Chapter 6: "Fire and the Flood," by Vance Joy
Marianne stared into the eyes of the small girl for the longest time, until finally Charity broke the stare, blinked, and succumbed to a fit of laughter. Marianne couldn't help herself: she laughed, too. "I won!" she exclaimed. Charity stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry.
"Rude, Charity!" Eliza's voice announced as she entered the drawing room followed by the Colonel. The two of them stood watching Charity and Marianne at their game.
"Bamba!" Charity shrieked, "she beat me!"
"You'll have to practice harder, then, and next time you may beat her." Marianne started as Brandon picked up the small child and tossed her into the air, catching her and swooping her low to the ground.
"Eliza," he said, "would you care to join us for lunch?"
Eliza looked at Marianne, relaxed on the sofa and enraptured at the sight of her new husband. "I couldn't intrude. We'd best be going."
"Noooo!" shrieked Charity. "Mummy, can't we stay?"
"Please, Miss Williams," Marianne entreated, smiling and reaching out her hand for Eliza's. "We'd love to have you."
"Well, if you're sure," she said, coming to perch on the sofa next to Marianne.
"We'll be gone for ever so long and won't have an opportunity to see you. I should hate to miss out on your company today."
Eliza smiled. "You are too, too kind, Mrs. Brandon. I didn't- I didn't think you'd welcome us barging in on your wedded bliss today."
Marianne laughed. "He'll have me all to himself for two months, nearly. I suspect he'll get tired of me. Best put that off as long as possible."
"I shall never tire of you, love," Brandon said, gasping for air as he set Charity down on the ground and watched her run a circle around the room, narrowly missing the end table.
"It looks like you're growing tired already," Marianne smirked.
"Only because Charity is quite a bit bigger than she used to be. That was never as difficult as it is now."
"Children do grow," remarked Eliza. "Much to our chagrin. And I suspect you're quite tired after yesterday. You danced more than I have ever seen you dance. I'm surprised you're even awake today."
"Are you suggesting that I'm too old to take part in a night of revelry?"
"No, I'm suggesting it isn't your wont. Your husband, Mrs. Brandon, is often found retiring at ten with his books. Sometimes even earlier. In case you weren't aware."
"That suits me well, for I like to be awake early enough in the morning to see the sunrise," Marianne replied.
"Do you?" Brandon asked.
"If it pleases you." She smiled at him. "I can find joy and beauty in starry evenings as well as early mornings. But I'd like it best if I enjoyed them with you."
"You two border on the ridiculous," Eliza proclaimed, watching the two of them smiling shyly at each other across the room. "You ought to have married her a year ago and had done with it, so you'd be used to each other by now and I wouldn't have to be in the middle of this simpering lovey-dovey nonsense."
Marianne, used to her sister Margaret's sarcastic language, took the criticism in stride. "He didn't ask me a year ago."
"She didn't love me a year ago."
"You're both silly."
"Silly, silly!" Charity echoed, attaching herself to Marianne's legs and climbing up to sit on her lap.
"Mrs. Brandon, do you know how long he's been mooning over you?"
"Not fair, Eliza," Brandon said, coming to sit in between them.
"It's nice to know, however," Marianne responded quietly. She sat forward and allowed Brandon to put his arm around her, and rested her head on his shoulder. She inhaled the masculine scent of him, mingling with the sweet, just-washed floral scent coming from the top of Charity's head. "It was inevitable that I should have fallen in love with him eventually. After all, he's very rich."
Eliza cackled at that. "I do like her, Colonel. Please keep her."
"I intend to," he murmured into Marianne's hair.
"Miss Williams, you really must call me Marianne. I want us to be closer friends."
"Will you call me Eliza?"
"I shall, if you'd like."
"Then it's settled."
"That was too easy. I've been trying to get her to call me Christopher for years."
"I can't make myself. I've tried," Eliza retorted, "but there doesn't seem any propriety in calling the man who raised you by his Christian name."
"But Colonel seems overly formal."
"Well, I can't call you father. Frankly I'm not very fond of fathers," Eliza finished, looking at Marianne and shrugging.
"They're alright, if you happened to have had a good one," Marianne explained.
"Your father-was he a good man?"
"He was. He loved us very much, my sisters and me. He did his best by us."
"That's excellent. And enviable."
Marianne smiled sadly. She wished things had been different for Eliza, and knew that, with Charity, history was now repeating itself. Brandon rumbled, "I should have been a better caretaker. I'm sorry."
"You were perfect. And you'll be the best father a child could ask for, when the time comes." Marianne felt herself tense up at this statement, then relax slowly when she saw that her husband was nonplussed. "I just hated that I had to be a burden on you. On both of you, now. That was never supposed to happen."
Marianne responded, "You aren't a burden on us."
Brandon joined her: "You have never been a burden. You're family."
Eliza smiled after a minute. "A strange family we are, though."
"In what way are we strange? You'll be like...like another sister to me. That isn't so strange, is it?" Marianne asked.
"And also sort of like a daughter," Brandon quipped, stroking Charity's hair as she drifted off to sleep in his wife's arms.
Marianne conceded, "You're right. It's strange."
"Because I'm far too old for you."
"No, you aren't. I think you're exactly perfect for me." She placed a kiss on his cheek.
"See, this is what I mean," Eliza interjected. "Disgustingly cloying."
"Eliza, why don't you make yourself useful and order up a cold luncheon, instead of being judgmental," Brandon suggested. Eliza got up from her seat, saluted Brandon, and left the room after taking the sleeping child out of Marianne's arms and laying her on the seat of the chair nearest the hearth. The child didn't stir, and her heavy breathing indicated that she would be asleep for some time.
Marianne looked up at her husband, noted that, for all intents and purposes, they were alone in the room, and tilted her chin up in search of a kiss. He obliged. Slowly, sweetly, his mouth moved on hers, unhurried and undemanding, just savoring her. His hands cradled her face. As he broke away from her a minute later, his thumb brushed against her swollen bottom lip and she bit down on it, causing him to raise his eyebrows in surprise. Her eyelids fluttered heavily as she pushed his hand to the side and grabbed his face, pulling his lips to hers again, his gasp of surprise becoming a muffled moan as she bit his bottom lip.
"I was going to ask if you wanted chicken or ham, but I can come back," Eliza's voice interjected from miles away where she stood in the doorway.
Brandon delicately extracted himself from his wife's lips and mumbled, "Sorry."
"Chicken," Marianne weakly managed.
"Honestly. And there's a child in the room."
"Eliza, do you intend to lecture me on propriety?"
"No, Colonel, of course not!" sang Eliza,and she made a graceful exit. Colonel Brandon turned to make sure she was gone and then descended once more onto his wife's mouth, his arms circling around her. When she started to make that whimpering sound again, though, he backed away.
"Erm...Marianne, I-we should stop."
She pouted. "I know." He took delight in the fact that she was breathing heavier than normal. "But I don't want to."
He laughed breathlessly, putting the length of the sofa between himself and the woman he'd married. "I think if this continues any longer I'd have no choice but to carry you upstairs and ignore our guests completely."
"Will you-that is, tonight, when we're alone again-will you want to…"
"Dear God, yes. Do you think I'd waste an opportunity if it was offered?" The smile that broke over his face involved his whole face, eyes, nose, cheeks, everything. "I'm not getting any younger. I fully intend to enjoy you while I can. Especially considering how very...very enjoyable you are."
"You're...you're...I can't even describe how you make me feel, Christopher. Words literally fail me. And I'm very good at...at words."
"You're very good at words?" he mocked gently.
"You see what you do to me?"
He laughed, and she followed suit. "I must be doing something right, if you're laughing."
"I laugh frequently with you. You're very diverting."
"You used to think I was dull, I have it on authority."
"Yes. And I used to be quite stupid."
"Never. I'm actually just as dull as Eliza says. I do go to bed remarkably early."
"That's alright. Just because you're in bed doesn't mean you're sleeping, does it?"
He paused. "I suppose it doesn't have to."
She smiled sweetly. "I'm confident you can think of all sorts of things we could do instead."
"Marianne," he said in a warning tone. "This is getting dangerously close to seduction."
"Is it?" she asked coolly. "I'm sure I wouldn't know. I am very inexperienced in these matters."
"Change of subject. Please, I beg you, before I'm driven utterly, helplessly mad."
"Oh, do, let's change the subject," Eliza said, striding confidently into the room. "Here: lunch will be ready in ten minutes or so. We should repair to the dining room. Marianne, would you care to help me wake Charity from her nap?"
Marianne straightened her hair and got up from the couch, following Eliza's lead. The Colonel went to wash up. Before they went to rouse the child, Eliza took Marianne's hand in her own and checked her from going forward. "Marianne, I-I must tell you thank you."
"For what, Eliza?"
"Whatever you've done for him, in marrying him-I've never seen him so happy."
"Neither have I," Marianne realized.
"You know that he means everything to me. To us." Eliza gestured to Charity's sleeping form.
"I do."
"Will you watch out for him?" The slightly younger woman's eyes implored her. "He's spent so long looking after everyone else, and I know it's been lonely work. Will you look after him?"
"Eliza, I-" Marianne suddenly found herself choking back tears. "I'll do my best."
"Do you really love him?"
All Marianne could do was nod her head for a moment. "It's taken me far too long to realize it. But I do. I love him-so much."
Eliza seemed satisfied. She smiled, and together they woke the little girl and encouraged her to walk into the dining room with them, where a light luncheon had been laid out. After a few moments, the Colonel joined them again, and they began to help their plates.
As they were finishing up their luncheon, Charity asked to go out and play on the lawn. They opened up the French doors from the dining room and she stayed where they could see her making snowballs and throwing them at invisible targets. Eliza began ask the couple about their honeymoon plans. "What is your itinerary? Where will you be spending Christmas?"
Marianne answered, "Christmas will be spent with the Lapointes in Avignon. And then…"
"Good God, Colonel! Do you hate your wife?" interrupted Eliza. "Taking her to see those wolves?"
Marianne furrowed her brows. "We had an invitation. And I told him it was only proper, since they were unable to come to the wedding…"
"Has he told you about his sister? And her husband?"
The Colonel put his fork down. "Eliza, no matter how I feel, it must be done. And before you blame me, my wife, as you can see, thinks it is necessary. I was ready to chuck the invitation in the waste basket."
"But on your honeymoon? And Christmas!" Eliza put her napkin down beside her plate and looked out the window. "Marianne, all I can say is good luck."
"Have I-have I made a terrible mistake, Christopher?" Marianne asked. The pair of them had been all set to spend Christmas cozied up in a chalet in Switzerland, and then the next few weeks traipsing through Austria, when an invitation had come from France at the last possible minute suggesting that they break their journey for a couple weeks with Brandon's sister Constance, her husband Pierre, and their three boys, so they could all meet Brandon's fetching young bride. Marianne knew that Christopher didn't think very highly of Constance, but had felt curious about meeting the one remaining member of her husband's immediate family, and had encouraged him to accept. But now she wondered if she had led her husband into something that would make him unhappy, the very thing she'd wanted least to do.
Brandon took her hand across the table. "You were right. We ought to go. We'll get it over with, and then move on. I don't know that you'll like them, though."
"Will they like me?"
Eliza and Brandon looked at each other. Brandon said, "I hope so."
"Is there something unlikeable about me?"
Brandon looked into his wife's eyes. "Not one thing. But my sister...she is a Brandon."
"And so am I, now!"
"Yes, and perhaps making you a Brandon wasn't the best choice for you."
Eliza explained, "The Brandons are very proud, and they worry far too much about money. Your husband is the only sensible one of the lot."
"So you think they won't like me because I'm poor? I am a gentleman's daughter, after all."
"Again," Brandon replied, "I hope they will love you. As I love you."
"And you'd better hope you can hold your own tongue, Colonel," Eliza warned. "Don't have a repeat of last time. It's Christmas."
"I'm considerably older and wiser than I was last time," Brandon reminded her.
"What happened last time?" Marianne wanted to know.
"Your husband came about as close as one can come to murdering his own sister," Eliza smirked.
He rolled his eyes. "I did not almost murder her."
"She insulted me. You became protective. It's what you do."
"I need to hear this story," Marianne demanded
Eliza took a deep breath and began. "Six years ago or so, Constance and Pierre came to Delaford for Easter. I came up to see them from school, since I'd never met them. I was-was I twelve? Thirteen? And she...they...were not very nice to me."
"They all but came out and said she was my illegitimate child, which, while untrue, was at least as much of a dig at me as it was at Eliza," Brandon explained; "not that I would not be proud to own up to her if she were. But then, they ignored her, belittled her, and the final straw was when they said… they said…"
"They said some pretty nasty things about my mother, in front of me," Eliza finished.
"So I sent Eliza out of the room and gave them a piece of my mind."
"What did you tell them?"
"That Eliza is a part of our family, and as I am currently the head of our family, they would need to be respectful of her or get off our family property."
"I think Constance was sufficiently cowed after that," Eliza ventured.
"Of course, they've been apprised by now of Eliza's new situation, and I am dreading hearing what they have to say about it."
"They sound not much worse than some of my family. Fanny, for instance…" Marianne noted.
"Oh, yes. I met her yesterday. Nasty piece of work," said Eliza.
"If I can handle Fanny, I can handle Constance, I'll wager."
Brandon countered with, "At least Fanny isn't practically French now," and made a face.
"We'll get through it." She squeezed his hand.
"Marianne...they don't exactly bring out the best in me. My family...they sometimes turn me into an angry, brooding...well, they bring me back to the way I was when I was under their yoke. I don't want to show you that side of myself."
"Do you think I won't continue loving you? After all, you have seen me at my absolute worst, and you still love me."
"How could I help it?" he asked. His brown eyes found hers. Eliza muttered something about losing her lunch.
"What does she look like? Your sister?"
"Have you not seen her?" Marianne shook her head. "Eliza, do you remember where the old sketches of Mother's are? Will you bring them in?"
Eliza disappeared for two minutes or so, while Brandon and Marianne kept an eye on the child playing in the snow. When she re-entered the dining room, she bore a large folio covered in the dust of long-elapsed time. She set it on the table.
Brandon opened it and showed Marianne the first piece, a portrait of three children, the oldest standing behind an ottoman on which the younger two were perched. The oldest child wore a pleasant expression in the picture, but seemed, even frozen here in time as he was, to be overly indulged. He looked to be twelve or thirteen. "That's Charles, my brother," Christopher indicated. The two younger children looked more serious. The girl, with her golden-brown wavy hair, wore a sneer. She was probably about ten in this picture and wore a fashionable, grown-up-looking gown with what appeared to be a shawl of the finest lace. The younger boy-clearly Brandon-looked to be about eight or nine here. He held a wooden ship in one hand and wore an expression of wistfulness, as if he wished he could be anywhere other than here, sitting still, being made to pose, but would bear it all with fortitude. Marianne lingered over the illustration, and then looked up at her husband. The family, frozen in time, could little know what hardships they would experience-or cause, in the case of his elder brother-and seemed to be captured in a moment of innocent ignorance.
The next image was of a pair of children-the same boy from the first image, tiny, pensive Christopher, and a fairy-like girl with long, golden hair fanning out behind her as she played by a lake. Marianne recognized the lake from the grounds at Delaford, and had ridden past it with her husband the day they had become engaged. The girl looked delicate, and the boy held onto her arm as she reached out to place the wooden ship from the first image into the lake to see if it would float. The boy's expression had changed from somber and vaguely miserable, in the first image, to relaxed and happy in the second. "That's your mother," Marianne pointed out, "isn't it, Eliza?" Eliza nodded. "You look just like her. She's beautiful."
Eliza blushed. "Thank you, I suppose."
"Do you remember her much? Did she still look like this?"
"Only a little. I remember her much more sad, and less...less luminous than she was, then."
"I should have liked to have known her."
"Really?" Eliza raised an eyebrow.
"Yes. My husband loved her. She must have been worth knowing."
He looked at her inscrutably. And then he kissed her hand.
"Christopher, who drew these?"
"My mother. Helena Brandon. She signed them, see? At the bottom." Marianne noted a tiny, almost-invisible signature. "She was very gifted. These were some of her best works."
"Why have you not had them framed?"
"It simply never crossed my mind."
"Could we?"
"I think we could. Although I don't know if the subject matter is suitable for us, anymore. I don't really want the face of Charles Brandon staring at me each time I walk past. I had enough of that in his life. But as a testimony to my mother's talent, if you wish it, I will arrange it."
The last picture from the folio held an image that someone had drawn of an older couple. The hand was obviously different from the first two-"My mother taught Eliza to draw, before she died"- but the figures were unmistakable. The woman's dark-blonde hair was paired with a tall, lean stature and brown eyes that surveyed their surroundings competently, confidently, and compassionately, and marked her immediately as Brandon's mother. The man in the picture, thicker around the middle than Brandon, of an equal height with his wife and so probably shorter than his second son, and with darker hair, had Brandon's nose and his wry smile, but seemed much more prone to turn that smile downward into an angry or critical frown.
"Charles and Helena Brandon," the caption read at the bottom, and a flowery hand had signed in the corner, E. Williams, December 1773.
"This was drawn just a month before my mother took ill," Brandon said, tracing his finger over the image of his mother. His voice carried no pain, only memories.
"She looks...kind."
"She was."
"Would she have liked me?"
He smiled at her. "She would have loved you and welcomed you and made you feel as though her home was your own. She had impeccable manners and a warm heart beneath them to give them substance. You would have delighted her. She loved to hear her children play at the pianoforte, and you're better than any of us."
Marianne shook her head. "Surely not."
"That's one way to impress Constance," Eliza mused. "Have her play a little. Show her off."
"Will I need to impress her?"
"My love, you need do nothing but stand there and be your wonderful self."
"For you, maybe. But I want to make a good impression. I don't want her to think you made a poor choice."
"What she thinks will be for her to say. Do you really care so much what she thinks?" Brandon asked, pained.
"I care what you think. And I don't want to make you look foolish in your choice of wife."
Brandon shook his head and looked into the distance. It was obvious that he was worried, and this bothered Marianne, but what he was really worried about was that his cruel sister would say something to make his wife feel she wasn't welcome in his family. She'd done it before to his ward. And she might do it again to the woman who had captured his heart, and that was insupportable.
Eventually Charity had tired herself out outside, and Eliza decided it was a good time to take her home. She hugged Brandon tightly, and then Marianne, and Charity wept bitterly to leave them both until Brandon promised that they'd bring her back a present from their journey, and then she sniffled and allowed her mother to escort her back to the nearby cottage where they lived.
Brandon took a deep breath to see that he and Marianne were finally alone, but alas, as soon as he did so, he noticed a messenger coming down the road-Edward Ferrars' manservant, come to deliver an invitation to dine at the parsonage tonight.
"What do you think? Shall we say goodbye to your sister and brother-in-law before departing for Europe?"
Marianne nodded. "Is there anything left to do before we begin our travels tomorrow? Are you packed, fully?"
Brandon thought. "I believe I nearly am. I haven't packed any books yet, because I didn't know what I'd be reading. Would you help me do so later?"
"Of course. I need to make sure all my clothes are ready to go for the morning. And I need to dress for dinner."
"Let's go upstairs, then."
Bess had been busy all morning and afternoon making sure all of Marianne's things were laundered, folded, and packed into her trunk. As Marianne inspected it one last time in the dressing room she shared with her husband, she realized once again how little she had in the way of possessions. She had left so much behind those years ago at Norland, and her life at Barton had been relatively impoverished. Now, she thought of Constance Brandon, who-according to Eliza and Christopher-would likely not be the type to fail to notice that she had only four good day dresses packed, and only one ballgown. She'd always scorned the type of women who focused overmuch on their physical appearance and their wardrobes, but now that she was in a position to damage her husband's reputation if her own appearance wasn't spot-on, she felt suddenly self-conscious. She would just have to make do. If he was happy with her, she'd have to trust that he would continue to be.
Brandon, who'd gone to the kitchen to let the cook know she wouldn't be needed this evening and to request that the carriage be brought around, found his way back upstairs where his wife knelt over her mostly-empty trunk. He padded over to her and sat on the bench near her, watching her for a minute. She took out a dress that wasn't overly formal but would do for Elinor's house, and turned, jumping to see him there. "Oh. Hello."
"Hello." He held up four books. "I think Paradise Lost, Humphrey Clinker, and Robinson Crusoe; plus, you've still to read The Vicar of Wakefield. And I've never gone anywhere for any length of time without picking up five or six more books to read, anyway. What say you?"
"Oh, also!" Marianne rushed up, her fashion woes utterly forgotten, and ran over to her own little bedside table in the adjoining room. "You need to read The Man of Feeling, and The Mysteries of Udolpho. And we can't forget to take Lyrical Ballads, which I just realized, I am embarrassed to admit, I never did return to you."
"I take that to mean you liked it?"
"I think it is my favourite now."
"I'm glad." He smiled.
She ran back into the dressing room carrying her offerings, and saw that her freshly-ironed dress was lying on the floor and that Brandon was stooping to pick it up.
"I think our books will fit in my trunk, if you'd like to put them in." He did so, and she laid her three on top and closed the lid of the trunk. Their eyes met. "I need to dress for tea," she said.
"Shall I ring for Bess?"
"Or...or you could help me."
"Me?" He looked down. "If you like."
"I want to preserve one small moment of time alone with you before we go into company again. Just-just to feel your hands on me for a minute."
"Oh, Marianne…"
"Could you help me with my buttons?" She came to stand in front of him, twisting the hair gathered at the nape of her neck to one side so he could see what he was doing. After a minute in which she could feel him steel himself, she felt his cool fingers begin to work their way down the placket of her dress, and then gently slide the fabric of her neckline down her shoulders, exposing them along with her stays and the chemise she wore underneath. He began to kiss the soft skin of her neck, placing his hands on her waist. Marianne regretted accepting Elinor's invitation, even though she loved her sister. Suddenly this was where she wanted to be, and nowhere else would do.
"Christopher," she whispered, "promise me you'll continue this when we come back tonight."
"Marianne, my darling… whatever you want. I'm yours. Completely, totally yours to command."
"Promise me, then. Promise me you'll...make love to me."
"Yes. I promise. God, yes." His voice sounded on the edge of tears.
"Then will you help me put on my evening dress?"
He reluctantly moved away and fumbled with the fabric of the white printed cotton dress, and she put it over her head, and he struggled to button the buttons up. She adjusted the lace at her bodice, and straightened out her skirt, turning around to face him. He reached up to trace the neckline of her dress, the curves of the tops of her breasts. "My love... I'm blown away by your beauty. Every inch of you...my God." He bowed his head.
She put her hands on his shoulders. "Christopher, I want so badly to kiss you right now but I know if I do I'll never stop."
He nodded his head. He kissed her forehead. "I've never wanted anything or anyone the way I want you, Marianne. In all my years of life…"
"You can have me. I'm yours."
He just held her, breathing in the smell of her hair, for a long time. She found that she was somewhere between smiling and weeping, and she laughed at herself. He drew back to see her laugh, smiled himself, and then held her closer. "I love you."
"I love you."
One final squeeze and he let her go, and began to take off his workaday jacket and replace it with the nicer one he wore to tea. And they bundled up in gloves and wraps, left the house and entered the carriage, making their way to the parsonage.