Author's Notes:
This is a surprise update, apart from my usually scheduled chapter release! Last night I was browsing other Brandon/Marianne stories, but when I went to refine the results, my own never came up! I was absolutely mortified to discover that I'd forgotten to add them as the leading couple in my story settings! So now that I've fixed it, and people most certainly know this is a Brandon/Marianne love story, and can actually discover it through the proper filters, I think I might get some extra love for it. :)
Chapter Six
The intolerable lapse of silence which pervaded the room was broken at last by the careful questioning of the housekeeper, after she had set the tea tray down on the service table.
"Madame, are you hurt?"
Marianne tightened her grip around the self-inflicted injury as her eyes searched wildly for some means of escape, but found none by way of either falsehood or flight. She conjured half a dozen ridiculous lies in a moment, but before any of them could pass her lips, the housekeeper had taken in the sight of the tangled, blood-stained sheets, and seemed to comprehend what Marianne was about.
Rather than step back in scandalised horror, or seem amused by the sight, her eyes flickered with kindly concern and she took a bold step forward. "Oh, mistress, forgive me, but may I speak plainly?"
"I would much rather you do so than leave me to wonder what you must think of me," she replied with some annoyance.
"You mustn't worry that you didn't bleed," she said, head dipped slightly and voice lowered to convey a quiet conference. "It doesn't always happen, you know. And if it doesn't, it means you've a good, and gentle man who takes care of you properly, do you see?"
Marianne did not see, exactly, but she was willing to be enlightened, however humiliating the situation of being taught the ways of marital intimacy by a housekeeper on her first day as mistress.
"Having three daughters grown and married, and a husband of my own, I can tell you this; if you bleed from—I beg your pardon—from intercourse, whether it's the first time or the hundredth time, it means he's done something wrong, and not the other way 'round. The Colonel is a man of the world. I assure you he won't question your innocence by a lack of blood on the sheets, and neither will I."
Marianne was at a loss for a proper reply, and so she continued to stare blankly while the servant continued.
"Perhaps in another household, you might have cause for worry about the servants' talk, but here, with all so loyal to the Colonel and with me to keep them in line you have nothing to fear."
Marianne shivered a little, overcome by the kindness of the woman before her, and relief that she had not fallen under suspicion.
"Has Hannah not brought you your morning gown?" the housekeeper wondered indignantly, mistaking Marianne's shiver for one of physical discomfort. "Never mind that, yet. Let's get rid of these sheets and find you a dressing gown, first. You can take your tea and I'll send someone to patch your arm when I'm done with the bedding. I'll take it myself, so you can be sure there'll be no trouble with the maids."
Remembering the unlikely lady's maid who had dressed her for bed the night before, and the peculiarity of her age and station, Marianne asked, "Has Hannah been long with the family?"
"Yes, ma'am. Almost all her life. Longer than I have, that's for certain." The familiar trickle of water being poured over tea leaves and the pleasant clink of the spoon against cup as Marianne directed her preferences of sweetness were welcome sounds. "I know she's too old to be a proper lady's maid; her days of beauty have long passed, and she doesn't know the new styles to keep up with the fashionable ladies of the ton. It must seem very odd to you that the Colonel would keep her in his employ." Here she paused to hand Marianne her tea and let her savour a taste to ensure it was to her liking. "She was trained at quite a young age to be lady's maid to the Colonel's mother, you see, and when Mrs. Brandon passed on, the old housekeeper intended to send her elsewhere. For one reason or another, they never found her a suitable new position and so she stayed on, more or less as an upper housemaid. I might have dismissed her, being that it seemed so unlikely that the Colonel would marry, and if he did it was expected his wife would bring her own lady's maid—no offence intended, Madame, I only meant to say that since he never imagined any lady could enter his heart since the end of his first tragic love... well, he's allowed me to keep her on all these years out of kindness to her, I know."
The housekeeper finished tucking the sheets into a neat bundle so that none of the blood stain was visible, and stood holding it against her as if it was merely folded linens, and part of her ordinary business to dispatch of bloodied sheets.
"Now, I hope I haven't said too much," she added. "If she displeases you, I'll begin searching for her replacement at once."
"No, I thank you," Marianne replied. "That will not be necessary. It is just as well she knows nothing of the new styles since my days of high fashion are at an end. I must dress simply and prudently, now."
The housekeeper looked as if she wished to say a great deal in reply to such a surprising declaration from her young and pretty mistress, but thought better of it.
"Forgive me," Marianne said, "I have forgotten your name."
"Mrs. Pickard, if it please you, mistress."
Marianne offered a small smile. "Mrs. Pickard, you have done me a great service today and I am most grateful."
Mrs. Pickard nodded, her dark eyes crinkling slightly at the edges with her warm smile, and Marianne had to struggle with the absurd thought that this woman might be closer in age to the Colonel than she was. Not for the first time that morning, she was embarrassed to be so young and in such a position.
"Now, if you'll forgive me, Madame, I've nothing to dress your wound with here, but I'll be just a moment and back again soon with some bindings for your arm."
Marianne sat contemplating all she'd been told and imbibed on one of Mrs. Pickard's sweet biscuits as she struggled to ignore how her arm was beginning to throb. She felt utterly foolish. When she had been but a girl and made an innocent, yet laughable remark about the producing of offspring, Elinor had taken it upon herself to grant her certain factual explanations of what occurred between a husband and wife. Marianne, however, had quickly dismissed her as an authority on the subject in favour of romantic novels and poetry. Once again, she berated herself for not listening to Elinor more seriously.
When the door was opened to admit Mrs. Pickard, it was to Marianne's abject horror that she saw she was not alone, for though the efficient housekeeper came laden with a basket of bandages and ointment for the wound, her own figure was dwarfed by the presence of Colonel Brandon who followed just behind.
He relieved the housekeeper of her supplies and dismissed her, assuring the woman that he would tend to her mistress himself. Once the housekeeper departed, leaving them alone, Colonel Brandon astonished Marianne by the prompt removal of his coat which he tossed nonchalantly over the bed. She watched in confusion as he then unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves until they stopped just short of his elbows. He then proceeded to wet the cloth with water from the wash basin and took up the seat beside Marianne.
"Let me see your arm," he insisted.
Mortified, Marianne put her empty teacup aside and did as she was instructed; glad that he remained intent on the task of tending to her, and did not seem to notice the crimson blush that had bloomed across her cheeks. She was keenly aware of the lack of proper dress upon both their persons, and although she understood the necessity in his removal of coat and undoing of cuffs, she was grateful he did not make much of it, but examined her arm with singular attention.
Colonel Brandon's age in that moment conveyed neither infirmity nor handicap to his young wife. Indeed, in his steady application of the wet cloth, his gentle cleansing of the wound, and deft and careful binding of it, Colonel Brandon looked no more physically inadequate than mentally unsound. Marianne could not have boasted the same, considering appearances at present, and she took this new revelation to heart.
She caught herself watching his handiwork with rapt fascination. His hands were a great deal larger than Willoughby's, and one might have considered them unsuited for such delicate work if they had not borne witness to the results. Certainly, they were not as smooth and elegant as Willoughby's hands either, but there was a reverent patience in the manner of their use that had been sorely wanting in the younger man. Such comparisons allowed undesirable memories to pervade her mind, and Marianne shut her eyes against them, searching for some way to sufficiently distract her wandering thoughts.
With the slight pressure of Colonel Brandon's fingers closed around her forearm, she chose to dwell on his ministrations, and wonder what manner of tidings Mrs. Pickard had brought him to prompt his coming to her so quickly.
She found herself speaking aloud in an effort to divert her thoughts. "You said your servants are loyal, but I did not expect them to exhibit quite so much haste in reporting each trifling blunder of mine," she said, petulance lacing her tone.
"I would hardly consider this 'trifling,'" was his grave rebuttal, and he traced his thumb just above the freshly cleansed wound to better emphasise his point. "Are you cross with Mrs. Pickard for informing me of your injury? She knows I am better suited than the servants for patching up hurts. I believe your chances for a full recovery are good," he remarked with a playful smile, "but if you would rather I send for a doctor, I will do so."
"No!" she cried emphatically; then composing herself a little, "I thank you, no. It was not the injury I alluded to, but the conversation that transpired between us. I... did not know... I did not mean to give a bad impression of you." Her blush deepened at the admission. "I had thought... Because of him, I assumed it would always be so."
"I'm afraid I don't understand you," his hands faltered but only slightly as he wound the clean strips of cloth around her arm. "Mrs. Pickard told me nothing of your conversation, only that you were hurt. Of what are you speaking?"
Marianne supposed that if he had no scruples against partially undressing before her, there was no reason to withhold her full meaning. Her lip quivered and her heart quickened as she said in a quiet voice, "I did this on purpose in order to stain the bed sheets. I thought I would fall under suspicion otherwise, and besmirch your good name in the process. I did not know... I thought there should be proof of my innocence, however falsified."
"Mis..." he stumbled at her old title, "Mrs. Brandon, can it... be possible...?"
Marianne started at the use of her new name—her proper name as it now was—and inexplicably trembled at the way he released his hold of her arm, only to claim her hand instead and meet her gaze beseechingly.
"I must ask you something most serious, and I hope you will honour me with the absolute truth, for it is my duty as your husband and guardian to know. Were you..." He closed his eyes but for a moment, and Marianne was nearly overcome with the urge to reach out and comfort him, so pained was his expression. "Were you a willing participant in the manner of your child's conception?"
Marianne's breath caught in her throat and her trembling grew even more severe. In her wildest imaginings, she had never supposed it would be put to question whether or not she was willingly seduced, and most certainly not by the Colonel. It had not even occurred to Elinor to ask, so confident was she and all their acquaintances, that Marianne was so thoroughly infatuated with Willoughby there was nothing he could suggest that might be rejected by her.
Colonel Brandon was deeply moved by Marianne's struggle to speak, but said nothing further to urge her on, rather waiting with perfect forbearance while she spoke in great, heaving gasps that grew more like sobs with each successive word. The weight of his question still hung in the air. Were you willing...?
"I was not!" she shook with the emotion of being able to say the words aloud, equal parts relief and anguish. "I did not... encourage it! I did not want him to..." here she was disturbed by another series of heavy gasps as she expelled the next words. "I tried to resist! At the start, I swear I did! But I was so frightened of him leaving me if I continued to refuse that I did not struggle in the end. But he has left me! And he did not love me after all!" The violence of her emotions made her weak again, and she was soon pressed into the Colonel's side while she expended herself with her grief.
If Colonel Brandon was not so practiced in self-possession, he might have left Marianne in her distress, the sooner to find Willoughby and strangle him with his own two hands. As it was, he steadied himself for the sake of the unhappy creature that found some measure of comfort in leaning upon his shoulder, and perhaps by heaven's great gift, even needed him here with her. In an instant of reckless abandon, he ventured to draw her a little closer, and bring his other arm around to enfold her in a true embrace.
When the worst of her crying was ended, Marianne was struck with a sudden fear that caused her to pull away from his hold in order that she might plead with him anew. "You will not speak of this to Elinor, will you?! Poor Elinor! How it would break her heart to know the truth!"
His frown deepened, though she did not understand the reason. "Mrs. Brandon, you cannot suppose me to be immune to heartache, can you?"
"No, Colonel. I am sorry," she said, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief he pressed into her hand. "What have I said wrong? Are you displeased with me?"
"Far from it, I assure you," he said gruffly, doing his utmost to hide the great anguish of heart he silently suffered. "Now if you feel able to walk a few paces with my assistance, I will take you to your own room where you must eat what I send up to you, and rest for the remainder of the afternoon. There is an urgent matter I must see to."
"Will you send Elinor to me?" she asked, brightening at the thought of her sister's company. "You will not let her leave for Barton yet, will you?"
Colonel Brandon smiled affectionately into the tear-stained eyes of his wife. "Your sister may stay as long as she wishes. If it would please you both, let her call Delaford home too for as long as she remains unmarried."
At these words, Marianne felt a fresh wave of emotion threaten to overpower her, and she grasped his offered arm with both her hands, the better to draw strength from, and be led to her rooms with the help of her husband.