Brandon spent his morning after prayers out in the woods; he'd taken his gun and a couple of dogs, but he had no intention of using either - it was only a pretense for an escape from the house and the servants' eyes. Certainly he'd grown up a gentleman's son and the constant presence of the help was nothing new - indeed, it would feel peculiar to be without an attendant or two, even when he was a lad at school - but as a man he often wanted nothing more than to be alone with his thoughts. That morning he'd had a letter from Miss Williams detailing the development of her infant son, and he knew that every member of his housestaff knew precisely her tragic story. While rumors abounded in Devonshire that Eliza was his natural daughter, his own staff - some of whom had served under his father and older brother - knew exactly who she was and were pleased to disseminate the truth when the occasion arose. They were not without value, of course, but he was a private man and, to the greatest extent possible, he desired to keep his thoughts to himself.
Cassie, his best pointer, couldn't seem to help herself from sniffing the ground and investigating every hedgehog and rabbit trail she came upon. She must have thought it strange indeed that they were out here together but not to work, and she whimpered slightly when he called her back from her pursuit.
Precisely six weeks had passed since the marriage of his friends Elinor and Edward and he was enormously grateful to have them; the arrival of the Dashwoods in Devonshire was, in short, the best thing that had happened to him in as long as he could remember. The happy union of his friend Elinor to a man he could also love and respect - a man as kind and as well educated as a gentleman like Brandon could want in a companion - was a great joy to him, but he also knew that the free hours they had together when not hosting her family in their small parsonage were precious, and he aimed not to interfere. He loved Eliza dearly, of course, but as a single man he had not been up to the task of raising her, a fact he regretted, for he blamed himself for her downfall. In any case, it was neither kind nor appropriate to invite her for a visit in Delaford as he had when she was a child, for she was a mother now and could no longer be introduced in good society besides. In short, Brandon was forever surrounded by people and yet forever alone.
Sir John tried to remedy that lamentable condition at every opportunity, as did Mrs Dashwood - another new friend who made his tenancy here on earth more tolerable, yet Brandon saw their machinations and attempted to outmaneuver them every chance he had. Since her recovery from illness, he'd been able to spend more time with Marianne, and had come to realize that she was quite as intelligent as she was beautiful, when she took care to moderate her passion enough to discuss literature and philosophy with Edward while Elinor sewed or drew and Brandon listened in silence. He was always sure that any book she mentioned was ordered for his library before the next time they met, and, when the Dashwoods dined at Delaford, there was always new music on the pianoforte, which he insisted she "borrow" to learn at home and perform for them the next time they met. As propriety permitted him to give her no gifts to express himself by, he settled for paying her the compliment of attention, as he had always done. When, on the occasions that Sir John's sheer persistence won out, he had Marianne to himself, he wondered if she noticed his interest.
He sat himself down on a favorite rock by the stream, a rock where he'd sat countless hundreds of times in his thirty-six years at Delaford, and wondered if the boy he'd been would recognize the man he was - a boy who had loved with such passion a girl whose chief attraction to him was her beauty and wild devotion to him, and a man who found himself so drawn to a woman who, he admitted, was just as lovely but infinitely more complex and absolutely indifferent to him.
No, this was unfair. Marianne Dashwood was not and had never been truly indifferent to him; not long ago she had openly mocked him, inspired by the cruelties of a man Brandon doubly hated. She now viewed him with benevolence, as a maiden might regard an elderly uncle. That she was aware of his feelings for her he knew must be true, for Sir John never was a subtle man and Mrs Jennings even less so, and Marianne was being kind by ignoring their implications, and kind by indulging him with her attention when warranted, if only to confound the constant chatter of those who loved Brandon more than they respected his privacy.
A duck flew up, flapping and quacking, from the stream, and Brandon instinctively raised his firearm - but then lowered it again. His heart was not in it.
Shooting a duck would not calm the thrill he'd gotten when Marianne had agreed to dance with him last night, and shooting a duck would not erase the embarrassment he'd felt at being so out of practice. John was right that in younger, livelier days, he'd enjoyed the dance floor, but such pursuits were for younger men, as was the art of lovemaking and worshipful glances at beautiful girls like Miss Dashwood. He was a fool and a damned fool at that, and he gathered the dogs and headed home to Delaford.