Chapter 10: "Ghost Man on Third," by Taking Back Sunday

Three nights of unrivaled joy and passion had witnessed the near-complete transformation of Christopher Brandon from a straight-laced, rational gentleman to a much baser creature, lost in a haze of physical sensation and reigned by the twinned chaotic powers of love and desire. But the cares of the world soon reasserted themselves into his head, if not his heart, and reminded him of his position and its attendant obligations, and the various aspects of his life that couldn't be ignored forever.

The next day followed much like that one: breakfast, long hours in a carriage, conversation, thinly veiled longing. The morning hours found Marianne reading in German to her husband and trying to translate what she'd read into English, with limited success; in the afternoon, though, they broke from this activity when it dawned on him: "How is your French?"

She answered him with a poorly-pronounced phrase in a schoolgirl dialect, and he cringed. "So, not very good," she admitted to him.

Suddenly, a familiar sense of unease began to well up inside of him. He shoved it down, looking into the beautiful eyes of the woman next to him. "It's alright. We'll practice."

They worked together for a while, conversing as they normally would but attempting to do so in French, Marianne stumbling frequently and her husband even more frequently stopping her to correct her pronunciation or her articulation. "I found German much easier, and I must admit, I neglected my French lessons when I was a girl-my head was always in the clouds," she said in English after a time. "Will I need much French when we reach your sister's house? They all speak perfectly good English, don't they?"

"Er-" Brandon considered. The last time he'd visited La Maison Tournesol, his brother-in-law's sweeping estate in Avignon, he hadn't spoken a word of English the entire time. Constance and Pierre had done their best to unsettle him by using his second language instead of his first, but unluckily for them, his French was nearly flawless and he'd kept up with them at every turn. It simply hadn't occurred to him that they might do the same thing this time, and that Marianne would be caught in the crossfire. "Perhaps we'd better practice. I'm not certain whether or not my brother-in-law is quite as comfortable with English as you are with French, so it's best to be safe, isn't it?"

They worked for the rest of the afternoon, Marianne pulling a book from a stack under the carriage bench and trying to translate it from English and into French with Brandon's help. More than once she became frustrated enough to consider tossing the book out the window, until Brandon soothed her and they took a respite.

That night when they reached the inn at Dover, they settled in for another large, hearty meal, both of them mentally exhausted but filled with the pent-up energy of hours in the carriage. They made love feverishly, Brandon whispering to her in English and French and German and Latin and Greek and even a little Arabic and Hindi, telling her in a hundred ways that he loved her, that he adored every inch of her body and every nuance of her heart. Marianne took it all in, trying to commit his words to memory as she had the pressure of his thighs next to her own, the tickle of his chest hair against her stomach, and the taste of the wine on his tongue.

Afterwards, Brandon dreamed of the past.

In his dream, he was a boy again, a boy of eighteen-even younger than Marianne. He felt once again the awkwardness of being tall and gangly, unsure of how to move in the world around him so as to attract appropriate attention, or to garner respect. It was past midnight, and he sat cross-legged in the observatory, the stars and planets visible from his father's telescope the last things on his mind as he listened to the girl's tear-filled speech.

"Chris-I simply can't. I'm too frightened. It wouldn't be proper-it wouldn't be right."

"Of course it-Eliza, have you heard a word I've said? What they're doing-they're the ones who aren't proper. They're the ones who are wrong."

"So what-we steal their money tonight? We steal their carriage at dawn? We run away? How would stealing make it better? Two wrongs don't make one right, Chris."

"But they shouldn't be able to do this in the first place. You shouldn't be a pawn they can move around with no thought to what you want. Don't you want-that is, I thought you wanted…"

"You, Chris-of course I do." Her ice-blue eyes softened with love as she looked up at him. He reached out for her then, his hands, big and awkward like the rest of him, clutching her to him so he could kiss her, running up and down her sides, thumbs just barely brushing the undersides of her breasts-it was all he dared do.

"You see? You see how we belong together?" he'd asked as he broke away. "You're the only girl I'll ever love."

"Chris-it just can't be. Can you see that? They've won." The resigned tone in her voice was even more heartbreaking than the fact that he was being forced apart from her.

"I'll keep fighting, Eliza. I'll never stop fighting for us."

"Oh, Chris." She knelt in front of him closer, and took his face in her small, delicate hands. "Just go away. Forget me. You'll find someone...someone so much more…"

"Never," he growled, angrily shoving her hands away and getting to his feet, facing the window. "Until death, Eliza. Until death do us part. In my heart, we are married, and that's the promise I make to my wife. Without you, I'll-I'll die."

"No, Chris, you mustn't say that," she cried out, scrambling to her feet and rushing to throw her arms around him from behind. She was so small, her head only came to his shoulder blades, and her arms landed around his lower abdomen-he pried them off, and stormed to the other side of the room.

They were silent for a long time, and Chris finally felt the tears begin to fall, the weight of his helplessness hitting him like a punch. He sobbed, sank to his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Soon Eliza was behind him again, touching his shoulders, his neck, and then kneeling in front of him and wrapping her arms around him and kissing him again through his tears. "I'm so sorry," he said, over and over, into her hair, her forehead, her mouth, the hollow of her throat.

Suddenly, Eliza's eyes lit up a fraction, though her face was no less distraught. "I know how we can take something away from them," she whispered.

He shook his head, not understanding.

"We can do...we can do that thing that married people do," she said, colouring as she said it. "You and me. Right here. Then we'll always know. We'll always know that it was us, together, first, before Charlie had me. Maybe...maybe we can even make a baby together."

Brandon felt himself turning redder than a beet at this. "Eliza," he whispered. "We can't. It's not...Christian."

"Chris, you said yourself-to you and me, it's like we're married already. I promised to love you and honour you forever, under the trees, in the presence of God. You promised the same."

"But-but I-" he sputtered. His heart was broken, and his mind was not able to think things through clearly-he knew he ought to take a beat and think about this-but God, he wanted to do the thing she asked for; his body began to betray a sign of his desire, and he jerked his hips away from her so she wouldn't notice. She noticed anyway, and reached a determined arm around his waist to pull him towards her again.

"It's our last chance to make something that lasts, Chris. Next week-next week I'll have to go and become his wife. Let's have tonight, for us."

For an eternity they knelt there, mere children being forced to make decisions and accept consequences that could have a lifetime of repercussions, and to deal with the mantle of responsibility and hardship that their families had thrust upon them without their consent. Eliza was just sixteen, but the finality of the resolution in her eyes and at her jawline made her look a few years older than the eighteen-year-old boy whose nervous, angry, and confused eyes watched her for cues about what to do and whether or not he was right in doing it.

Finally, he nodded and swallowed, a little bit terrified of what would happen next. Neither one was certain what to do, but Eliza took the lead, lying down on the floor of the observatory, and he came to lie on top of her, cushioning her head with his hand and kissing her. She began to writhe against him, her hips knowing their part to play despite her lack of experience, and it was maddening enough to cause him to get up off of her and begin to struggle with his clothing-until they heard the tell-tale sound of the doorknob clicking open.

At nineteen, Miss Constance Brandon had still been unmarried and living under her father's roof, and had never really liked Eliza Williams-whom most regarded as the prettier of the two-meandering about the grounds of Delaford and stealing the attention of all the gentlemen callers who might otherwise pay her attention. The sight she saw as she crept through the door of the observatory, having heard noises and fearing intruders-it was the kind of sight that might mean the ruination of Eliza's reputation forever. She was lying on the floor, Christopher in just an untucked shirt and half-laced breeches kneeling above her. It was incriminating. And Constance screamed bloody murder.

Soon half the house was rushing up to the observatory, Chris jerking the rest of his clothes back on, Eliza crying out desperately as Charles Brandon, Senior gripped her wrist hard enough to bruise it and forcing her ahead of him to her own quarters, where he shoved her in and locked the door to keep her there. For a minute or two, she beat against the door, crying out her apologies, until apparently she tired herself out and went to something resembling sleep. Meanwhile, Chris, who had followed on the heels of his father, confronted him.

"You...how could you?" Chris spat, so angry that he was barely able to articulate his thoughts.

"I?" the older man replied. "How could you? You know you almost jeopardized our family fortune with your little scene up there. Do you think your brother would have married her if she'd been spoiled by you first? What were you planning on doing-stealing away to Gretna Green? Or just having your nasty little way with her and then leaving everything else to chance?"

"I...I love her. I want to marry her. And yes-yes, I would have taken her away and married her and supported her on my own expense, and I never would have asked you to help us with one farthing. Because I love her with my whole heart. But Charlie? He doesn't even care for her. Where is Charlie now? Constance, you like to spy so much; do you even know where our dear elder brother could be?" Chris whipped around to face his older sister who was observing the proceedings. She drew back from his superior height and his wrath. "I'll tell you where he is. He's at the village inn, probably bedding his second or third whore of the week, wasting your precious family fortune," he sneered. "And yet, I want to offer Eliza a life of love, and you choose to marry her instead to that..that bastard?"

Charles Senior, though dwarfed by his son in height, was yet the stronger of the two, and in his rage, he seemed to grow a foot. He grabbed Chris by the collar of his shirt and yanked him to within an inch of his own face. His breath reeked of beer and the beef he'd eaten for dinner, and he loosed some spittle into his son's face as he said with a deadly calm, "Eliza is my ward. For all intents and purposes, she is my property, to be done with as I please. Do not challenge my judgment again. And do not ever, and I mean ever, call a member of this family a bastard again and call my honour into question. Or I will hurt you. Do you understand?" He didn't wait for an answer, but simply shoved his son away until he lost his balance and fell on his arse in the middle of the corridor. Just then, Charlie emerged into the same hallway and looked around, bleary-eyed and drunkenly swaying along.

"Looks like I missed some entertainment," he said, grinning as he braced himself against the wall. "Forgot how to walk, Chris?"

Chris felt all the anger and hate and misery of his situation boiling up inside him, and without a word, with barely a thought, he rose up from the ground and barrelled into his drunk older brother, leveling a blow at the young man's face that would have broken his nose if he hadn't swerved to avoid it, taking it on the cheek instead, and then Charlie lost his balance and fell to the floor. Chris stood over him and began to kick-anything he could find that was soft enough to hurt. Charlie howled in pain until Constance, who was now crying in earnest, and Charles Senior, still stoic and poised, each grabbed one of Chris's arms and tugged him away from the downed target of his attack. They managed to drag him, screaming and thrashing, to his own chambers down the hall, and Charles Senior locked him in, as he'd done for Eliza earlier.

"Son," Chris had heard his father call out to Charlie, from where he stood desperately trying to wrench his door back open. "Clean yourself up. Your wedding has been moved. You'll wed Eliza tomorrow at the church. And if you want to know why you're receiving such good news, ask your idiot brother."

Lower, meant only for Chris's ears, Charles Senior said through the door: "You have shamed me this night, boy. You make me wish I had never sired you."

"Fuck you," Chris spat, holding on to his knuckles which had been bruised by the impact with his brother's face.

"Big talk for a second son," the older man replied calmly. "You have nothing without me. And now, you're dead to me. As of this night, you are cut off. When I return from Eliza's wedding tomorrow, I expect you to be gone from Delaford. I honestly don't care where you go or what you do. Stop at Anders Grove in Greenwich if you must, but I plan to occupy it with Candace for the Season, so do not tarry there. Do not ask me for help. You have already proven that you are willing and ready to make your own way in the world despite me, so I expect you to do so."

Chris had listened to his father's footsteps receding towards his own chambers then, ear pressed to the door. There was nothing he could do now. His heart sank even further into the mire. He must part from Eliza. Probably forever. He must leave his home. A boyish part of him, the part of him that still yearned to be a good son, the part that had once idolized his father and wanted to be just like him someday, tried to convince him: Apologize. Just back off from your foolish pride and you can be in his good graces again. Maybe… maybe somehow this can all work out for the best.

But as night gave way to morn, Chris, still locked in his room, realized that this was not about pride. This was about right and wrong. It was the first lesson of manhood, dawning now upon him-age doesn't determine wisdom, and sometimes parents don't know what's best for you. Sometimes the people you used to believe could do no wrong are nothing more than selfish, pathetic fools, and to bow down before them would be to spit in face of truth and righteousness.

Still-Eliza. Maybe he could save her.

He tried and tried to open his own door, even throwing caution to the wind and trying to physically break it down, but it was no use-the heavy oak was indestructible. Then he thought of the windows, which, he found, were shuttered, and barred, to add insult to injury. As a young man who needed to eat every few hours to keep up his strength in the service of his lengthening limbs and growing muscles, he found himself, after a sleepless night with no food following on the heels of a physical altercation, too weak to make any headway in his escape plan.

He could soon tell from the way the light slanted through the bars of his de facto cage that it was midmorning. Outside the window, sounds of a carriage preparing to take the family to church we audible. Chris could do nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He pressed his hand to the windowpane and wept, listening to the carriage drive away.

But a soothing, cool hand began to caress his back, which was bare suddenly, and the scent of fresh bread and raspberry jam assaulted his nostrils.

He blinked himself awake, saw that it was day outside, and noticed the aroma of coffee mixing with that of the bread and jam-and something else-a pleasant scent that filled him with a sense of peace, washing away the heartache from his dream-

"Good morning, dearest. You were having a nightmare, I think, just now."

The angel who spoke to him turned him onto his back to face her and helped prop pillows up behind him so he could hold a mug of coffee without spilling it. But before he could take a sip, he put it onto the table beside the bed and gathered Marianne up into his arms. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her hair, her lips. She kissed him back, stroking his head and whispering that it was alright now, that she was here. The tears from his dream threatened to manifest themselves into being in the real world, and he choked up.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, not pressing, but simply offering.

He almost said no-but he had promised her that he would be honest with her. He said, "I dreamed about the night I lost Eliza."

"You mean, when she-when she passed away?" Marianne asked delicately, knowing he meant the elder of the two women with that name.

"No-the last night I saw her at Delaford. Before I joined the army. Before she was married." He told her some of the story, not repeating the horrible things his father had said to him, but telling enough to replicate his feelings of loss. "It's because we're so close...so close to seeing Constance. All of that...it's coming back to me now. All of those dark days."

"And you're afraid?" she asked.

"Yes." He took up the coffee again and sipped.

"Of what?"

"That-that I will lose...that Constance will say or do something...or I will say or do something...that will cause me to lose you, as well." He spoke into the coffee cup.

Marianne stood without speaking, went over to the small table, and cut two slices of bread. She had already dressed, and now slathered butter and jam on them, wrapped them in a napkin, and poured a second cup of coffee for herself, adding cream and sugar. And then she sat down once more at the bedside, offering one of the slices of bread to Christopher and biting off a corner of her own. She chewed and swallowed.

"I'm not going anywhere," she then said, meeting his eyes.

He reached out for her hand and kissed it.

Soon it was time to leave, and Brandon dressed, made certain everything was packed, and they boarded a coach to the docks, where their ferry waited for them. An ominously long ferry ride, followed by a couple of more travel days by coach, and more nightmares, found the Brandons, a few days before Christmas, standing on the doorstep of La Maison Tournesol, being shown in by a servant, and shaking hands with the most dour-looking couple that Marianne had ever seen.