Colonel Brandon looked surreptitiously at his wife over the breakfast table. Three years on from the day they had wed had hardly changed his feelings toward her, although as he sat in secret contemplation on the matter, he swiftly acknowledged his regard for Marianne was altered in every way completely. His love for her was deeper and more passionately felt than it ever had been, he decided, and his covert glances at her over the coffee pot confirmed this in his look of sheer admiration. He watched her as she buttered a slice of toast and stirred her chocolate, before licking the fragrant cocoa from the silver spoon, her eyes closed to savour the moment.
“Marianne Brandon is a very attractive woman,” he thought, “her complexion as brilliant as when first my eyes beheld her, her smile still as sweet, and in those dark eyes, her spirit and eagerness are as discernable as ever. Even the most disenchanted soul would call her a beauty.”
She looked quite contented as she daydreamed. Yet, he was disturbed by a sense that Marianne, for all her animation, was not as happy as she ought to be. Sometimes, as he watched her, he was aware that she was lost in her own thoughts, seeming to be somewhere else far away. He occasionally detected a want of spirits, discerning the escaping breath of a sigh from her lips; a sound so slight as to be hardly there at all, only perceptible to him. Any enquiries he made, however, as to her welfare, always had the immediate effect on Marianne's composure, bringing a bright smile to her countenance once more. But there was something on her mind, he was certain. Ever since he had returned from Lyme there had been a feeling of slight distance between them but he knew she hated to talk about Eliza and Lizzy, or to hear about their life, so he had kept his silence on the subject.
“He hasn’t mentioned a word about his trip,” thought Marianne as she scraped the remains of chocolate from the bottom of her cup. “He does not wish to communicate his true interest in his other life, the one he shares with those who possess such a claim on his affections. I wish I knew how Miss Williams looks, if she is like her mother's painting. And the child; she must be almost five years old now. Does she favour her mother or her father? But I cannot ask Brandon; I must pretend that I do not care about either of them. He would think me such an unworthy person if he could read my mind and know how I despise them for taking him away from me so often. But Elinor is right; I must bear it for his sake. And I must try harder not to think about his time spent with them and keep my counsel on the subject. After the last time when I said so much that I did not really mean, when I saw the look of hurt in his eyes, I cannot be so outspoken again.”
William longed to ask his wife on what she was reflecting. Indeed, any conversation would have been welcome. He wished he could talk to her about his fears for little Lizzy's health, but the last thing he wished was to upset her with any conversation of Lyme. He tried to catch her eye but failed. His reverie was disturbed by a knock at the door. James, accompanied by the nursemaid Kitty, ran into the room to jump upon his father's knee. Marianne laughed, catching William's eye at the same moment. He held her gaze in his and the look of love that passed between them brought a blush to Marianne's cheek. She looked down to smooth the tablecloth with her slender fingers, aware of his lingering expression and feeling immense happiness that at last she had gained William's full attention.
“Your mama is in very good looks today,” pronounced the Colonel to his little son, as if expecting him to understand his every word.
“William, do not tease so,” Marianne admonished with a smile, raising her eyes to his again, to be caught once more by a look that spoke of his most earnest feelings.
“I have never been more sincere,” he added, blowing a kiss to his wife over the top of his baby's head. “I am wondering if the mistress of Delaford has any plans for today?”
“Why, yes, I have made arrangements to see my sister,” said Marianne, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin to remove the last traces of chocolate. “I am to take the carriage to Barton and then Margaret and I are to travel on to Exeter to visit the shops. I have promised her a new gown for the ball. She must look her best. I daresay Henry Lawrence has seen many a young French fancy in his time, but he is going to fall in love with a beautiful English rose. Margaret has a bloom as fine as any flower.”
“You and your schemes for matchmaking. Does Margaret know what is in store for her? Or more to the point, should I be warning my nephew of your plans? Do be careful, Marianne, it is a dangerous game you are playing.”
“Psh, dangerous, it is not. Exciting, thrilling, and stimulating are the words I would use to describe the game of love. In any case, a little flirtation is vital for our young people. How else might they find their partner in life, the soul most suited to theirs?”
“I do wonder if it is a good thing to be filling Margaret's head with these ideas. Hannah will have plans for Henry, I am sure, and getting married at his tender age is not necessarily going to be one of them.”
“When he becomes smitten with my sister, as he surely will, his mother will have to change her plans.”
“Marianne…” started the Colonel, but he noted the expression on his wife's face, as a most becoming flush spread from her slender white neck to suffuse her cheeks with spots of pink, and he knew it was useless to continue.
Her mouth was set in a firm line; she was quite determined. “I will of course have to stay overnight at the cottage. The journey is too fatiguing to be going and coming back in one day, and I am sure I shall be quite worn out enough by Margaret's shopping excursions.” Marianne knew she was being petulant, but she wanted very badly at this moment to irritate her husband and show him that she could be quite as independent as he.
William saw no fault in her behaviour. He could not bear to have her upset and see her retract from him. “Of course, my love, and two manservants to accompany you.” He reached inside his jacket. “James,” he continued, “come, I have a little errand for you. Could you give this little token to your mother?”
Marianne's attention was engaged once more, her face breaking into a beaming smile as James toddled over to present her with a tiny box, a divine confection of silk and ribbon. With trembling fingers Marianne peeled back the wrappings to reveal a small, hinged leather box. She looked to William, who nodded with encouragement as she opened it. Nestled on a silk cushion was the most exquisite heart-shaped diamond, fashioned onto a ring of gold.
“I have not forgotten to mark the occasion, my love,” said William softly. “I hope you like it.”
“Like it! I love it!” Marianne exclaimed, sweeping James into her arms and jumping to her feet to run and hug her husband, bestowing kisses on them both.
William took her hand and placed the ring on her finger. He pulled her towards him. “Will you marry me?”
“I would, kind sir,” she answered with a curtsey, “but I have to tell you that I am already married, three years this day, and to the most wonderful and generous-hearted man in the whole world!” she cried, laughing at their gaiety.
James caught his parents’ playful mood and clapped his hands in excitement, begging to be let down. He skipped around the room, whooping and shouting with delight, until the sight of the nursemaid reappearing at the door to lead him away to the nursery quieted his heightened spirits for the time being.
“I think you must get yourself ready, my dear,” William announced, reluctant to let go her hand, “or Margaret will think she has been forgotten.” He glanced at his wife with a half hope that she might change her mind and stay with him. He would not tell her about the private dinner he had arranged as a surprise or about the Bridport musicians he had booked to play for them as they ate. He would postpone his schemes. Instead, he reproached himself for not thinking to ask about her arrangements, but in truth, he had assumed she would be free to spend the day with him.
“Why, yes, I had best not be late. If I know Margaret she will be standing at the gate as I speak, in anticipation. But first…” Marianne bent her head to tenderly kiss her husband and whisper in his ear. “You will have to wait until later, very much later for your anniversary gift, my dearest one,” she smiled. Her smiles turned to laughter once more as she caught William's expression. He was blushing like a bride and quite as eager. Without a backward glance, Marianne swept out of the room and ran to her chamber to don her travelling clothes. She glimpsed her reflection in the looking glass and was quite satisfied with all she saw. Her handsome ring looked very well on her hand, but what a pity it was to have to cover the sight of such beauty with a glove!
Pausing on the stairs as she rushed down to the awaiting carriage, she looked up at the painting, which of all the works hanging in the hall, never failed to arrest her. It was of a woman, who had by some strange twist of fate a close resemblance to herself. The young lady was standing arm in arm with a man, who had a look of Brandon, only this painted version had a leaner face with a distinctly cruel mouth. At least, Marianne thought his mouth brutal in appearance, especially knowing that it belonged to Brandon's brother who had borne no love for the wealthy wife who was to save the family home from ruin. Eliza Brandon, captured so elegantly in oils, wearing a gown fashionable twenty or more years ago, was Brandon's sweetheart from his youth, yet forced against her will to marry his brother. Here depicted on her fateful wedding day, forever smiling in pink silk against a background of verdant landscape, perpetual happiness was displayed in her pretty smile. But on closer examination Marianne saw that the smile did not quite reach her eyes, and further observation suggested that her slim fingers betrayed her true feelings, as they barely rested on the arm of the bridegroom who had eventually divorced and abandoned her.
Marianne was struck once more by the uncanny likeness. “She is like my mirror image,” she thought, “and yet, Eliza looks taller, more statuesque, and I must admit, more beautiful than I could ever hope to be. Is her daughter such a vision of loveliness also, I wonder?”
Eliza's eyes seemed to gaze back at her in return as if telling her that she would only be capable of bearing a divine child. In Marianne's imagination she saw the two women, Eliza Brandon and her daughter Eliza Williams, looking down at her with the same glittering eyes, both bound to William with a hold she felt incapable of challenging or surmounting.
“But what of little Lizzy?” she asked herself about the child whose very existence caused Marianne's heart to ache. Did she favour her mother and grandmother before her? Did she have the same dark grey eyes or was there a stronger resemblance in a pair of black eyes of her own, to match those of her father, John Willoughby?