Delaford
Marianne loved Delaford Manor almost as much as she loved Christopher. One of her favorite places was the extensive gardens. Many hours’ pleasure was found walking its fragrant paths, the eye resting agreeably upon the colorful blooms and lush foliage. The gardens were hers, her husband had decreed upon their marriage, and Marianne spared no expense for their care.
It was there this fine May morning that Marianne fled in an attempt to distract herself from missing her husband. Her excursion was not solitary; Mrs. Ferrars had answered her sister’s invitation and come up from Delaford Parsonage to join in the meanderings. Marianne kept her eyes away from those things that would remind her of her Christopher, such as the stable and the house, and focused solely on the sweet scent of the roses, sweet pea, and peonies.
She allowed the fineness of the weather and company to transport her back to those halcyon days of her youth at Norland Park. She returned to that magical decade when she and Elinor passed their childhood as young ladies of property should in peace and serenity, when only lessons, dancing, and reading dreadful novels concerned her—before death stole from her first an honored uncle and then a beloved father. She and Elinor were girls again, laughing and traipsing through the flowers of their mother’s garden.
Elinor’s surprised gasp broke Marianne’s daydream. Her eyes flew to hers, and she meant to ask what had alarmed her, but Elinor’s expression held her. She was looking at something to the right, behind Marianne, and when she looked, Marianne saw a gentleman and gasped herself.
He had obviously come from the stable, his riding clothes sure evidence of that. She knew him at once, of course. Only death could remove the image of that man from her mind, even after years of bliss with her husband. Marianne was human, and she could not stop the involuntary lurch in her heart.
Time had been kind to him. In height, he had not diminished; in dress he was as he always had been—trim and striking, broad of shoulder and long of leg. In looks, he seemed open, spirited, and affectionate. As always, he was the very model of a young lady’s hero right from the pages of a favorite story.
John Willoughby remained a handsome devil.
Willoughby removed his hat, bowing slightly. “Good morning, ladies. I trust you are enjoying the day.” He said this as if he had been expected. He had not lost one iota of his charm and arrogance.
Marianne could not put two words together, so it fell to Elinor to speak, and she did so in a rather sharp manner. “Mr. Willoughby, what brings you to Delaford?”
He replaced his hat, smiling easily. “I had business at Allenham and thought I would come and pay my respects.”
The word respect brought another person to Marianne’s mind—Eliza Williams, her husband’s ward and former victim of Willoughby. She quickly pulled Elinor aside.
“Eliza is expected to join us,” she whispered. “Please go to the house this instant and keep her away.”
Elinor glanced at Willoughby. “But, Marianne—”
“The gardener is nearby. I shall be safe. Eliza must be protected. Please go.” She paused as a thought occurred to her. “And return with Joy.”
“What? Bring Joy? Why?”
“Please do as I ask.”
Indecision warred in Elinor’s face, but she bowed to her sister’s request. To Willoughby, she said in a loud voice, “You must excuse me, sir. I am needed in the house. Good day to you.” With one last warning glance at Marianne, she swiftly walked back to the manor.
“I am still not her favorite person.” Willoughby grinned as he approached closer. “You look very well, Marianne.”
That lovely, smooth, slightly teasing voice still sent shivers down Marianne’s back. Memories of the hours they spent together at Barton Cottage returned to her—the perfection of his opinions, so attuned to her own at the time, and his laughter at her observations, the feeling he displayed while reading aloud prose and poetry. How could a young, romantic, foolish girl of seventeen not fall in love with Willoughby?
But that girl was no more. Pain, anger, and anguish had crushed that child, leaving in its place a battered yet wiser soul, ready to be filled like an empty glass from a wine bottle. Fortunately for Marianne Dashwood, her vintage was Christopher Brandon.
The totality of her past history with Willoughby flashed through Marianne’s mind in an instant. Oh, Willoughby! You led me on only to abandon me, just like Eliza. How foolish I was! In my despair over you, I nearly died. Thank heaven for Christopher! He gave me the gift of love and faith, not just in others but also in myself!
A calming sensation flowed over her. She was not afraid of him. She knew herself; she was no longer anyone’s victim.
“Marianne?” Willoughby asked again, a rather smug grin never leaving his lips.
She assumed a haughty appearance. “I would answer you, sir, should you choose to call me by my name—Mrs. Brandon,” she said coolly.
Willoughby, dumbfounded, flinched as if she had struck him. “What do you mean? We have been such good friends, Mari—”
“Sir,” she said sharply, “you no longer have the right to use my Christian name. Be so good as to remember that.”
“Forgive me,” Willoughby returned, clearly taken aback. “I meant no disrespect, truly.”
“Of course not.” Marianne did not believe a word of what he said.
As she gazed at her one-time love, Marianne realized there were many things she no longer believed about John Willoughby. She had come to see there was a great difference between acting with feeling and owning those feelings. Willoughby seemingly wore his heart on his sleeve. He talked as a man filled with sentiment and passion should. The way he used his voice and body in conversation and in reciting poetry and prose had at one time been enchanting, but now seemed but playacting. For when it came to action, Willoughby was woefully inadequate.
Colonel Brandon, however, said little but did much. He was a man who not only felt deeply but also acted upon his impulses. Christopher did not fill the air with empty words. He did not need to charm the world to earn friends and favor. His deeds spoke volumes. He was the true romantic.
“How is Mrs. Smith?” she asked.
Willoughby chuckled. “My aunt is in revoltingly good health. She will be with us for many more years to come and will have many opportunities to upbraid me. I am, of course, pleased that she is well.”
Marianne was pleased, too. Willoughby’s current seat was at Combe Magna in Somerset. Allenham Court was in Devonshire and closer to Delaford, far too close for Marianne’s comfort. She certainly did not want him to inherit Mrs. Smith’s estate anytime soon.
Still, Marianne was disturbed by Willoughby’s answer. He had made a jest of his relation’s health, but she did not mistake the undertone of his desire to inherit sooner, rather than later. No, there was still very little love lost between Willoughby and Mrs. Smith. There was a selfishness, a cruelty in Willoughby she had not perceived before.
Which led to another question. Willoughby had made his peace with his demanding and honorable aunt. He had resumed his yearly visits to Allenham, but this was the man’s first foray into Dorsetshire since that ill-fated party to Whitwell, the day Christopher received the express about Eliza. Why had Willoughby returned to Delaford now? And with Christopher out of the country? Marianne did not believe in coincidences.
She decided to probe. “Is Mrs. Willoughby at Allenham?”
“No, she remains in Somerset.”
“That is a shame, as we are enjoying the most beautiful weather.”
“Mari—Mrs. Brandon, why ask about her?” Willoughby flashed his most winning smile and began to move closer, picking a rose. “This is a stilted conversation for old friends. I am very happy to see you.”
Marianne stepped back. Her suspicions confirmed, she dropped the empty civilities. “That is as may be, but I cannot return the sentiment.”
Willoughby stopped dead in his tracks. “What? Marianne!”
“Sir, recall your manners! Why are you here?”
It was plain to see that the man expected a different outcome. He gestured with his arms. “To see you! Is that a crime?”
“That remains to be seen.” Fighting her outrage, Marianne spoke as calmly as she could, relieved that the gardener was near and eager for Elinor’s return. “You presume much, sir, knowing my husband is out of the country. But understand this—I have my protectors. You shall leave Delaford.”
“What do you mean? Ah, I see it now—I see you are still angry with me over those unfortunate events in London,” Willoughby cried. “Would that I had the chance to do them over again! But you must remember that I was not at fault.”
“Not at fault!”
“Surely your sister told you all? That letter, that terrible letter, was all my wife’s doing! She, in her jealous insensibility, could not bear that I possessed even the smallest remembrance of you. The ball, where I was unfortunate to meet you under her observation, was to her character intolerable. She demanded of me that letter.
“I had no choice! My finances were in a wretched state, and I had been dismissed from my aunt’s favor. Had any other opportunity offered itself, I swear to you I would have grasped it like a drowning man. But to live, I had to give you up.” Willoughby wore his most pitiful expression. “No, Mrs. Brandon, you need no protection from me!”
Marianne did not care if he was in earnest or not. “I am glad to hear it. However, there are those under our protection who have suffered at your hands, and your presence here is a hardship to them.”
“What? Who do you mean?” His eyebrows shot up. “You speak of Brandon’s chit?”
“Willoughby! That innocent you ridicule is my husband’s ward and the mother of your child! You have no right to speak ill of her or anyone in my household!”
The gardener started to move closer, obviously alarmed at the tone of the conversation, but Marianne gestured that he stay where he was.
Meanwhile, Willoughby attempted to defend himself. “Innocent! You declare she had nothing to do with her situation. I assure you, madam, that was certainly not the case.”
Marianne grew livid. “For shame, Willoughby! You took advantage of a mere child! I believe my husband schooled you better in manners than that?”
Willoughby’s color rose. “He told you of the duel, did he? I should have known!”
“Of course, he did. There are no secrets between us.”
“Oh, yes, I am sure he told you everything! Tell me, were you impressed with his skill with a blade? Did that make you see him in a more favorable light? For there was a time when you thought as little of him as did I.”
Willoughby is jealous of Christopher! That fact reassured her; she knew how to revenge herself upon him. “Thank you for reminding me of my foolish youth. As you see, I have learned better. As for matters of my heart, they are none of your concern. But I will say this—I am ashamed of the girl you knew, and I thank our Lord every day that Colonel Brandon took pity on me and gave me an undeserved chance to truly know him. I am a better woman for loving him.”
Willoughby blanched, and for a moment, Marianne thought he was going to be ill. Just then they were joined by Elinor, who held a small bundle in her arms. Right behind her was an irate, cudgel-bearing Mr. McIntosh.
With a thankful smile, Marianne took her daughter Joy from Elinor. “Have you met Miss Joy Brandon, Willoughby?” She stroked the child lovingly about the head, cooing at her for a moment before turning her disdainful eyes to her former suitor. “Look, my love. This is Mr. Willoughby. Mark him well. He is just the sort of man with whom your dear papa and mama do not want you to associate.” She smiled at the mortified and angry gentleman, and moved Joy so he could better see her. “Do you not think she has the look of Colonel Brandon about her, sir?”
“I see I have wasted my time here,” growled a humiliated Willoughby. “I had thought, I had hoped… but it is no use. Is it possible I might see my child before I leave?”
“Why? You have never requested it before.”
“She is mine, as you say.”
Marianne shook her head. “Only if you formally acknowledge her as your daughter, sir.”
“You know I cannot do that. Mrs. Willoughby would never allow—” Willoughby bit his lip. “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time, Mrs. Brandon, Mrs. Ferrars. I meant no harm, no infamy, I assure you.”
“Why did you come, Willoughby?”
Gone from Willoughby’s face was the façade of bonhomie. Instead, it was replaced by longing and regret. “To see you, to renew our acquaintance. I have always regretted you, you know. Ask your sister.”
Marianne sighed sadly. “Oh, Willoughby, you only came because Brandon was not here. You are such a coward. Truly, I do not wish you ill. Look to your own marriage for happiness; you shall find none here.
“Good-bye, Willoughby. I trust we shall not meet again.” With that, she turned and walked towards the house with Joy in her arms and Elinor by her side.
Mr. McIntosh stepped closer to the visitor, his club twisting in his large and rough hands. The gardener joined him, brandishing his trowel. Neither looked the least friendly.
A nervous Willoughby took a reflexive step back. “Here now, none of that.”
McIntosh’s eyebrows twitched. “My mistress bade ye leave, sir. We’re makin’ sure ye do.”
“No need for that,” he said, eyeing the club. “I am leaving directly.”
The steward pointed towards the stable with the cudgel. “You’ll find your horse right where ye left ’im. But a wee bit of a word first. My master, Colonel Brandon, charged me to watch out for th’ missus, an’ that’s my sworn duty, afore God. I’ve marked ye, sir, an’ I mean to let th’ whole of Delaford know of ye. You’re not welcome here, and ye best remember that. Be on your way an’ don’t come back.”
London
Mrs. Rebecca Buford was walking from the parlor to the music room when she heard a cry come from the library. Rebecca did not hesitate to open the door to see to the matter. She discovered Caroline, staring at a letter in obvious distress.
“What on earth is the matter?”
Caroline looked up wide-eyed at her sister-in-law. For a moment, she struggled with the thought of fleeing to her room without a word. Instead, she did the bravest thing she had yet done in her young life—she handed the letter to Rebecca.
May ——, 1815
Buford House, London
Caroline,
Every evening I return to this small boardinghouse outside of Brussels, exhausted from my labors for the king. The food and fellowship are tolerable, but they cannot replace what I desire most in this world. Every day I look and wait, and yet no word comes.
Why do you not write? Since you went away, I have heard nothing from you.
If you are unwell, tell me so at once. Do not withhold word to protect me—my imagination is so great that nothing save your being in dire straits can be any worse. Let me share your burden.
Have I hurt you in any way? Please tell me. How else may I make amends? Please, just a few lines would salve my soul.
Your faithful husband,
JB
“I do not understand!” cried Rebecca. “This cannot be! You write constantly!” She saw that her sister’s distress had increased. Rebecca instantly realized that she must do what she could to help Caroline, lest the babe be endangered. She tossed the offending letter upon the table and pulled a chair near Caroline to take her hands in hers. “There has been some sort of misunderstanding.”
“He… he thinks I have forgotten him!” Caroline cried. “He feels so betrayed! What shall I do? What has happened to my letters?” She grew even more agitated. “Someone is stealing them! I know it! Who would do such a monstrous thing?”
“No one is stealing them.” Rebecca strove to soothe her sister. “There has been a mistake, that is all.” She picked up the letter again.
“Perhaps the French are sinking our ships on the way to Antwerp!”
“I do not think so. It would have been in the papers—did you say Antwerp?”
“Yes, that is where he is.”
Rebecca indicated the letter. “But this is from Brussels.”
“Brussels? No, he is in Antwerp. He must be!”
“My dear, look!” Rebecca pointed to a line in the letter. “And here he says that his lodgings are outside of Brussels.”
“I have been sending my letters to the wrong place!” Caroline wailed. “Oh, what have I done!?”
“Caroline! There is no time for that. The army has failed to forward the post. You must write to him as quickly as may be! The letter must leave this half hour!”
“Yes, yes, you are right.” Caroline began focusing on the problem at hand. “But, Rebecca, can one send an express to Brussels?”
“We can try, my dear.”
Delaford
Marianne sought the solitude of a long walk through the Delaford woods. She had much upon which to reflect, given the events of the day before.
Her confrontation with Willoughby had finally closed the book on that chapter of her life. She had not known how she would respond to him, had she ever come across him, and her forcefulness took her by surprise. She blushed to think how she could ever compare that man to her darling Christopher. At that moment, she doubted they were even of the same species.
John Willoughby had admired her but just for her exterior—her looks, her voice, her open manners. Christopher saw more; he loved her for who she was. He adored her body, mind, and soul. He shared everything with her, everything he loved and cared for. He trusted her opinions and sought them out.
Marianne’s improvements were not the result of a project taken on by the colonel to satisfy his vanity. By sharing his love of books and learning, her husband unintentionally ignited a passion for learning in his wife. She grew in talents and confidence, so much that, when he was called away to war, Christopher placed her in charge of Delaford Manor. He placed his unwavering trust in her abilities. If she had not already loved him, she would have fallen hard at that point.
Marianne berated herself. It had taken so long for her to realize her feelings. After her recovery, Christopher began his two-year courtship. By the time he did propose, his attentions were obvious to everyone, including his intended. She remembered wondering what took him so long to come to the point, because by that time, she had resolved to accept her great friend, and she had every expectation of marital felicity. However, when she did not feel the burning passion she had felt for Willoughby, she thought she did not love him.
Living with Christopher taught her there was more than one kind of passion, not just for the act of love but also for thinking well of another—caring about another’s comfort before one’s own and knowing that your partner in life considered your needs first as well. Yet it was not until Joy was in this world that brave, wise Marianne could admit to herself what Elinor saw on her wedding day: She was violently in love with Christopher Brandon. There were three days forever etched in Marianne’s consciousness—her wedding night, the day of Joy’s birth, and the afternoon she told her husband of her feelings for him.
Since embracing her love of her husband, she feared that she could not live without him. The last few months had proved otherwise. A thought that had been in the back of her mind flooded her awareness: She might have to do so for the rest of her life. A searing pain coursed through Marianne’s heart, but there was no panic in her mind. Should the unthinkable happen, she would grieve for her beloved for the remainder of her days, but she would not fall down and die. There was too much to live for: Joy and Delaford. They depended upon her, and she would have to be strong for them.
John Willoughby had dallied with a mere girl. Colonel Christopher Brandon had left Delaford Manor to the administration of a woman, full-grown and tested. Her soft heart might break, but her steel backbone could bear any burden.
With this resolve, the mistress of Delaford returned home to her duties.
Brussels
Colonel Brandon was at his desk concentrating on paperwork when he noticed Major Denny leaving Wellington’s office. “Is that the schedule for the southern patrols, Denny?” he asked.
Denny assured him that it was and handed over the paper for Brandon’s perusal. A quick glance told him everything.
“This is it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Denny in an emotionless voice.
“And the duke approved this?” Brandon looked at the younger man.
Denny looked over his colonel’s head at the wall behind him. “Yes, sir.”
Brandon thought for a moment before rising to his feet. “Wait right here.”
He strode to Wellington’s door, and with only the briefest of knocks, he entered the commander-in-chief’s domain. He found the duke in consultation with the Quartermaster General, Colonel Sir William de Lancey, who was acting chief of staff.
“Sir,” Brandon began, “pray, forgive the intrusion, but I must speak to you.”
Colonel de Lancey’s eyebrows rose, but Wellington’s imperial visage remained impassive. “Yes, Brandon, what is it?”
He closed the door behind him. “I hold here the schedule for the southern patrols—”
“His lordship has already dealt with that, Brandon,” interrupted the chief of staff, but the duke cut him off.
“You have some question about this?”
“Sir, the number of men assigned to this duty is completely inadequate for the task. You must increase the patrols.”
Wellington pursed his lips. “I disagree. Bonaparte will do nothing for at least six weeks, if not longer. We do not need to waste men touring the Belgium frontier.”
“Sir,” said Brandon sharply, “I beg you to reconsider. Has Bonaparte ever done the expected? We know troops are massing in the north. The earlier he strikes the better for him. It would be well to err on the side of caution.”
“Colonel, are you implying that I am wrong?” asked Wellington dangerously.
Brandon swallowed. “I believe you are acting under incomplete intelligence, your lordship.” Brandon knew he was risking his career. He did not want to be sent to Belgium, but now that he was here, he would do everything in his power to assure the success of their mission, including taking the risk of being sent home in disgrace. His sense of professionalism would allow nothing less.
Wellington gazed at the colonel down his long nose—quite a feat, as the Iron Duke was still sitting. “Double the patrols. Was there anything else, Colonel?”
Brandon came to an even more rigid attention. “No, sir,” and fired off his salute.
“Return to your duties, Brandon,” ordered the duke as he turned again to a bewildered de Lancey.
A minute later Brandon handed the schedule back to Denny. “Double the patrols, as per orders I have just received from his lordship.”
Denny looked upon his senior officer with near awe before responding. “Yes, sir—thank you, sir.” He hurried out of the office.
Brandon looked about the office to see Major General Sir Hussey Vivian, commander of the 6th Cavalry Brigade, looking at him. One hand was injured and in a sling.
“Not bad, Brandon. I wonder if you have anything on the old man.”
“No, sir,” replied the colonel in embarrassment.
“Do not be so modest. It is not just any man who can get the Iron Duke to change his mind. I congratulate you.”
Brandon nodded at the compliment and returned to his work. He was still uneasy. He felt they had far too many men at Hal, but he was not willing to beard the lion in his own den twice in one day.
London
“Do not be silly, Caroline,” Rebecca said. “Do not change your plans. Of course, you should have your friends visit. You cannot disappoint them.”
“I will be poor company, I am afraid,” Caroline replied, still distressed over the letter fiasco.
Rebecca took her sister’s hand. “Sir John will receive his letter in a few days. All will be well. He would want you to be happy—especially at this time.”
Caroline considered as she caressed the very slight bulge in her midsection. She did want to see Anne de Bourgh, as well as renew her acquaintance with Marianne Brandon.
“Oh, very well.”
Delaford
Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret had come up from Barton for an overnight visit, and Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars had joined Marianne in attending them. The ladies sat in the parlor, speaking of many subjects, save one—the impending war. Their conversation was broken by delivery of the mail. One letter caught Marianne’s eye, and she begged leave to open it.
“It is from Lady Buford,” she said, “and she invites me to a week’s stay in London at her relations.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” cried her mother. “Such diversions to be found! Marianne, you should go before Town grows too warm.”
Marianne was tempted, not only by the diversions London offered but also by the company. She wanted to know Caroline Buford better. However, she had responsibilities. “Nothing could be more delightful, but I should not leave Joy.”
“Nonsense, Marianne,” said Mr. Ferrars. “We should be happy to have our niece stay at the parsonage.”
“Indeed, Sister,” confirmed Elinor. “Enjoy yourself in Town.”
Marianne smiled. “Thank you. I believe I shall!”