London—April, 1815
Buford House, London
My dearest wife,
Can it be that you have been gone for only a fortnight? It has been an age, I am sure. I rattle about my empty rooms, expecting to find you reading in some out-of-the-way corner. If I listen closely, I can hear you playing on the pianoforte. Ah, but I am a pitiful fool!
Most of the staff officers have arrived from London, so I am released to prepare for the arrival of my regiment. I have met the young Prince of Orange. I wish you were here to meet him yourself, my own Queen of Orange—ha! You would find him amusing, I dare say. As for the prince being a military man, I have my doubts.
Darling, I must close now. I shall write as often as I can, but do not be alarmed if you do not hear from me as often as you could desire. My duties take up almost twenty hours of the day.
Longing to kiss you good night, I remain
Yours,
JB
PS—Pray ask Colonel Fitzwilliam to see to my equipment. I have good officers in my regiment, but their heads will be filled with their own concerns.
Caroline frowned—Sir John had not received her letter. She reached for ink and paper.
Delaford
Marianne Brandon was seeing to the last of the packing of her husband’s trunks, the family dog, a greyhound named Princess, about her feet. The family owned several greyhounds, but Princess was a particular favorite. Marianne tried desperately to anticipate Colonel Brandon’s needs when he got to Belgium: shirts, breeches, and trousers, flannel waistcoat, coats, uniform coats, stockings, small clothes, neckcloths, and—handkerchiefs!
Marianne raced to the dressing room, searching for Christopher’s handkerchiefs. “Where are they?” she mumbled to herself before opening the correct drawer. How many would her husband need? Would six be enough? He might catch cold in the rain. Would Christopher have to sleep in a tent?
Finally, the absurdity of the situation struck her.
You silly goose. Christopher is going to war. He cannot be bothered with handkerchiefs.
Dropping them, Marianne slid to the floor of Colonel Brandon’s dressing room, completely overcome with tears.
“Christopher, you are joking. Please tell me you are joking!” Marianne had cried the day before.
Colonel Brandon was as miserable as he had ever been in his life. He had just told his wife that he was not reporting for duty in London. He was called to Belgium instead to serve on Wellington’s staff, as requested by the duke himself.
“My Marianne—”
“But you are so old! You have not served for years!”
Christopher winced at the blow. He tried not to resent the comment. It was true, after all.
“What do you know of wars and fighting and cannons and—”
“Marianne,” he interrupted her ranting. “I am a colonel—”
“You were a colonel! Why you? Why?”
“Because there is no one else.”
Marianne resumed the packing after a little while. She neatly folded the handkerchiefs she had embroidered with his initials before placing them into the trunk. Nightshirts, robe, shaving kit, soap, tooth powder, and coffee were put in next. The last item brought a small smile to her lips when she remembered their fondness for sharing it. Salt, pepper, sugar, tea, polish for his boots…
The bedroom door opened as Sergeant Masters, Colonel Brandon’s aide, valet, and right-hand man, came in carrying a long, wrapped bundle.
“Please excuse me, missus,” he said as he placed the bundle inside the last trunk. “All done ’ere yet, ma’am?”
“I believe so, Sergeant,” Marianne answered.
“It looks ta me like you ’ave done a fine job. Beggin’ your pardon, though, but I think I will just double-check.”
“Of course, Sergeant. I would not dream of objecting. I will be downstairs with the colonel. Come along, Princess.”
The soldier eyed Marianne kindly as he gave the dog a pat. “A right good idea, ma’am. It would mean a lot to ’im, it would. And you should not worry. Me an’ the colonel been through a lot together. I will be watchin’ out for ’im. You got me word on it.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I shall hold you to that, sir!”
“Yes, missus.” Masters began digging into the chests.
Marianne meant to leave, but she found she was rooted to the spot. The bundle Masters had brought was slightly unraveled due to the sergeant’s efforts. There, gleaming in the sunlight, was the hilt of Christopher’s sabre.
Arriving at the foot of the stairs, Marianne was about to ask a maid where the master was when she heard Joy giggling to a familiar chant.
“Who is my love? Who is my love? Why, it is Joy! Ha, ha, ha!”
Marianne closed her eyes for a moment as she grasped the banister for support. I must bear it for him, she told herself. Back in control of her feelings, Marianne entered the parlor. There on the floor was her husband in the campaign uniform of a colonel of cavalry, playing with their daughter. She leaned against the door frame and watched, allowing Joy this special time with her father.
After a few more minutes, the child began to yawn. Christopher pulled Joy close to his chest as he sat up. Propping himself against a couch, the colonel rocked his daughter to sleep, singing a lullaby. Princess had gone to lie next to her master on the floor, her head on his lap. The only reason Marianne did not weep was that she had no more tears to give.
Finally, Joy was fast asleep. Christopher looked up at his wife as she walked over to him and relieved him of their daughter.
“I will be just a moment, love,” she said to him before returning Joy to the nursery.
By the time she returned, Christopher was back on his feet, pouring a cup of coffee from the pot the maid had just delivered. Before she could ask, he handed her the cup and poured another one.
“Shall we retire to the library, dear?” he asked. She nodded, and the pair left the parlor.
Once in the library, Christopher placed his cup down on his desk and held out a chair in front of it, indicating that he wished Marianne to sit there. After seating his wife, Christopher reclaimed his cup and sat behind the desk, facing his wife.
“My love, here is all the information you need to manage Delaford in my absence—ledger, chart of accounts, book of contracts, an address book with the names of the solicitor, banker, agent, contacts at the War Department—everything. The steward, Mr. McIntosh, has been in my service for a dozen years. He is hardworking and honest.”
He held up an envelope. “Here is my will, and here,”—he handed Marianne another envelope—“are my instructions naming you as my agent, giving you full power of attorney. This means you speak with my voice, and all decisions you make are final.”
Marianne could hardly mark what her husband was saying—her attention was riveted on those evil papers he referred to as his will. Christopher caught what had attracted his wife’s notice. He held up the will again.
“This states that I leave everything to Joy, that you are trustee of Delaford lands and mistress of Delaford Manor for the rest of your life, and you shall receive half the income. The house in London is yours, free and clear. There is also a bequest to my ward, Eliza.” At Marianne’s distressed look he continued. “We must speak of such things, my dear. To know that you, Joy, and Eliza are well provided for is a comfort to me.
“Now here is a letter explaining all to Mr. McIntosh—oh, blast! I meant to add something,” he mumbled. “I forgot to leave instructions for McIntosh to reverse the ratio of barley to wheat this year. Oh, where is paper—”
“Christopher, I want to have another baby!” cried out Marianne.
Christopher looked up. “Pardon me?”
“These legal and business matters give you comfort. But I wish for something, too. I want to have another baby—a son,” she said to him seriously.
“But… but these things are unpredictable—”
“I know that, you silly man, but I wish to try before you leave in the morning.”
Christopher looked into the earnest eyes of his wife. Leaving her pregnant was not comforting to him, yet he could see the justice in her words. To be in her arms was his greatest delight, and the odds were tremendously in his favor.
“Are you certain, my Marianne?” he said in the love code only the two of them understood.
She nodded.
Christopher reached out a hand to his now beaming wife. Hand in hand, they left the library just as Sergeant Masters came downstairs.
“Beggin’ the colonel’s pardon. All the cases are checked and locked tight.” His eyes drifted to the couple’s clenched hands.
“Very good, Masters. I shall see you in the morning,” said Colonel Brandon.
To Marianne’s amusement, the sergeant flushed profusely as he turned and left them. Marianne then left instructions with the housekeeper that the master and mistress would take their evening meal upstairs in the mistress’s rooms. The old woman did not blink but simply nodded.
Marianne and Christopher then ascended the stairs, still hand in hand.
A crowd had gathered about the coach that was to take Colonel Brandon to Portsmouth. All the staff from Delaford was there, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars, Mrs. and Miss Dashwood, and Sir John and Lady Middleton from Barton Park. It was kindly suggested to the baronet that since the colonel wanted no ceremony for his departure, Sir John and Lady Middleton might take their leave of their friend as he passed on the road.
Sir John Middleton responded to the suggestion with an amused snort. “Nonsense, nonsense! Lady Middleton shall be very pleased to see the colonel off properly, as should I. It is no bother. Why, Delaford is no distance at all from Barton Park—no distance at all!”
Colonel Brandon was taken aback by the size of his audience, but he bore it in good humor, taking time personally to take his leave of everyone there. He spent no little time with his extended family.
Edward Ferrars said, “I shall keep an eye on Marianne and Joy for you, never fear.”
“I shall depend upon that,” Christopher answered, before turning to his sister. “And you keep an eye on him, Elinor!”
“Take care, my son,” cried Mrs. Dashwood as she hugged him.
Christopher saluted Margaret. “I take my leave of you, Captain!” Margaret Dashwood, now a lovely young lady nearing eighteen, old enough for a sweetheart in the navy, blushed and hugged him as well.
Christopher took his ward, Eliza, into his arms and kissed her on the forehead. “No tears, my dear, no tears. Marianne is depending on you.” Eliza only cried harder.
Finally, he turned to Marianne, who was holding a squirming Joy in her arms. He simply embraced them; with all that had passed in the night, there were no words left. To Joy he whispered, “Who is my love?” He then looked Marianne in the eye.
“As God is my witness, I shall come back to you, though Hell itself bars the door,” he said in a voice just for her ears.
“Go, my Odysseus,” she said, eyes gleaming, “and like Penelope, I shall faithfully await your return.”
Colonel Brandon turned to Sergeant Masters. “Come, it is time we were off.”
As he climbed into the carriage, he said to Marianne, “My dear, I forgot! Tell McIntosh to switch the ratio between the barley and the wheat.”
Marianne nodded. “Switch the ratio between the barley and the wheat. I shall tell Mr. McIntosh.”
A quick kiss. “Good-bye, my Marianne.” The door shut and the carriage jerked into motion.
“Give Boney what-for, Colonel!” shouted Sir John Middleton.
Christopher leaned out the carriage window, holding up his hat. The crowd waved until the coach was no longer in sight. Princess, restrained by the butler, barked for a very long time.