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Chapter 3 Remembering Cleveland AKA "Young Lochnivar Has Gone Forth to the West"
The manner in which Marianne greeted the Colonel when she turned to face him on the fringes of Barton's great room served to lend truth to Brandon's suspicion that something was wrong.
"Are you well? You are overheated, perhaps."
"No, I have just been by the fire. Look,-" she gestured to the company—"They are dancing again. It is the same song as the last. Do you think Lady Middleton has noticed?"
Brandon felt a chuckle rise in his throat. It was a sensation to which he was unaccustomed, and he wondered if he sounded ridiculous.
"Very likely not." The Colonel looked at her, his expression wry. He found it less difficult, then, to hide the quick solicitude that had flickered briefly in his eyes. Instead, he was able to face the gathering assembly with considerable composure, re-directing Marianne to look at the forming minuet. It was a technique that Elinor often used. More than once, Brandon had smiled to himself when he reflected on how similar he was to the eldest Dashwood sister—in all matters except one, sensibility. On that point alone he was far more aligned with Marianne. Marianne, who was Miss Dashwood now. He forced a smile, in that halting manner he had.
"Would you do me the honor, then? After all, you already know exactly what is to come." Again, that dry humor which was concealed, less from purpose than lack of practice. And he offered her his arm.
"Of course." Marianne regarded the Colonel with some surprise, but her assent was quick, as if she wanted to depart from her former position in the room, as quickly as possible.
Brandon had hoped that the ordered music of the dance and the touch of Marianne's hand would drive away the impression brought by the sight of her flushed cheeks and too-bright eyes. But the shame of Marianne's reverie still remained in her countenance as they bowed to each other, beginning the set-and he was transported back, unwillingly, to a place he would have been satisfied to never see again—Palmer's residence, at Cleveland.
Cleveland, six months earlier (March or April)
The Colonel's first impression of Cleveland had taken the form of a muddy road, with the jarring impact of his horse's hooves repeating up and down his weary frame. When they slid to a stop in the gravel path surrounding the square, modern house, on their second day of travel, it was nearly nine. The Colonel handed his horse to Palmer's man, and regarded the lighted windows warily. He could desire nothing more at this moment than the comfort of his chambers and that untaxing solitude which would have greeted him at Delaford; instead he squared himself to face the noisy trial that must immediately ensue.
With many exclamations of greeting and shouts of delight, Charlotte and Mrs. Jennings, who had broken off their game of whist in expectation of the travelers, greeted them. Palmer was more expansive than usual, and he actually seemed glad to see his wife.
Mrs. Jennings, meanwhile, engaged Brandon in immediate conversation.
"I declare, Colonel," she said soundly. "You have arrived sooner than we thought, and glad I am of it! There has been nothing to talk of! Excepting the decrease in the chickens and this settled rain." Brandon, whose somewhat damp appearance attested to the rain, nodded gravely in assent. He had no more than folded his greatcoat and handed it off for safekeeping before his benefactress spirited them both off to a forcible late supper.
The occupants of the great house, who had not yet retired for the evening, remained in attendance—notably Charlotte, Mrs. Jennings, and a very squirmy Palmer baby. Brandon was pleased beyond words to see Elinor Dashwood as well. He heard the calm tones of her quiet voice before he saw her hand stretched out to him in greeting—effusive, for her. The Colonel nearly smiled then. He did not look around the room for Marianne, instinct telling him that she would have gone to her rooms.
Brandon could therefore barely attend to his indifferently warm supper when Marianne appeared in the drawing room next them; dreamy of eye and with the air of one absently wandering about the grounds. She had a book in her hand and one under her arm, which impeded her attempts to politely greet Mr. Palmer.
"I see you have found the library," said that gentleman in a terse but pleasant manner. Palmer was far more interested in his port than in his dinner.
"Yes!" said Marianne warmly. "I thank you! But-you have not many of the modern works, I see."
"I am no reader, " said Palmer.
The Colonel remained in conversation with Elinor throughout supper, who sat near him nursing a glass of cordial. He addressed not a single word to Marianne all the evening. However, Elinor noted that his eyes followed her sister as always. Brandon nearly choked on his port when Marianne greeted him from the entrance to the dining-room with a nod and a curtsey. If he was not mistaken, the compassionate manner she had begun to assume towards him those last few weeks in London remained intact. This did not, however, keep her from the same nervous wringing of hands and diffident manner that she had carried with her there.
More than her manner, however, he noted her appearance. Marianne's cheeks were warm, almost ruddy; and though she was (to him) more beautiful than ever, there was a fairly feverish cast to her complexion. He found himself grateful for the heavy rain which certainly must have kept her indoors this evening.
Soon after they all retired to the drawing room, Marianne disappeared again, and this was just as well. The Colonel could not find any solace in her restless disconsolate manner, which was, if anything, a deal more agitated than in town.
The following morning, the Colonel found himself ensconced over the remnants of breakfast, telling Elinor all the things he had forgotten the night before. A third person absorbed the majority of their conversation—Edward Ferrars, and how he would best be able to use the parsonage at Delaford. In fact, the Colonel became almost animated as he described the improvements that the new parson would find most to his use. And he was blessed with a most appreciative audience in Elinor. Twice during the morning, Brandon observed something in her eyes which nearly made him wonder just how near a friend Ferrars had been but he cast it aside as a mere sensible fancy, brought on by the unsettling presence of Marianne. The day was still damp, and SHE had nothing to do but read, and look sadly out of the windows.
Marianne's countenance continued even more ruddy than before, and a slight cough, a catch in her throat, convinced the Colonel that she was unwell. Once he asked Elinor about it, and once even, he came upon her where she sat by the fire, and wondered aloud about the state of her health. Marianne dismissed this.
"I SHALL be well if it will only stop raining! I cannot walk in this weather."
"Nor, I fancy, should you."
"If only it were a little lighter. I would—" She trailed off, then looked at him carefully. "But no matter. " Marianne sighed, and put the book in her hands aside. "I cannot even read."
Brandon guessed that she had a head-ache, and said as much. Marianne only replied that if he would read for her, the morning might not be entirely wasted. And so he found himself surprised, turning the crisp, blue-covered volume in his hands, reading Scott's Marmion, verse that he had only recently seen for the first time, in London.
"O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. "
It was the tale of a kidnapping and elopement, and for true love at that—his voice broke as he finished, but the young Miss Dashwood did not seem to notice, and actually complimented him on the expression of his reading! It was not strange that he could take little pleasure in it, for memories too-long buried flooded him. The Colonel rose stiffly.
"Are you going already, Colonel?"
"Palmer asked me to accompany him at billiards. I fear by now I am late." A bow, and he was gone.
Almost before he had left the room, Brandon regretted it, for with the breakfast conversation quite over, he found himself parted from Marianne. The rain stopped rather suddenly around noon, and by two o'clock she was out walking. He barely saw her until late that night, when they took supper. She looked well to any but the most acute observer—there was excellent, even high, color in her cheeks. Her dark eyes seemed only slightly glassy, and she mustered enough spirit to seem healthier than her too-slight frame betrayed.
The next morning the rain was only spotty, and Marianne was soon gone from the mansion-house to wander about the grounds in solitary fashion. The Colonel found himself caught between two undesirable options: stalk the indifferent library alone or submit to Charlotte's conversation in the main drawing room. He nearly chose the latter, but wilted when he realized that the loud laughter that split his ears was at some new calamity that had befallen her hothouse and its denizens.
Again, Elinor came to his rescue, and they spent half the day lingering over tea, planning Edward Ferrar's future. The Colonel never guessed that he also might be rescuing Elinor from the solitude of her own thoughts. He did wonder, once, that the future Mrs. Ferrars was a subject that Miss Dashwood seemed content to leave alone for the present. But, no matter—if he did not believe Elinor, like her sister, incapable of subterfuge-he certainly thought her above it.
After that evening and the next, which Marianne spent walking the grounds even though all was spread in a fine mist, she looked not only better than usual, but had a strong and steady flush to her regular features. But her cough had grown stronger, and she was sniffling. When Brandon found her later the next afternoon, Marmion turned downwards in her lap, shivering on the chaise in the drawing-room, his eyes narrowed in concern. Her fine dark eyes were glassy, fixed on the fire, and she made no attempt to try to read the volume in her hands. Again, the Colonel did not directly address her, his bearing as formal and stiff as ever when he came near her. But there was a dull kind of pain in his chest that he could not explain.
Unaware of the impulse before it was too late, Brandon found himself grasping the heavy wool shrug-that had been flung behind her, useless on the chaise. It rasped against his fingers as, his mouth dry, he murmured an apology and awkwardly finished the gesture, placing it firmly about her shoulders.
Marianne settled back into it with a little sigh, breath barely escaping her lips. That she did not object, did not reprimand him—no pert comment, no annoyance—truly frightened him.
"Thank you, Colonel."
He bowed, and left her sight. A moment later, he had found Elinor again.
"You do not suppose your sister very ill?"
She did not. It was nothing that sleep and simple remedies would not resolve.
But Elinor had been wrong, for the night passed without any material improvement, and before long the Palmers were driven from Cleveland, leaving the Colonel torn. Marianne was gone from his sight, for propriety's sake—his hosts had departed, and there was no earthly good he could do under these circumstances. But to leave Cleveland when Marianne might be dying! It could not be borne. Under such gloomy observances he approached Mrs. Jennings two days later, after Palmer had taken himself away.
"I am afraid I impinge too long upon your kindness, ma'am. Under these difficult circumstances—"
"Nonsense! And leave an old woman alone in the evenings? Upon my word, Colonel, I do not know what I shall do without someone to play at piquet of an evening!" The real worry in her eyes was obscured for a moment by the frankness and zeal of her manner, for she did care for the Colonel a great deal, despite him being too solemn and constrained for her tastes. "No! You shall stay with us here, for with Palmer gone, we have not a gentleman about the place!" Mrs. Jennings was determined. And so the Colonel stayed.
"And who, I should like to know, " she said to Elinor later, "is to assist in case of an emergency, if not so steady a fellow as Colonel Brandon?"
To say that the Colonel was comforted by his role as guardian of Cleveland would be too much. He spent far too many solitary hours in the library and the drawing-room downstairs, and Mrs. Jennings was too gloomy on the subject of Marianne's prospects for his ruminations to do him anything but harm. Brandon found himself pacing the floor late at night, for sleep fled from him whenever he was with company. At Delaford it was his habit to retire early, since sleep beckoned when one had no family or friends to while away the evenings. However, when a guest, the Colonel was wakeful, his energy high-although his manner never betrayed it.
Now, he fell an easy prey to pessimism, the discarded Marmion in the drawing-room reminding him both of his futile history with Eliza and the sad state of its owner. He was looking into the dying fire, his own Spencer forgot in his hands, when Elinor burst in.
A few words sketched the situation out in all of its dire nature. Marianne's mother must be sent for-she was far too ill-it might already be too late. The lines in Brandon's face became deeper as she spoke, and he deliberately put his book down and rose to his feet, restless. His feelings were not to be expressed.
"If you would send your man, Colonel-I am sure-"
"No. I will go, myself."
"Colonel—surely not—it is late, and you will be alone—"
When was he not alone? He overcame her objections in a few sentences, and was gone as soon as he could, the remembrance of Marianne's flushed face etched into his memory as possibly the last time he should see her.
Brandon was thankful that propriety had kept him from the sight of her sickchamber—of the delirium that certainly had succeeded. Once before, long ago, he had been the recipient of such sights—with no staying older person such as Mrs. Jennings to intercede-or speak of propriety or decorum or what ought to be. It had not mattered. The Colonel would have stayed at Eliza's side regardless. But his unselfish love had been the means of searing those memories into his soul, and now thus damaged, he could not regret that Elinor and not he, had been forced to endure it. She it was who had been made to watch the ebb and flow of life force that invariably accompanied the mortal struggles of one so dear.
The beat of the horse's feet had echoes of Scott in its rhythm. Brandon tried to push it from his mind, unsuccessfully—
"He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; "
No. He would not think of that now. Think instead, of guns in the early morning air, of the sun rising over the Indian Ocean, of hot cardamom tea, of cold English marshes, of Marianne's fine eyes—of anything but the charges he had failed, the ways he had fallen short. But still Scott's tetrameter held him—
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
He must not fail her now. Oh, tell him not that he was too late.
Barton Park, Elinor's wedding (September/October)
The strains of music had died away, and Marianne was regarding him now, at the end of their dance, with curious eyes. She seemed quite to have recovered the lack of composure she had betrayed at the beginning of the set.
"Colonel!" she exclaimed. "I declare, you have drifted away—and, in the middle of a dance, no less. Am I such a poor partner as that?" Brandon managed a half-smile, but he realized that as always, he had let gravity get the best of him.
"Not at all, Miss—Miss Dashwood. And you—you look quite well. All that was wanted was a bit of dancing, it seems."
He only half-lied. Her skin was as brown as it ever had been, her dark eyes quite as bright, and her manner nearly as lively. She had never quite regained the flesh she had lost during her illness, but with slightly different styles of arranging clothing-heavier fabrics and more gathers—Marianne now managed to disguise her slighter build tolerably well. The Colonel, however, had noticed every change.
It was, after all, a game to which Brandon was well accustomed. He had never recovered his former build after those years in the East Indies, and it had become his habit to wear heavy fabrics and gathered clothing—he was particularly fond of well-cut, thickly constructed shirts and greatcoats—to disguise the notion that he was too thin, that he did not quite approach the stoutness of a true English gentleman.
Marianne smiled at him, and he forgot every coherent thought in his head.
"Look at Elinor! She seems quite happy, don't you think? And Edward! One never would have known there was a Lucy Steele."
"Perhaps there had to be a Miss Steele for Edward to know the true measure of his happiness," said the Colonel. Marianne looked at him, startled for a moment at this insight.
"Perhaps," she said quietly, looking inward for a moment. Then, she suddenly cast a look at him sideways. "And now you will have Elinor at Delaford."
"Indeed," said the Colonel. "You shall simply have to come and see her."
He forced his gaze to stay on her a few more seconds than was comfortable, and he managed a smile. Then, Brandon returned to Mrs. Jennings' company, his pulse pounding in his ears.