Is There Any Felicity in the World Superior to This?

Part Five

It had been early afternoon when the master of Delaford finally awoke from his restless slumber. Brandon's eyelids flickered momentarily, the auburn lashes reflecting the flickering light that still pervaded the room from the spluttering fireplace before darting his eyes hazily across the room. The drapes that hung loosely at the windows had not been drawn and the atmosphere within the Colonel's study only bespoke of the intense contemplations that its master had recently been engulfed in. His coat lay tossed across the armrest of the chair opposite him, a multitude of unopened envelopes and pieces of parchment lay strewn across his writing desk, while a large glass of wine still stood untasted on a tray beside him while a large woollen blanket, the last serving reminders of Brandon's service in India (although it did not have much use in the humid heat of the country), had been placed carefully upon him; both of the latter which were most obviously done under the consideration of James himself as Brandon did not recall seeing these two items the previous evening. The caring nature of Brandon's valet was almost certainly the reason why the curtains had not been drawn up to this hour, for it was obvious that the good man did not have the heart to disturb his master's rest and Brandon was silently grateful for this decision as his activities the previous night proved to leave very little room for his peace of mind.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck one and Brandon, still in his shirtsleeves, breeches and boots, arose from his chair, discarded the blanket and stepped outside. The house was quiet, apart from the frequent scurrying of hastened footsteps in the corridor below; bending over the oak balustrade, one could easily see that James was clearly still at work even without the guidance of his master, his greying temples figuring prominently in the dim light, as the good man rushed through the main corridor and disappeared from view. Surely then there was no need in disturbing the man further, Brandon surmised; he had caused much and he darted up the stairs and entered his bedchamber. Gathering a new shirt from his wardrobe and untying his cravat, he then sought out his washbasin, and looking only once in the mirror at his dishevelled appearance, began to rinse his face but his mind not entirely free as he did so, thoughts still flowed within…thoughts that had inhabited it the previous night, the night before and the night before…

Up to this hour, from the moment that Edward had left Delaford after their brief discussion a week ago, Brandon had been engulfed in myriad streams of earnest contemplation. He had refused to see anyone, apart from Edward, during the past week, only allowing those in most desperate need of his council into his study but even then, his mind was troubled. Everything disturbed him, from the horrifying revelation of Henry Farley's character to the accident on the road, from which terrifying depths that he had just saved, and only just, Marianne. He reached for a towel and dried his face vigorously as the memory repeated itself hauntingly in his mind. Even now, as he stood within the safe confines of his bedchamber and with the thought of Marianne re-cooperating with her mother and sister at her side, at Barton only a few miles away from him, he suppressed a tingling shudder that ran through the very core of his soul. Had he not decided to write to Taylor to inquire about Farley, had he not been there to save her, had he not decided to return to Delaford that day or had he even decided to postpone his departure from town by even an hour – God knows what could have happened…Farley could have had his way, Brandon would have had to face the consequences – or even worse, he could have lost the very lady who had constantly been inhabiting, haunting his thoughts ever since their fateful meeting at Sir John's over a year ago – and when he had finally sustained to courage to ask her, on that dark and gloomy afternoon at his lonely quarters on Bond Street, once and for all, to accept his hand in marriage…an opportunity that he had come so very close to losing and by only a hair's breadth.

He involuntarily closed his eyes…but he had not lost her, the fates had preserved her and Providence had graciously granted him a second chance…no, it was his final chance. Brandon discarded his towel abruptly at this thought, as if to reinforce, physically, this heartfelt decision and shook his head as if to follow it. It was his final chance. He would not be pawn in his horrendous game of love any longer; he had lived under the shadow of its ghastly, unrelenting grasp for the past twenty years of his life and his soul was emotionally exhausted…drained…lost…

Eliza…Eliza and Charles…the thoughts that had followed him through his journey to the parsonage that fateful Thursday evening reluctantly came back now to haunt him…and then her daughter Beth with that rascal Willoughby and then again with Marianne…and then now Marianne again with Farley…oh, surely Cupid's arrow and not the gods themselves play with people's souls for sport! And what was he to the gods? He had changed his shirt and now tugged at his cravat with unnecessary violence and he was greeted with his darkened expression as he turned towards his reflection in the mirror and he was frightened by the fierce intensity that had taken hold of the expression in his eyes. A mere man in the eyes of the immortals – oh, what sins had he committed that were slanderous that he was to run this narrow, twisting…serpentine track that was love? In his early years in the army, he had wondered at the easiness of his fellow comrades' descent into love and marriage; now he marvelled at it.

And yet…and yet…

'And yet…'the course of true love never did run smooth.' '

It was with little chance or certainty that anyone would have caught the faint murmur that issued forth quietly from Brandon's lips had they even been present in the room beside him. Gazing at his reflection, his eyes wryly registered the small amused smile that lifted the corners of his mouth following his statement and a small, nagging thought at the back of his deeply troubled mind accosted him for his apparent weakness of temper as he seemingly sought refuge in the words of a mere playwright, of Shakespeare himself. Small and pathetic as his action might have seemed, Brandon felt his confidence, which had been nearly vanquished during the course of the week and which had almost descended into the darkness that was nearly as dark and dim as the study below, spur quickly into action, alight and rekindled and as bright as the spluttering fire in the grate of the study's fireplace. For even in the darkest of places, Brandon consoled himself, there always exists the flicker of hope.

Ignoring the slight bristles that had gathered upon his cheek but quickly adding a dash of Imperial Water upon them nevertheless, he stepped outside, throwing on his waistcoat and buttoning it tightly as he did so. Swiftly descending the stairs, he returned to the study and calmly, his dignified features distinctly tranquil, spread the curtains wide and was momentarily dazed by the sunlight that streamed directly into his face and onto the carpet beneath him and the room behind him. He looked up into the brilliant blue of the vaulting heavens, and a lone bird, a white speck against the horizon, soared across its plane…such freedom…a freedom that now – possibly – lay before his very eyes…

And to be free of these chains of tangled love that had restrained him for so long, could it actually be possible? Was he to be set at liberty at last? For the past twenty years, Brandon had regarded it as wishful thinking but now…the fact was delightfully tangible. And there would be no more thoughts of Eliza, of Charles, or of Willoughby, no hours of deep contemplation…no, what was there that would be gained of it? There was only pain and regret to be sought of it. And now there was nothing left for him to do but…

Turning away from the window, Brandon, his countenance hinged in sudden determination, drew on his coat and gathered his hat, gloves and riding crop. As he endeavoured to leave the room, the untouched glass of wine caught his eye and with a moment's hesitation, he drained the glass in a single swallow. He set down the glass resolutely. No…there would be no thoughts now of Eliza…it was the past and he was done with it. For there was only one in the world who he could bear to think of, for she encompassed his present and his future…and that was Marianne.