Chapter 2: "Wake Up," by Arcade Fire

They left the altar arm in arm, and exited the church into the cold winter air. The wedding party followed them out and everyone stood outside and cheered them into the carriage, where he handed her in before climbing up himself, and they made for the mansion for the wedding breakfast. For a moment as they sat side by side, Brandon just looked at her. She had done it. She had married him. She was his! He couldn't believe it. To look at her, to touch her, to hold her each day for the rest of his life-these had gone from impossibilities to likelihoods in a matter of two months.

She broke the spell by taking his dumbfounded head in her hands, pulling him down to her and kissing him, and it was definitely not the type of kiss she could have gotten away with in church. She took off her gloves so her bare hands could run through his hair, touch the skin of his face and neck, and press against the warmth of his chest, and he took off his own gloves so he could feel her bare hands in his. He turned in the seat so he could face her better and tugged at her back, her arms, her shoulders, anything to get her closer. She whimpered into his mouth when his hands found her hips, and he broke away, panting, touching his forehead to hers.

"Thank you," he said after he had caught his breath.

"For what?" she said, blinking.

"For marrying me."

She grinned. "Don't thank me yet. I may turn out to be a terrible wife."

He smiled back. "No, you won't." He gathered their gloves up in his lap and then leaned back in the seat, curling his arm around her so her head could rest under his chin. He held her left hand in his right.

"I meant it, you know. The letter."

"I'd hoped you did."

"I love you."

He paused for a minute, inhaled, exhaled, and she felt his heart skip. "I love you," he replied, shifting and kissing her forehead.

She rested against him for several beats. "I meant all of it."

"I'm glad," he replied shakily.

"Is that alright with you? Is it still something you want? To...to take me into...into your bed?"

"Marianne, I-I'm trying very hard not to think about...that...right now."

"Oh." She sounded dejected. "Sorry. Of course, whatever you feel is best-"

"No, no-my darling-no." He pulled away from her and looked her in the eye. "I want to-dear God, believe me, I want to. I just can't think about it because if I do, I won't make it through the wedding breakfast."

"Oh," she replied, blushing.

"I have guests to entertain. We have guests to entertain. But I promise you, as soon as we've spent an appropriate amount of time going through the expected rigamarole...that is, if you're still of the same frame of mind…"

"Oh, I can assure you that I will be," she said huskily.

He swallowed. "This is exactly why I didn't want to think about it," he breathed, and then bent to kiss her again, his tongue brushing against hers powerfully, his hands clenching and unclenching with desire to touch more of her than just her face and hair. But he knew once he started down that path, it would be torturous to stop until things ran their natural course.

At last they rounded the corner and he broke apart from her, straightening his hair with his hands and offering her back her gloves. They made themselves presentable.

"There's your house, Mrs. Brandon," he said, gesturing to the mansion. "I hope you like it."

"I think I shall like it well enough, as long as the master of the house is a handsome and engaging sort of person."

"I have heard him to be quite dull and old, actually."

"I have heard him to be quite wonderful."

"I question the source of your information."

"Well, I am the source."

"Then you're mad, clearly," he grinned. She kissed his cheek, and he nuzzled her ear, and the carriage drew to a stop in front of the house.

It was a long afternoon, followed by an even longer evening. The wedding breakfast, as grand as what Brandon had ordered up for Elinor and Edward, was enjoyed by the whole family and didn't really end until four. After the large meal, in which (despite the amount of money it had probably cost) neither Marianne nor Brandon felt much like eating, they took visitors in the parlor. Practically all the farmers and their wives from across the estate, as well as the servants' families and many people from the village, stopped by to wish the couple joy; Marianne met more people than she could ever remember, and soon felt dizzy and overwhelmed. Brandon kept her steady, squeezing her hand whenever he noticed her eyes become confused-looking, and making it clear to her through their whispered discourse that she would soon learn everything she needed to learn. But she slowly began to realize in the course of their dealings how much work it was to be Colonel Brandon, master of Delaford, a seemingly different man from the man who politely demurred his way out of the limelight at London parties and Barton picnics, and a dramatically different man from the one who kissed her senseless in darkened stairways and behind the curtains of a carriage window. And she realized how good he was at each aspect of his life. He was like a fugue, each of his characteristics developing the same theme of Brandon-ness in a slightly different way, and the way he flawlessly navigated his way from point to counterpoint fascinated her.

As the hour for dinner time approached, Marianne grew a little more hungry, and drastically more nervous. Every move Christopher made was torture to her-the way he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, the way his knees bounced slightly up and down as he conversed with someone in his chair, the way his lips pulled back over his teeth whenever he smiled. She wanted him alone. But she settled for a small helping of sliced beef and some potatoes.

A band was brought in; there was dancing, and Marianne danced with her husband. She also danced with Edward, and (unfortunately) with her brother John, and with Sir John. The Colonel danced with Lady Middleton, with Fanny (once, and it was unpleasant), and even took Elinor, Marianne, and Mrs. Dashwood for a turn on the floor. He danced nearly every dance. He was full up on energy, somehow. He couldn't sit still.

Finally, at around nine-thirty-all the guests who still remained being the sort who were seriously deep into their wine-it became Eliza's turn. Brandon spun her around, sneaking glances at his wife across the room (who was sneaking glances at him from where she stood smiling and talking with Edward and Elinor). Eventually they came to a stop and Eliza dragged him off the dance floor and into the stairwell down the hall.

"Colonel Brandon, I must give you something. It isn't much."

"Oh, Eliza, you didn't have-"

"Oh, yes I did. After everything you've done for me over the years...everything I have comes from you. You've been a father and a friend to me. I don't know what I would have done without you." She teared up.

"Darling girl." He accepted the small parcel she offered him, and opened it. It was a sampler, lines from one of his favourite Shakespeare poems ringed with blue and silver flowers unframed but delicately worked and elegant.

"It's for Marianne as much as for you. I'm happy with your choice, Colonel."

Brandon felt his own tears coming to the corners of his eyes. "That-that means so much to me, Eliza. You know how I-"

"I know she would have wanted you to be happy. I believe that she is smiling down on this today."

Brandon nodded, overcome. Eliza held him for a moment. "I love you. Thank you."

"I love you, as well."

"And I'm proud of you."

Eliza snorted.

"You're a fine young woman, and a fine mother."

"Yes, well, we'll see how all that goes." Eliza grinned. "Now, what are you still doing here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Isn't there a virgin in this house in urgent need of deflowering?"

Brandon's face erupted in shock and he stepped back. "Eliza!"

She arched an eyebrow. "I've seen the way she's been looking at you."

Brandon felt his face grow hot, and he laughed at her despite himself. "I should strike you for your impertinence."

"But you won't, because you'd never strike me. And also because I'm right. Now go and see to her. I'm off to the cottage."

"Good night, then."

"Good night." Eliza departed. Brandon stood in the darkened hallway for a minute, steeling himself to go find his wife. Suddenly, as if by magic, she appeared around a corner.

"Oh. Hello," she said. "I was looking for you."

"Hello."

"Present?"

"From Eliza."

"I'm overwhelmed with all these gifts. I don't know when I've felt so provided for. Where shall we put them all?"

"Yes. Good question."

"I suppose it is an astonishingly large house."

"It is probably big enough for us."

"I think so."

"Yes."

"Yes." They were silent. Marianne asked, "Did they move my things from the guest wing?"

"They should have. Everything should be...um…"

"In the family wing?"

"Next to your room?"

"I took the liberty of reminding Bess to…"

"So did I."

He swallowed.

She said, "Well, I'm thinking of turning in soon. It's been a long day. Should we-"

"Dear God, yes."

Her breath caught. "Oh."

"Do you want-how should we-"

"I don't know. I haven't ever-"

"It's been quite some time for me."

"I think it probably hasn't been nearly twenty years!"

"True." A beat. Two. "I've got to find John to tell him good night. Then I plan to retire to my chamber. In around ten minutes, I'll be there. I'll be there all night, so if you want-"

"I do want."

"Oh, God," he whispered. He took a deep breath. "You know where to find me. If you don't change your mind."

She reached out and caressed his cheek. Then she ascended the dark staircase.

He scoured the room looking for John, and found him in a corner engaging in a ribald army tale with Margaret, who was cackling loudly and holding a glass of-dear God, who'd given the child whiskey? "John. Favour."

"Anything. Anything, brother, name it."

"I need you to make sure the house isn't destroyed tonight."

"It won't be-where on earth are you going?"

He pulled John far enough away from Margaret that he was relatively sure she couldn't hear him. Then he said, "My wife is tired and would like to be escorted to her new chamber."

John raised an eyebrow. Brandon did the same. John grinned and Brandon, not able to help himself, grinned a little too. Running a hand through his hair, he started when Margaret thrust a glass under his nose. "You need this more than I do, brother," she said, waggling her eyebrows. "Drink up, and please try not to break her. I'd like to have a big sister still in the morning, even if she is a bit more wobbly than usual."

Brandon glanced down at the small quantity of amber-coloured liquid in the glass, shrugged his shoulders, and downed it. "Thanks, Captain." Then he handed her the glass back, ruffled her hair, shook John's hand, and escaped more or less surreptitiously into the darkened hallway, back to the stairwell, and up to paradise.

Note: Chapter 3 is written. It will be up in time for Valentine's Day, but...like...I need to recover from the process of writing it before I can proofread. It's intense.