Chapter Eleven
The minutes dragged on like hours for Marianne as soon as she'd watched the carriage roll out of the drive to take her mother and sisters away. She was sorry to see them go, but secretly relieved as well, wanting them nowhere near if Colonel Brandon was to arrive home injured or even worse, brought back killed after duelling Willoughby.
She had often considered what she might do all alone in such a great estate, but it had never been under the supposition that it would be whilst driven mad with worry over the possibility of becoming a young widow.
Every possible outcome of gruesome death or mortal injury played through her mind, causing directed employment impossible. The best she could do besides sitting and fretting was to visit Molly in the kennels and ask the master to let her take several romps around the grounds so that Marianne might follow at a brisk pace, pretending to ignore the fears that lay hold of her mind when she was not exercising her body in some fashion.
When Molly was returned to the kennels, Marianne had nothing left to do but wait. Books could not hold her interest. The romantic prose and eloquent sonnets usually poignant with meaning and transporting her very soul by the pure felicity of genius were dulled by the reality she was suffering, and at their worst, even ridiculous in nature. The tragedies of unrequited love and untimely deaths mocked her, chided her, rebuked her, even, and she could not endure their sermonising as she waited for news of her husband.
She wandered listlessly through rooms, going from window to window in the hopes of catching sight or sound of the Colonel's horse approaching, appearing sometimes to be purposeful when encountering one of the servants, but otherwise aimless, and not caring how distracted she seemed.
She found it strange to be so alone; to be forced to imagine the halls and rooms without Colonel Brandon to ever step foot in them again. With a pang, she realised how truly bereft she would be to never again hear his slow and cautious step into the room she occupied; to never sit by the fire as he read aloud; to never again catch the loving and admiring smile he would give her when she played through a difficult measure, or referenced something he'd once told her of, or spoke any kind word in his favour.
It was in those agonising hours of loneliness that she came to know her own heart, and the place Colonel Brandon had in it. She did not think she could do without him, and it was not for the sake of the protection and support he so freely offered, but for his person that she grieved. Now that they had married, she would not be branded a loose woman once the child was born, and were she to return to her mother and sisters, they could live much as they always had, but with a small addition to their family. In marrying her, Colonel Brandon had given her a clean slate for the future, regardless of whom his estate was to be entailed to, and he had promised even so to take care of her.
But it was not the question of income that caused her head to ache, and her heart to race in an unsettled rhythm. She had grown sincerely fond of the Colonel, and did not have any desire to return to her mother's house, now that she'd been placed in the role of wife and mistress, and knew how pleasant it was to have her own home and husband. She loved their cottage, it was true. However, there was much to admire at Delaford Park that Barton could not boast. Not the least of which was its owner, Colonel Brandon.
Her aimless wandering brought her to the private library, feeling almost comforted to be surrounded by the Colonel's favourites. She still could not bring herself to open any of the finely bound volumes, no matter the promised diversions, but busied herself instead with examining the contents of his handsome writing desk.
It was the one pursuit that her presence did not distract him from. When the Colonel wrote, whether for business or pleasure, she could creep as close as she dared and he would not be brought out of his focused employment until she made a distinct noise by clearing her throat or addressing him directly.
She sat where he was wont to, envisioning his furrowed brow of concentration as the pen scratched pleasantly against paper, and the sheets filled with his bold and elegant handwriting. One of the small drawers was stuck, and it took her extra effort to dislodge it from the space it occupied. Upon its being freed, the source of its strain was evidenced by the weight of the packet of letters stacked beyond the top of the drawer, making the corner of the top letter catch against the desk.
The letters looked quite old, and were all addressed to a "Brandon" of various ranks. Marianne upbraided herself for not having considered that Colonel Brandon was once a cadet or ensign before rising to lieutenant and the following. It seemed ridiculous to think he had ever been a youth of a mere decade and some years, involved in skirmishes in the Indies, and receiving love letters from a young woman... but so he had been, and the proof was tangible in her hand.
That notorious monster known by its complexion of green took hold of Marianne, and she felt an uncontrollable jealousy towards the woman whose letters took up an entire drawer of the Colonel's writing desk, and were obviously of sentimental worth enough to preserve until now. She eagerly poured over the contents of each, momentarily confused by the author's signature as, "Mrs. Brandon." She thought the Colonel had never married. But then she recalled Mrs. Jennings offering his incomplete history which involved the coercion of Eliza Williams to marry the elder brother, and Colonel Brandon to be sent off to pursue his military career. It appeared his sister-in-law had maintained correspondence with her first love, or at least she had written him and they found their way into his possession, though it did not seem the letters had ever reached the post. Perhaps she was forced to keep the letters hidden for fear of disapproval from her own husband. Perhaps she never sent them for fear of what unhappy sentiments a returning letter might bring. Yet somehow they had come to be here in the Colonel's drawer, and Marianne was bothered by the missing pieces she wished to have in order that she might put together Colonel Brandon's and Eliza's history in full.
Frustrated with the long duration of time that had passed before she was aware of the Colonel's romance, and jealous of a poor woman who had died under the most tragic of circumstances, Marianne soon gave up her musings over the letters and quit the library, returning to her wandering about the house.
Marianne ran her hand down the length of a tassel in the yellow room, half inspecting the drapery for dust—which she knew very well was not to be found—and half stealing glances out the window it ornamented. She thought she caught a glimpse of a single rider on a black horse galloping down the drive, and in her mind could just make out the hat and cape she knew belonged to the Colonel. Before the dark shapes could get near enough for her to determine the rider's identity, she convinced herself it was indeed the Colonel returning home and fled downstairs, incurring not one, but two astonished gasps from the maids she nearly collided into on her way down.
She tried to catch her breath at the bottom of the staircase before passing into the foyer and approaching the door. She was slightly more collected, though still flushed with exertion and worry when the door was swung open by the butler, and the master stepped through.
As she went forward to greet him, eyes frantic to ascertain any injury upon him, she was paralysed with a sudden jab where her additional weight had incurred, and a definite movement that announced the presence of a growing thing from within her womb.
The Colonel stepped towards her just as she paled, gasped aloud, and clutched the place where she'd felt the babe kick. He caught her in his arms just as she passed into darkness.
When she woke again, she was not fully herself, but with head still pounding and the feeling of sickness as she had during her first weeks with child, she sank in and out of a fitful slumber.
Her dreams, when she had them, were nightmarish, echoing the terrifying thoughts of mortal combat and death that had been haunting her all morning. She tossed erratically against them, not feverish, but with symptoms akin to the same affliction. Now and then, she would call out for the Colonel, and some part of her thought he answered by soothing her forehead or clutching her hand at the worst of her terrors.
At last, she opened her eyes to the sight of Colonel Brandon at her bedside, coat discarded, and cravat undone. Exhaustion was plainly written on his features, making him appear worn and a little older than before. He looked a proper mess, but wholly intact otherwise, and oh, how Marianne loved him for it.
"Colonel Brandon," she murmured, and he stirred from his seat, concern darkening every line on his face as he took up her fragile hand in his own.
"You are not injured?" she asked, almost wishing he had rolled his sleeves back so she could see for certain that he had no lacerations or bruises.
"No," he said with some surprise. "I have sustained no injuries. Willoughby, on the other hand..." he trailed off, unable to meet her gaze for a brief moment.
"Have you killed him, then?" she asked with resignation, and the Colonel was even more surprised at how coolly she posed her question.
"I have not. I only bruised his pride and put his shooting arm out of commission for a time. I am sorry I could do no more without risking..."
"Your own life, I know," she finished for him. "I am glad you did not. And I am glad you gave him something to think on."
The Colonel grazed his thumb across the back of her hand, not having words to express what he felt, and Marianne sighed happily at the contact.
"The doctor..." Colonel Brandon began to say, clearing his throat, "The doctor was sent for, and suspects you may be with child."
Marianne smiled weakly at the notion that her pregnancy could be in question while her symptoms were so regular. "He did not confirm it, though?"
"I did not wish him to do so while you were unable to consent to a full examination."
"Ah," she said in understanding, recalling the rather uncomfortable measures taken by the poor midwife in London. "You may call for him again if you would like to have it confirmed." It was Marianne's turn to feel incapable of meeting her husband's eyes. "I am ready to acknowledge my child."
The Colonel nodded, silent again in serious thought.
"Thank you," Marianne whispered sweetly, tired from the exertion of their talk, and ready to sleep again; this time, she hoped it would be restful.
He looked at her questioningly, as if he could not make out what he was being thanked for.
"For defending my honour when I do not deserve it," she explained. "And for coming home to me safely. Thank you, Colonel."
He swallowed thickly, and smoothed some of the loosened curls away from her forehead, leaving a kiss there in his wake.
"I will send for a reputable midwife, for I am also prepared to acknowledge our child." His voice broke on the last word, and Marianne glanced up at him, wondering if she heard right, eyes filling with tears.
"The child is to take my name, is he not?" Colonel Brandon confirmed.
"Oh..." her lip quivered at the full meaning of his words. "I had not even considered... but... you mean..."
"I mean to acknowledge the child as my own, no matter the sex."
"What of your own children?" she pressed, "What if there are more children after him? Would you not resent him after all for not being your blood?"
"The very fact that you would give me hope for future children is enough to banish all thought of possible resentment, my dear Marianne." He said her name with such tenderness and affection that the recipient of his platitudes was reduced to tears. She had thought to ask him of the letters she found in his desk, to press for confirmation that he now loved her as truly and passionately as he had his first love; to promise that she would not think it unfaithful or flighty, for she had grown to love him, and she hoped she had not kept him waiting too long.
But her heart was too heavy with the most recent confirmation of his honourable affections that she was unable to speak. She would not let him leave her, even had he wished to, but permitted him to hold her close as she cried once more and fell back to sleep in his arms.
Author's Note: Why, yes! I am trying to win back your approval by posting more than one update to make up for my lapse!