"Colonel Brandon...was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others." (Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 12)

Colonel Brandon opened the window sash and marvelled at the fine weather, and couldn't help but smile to himself. He knew it would be a failed day, that his true wish would not really come true-that the beautiful view of the Whitwell property, the careful attention he paid to the planning of the picnic, and his own company, together, would yet prove inadequate to tempt Marianne Dashwood away from the gaze of John Willoughby long enough to see that that his attentions, though constant and excessive, were not genuine. Brandon had been around enough young men (and had been young enough himself, once) to recognize the signs of superficial attachment; Willoughby wanted Marianne, that was obvious, but he didn't want her for very long. He would stop wanting her the moment he had claimed her. Brandon might not have youth, he might not have charm, but he had the advantage of patience, and a willingness to play the long game. He also had the advantage of seeing other virtues in her besides beauty and vigor, which alter with time and maturity. Nevertheless, he knew that Marianne's own youth and inexperience made it difficult for her to understand these things.

Despair of her love he might, but still-it was a beautiful day, and he would spend it all in her presence. That would have to be enough to satisfy him for today.

As he washed himself with cold water at the basin, he looked down at his chest at the great scar, so close to his heart, from a mostly superficial wound he had sustained in India almost fifteen years ago. How often in the past had he wished the assailant's aim had been better, as his own heartbreaks had been so much more painful for him to bear than the mere physical attack he had endured then. First his rift from Eliza-a youthful passion, to be sure, no less dramatic and fanciful than the one engaged in by Willoughby and Marianne, but much more noble, on his part, for he had intended to marry her and keep her for his wife for all time. Losing her to his brother had been nothing compared with losing her to the evils of inconstancy and divorce, and finally consumption-and worse, he knew that had he been in England and not in India, he could perhaps have had some hand in aiding her.

Then, more recently, his absolute devastation at losing Eliza's daughter, the young woman whom he loved as if she were his own daughter. Young Eliza's disappearance had almost driven him to the point of taking his own life, truth be told. When he had searched and searched to no avail, he had spent many nights alone in such close collaboration with a bottle of scotch that he didn't remember his own actions the next morning, once finding himself curled up on the rug in his library, the unloaded pistol clutched in his hand evidence that he had probably thought to end his suffering in his drunken stupor. When he had first been invited to Barton to make up a member of Sir John's party, it was as a friendly act of service on that loyal man's part. His old friend had written him, "Please come and join us and our lovely new neighbors here at Barton-it would do you good to have some distraction from your present state, and I should very much like to go shooting, as the pheasants seem to have multiplied beyond my capacity to handle them." It was a brotherly way of saying that he was worried, and Brandon obliged him, knowing, in the end, that his own ruination or death would bring John down low.

From the moment he entered the parlor where Marianne Dashwood played the pianoforte so beautifully, however, he was forced to reflect upon the ease with which man's problems can multiply, and his interests can diversify. Please note, reader, it was not Marianne's beauty which first enthralled him. It was also not love at first sight, he knew, because there is no such thing. But first impressions mean a great deal, and for Christopher Brandon it was the impression of the way Marianne's hands moved across the keys, of the subtlety with which she achieved the correct dynamics of the piece which she was playing, and of the expression on her face while she played-as if she were aware, somehow, of another world in which verbal language and convention did not matter, and only the melody and harmony existed. Had Marianne been a man, she would have been lauded as one of the great players of her time-but as it stood, she had probably learned to play so that she could become a finished young lady, taught by people who had never appreciated the finer points of playing, only the accuracy of the notes. As soon as he saw her bite her bottom lip as she navigated her way through the challenging coda, he knew that regardless of his anguish at losing his adopted daughter, he would be a man torn in two, hopeless in his search for Eliza, and equally hopeless to resist the bewitching power of Miss Marianne's hands, eyes, and voice.

But alas, the brash and novel charm of Willoughby had seized Marianne's heart and held it hostage. Another bullet to the heart, deep but sustainable. If there was a man anywhere in England who could withstand the pain of loss, it was Brandon. He only wished that the younger man-who showed very little interest in music, but who at least shared Marianne's enjoyment of some of the more modern poets-would be able to appreciate the treasure he possessed.

Dressing in a fresh shirt and breeches, he tied his cravat in his usual way and donned his flannel waistcoat and greatcoat, then headed out, more of a spring in his step than he had experienced since before Eliza's disappearance. He made his way down to Sir John's study, rapping his knuckles in their old signal before receiving an invitation to enter. His friend was sitting at his desk, attending to business in the remaining time before the party was to assemble in the dining room for breakfast.

"Well, well, Brandon, you look better than I've seen you this whole visit," noted the fellow soldier. "I take it your young favorite Miss Marianne will be joining us on our excursion to Whitwell?"

Brandon reddened. "You have to stop that, John. Each time you make a provocative comment on that note, Marianne Dashwood looks as if she will be ill."

"Nonsense-you unmarried people need help sometimes. She will get her head on straight and see you for the excellent choice you are one day soon, I'm sure, and help you get that bad business out of your head, at last."

Brandon just shook his head. John Middleton had four children, but hadn't had much of a hand in raising them-his wife and their tutors spending a great deal of time making sure that their every need was met- and he didn't think that John had any concept of the grief and horror that constantly lurked in Brandon's heart at the thought of what could have befallen his foster daughter. She was a child, and she was lost somewhere in pain and disgrace, and he was powerless to go to her. And yet, he couldn't deny the palliative effect Miss Marianne's presence might have on him, if she would only look his way with anything other than indifference.

The two men sat in amiable silence for a while, the Colonel glancing at one of Sir John's broadsheets, the peer of the realm giving a cursory glance to some documents concerning his property's entailment. Finally, John suggested that they walk down to breakfast, and they emerged from the study and into the convivial atmosphere of the dining room.

Immediately Brandon's eyes alighted on Marianne. She was wearing a green frock, the same one she had been wearing when she first appeared in his sight, the neckline newly embellished with smocking. A fine yellow bonnet and gloves completed the ensemble. Her curls established themselves strikingly in their positions as framers of her lovely heart-shaped face, and it was possible, with the bright colours and contrasts of her attire, not to focus entirely on the aspects of her body that had of late been haunting his few happy dreams-the gentle curves of her bosom emergent from the neckline of her gown, the light in her eyes that glimmered when anyone said anything witty, and the full bottom lip that seemed perfectly soft and kissable. Not that any of this would matter for Brandon. All of these things-the smiling lips and eyes, as well as the curvature of her anatomy, were pointedly aimed at her nearest companion-the cad dressed in full-on dandy style, who didn't even make an attempt to hide the way he was staring at the very parts of her that Brandon tried so hard to be gentlemanly about.

In her good humour, she actually looked up at him as he and Sir John entered the room. "Good morning, Sir John, Colonel Brandon. You both look well."

"Ha!" Sir John barked. "I'm feeling as old as Methuselah, but this young rosebud of a girl says I look well. Brandon is looking remarkably fine this morning, though."

Brandon studiously attempted to appear as if he could not hear Sir John's banter, and instead listened very hard to a conversation between Elinor and her mother, who were standing nearby.

It was between the two of them that he was seated at breakfast, and it was predominantly with Elinor that he conversed as they dined. Elinor was a true kindred spirit, he had come to realize early on in their acquaintance. She was nearer him in age than her sister, unattached, and sensible in many ways- all facts that, he had tried to convince himself, would make her an excellent wife in Marianne's stead. But he was so well-attuned to the feelings of others that he knew instinctively she did not find him attractive, and he would never consent to marrying one woman when he clearly felt more strongly for her sister. His own past experience with the elder Eliza had taught him of the cruelty and danger of this path. At any rate, it was wonderful to have her alliance, and he knew he would always cherish it, platonic though it was on both sides.

"You are well, I take it, Colonel?" she began as toast and jam were passed around.

"Quite. I believe all the preparations for today's excursion are in completion. Your mother is still feeling poorly?"

"I'm sure she will rally. I think she prefers smaller parties, anyway, on the whole."

"I understand her position. I do like large parties when all members are so agreeable, and personal friends to me-" here, he glanced (he hoped imperceptibly) at Willoughby, not at all either agreeable or a friend, to be truthful, but what could he do? "But as a rule, I prefer quality to quantity, with regard to group activities."

"As do I."

"Your sister seems to enjoy large parties, however, so that is something." Here he almost kicked himself, for he knew he brought up Marianne-little questions about her, little observations about her character or her habits-so often that Elinor could be in no doubt of his budding affection for her.

"I think you would find," Elinor replied, "that Marianne's character is more closely aligned with your own than either of you would believe, had you more time and opportunity to make such observations. She too, for instance, prefers the honesty and openness of genuine friendship to the flash and pomp of large social interactions. She abhors style without substance, she tells me again and again." This time, both of their gazes fell on Willoughby, the pinnacle of substanceless style, and the Colonel wondered if Elinor's words were meant to give him hope. Instead, he only felt saddened that Miss Marianne was so deceived in her choice of love, and desirous that the outcome of their affection would not end in her heartbreak.

At once, the private conversation between Marianne and Willoughby erupted into loud laughter, and Brandon saw Marianne's head thrown back in a hearty laugh. Willoughby sheepishly laughed as well, looking around him to see that the rest of the party was alarmed by the result of their inside joke becoming a public affair. Brandon's eyes were on Marianne, the unguarded happiness she displayed in her mirth, the grip of her hands on the table's edge as she lost herself to emotion, the way the tiny white points of her teeth emerged from behind her perfect lips in honest joy, and the ruddiness that the vigor of her laughter brought to her cheeks. He knew that, with all the unresolved misery in his own life, he would never be able to bring forth such a beautiful sound from this woman, whose appetite for entertainment had lately been shaped by such a natural-born wit as Willoughby. She was lost to him-and he had to concede the victory to his rival. Meeting the man's gaze across the table, he smiled and nodded his head. Inwardly, his heart thudded in acknowledgment of defeat.

As Marianne began to explain Willoughby's joke to the perplexed crowd, the footman entered with the morning's letters. Sir John immediately looked up at the Colonel, as the top letter in the stack was addressed to him. Silently passing it across the table, Sir John's characteristic joviality dimmed a bit as he watched his friend's face.

Brandon felt himself become faint with dread as he beheld the name and London address, and wasted no time or pleasantries in excusing himself from the table, half a helping of kipper unfinished on his plate, as he swiftly retired to the privacy of John's study to rip the envelope open and read the letter in full.

"Dear Colonel Brandon" (for so Eliza respectfully addressed him despite their familiarity as nearly father and daughter),

"I have heard that you have been searching for me for some time. Please ease your mind. I thought you would be angry with me, so I didn't write, but I was stupid, because I did not think you would be worried about my safety. I am as safe as can be at present-but I think I need your help. Please find me at - Street at the house of Mrs. Penelope Glasswell, as soon as possible. I have made a grave mistake, but I must ask for your forgiveness and help, because I do not believe I have anyone else.

Yours faithfully,

Eliza

His first thought upon seeing that she was alive and capable of writing was one of complete relief. As he read further, however, he understood that something was very wrong, something she couldn't put in a letter, or at least couldn't articulate gracefully in her youthful manner of writing. He knew without doubt what had befallen her. His head swam with visions of his helpless girl seduced and made pregnant-his girl of sixteen! And he, who had known the agonies her mother had experienced when in the same situation, had allowed it to happen-had sent her to Bath to be with such a careless family as to allow a girl of sixteen to find herself in such a position! He found himself leaning against the nearest bookshelf and sliding to the floor, his breathing quickening to a panicked fervor, his eyes blinking wildly in horror, guilt, and rage. "Oh, God, no," he softly repeated to himself, his face in his hands as he breathed faster, heart beating painfully.

He was suddenly back in India, backed against the outside wall of a beautifully-decorated mosque, his hands pressing into the fresh bullet wound on his chest. At twenty, he was not brave or strong, just angry and frightened, and he screamed himself hoarse when the shock of the wound wore off enough for him to realize what had happened to him. The skirmish between the native officials, who had taken refuge in the mosque, and the gang of angry locals, who were frustrated by a policy that the officials were enacting, had necessitated the involvement of Brandon's regiment, and he-fresh from England and still sick to his stomach daily from the change in climate and diet-was just rash enough to push his way to the front lines and attempt to defray the mob's hostility by brandishing his new musket. He was rewarded with the crack of a gunshot and a searing pain, almost right away, and fell back. It had been Sir John, another new recruit to the Company, who had seen him, recognized his injury for a mere flesh wound, and said, "Get up, damn you, and do something about it, or die already." That had been the first day Brandon had killed a man, the very one who had pierced his skin with a bullet. It had been self-defence, and it had been, he had told himself again and again, in service to the people of the village for whom he was sent to establish order-not that he didn't still feel pangs of remorse for the lives he hadn't been able to spare there. But the lesson Sir John had taught him about the options life leaves you when you are down-that lesson was just as useful today as it had been fifteen years ago.

He picked himself off the floor. He walked over to Sir John's small bar and helped himself to a rather large snifter of brandy, which he downed in almost a single gulp to calm his breathing. And he walked out of the study and back towards the dining room, speaking to the footman on his way to make immediate preparations for his departure, determined to either do something about the fresh wound to his heart, or die trying.

"No bad news, Colonel, I hope," Mrs. Jennings pried when he re-entered the dining room, seeing, no doubt, a telling look on his face.

"None at all, ma'am, I thank you."

"Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse." This a reference to his sister living abroad, whose last childbirth had left her the worse for wear, but who seemed lately to be on the mend.

"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business."

"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it."

"My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying." Praise Lady Middleton, who was as sensible as her mother was histrionic.

"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" This pleasant conversation made Brandon begin to see red again, and he intentionally calmed his breath.

"No, indeed, it is not."

"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well."

"Whom do you mean, ma'am?" he asked her, hoping his voice didn't betray his rage.

"Oh! you know who I mean."

"I am particularly sorry, ma'am, that I should receive this letter to-day, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town." He felt it prudent to ignore Mrs. Jennings completely upon her last comments, and spoke directly to her daughter.

"In town!" Mrs. Jennings exclaimed. "What can you have to do in town at this time of year?"

"My own loss is great in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."

"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon, will it not be sufficient?" He looked at Marianne as she asked this, seeing the hope dashed in her eyes at being denied the opportunity to go on his planned outing, and he thought to himself in amazement how capable the human consciousness is of sustaining and perceiving new, fresh forms of torture, a hot, searing knife slicing through the still-raw wreck that was his pain-drenched soul when he beheld Marianne's disappointment at his hands. He shook his head.

"We must go," said Sir John. "It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till to-morrow, Brandon, that is all."

"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!"

"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."

"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to defer your journey till our return." He said this in a snide tone, though it was so subtle that Brandon suspected he was the only one at table who noticed it.

"I cannot afford to lose one hour," he pointedly replied, willing Willoughby to just-just fuck off, already. He then saw Willoughby smile secretly and whisper something to Marianne, saw the two of them glance in his direction and share a soft but mocking laugh. To hell with both of them.

"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."

Colonel Brandon looked beseechingly at John, willing his friend to understand-this was from Eliza. This was not something he wanted to argue about in public. And this was something that, as a friend, he ought not to take lightly.

Sir John's eyes revealed no understanding. "Well then, when will you come back again?" His lady wife murmured something about the inconvenience of delaying the trip to Whitewell and the hope that he would return soon.

"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all."

"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him."

"Aye, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may find out what his business is."

"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of."

The footman came in to say that the Colonel's horse was ready, and Brandon made to leave at once.

"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" Sir John asked.

"No - Only to Honiton. I shall then go post."

"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind."

"I assure you it is not in my power." Once again, he gave John a pleading look, begging him not to push the issue. Then he made to go, but turned around once more to address the only friend in the room who had not either pried or mocked, Elinor.

"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?"

"I am afraid, none at all."

"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do." He shook her hand and noted her solicitous look, regretting that he could not make her a confidant, as he felt certain that she would understand. Then he looked at his cold-hearted beloved-he thought with a jolt how he should by rights hate her for her treatment of him, but knew with equal strength how incapable he was of feeling animosity towards someone so darling, so tender-hearted, so impetuous. Heart as heavy as any man's had ever been, he bowed in her direction, not meeting her eyes. Then he strode out of the room, Sir John suddenly on his heels, while Mrs. Jennings shouted out one last attempt at prying open the secret of his heart. As soon as they were outside of earshot of Mrs. Jennings and company, Sir John began: "God, Brandon, I'm sorry-I don't mean to pry, but the assembled party-"

Brandon wheeled around and thrust a finger in Sir John's face. "I don't give a fuck about the assembled party, John. I have a letter from Eliza. You know as well as I do how important it is that I go to her immediately."

"Eliza!" John expressed shock. "She has written to you herself?"

"Yes," Brandon retorted, ire and terror playing out equally on his features. "And she is in a bad way. I cannot delay a moment."

"God!" John exclaimed. "Is she-"

"I can only imagine that she must be, or she would not have removed herself to the anonymity of a boarding house, where she waits for me. She's so frightened, John." Brandon felt a sob welling up in his chest. "I thank God I wasn't born a woman, for all the agony they endure at our hands. Each of us has a part to play in some woman's misfortune, and she can do nothing but sit and wait for her personal torture to play out."

"But surely, she herself must have been complicit in her… situation! You said yourself that the parents of her friend in Bath allowed the girls to run around the city like wanton harpies! She is to blame as well as he, whoever he is!"

"She's sixteen, you goddamned idiot!" Brandon roared, his hands on the reins, his foot in the stirrup, and he hefted himself up onto the back of Othello, his best stallion. "She's not old enough to make such a decision! Any grown man who sees a sixteen-year-old girl as a target for his advances is...is…"

"Much worse than a man who sees a seventeen-year-old as a 'target for his advances,'" John snapped. Colonel Brandon stopped cold.

"Do you dare insinuate that what has passed, or not passed, between myself and Marianne Dashwood is anything close to this? My intentions to her-"

"My point is that what you are doing is not worth getting yourself killed over. I know what you have planned. You intend to track this wastrel down and fight him. You aren't young anymore. Neither of us are. You have Eliza back. If you die, over a quarrel with a man who likely hasn't overstepped any laws, what will Eliza do then? Who will care for her?"

Brandon hung his head at the logic of his friend's words, and the injustice of the situation John brought to light, but his passion still burned in him. "I have to try to avenge her, John. She was mine to protect. She is. She is mine to protect, and I intend to prove to her, and to her seducer, that…" he trailed off.

"Say no more. We served together. I above all people should be able to understand." Sir John lowered his gaze as he spoke these words softly. "Please, if you need to call upon me…"

"You would serve as my second? If I can track him down and he agrees to a duel?"

"Much as it pains me to allow it… you have had my back these many years. I would be remiss as a friend if I failed to have yours when you need it most."

"Then I will write to you as soon as I know something."

"Fine. Fine." A pause. "You'd best go before Mrs. Jennings sees you still here."

"Yes, thank you. And John?"

"Yes, Chris?"

"Please look out for her. For all of them."

"But for her especially?"

Brandon didn't need to answer. Their meaning was unspoken but clear to both as Brandon rode away, towards Honiton. The "them" to whom he referred was the Dashwoods in general, and the specific "her" was the woman currently engaged in planning a secret illicit rendezvous with Willoughby to Allenham.

Note to readers: If you want a little music here to put you in my frame of mind for this chapter, try "Ship to Wreck," by Florence and the Machine.