Marianne found her husband and the upstairs sunroom, taking advantage of the late afternoon light. He was surrounded by letters, and was just putting his signature on something. "And what is all this you're working on so intently?" she asked him.
"Business," he replied. "New investments. How is Mrs. Jacobs?"
Marianne sighed and sat in the seat beside him. "She was, I think, a brighter spirit when you knew her. But now I do not think she still rise from her bed again."
Brandon look down. "She will be dearly missed in Delaford Parish, for she was generous with her time and energies." Marianne could see the emotion in his face. It was evident that he had known her for many years, and that her sudden palsy and imminent passing caused him great pain.
She slipped her hand over his and he closed his fingers around hers. "I am sorry. She seemed cheered by my reading to her."
"Will you go see her again?"
"I believe I shall." They then sat together silently for some moments. Marianne looked at the pile of papers spread out on the table in front of them."Well, this is not for business." She extracted her hand from his and drew out an envelope, with the address written in a lady's hand.
"No, it is from Miss Williams. She writes to wish us joy on our marriage." Marianne gazed at the lettering. She wondered what sort of a woman Miss Williams could be; she had not anticipated finding this memento on her husband's desk.
"Open it, if you like." There were no secrets from Brandon, nothing hid. Marianne knew, could see plainly his attempts to open himself as widely as possible to her examination. She opened the letter and read in silence what was written there.
"My dear friend Christopher, it is with great joy that I write to wish you happiness in your marriage to the former Miss Dashwood. I was so pleased to hear of it in your most recent letter; I know her only from your description, but I am sure she is all that you say. I have pictured the little church in Delaford decorated for the wedding, and imagine the joy that must be on your face. I thank God for it again and again, and thank you to convey my happiest wishes to the new Mrs. Brandon.
"Little Chrissy gets bigger and bigger each day. It is a wonder he fits in his crib! You would not believe it if you saw him now. For he was so small, and now I can hardly keep him in one spot. We shall both hope to see you soon.
"Your loving daughter, etc."
She reread the letter through twice. Was this the woman who – she could not think it. She gazed at the name of her boy; she could hardly believe what was written there. "Chrissy," she repeated questioningly. Brandon looked away, embarrassed by his indulgence of his ward. "I am the only father she has known, and it was a comfort to her." She listened and tried to ignore the implications.
"Dearest, we should invite her to stay come summer, as she did when she was young."
Brandon looked at her, incredulous. His surprise had replaced his embarrassment to the degree that he could not even enjoy being addressed in such a way. "Invite Miss Williams? And her little boy?"
"Why yes. He will be a little more than a year, and walking. He will need a man in his life, and she cannot count on his father for that."
"Indeed not."
"You should write to her," Marianne said again. Unwilling to contradict her wishes, Brandon picked up his pen and found a fresh sheet of paper. He began to write his salutation, then sat down the pen again he looked at her, expectantly. What did he wish her to say? "Miss Williams seems like a well prepared young lady," she said, trying to fill in the space between them. "Her hand is quite fine, and her words well enough spoken."
"I spared no expense and her education."
The burning in her heart would not be quelled. "I must ask."
He knew she would. He knew that eventually she would ask. Slowly, his gaze alternating between the paper and her face, he said, "Eliza Williams, despite the gossip of Mrs. Jennings, despite the familiarity of her words to me, is not my daughter in any way but in my heart."
Marianne look back down at the letter. What was in her heart? How could her emotions burn so against a woman she had never met, and whom she should only pity? Miss Williams' fate was one she could have shared quite easily, and at the hands of the same man; Miss Williams' pain should be her own, Marianne knew; and yet all she felt in that moment was a strange pang of jealousy. Her husband's words call one concern, but she had not truly believed that Miss Williams could be his natural daughter, no matter the quiet gossip around Devonshire. He had made quite a confession to her on their wedding night, and she had believed him. Brandon had not been the cause of his first love's downfall, although he could not save her from it, nor her daughter. Yet Miss Williams held his heart, and seemed to know him quite intimately. She felt no compunction about expressing her great joy in knowing of his, and seemed only to regret not having been able to share it. It was possible that Miss Williams was in fact a very kindhearted young woman, now in an intolerable situation, brought on by her own decisions, but not without great abiding affection for Brandon, the man she thought of as her surrogate father.
Why it should stick in Marianne's heart so she could not say.
Marianne said again, "Convey to her my gratitude."
Brandon again began to write, but stopped before half the letter was written. "I must go into Bath tomorrow," he said. "There is an important business matter that cannot be attended to there. I will need a witness, and the services of a lawyer."
"Into town? Can I not go with you?" She was surprised by the question. It was clear that Brandon was too.
"I shall not be gone long, for I shall ride and stay in a rented room. Only for a night." He peered at her as he began to write again. "If you would like to take the carriage, then, you could perhaps stay with your mother."
"Mama?" Marianne said softly, thinking with dread about the inevitable descent of the MIddletons upon Barton Cottage as soon as they saw Brandon's carriage. "No, I think I shall stay here with Miracle and Mrs. Jacobs."
"So you have named the little one," he said, with a gentle, kind smile. "It suits him."
He turned back to the letter to Miss Williams and Marianne watched him as he wrote. What could be learned of a person from his writing? Brandon's was neat, tight, and utterly Spencerian; smooth and perfect and practiced. Miss Williams', in contrast, was large, with loops and flourishes - in fact, it reminded her of her own: pretty, unrestrained, and musical in its way. She let out of puff of breath and tried to turn her mind to something else.
He finished the letter with his clean, elegant signature, and turned to look at her. "You have no interest in spending another afternoon with Sir John and Lady Middleton."
Brandon's many months and years of studied observation of her - and her utter inability to completely conceal her emotions - meant that he knew her quite well; she, having spent nearly as much time intentionally cultivating a lack of familiarity of him, was thus at a disadvantage. He could, then, pierce whatever thin veil she attempted to place over her mind, before she had opportunity to perceive his thoughts, and the fact of their marriage had removed his inducement to conceal what he knew.
"Not even your desire to see your mother can overcome the displeasure of sharing her with them."
"I do not know what you see in Sir John as a friend," she blurted out. "His interest is in amusement only, and never in art; he cares more for gossip than for true connection, and his countenance is in all things most unmanly and uncouth."
For an instant Brandon felt pride in his young wife's private outburst and flood of emotions. She continued:
"The two of you are as different as night and day."
It occurred to him that he should feel flattered by that, but he felt compelled to respond. "It is true that Sir John and I seem an unlikely pair. We were a part of the same regiment in the East Indies, at a time when I was … more reckless and ... liberal in my behaviors and words. In my darkest periods, he was as true a friend to me as any man could wish. Dearer and kinder to me than any brother."
Marianne was shamed. "I am sorry to give you offense. His family has been very good to mine."
"You need never apologize to me, Marianne. Fortunately John is insensible to the censure of others and thinks of only the best possible outcomes; he finds it impossible to imagine that anyone might prefer silence and solitude to constant companionship, and himself prefers a constant stream of activity and noise to being alone with his thoughts, giving him little opportunity to guess what they might be."
Was he trying to be … funny?
"His generosity is richly admirable and I will always feel indebted to him," he concluded.
"It seems that life is always to be a web of obligations and entanglements."
"Yes, I have come to the very same conclusion." He handed her the letter for her to approve. It read:
"Dear Eliza, your happy wishes have been most joyously received at Delaford. Mrs Brandon has been so moved as to request your company this summer after the rains have passed, and desires to make your acquaintance. We shall eagerly await further news on your son's development and wish you both continued good health. Yours fondly …"
"You are good to her," Marianne said, passing it back to him. "Do you think she will come?"
He folded the paper thoughtfully and sealed it. "I do not know."
Marianne remembered her conversation earlier that day. "Edward desires me to ask you what you know of Mrs Jacobs' interests, since you know her; he would like to give her a measure of enjoyment as she rests."
"Indeed, I do not know her as well as I should like. She had but one child, a son, who owns some land outside the village and has three very small children of his own. She has been a widow as long as I have known her and gave freely of her time to the church; the curate who held the office before your brother was a widower himself and had no one to tend to the linens and vestments, and she was a great believer in duty."
"It seems she was a good woman."
"Marianne," he said, "you have not asked me what I need do in Bath tomorrow."
"Have I not?"
"I am having my will remade." He produced a copy of it from the stack of letters.
"Your will? You are a young man to have need of a will."
He laughed wryly. "It was not long ago that you thought me at death's door." She looked away. "You will notice," he continued, gesturing at a few lines, "that virtually the entire estate of Delaford is to be yours, with a provision for Miss Williams until ever she should marry, and for Christopher Williams until his majority. You shall be mistress of Delaford as long as you wish to be, and shall dispose of it as and when you desire, and not before."
This took Marianne a moment to absorb. She read the lines he pointed to and tried to take them in.