushing and turned her daughter to face her, catching her gently under the chin with one hand. "But to him, you will always be his little girl, Elinor--because he loves you, and he wants to look out for you."
"But when will he see that I am growing up, Mama?"
"My darling, do not be in such a hurry to grow up! Cherish the way he cares for you. I lost my father when I was but 16. I hope you will have many more years to appreciate how very much your father cares for you, but we must never take even one day for granted." She drew Elinor into the comforting circle of her embrace.
"Mama?" came the hesitant little voice some moments later, as Elinor sat back to look at her. "I know I ought not to have ridden my horse that way, but Jonathan and I--we did nothing wrong, you know. Papa was very severe upon him--he seems not even to like him!"
"Oh--your father does like Jonathan, I believe, but perhaps he feels that he is not the most appropriate companion for you."
"Why ever not?" Elinor demanded with renewed indignance. "He is very clever and has very proper, pleasant manners, and it is ever so jolly to laugh and talk with him. Papa cannot prevent me from speaking to him! I do not care if I am the daughter of the owner of the estate! I shall never consider other people to be beneath my notice!"
"Elinor, I promise you that Papa would not encourage you to look down upon Jonathan or anyone else." Her brief encounter with Jonathan had left her with an impression of him similar to her daughter's. She had been utterly charmed by him. Surely such gifts had not gone unnoticed by the person who spent far more time with the lad than anyone else! Marianne felt the strain of exercising her powers of discretion to the fullest in this exchange. She suspected--although she did not completely agree with or understand--Brandon's true objections to the situation, but she did not wish to undermine his authority with his daughter any more than she wished to see their little girl's thoughts unduly led in a direction more appropriate to someone of less tender years. "But, I think the difficulty for your father is that--you know--you are a girl--Jonathan is a boy, and older than you..."
With pursed lips, and then a giggle, Elinor exclaimed, "What difference should that make?"
"It may make no difference now, for you are--both-- very young," Marianne said, "but if Jonathan were to remain at Delaford, and the two of you were to continue to grow closer--well, my sweetheart, you know your father would never allow you to marry a stable hand, no matter how liberal-minded he is."
"Marry him!" Elinor burst out. The little girl wrinkled her nose, and let out an exasperated and very put-upon sigh. "Mother--I do not wish to marry Jonathan!" Here, a dramatic shudder was added for emphasis. "Perhaps I shall never marry anyone! But he is interesting, and kind to me--and he knows things--and there is no one else here about to play with or to talk to!"
"You have your brothers..." began Marianne.
"Mother!" Elinor flopped onto her stomach petulantly. "They are children!"
"What about your cousin Marianne? She is a far more appropriate playmate for you than this boy."
"I like her," Elinor admitted. "But the Ferrars have all been at Norland lately--and Jonathan has been here."
Marianne sighed. "I see." There was little point in arguing with the black and white logic of a nine-year-old mind, or in pointing out that her cousin would return within a few days.
"Mama? Just now you said if Jonathan stays here. Papa is not planning to send him away, is he?"
"How strange that you should ask me that, for Christopher and Henry asked the same thing when we were out in the grove today! If you all think your father means to send this boy away, then you must all know something I do not. What makes you suppose it?"
"Oh, something Jonathan said to me when we were at the stables, before Papa got there. He was very angry with me for riding my horse so fast, and he said, ‘Elinor--you must not put me in this position! Your father will not have me here if this continues!' Of course, we did not know that Papa had already seen us then."
"I hope it may not be, Elinor, but truly--you must be more prudent in the future. I wonder where he would go? Where is his family?"
Elinor shrugged. "I do not know."
"Does he never speak of them, then?" asked Marianne. She was beginning to feel concern for the boy's welfare--moreso because it seemed that her own daughter had been the cause of whatever he had done to displease Colonel Brandon.
"Once, he did." Elinor sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees as her chin rested on them. "But I could tell he did not like to speak of them. When he mentioned his mother, he seemed sad--and when he spoke of his father, he seemed angry. He talked as though he would never see them again, so I thought perhaps they must both be dead, and I did not ask him again."
"The poor child!" said Marianne, shaking her head. The colonel must be persuaded not to send him away, somehow. "I think that you shall have to reflect more carefully upon your conduct in the future Elinor, if you wish to appease your father entirely."
"I know, Mama," she sighed. "And I will try--I promise I will. Shall I ask Papa to tea in my bower in the grove again tomorrow?"
"I think that he would like that above all things." She had kissed Elinor's forehead, then stood and drew back the coverlet of the bed. "Goodnight, my poppet."
Marianne's next stop had been in her sons' room, where she expected to still find the colonel. Instead she found them alone, freshly attired in white nightshirts, but nevertheless wide awake. One round of hugs and kisses on little sun flushed faces had spiraled quickly into the next, until she had literally to tear herself away. So much had happened in the previous two days that she felt like it was an eternity since she had been able to indulge her maternal feelings, but now it was time they slept.
Now, in her chamber, she straightened and walked away from the door. She was vaguely puzzled that the colonel was nowhere in sight. The boys had confirmed that he had been in their chamber, but now he seemed to have disappeared. Marianne walked quickly to the door to his adjoining chamber and peered in. Surely he need not doubt whether she desired his company tonight? But this room, too, was vacant.
She began to feel vaguely alarmed. The evening's events had not entirely calmed her agitation, although she had been looking forward to this time alone with Brandon to bring that about. When he had left her to bathe in his dressing room earlier, the intention of how they intended to end their evening had been made perfectly clear. There had been no opportunity to speak privately since then, for during their few moments they had stolen alone in her garden, they had chosen to occupy themselves in another way. She had no idea what results his errand to the stables before dinner had produced, and even less of an idea where he might be now.
Clasping and unclasping her fingers nervously, Marianne crossed back in to her own chamber, and darted her eyes about, looking for some indication that Brandon had been recently in the room, or might soon return. At last her eyes fell upon the pillow of her own bed, where a note addressed to her in the colonel's hand was propped. She snatched it up and began to read:
My love,Search no further for me in these chambers, for you will not find me. Follow these brief instructions I leave for you here...
She reread the note twice in rapid succession. Other than the salutation ‘My love', it contained no hint of what Colonel Brandon might have in mind, for better or for worse. Marianne had no choice but to hasten to do as she was bid.Wrap yourself warmly in a cloak, and change your shoes for something you might wear out of doors. James shall wait in the foyer to advise your further. Do not delay!
~C.
Her footwear was quickly replaced, and she draped the cloak around her and fastened it as she descended the stairs moments later. There, her husband's valet bowed to her, and said, "Ma'am, permit me to escort you."
Marianne liked James very well, and trusted him implicitly as one who had known the colonel since his youth. He was discreet and looked out for his master in all possible ways, but he had never, in all the years she had known him, been given to making idle conversation, and made no attempt to do so now. He held the door open for his mistress, and stooped to pick up a lantern that had already been lighted and lay ready on the stone steps. In silence, they walked around to the back of the house, and down the sloping lawn to where it met the terrace.
"I am to leave you here, ma'am," James explained, with another bow. He gestured with one hand as he spoke. "Colonel Brandon asked that you walk out across the park there."
It was not without a little concern that Marianne stared out into the blackness of the wide expanse of grass bordered by trees. "He--he wants me to go out there? Alone? James, I---"
"Forgive me, madam, but I cannot accompany you. It is not what he asked me to do," he explained, apologetically. "In fact, the master was adamant that you come to him alone. He also asked me to give you this lantern, but beyond that..."
Come to him! Then he cannot be far... She took the lantern from James, smiled weakly, and began walking. Although she was puzzled by this invitation, Marianne could now attempt to lay her concerns to rest, one by one. Now that both were to be discounted, she could hardly tell whether her greatest apprehension had been concerning a renewal of Brandon's anger of the afternoon or concerning Jonathan's welfare. A discussion about the latter was more likely, in view of all that had taken place today, but Marianne could make no connection between this unfortunate boy, and the unusual task which had been set before her. The former--his anger-- was certainly a more frightening prospect, and in truth, it still nagged at her composure a little, for one reason to lure her away from Delaford might be the avoidance of a scene in front of the children and household staff. From the blissful moment of awakening in each others' arms at their cottage this morning, to the heart-stopping scene in her bedchamber earlier, the day had been fraught with too many extremes of emotion for both of them, but there was no reason to suppose his fury might have been rekindled so quickly.
Unless...Marianne drew herself up short gasped. In her heart, she had meant to be truthful in her confession. The one thing she had omitted was a description of the kind of force she feared Willoughby's friend might use, and the fact that he said he would come back for her. Once she had found her children playing safely, she had driven the recollection of this from her mind, but the colonel still knew nothing of this threat. Her intention had been only to protect her husband and prevent him from taking reckless action--but if Brandon found out she had concealed this from him, he could not be pleased.
Suddenly, Marianne heard a movement some 20 paces away from her to the left, in the trees. "Christopher?" she called, hopefully. The darkness in the grove was palpable, for the sky had clouded over once more, and the circle of light thrown by her lantern only seemed to make it more impenetrable.
The only reply was the muffled crack of a twig snapping amongst the trees, and a faint rustle of leaves too close to the ground to be the fault of the wind. Marianne felt her pulse quicken at the base of her throat, and caught her free hand up to still it as she began to move more rapidly. Why had Colonel Brandon not answered her call? What if--what if he and Willoughby's friend had already met? She was too far from the house already for anyone inside to hear her cry out. The parsonage was perhaps equidistant, but deserted. Frantically, she tried to peer into the grove again, and stood frozen, unable to decide what to do.
Marianne shrieked as she was caught about the waist from behind, and gasped at the suddenness with which she felt his lips upon her throat.
"My love, did I startle you?" murmured Colonel Brandon, in a throaty whisper directly into her ear. He laughed softly, and turned her to face him.
The lantern had taken flight from her hand as soon as he had touched her, and Marianne was grateful for the momentary obscurity as she struggled to compose her voice and countenance. "Indeed--indeed you did, sir, which is only to be expected when you are acting so mysterious."
Colonel Brandon released her and retrieved the lantern. He reached his other hand out to take one of hers, and led his wife a short distance in silence. The lantern was again deposited on the grass, and they continued for several more paces. There, on the lawn he had spread a blanket and he pulled her down next to him as he sat. Still too overcome to venture speech, Marianne drew her knees up to her chest and clasped her arms around them, then stared wonderingly at her husband, whose features she could just discern.
"What is all this about, Christopher?" she asked.
He reached back to a basket which stood on a corner of the blanket, and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of red wine, which he deftly opened for them. He poured a glass and handed to Marianne before speaking. "I concede that this is a strange way to go about what I have in mind, but the idea struck me suddenly as I waited for you in your chamber."
Marianne took a deep gulp of the wine, gratified at the prospect of the soothing effect it should have on her nerves. The sensation that there had been someone else moving through the trees in the grove had not entirely dissipated. And, she had kept Brandon waiting rather longer than he must have anticipated as she talked with Elinor, but she did not wish to introduce this topic just now. "The idea?"
"The realisation that tonight would be the first we will spend together in our home in more than two years, Marianne." He drank a draught of his own wine, catching the glass with both hands as he trembled slightly. "It seemed--wrong somehow, to simply proceed as though nothing of significance were about to occur. As if all the waiting, and everything else that has happened had not happened."
"I should not have minded. Particularly not when you consider that by now we would be..." She paused, and moved closer to him on the blanket. "We have already crossed this bridge, you know, Christopher--our first time--surely you have not forgotten last night, and, particularly the one before?"
"That is something I shall never forget as long as I live, Marianne." He set down his empty glass and drew her to him. "The only real danger there is how oblivious to the real world I shall become if I continue to relive it in my thoughts. Nor do I mean to make light of it. But--the night of our anniversary, everything went so horribly wrong, and I just wanted to try to make everything right again while we have this chance. I wanted to feel the anticipation of you coming to me, of waiting for you, as I did that night. To get it right, this time. It is not so much that I wish to relive that night, as that..."
"Oh, there are many things which happened that evening which, I would willingly do again," she interrupted. "It may have ended badly, but it did not begin so."
"My thoughts, precisely. Say you do not think this all an odd notion?"
Marianne kissed him on the cheek, and laughed. "You ought to know by now that I am willing to do anything you say, Colonel Brandon."
"Dangerous words, madam," he whispered. "Of course, we shall not be alone in the house as we were on the night of our anniversary, but at some point all the servants will be asleep, and then we shall have some degree of liberty to do as we wish."
"We are alone and at liberty to do as we wish now, Christopher," she returned.
"No--no, not here, Marianne. Let us watch the lights." His tone was serious.
Marianne stifled a sigh. She ought to know by now that he would never consent to such a suggestion--he never had yet, and was unlikely to relent. But, it was a trifling matter and no reason to spoil the night which remained to them.
Colonel Brandon shifted his wife on the blanket so that he sat directly behind her, and wrapped his arms about her waist as they gazed at their home. They sat that way in silence for some time, and Marianne gradually relaxed. There was no safer haven on earth than here in his embrace, and all other thoughts could be readily driven from her mind. The idea that someone had followed her in the grove tonight must be merely some freak wrought by emotions which had not been on an even keel for many months.
Tonight, perhaps more than the time they had spent together in the cottage, which--even now--had an aura of the unreal about it, would be the true beginning of bringing their life back to normalcy. In her youth, Marianne had positively shuddered at the prospect of anything so prosaic, but now she yearned for it. Life would never be mundane with such a companion, and she felt they had lately experienced enough upheavals and intrigue to last a lifetime.
He broke the silence thoughtfully, leaning down to her ear to speak. "I will never forget the night you agreed to become my wife. After I left you at the parsonage, I walked back across this field, in disbelief at my good fortune and somewhat insensible to my surroundings. When I finally became aware of what I was doing, I looked upon this house with the realization that I was to share it with you--that you would be part of my life here, and you would walk these fields and gardens with me. I even dared to allow myself to hope that, God willing, children of ours would run and play here. I had never had particularly fond feelings about Delaford before that night, and the sudden change in them was a profound one."
"You must have considered the possibility before then?"
"No, Marianne. I never dared to allow myself to hope. I am not sure that I can ever express to you what it was like for me to have you accept me."
"I should have been the greatest fool alive to reject you." She turned her head to look into his eyes. "I have told you before that I wish I had had the sense to realize what you were when we first met. So many things might have been different--even some of the difficulties we have lately experienced."
"I believe that everything happens for a reason, my love--even--even those things which cause us some pain. You cared nothing for me then, and why should you? There was no reason for a young, beautiful girl to fall in love with a grave, reserved man twice her own age with nothing more to offer her than a comfortable home and a good name. If you had given in to everyone who presumed to know what was best for you then and married me, perhaps we might never have come to what we have now. You might never have learned to love me, and I should always have wondered whether you married me for my name and my fortune."
"I would not ask to have anything different, Christopher--except that I am so sorry for any pain I have caused you--then, or lately."
"What I sought, Marianne, was a real and lasting love--not a perfect love." He bent and kissed her throat. "We should have no power to hurt each other if we did not love as we do."
Marianne felt an unaccountable chill ripple down her spine as he spoke, and craned her neck to look around her.
"Is something the matter, my love?"
"No, nothing at all. Perhaps the night air grows chill--or perhaps my anticipation has overcome me."
He smiled at her and looked back towards Delaford. "There is the last light, extinguished. There is but one light left burning, and that is in your chamber. We shall have need of that. Come, Marianne." He stood and helped her to her feet, then folded the blanket over one arm, and caught up the basket.
Marianne ran a few paces ahead and picked up their lantern before turning
to take the colonel's hand. "Nothing shall prevent us this time, Christopher."
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