Chapter 12: "When You Were Young," by The Killers

December 27, 1798

Dear Eliza,

I am near-certain that this letter will reach you at the same time as the one I put out with the family post two days ago, and I do not think, now, that I ought to have sent that one; but as I am too proud to ask for the letter back, though it will probably not go out until later today, I feel that I must write an addition-

Do not worry. All is well. I have not the time to tell you how, in more details, in a letter, for we ride out in less than an hour, but rest assured that I will tell you all upon our return-and know that my wife is quite the hero of the piece. You will have an extremely diverting story to look forward to as soon as I have more time to write it down.

With love,

CB

In the wake of her conversation with her husband, Marianne made her way down to breakfast in the wee hours of Christmas morning. If nothing else, her French was greatly improving in the past few days of near-total immersion. The chambermaid that Constance had relinquished for her use was incapable of speaking any English, so the interchange of questions and requests between the two women was more of a gentle way for Marianne to practice her new language than any harsh expectations put to her by Constance and her family.

Marianne went over the particulars of the past few days in her head, leading up to the conversation she'd just had with her husband.

After the awkward way the visit had begun, Marianne had tried very hard to keep her head down, saying little, playing less, and smiling as much as possible. Soon, however, she got the impression that Constance and Pierre thought of her as a simpleton. Pierre made little conversation with her at all, but when he did, he made sure to speak slowly. Michel, who joined his family for most of their time together, fell to doing the same; but it was with great chagrin that Marianne realized her error in underestimating their similarities in age and thinking of herself as the demonstrably older and more mature one of the two, for Michel seemed to take a certain liking to her, a liking that her husband (preoccupied as he was with keeping up with Pierre's conversation about God knew what) likely failed to notice; he sat immediately next to her whenever he could, and gave her little compliments that, individually, would have been meaningless, but taken together indicated that he was trying in his immature way to flirt with her. Aghast, she found herself looking up at her husband for assistance, but he was always to be found deep in concentration as he spoke with his family members, as if they took all of his mental effort.

Last night, Marianne had reached a breaking point. Constance had begun to play at the pianoforte, and Michel had scooped her up for a dance, her husband nowhere in sight-he and Pierre had gone off somewhere to look at carriages-and he had monopolized her time horribly. This time, he put to her many questions about Delaford, expressing that he had longed to see it since the last time his parents had made for Whitwell for a summer and broke for Easter at the Colonel's home. He had ever been told it was to one day be his own rightful home, and it would be so nice to have an opportunity to come see it soon, and (here's where he leered at her) to enjoy any of the pleasures it might offer.

Shuddering, but trying to smile politely, she excused herself from dancing, claiming a headache, and found her way to her own chambers-but first she was met with Paul on the steps, presumably on his way to the kitchens for an after-dinner snack. She smiled at him and wished him good evening, but found him troubled. In a spur of sudden goodwill to find someone who didn't look at her like a vulture contemplating a sickly cow, she offered to sit with him and give him company while he ate, though she admitted her French was poor. He, bless him, asked instead if he could speak with her in English, for he needed the practice! She felt relieved, and acquiesced.

She asked him about his studies, for it seemed (the quill tucked behind his ear and the sheafs of paper hanging out of his pocket and the book under his arm providing clues) that these occupied his attention even during his holiday. She learned: he was just in the middle of his first year at university, which his father had encouraged him to attend early. He planned to become a surgeon, a difficult career, and in order to do so, he needed to earn top marks in all of his courses; hence his preoccupation with scholarly pursuits even on Christmas; and as it was, he was falling a bit behind in the study of chemistry, and his father was adamant that he caught up before being reunited with his classmates. It was very important to him, as well as his father, that he do well, for he was not to inherit much, being a second son; in the eventuality that he would not be able to marry rich and retain the status of a gentleman, he would need a lucrative profession to sustain him. But more importantly, he said with shining eyes, he secretly loved the idea of becoming a doctor. It seemed to fill him with quiet joy and pride to think of himself wielding the tools of his trade in an effort to save lives and make new advances in the field.

Marianne was quite impressed by the persistence and good-natured seriousness of this young man, who reminded her more and more of her husband. She found herself telling him with relative ease about her own family, and the hardships that could befall one when finances are not what they ought to be.

"Ah, yes," Paul had said artlessly, "my mother said something of this yesterday-that you were-what is the word she used-destitute? I felt that you may understand me when she said this. Mother said you were so poor that it was necessary for you to turn to my uncle in a time of need, and I knew it must be much like me, turning to my studies to give me a life of safety and security when my own family cannot promise them. I felt myself drawn to you as a friend then, and wished to know you better," he finished.

Marianne could barely speak, and she smiled, nodded, and found an excuse to go up to her room at last. Destitute? Turning to his uncle in a time of need? Did these people assume that she was nothing more than a seductress taking advantage of Christopher's money for her own gain? And for her, of all people, to be thus accused; she, who had time and time again ridiculed the notion of marrying for anything other than the deepest regard?

Her tears began in earnest at the accumulation of woes-for four days she had taken the little digs and the light air of snobbery of the Lapointes in stride, and had bitten her tongue each time. She was trying so desperately not to be impulsive, not to be outspoken, not to embarrass her husband or alienate him from his family, with whom he seemed to finally be getting along, even if only a little bit. And now this fresh insult, delivered so unknowingly-the presumption that she had married for money! She combined this new knowledge with what Michel had said earlier-that he was looking forward to visiting Delaford, which he presumed to be his future home! The Lapointes assumed that her marriage was loveless and would be fruitless as a result, and were doing all they could to drive a wedge between her and her husband while they were here to ensure it remained safely within their grasp!

At the very moment when she realized this, she heard a knock at her bedroom door-

"Marianne-Marianne, will you open up for me?"

She'd let her husband in, and realized pretty quickly that he was eager for her, but in the mood she was in, she was not inclined to do anything but stew in her own frustration. Her tears were renewed upon seeing his disappointment as he left her, and she felt her heart sink at the thought that it seemed she was incapable of making anyone happy, even her beloved. She fell into the cold bed and tossed and turned through the night.

In the morning, Christopher had knocked again. She let him in.

"My love, I-I'm sorry. I don't-I must confess, I don't know what came over me last night. I never meant to make you cry."

"I was crying already before you came in."

"Yes, but I-I made you cry even harder than before. I know this. I-I was not in the right frame of mind. I thought that perhaps if I made love to you last night it would help me to-to feel-less powerless here."

She could do nothing but stare at him. She'd thought him relieved, finally overcoming the near-estrangement of his family and getting to know them more closely, but now she saw that he was just as miserable as she was.

He told her, "Do you know that Pierre and Constance still think they are going to be the heirs of Delaford? They think-they think they have a chance to do it. For a minute, last night-and I can promise you, it was only a minute, and no longer-I wished to prove them wrong. I wished to give you a child, so they would close their damned mouths about it. I was not myself. I have told you-I know I expressed this to you before, but it is all the clearer to me now-my family has a very profound effect on me. But I let them," he rambled, "I allow them to change my outlook, my behaviour. I allowed them to come between us. I am-I am weak, when I am with them. And Constance knows it. I cannot say what I really wish to say, because of propriety, and she has taken every liberty with that fact."

Marianne could say nothing. The wheels were turning in her head. After a minute sitting there on her bed, looking at her, he took his leave, apologetic once again.

But in the interim, Marianne had developed a plan.

Today she wore the green gown her husband had purchased for her, feeling that it leant her a special gravitas and maturity. She entered the breakfast room with her shoulders back and a winsome smile on her face. "Good morning, Pierre, Constance, Michel, Paul… and an especially good morning to you, my dear Christopher," she said-in perfectly enunciated English-not waiting to be addressed first. "What plans are in store for us today, as it is Christmas? Shall we ride together to church? Is there anything special planned for our luncheon? I quite liked those cakes from the other night." She sat down unceremoniously between Christopher and Paul and helped her plate. "Oh, and this bread is excellent! Your cook must be complimented. Each dish, even the simplest, seems to be a delicacy. I must confess, it is easy to find ways to keep up my strength, which you know, I must do, if I am to be the mistress of a family someday soon. Oh, Christopher, wouldn't it be wonderful? Just think-this time next year, perhaps we will have our own little family at Christmas! Sister Constance, I know that you must never have known anything like the joy of holding your firstborn babe, little Michel, in your arms, particularly at Christmas! And to have such fine young men now! Brother Pierre, you must be so proud of Paul, especially-to have worked so hard, and a university man, now, at sixteen! What a fine thing!"

She paused, and saw the mouths of most around her nearly agape. "Little" Michel cringed.

"Yes," Pierre managed. "It is a fine thing."

Marianne continued. "I do hope we can see little Sebastien today-I feel quite disappointed that he has been ill since our visit began, for l love children so. I believe the Colonel, my husband, has not told you anything of little William-my sister's child! Elinor is married to the parson at Delaford, and together they have the sweetest little boy-and it is quite wonderful to know that we shall be able to dine there whenever we like, and to have them dine with us; for you know that, though we Dashwood girls have not had much money of late, we have always been so close, and it pains us to be apart from one another. Money isn't everything, you know, when you have good friends and family by your side! But it will, I think, be a true delight for our own children to grow up so close to William and whatever siblings my sister and brother-in-law may give him. Oh, and he shall be close to little Charity as well!" Brandon took her hand and gripped it, but she pressed on.

"Has my husband told you of his ward's beautiful child? Charity is the most loving and intelligent girl of two that I have ever seen, and my husband truly dotes on her. And Eliza is doing well-although I am sure you have already pressed my husband for details concerning her, since she is, after all, your own family. I have quite readily come to think of Eliza as an intimate friend, and look forward to seeing her again, so we can pass on the news of how you all are faring. I am certain that she is eager to hear news of you, for she is a very solicitous person in the wake of all the hardship she has faced."

Jaws clenched all around the table. But Marianne blithely picked up a piece of bacon. "Do you know that bacon is my favourite food? It is so delicious, and this bacon in particular. French livestock must be fed with pure ambrosia to produce such a fine product."

The rest of the party was speechless, but-here was the miracle-after a minute, her husband, still holding her hand for dear life, said, "Yes. It is quite good bacon."

And some kind of invisible spell was suddenly broken. The family spent the rest of the meal chatting in a fashion that was almost amiable, actually alternating between English and French, though Pierre's English, as Christopher had predicted, was almost as bad as Marianne's French. They did indeed go to church-and Marianne felt like a spectator at a circus, for the Lapointes were Catholics, and she had never seen such pageantry. Afterwards, at luncheon, she even made conversation with Michel, who of all things was studying divinity! She realized as she put her questions to him that, though he had adopted a knowing air, he was quite put out by some of her questions, which forced him into a deeper level of theological insight than was strictly comfortable for him. She then asked Constance to show her to the library, and began a discussion of literature, proving once and for all that, though she was not as adept at French as she would like, she was no fool.

That night after gifts and dinner (she and her husband had been given an admittedly exquisite pair of candlesticks, as a belated wedding present, and a Christmas gift of a fine Oriental rug; Christopher had brought for them a fine ivory chess set), they all withdrew as one family to the drawing room, and since it had been days since he'd heard her play, Brandon asked the room if anyone would object. Since breakfast, he'd been looking at his wife with nothing but wonder etched onto his face, realizing, she knew, what she was doing. It was for her candour and openness that he loved her, she decided; so candid and open she would be, all day. If she seemed forward or impertinent to her hosts, it was to their discredit that they did not value the same things she did; and she was not married to them, anyway. She threw Brandon a grin, and sat down on the bench to play two of his favourite pieces, while young Paul turned pages for her. Then she stood to allow someone else to play, for she did not wish to make a spectacle of herself.

At last, little Sebastien was shown into the room, still showing evidence of the sniffles, but mostly appearing as cheerful and curious as a toddler ought to. He immediately gravitated to the unfamiliar face of Marianne, who gleefully sank to the floor and began to fawn over him. "What a beautiful child," she said more than once in French, and Constance nodded her thanks to Marianne with a thoughtful look on her face.

That night, Marianne donned her night dress and her dressing gown, picked up the candle at her bedside table, lit it at the fireplace, and exited her chamber. She walked down the hall to her husband's room and knocked. When he opened the door, dressed in his own night clothes, he let her in wordlessly, took the candle from her hands, and set it down on the nightstand.

"Marianne, you-you have been magnificent today," he said humbly. "I must admit that I underestimated you. I perhaps gave you reason to believe, before we arrived here, that my sister would dominate you in some way-and I admit that I feared it-but today, you have shown-"

"Shut up, Colonel." And she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and pulled him down to her mouth, where he had no choice, really, but to return the kiss she offered, to revel in the taste of plums on her tongue; no other option, really, but to lift her up by her hips and set her on top of the mirrored dressing table; to ease her gown up over her soft thighs; to find her sex with his practiced fingers and rejoice in the way she cried out in pleasure; to lean her back against the mirror as he entered her, so desperate for her after days of being deprived of her company in this way; to catch, in the same mirror, the expression on his own face, some odd blend of feral and content, as he drove into her, drawing more cries from her sweet lips with each stroke; and no possible alternative course than to call on God's mercy as he came inside of her-still feeling the pressure of her nails digging into his back and her teeth biting into his collarbone as his need was finally sated.

He leaned over her afterwards, bracing himself with each hand placed on the table top on either side of her, breathing heavier than a sprinter.

"Thank you," he said.

"Oh, Christopher. I was just as desperate for that as you were."

"No, not-I mean, yes, thank you for that, too-obviously, that was quite-I'm always grateful for that. But thank you for today. Thank you for being Marianne. My Marianne. My brilliant, dauntless, wonderful, beautiful Marianne, unabashed even by the Brandons and their ilk."

"Did you see the looks on their faces?" They began to laugh and relive the memories of the past few days as they straightened out their night clothes, sat down next to each other on the bed, and then found themselves lying down on the pillows as they talked.

Soon Brandon said, "We leave early in the morning for Genoa. You'd best go back to bed."

"I'm not leaving your bed tonight, Christopher. Not after all this. I want you with me."

His heart pounded in his chest to hear this. "You sure?"

She nodded, lay her head against his chest, and went to sleep.

The next morning, as they prepared to take the Lapointe's carriage to the nearest post hotel, Marianne was stopped in the entranceway-by Constance herself.

The older woman, wrapped in an elegant woolen shawl, took Marianne's hand in hers. Marianne looked up at her with some curiosity.

"Madame, I thank you so much for your hospitality."

"And I-my new sister-I find that I must apologize to you. For I have perhaps not been as hospitable as I ought to have been."

"Oh, Constance-do not-" Marianne reddened, thinking perhaps the woman had somehow divined her conversation with her husband the night before, or had eavesdropped, and knew that Marianne had not been at all happy during her stay.

But Constance pressed on. "My brother and I have never really seen eye to eye. And he-being the youngest-always seemed impetuous to me. When I heard that he would marry, and someone so young, I thought him a fool. And I-well, I thought he was seeking to marry merely so that he could disinherit us, to produce an heir after all these long years out of spite, simply so that my sons would be cheated out of Delaford. I am a mother, Marianne, and you do not know yet but-yes, perhaps someday soon you will-a mother will do anything, believe anything, in the interests of her children."

Marianne nodded, slowly beginning to understand.

"But you-the more I see of you, the more you remind me of someone else. I assume you are familiar with the sad tale of our cousin Eliza, the mother of the woman to whom you alluded yesterday? Yes. Well. She was spirited, too, like you; and she was lovely, like you; and it has taken me a very long time to understand this, but: he truly did love her. And the actions of my father and elder brother in keeping them apart were wrong. And as I see so much of her candour in you, though you do not resemble one another physically at all-I can see that his heart is truly yours, and that you have earned it fairly.

You see, sister Marianne-In everything, I have loved my little brother, and tried to make him see reason in matters of the family; but when those matters trumped matters of the heart, he was always wont to let his heart win. And perhaps he was right. I do not know. But I do know that there is a strength in you that I admire, and that I can tell he must admire as well."

"I-er-I thank you," Marianne answered, unsure.

"I hope that you will not be too put off by our strange ways to allow us to come and visit you some time when we make for Whitwell of a summer."

"No, not-not at all," Marianne answered, too shocked to find other words.

She took her leave then, meeting her husband in the carriage. Feebly, they waved until they were out of sight, and long after they were out of earshot, she repeated Constance's words to her. "So kind of her to say those things," she breathed.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps she was simply using your own weapon of open communication against you."

"Oh, Christopher. Is it too much to hope that your own sister could have your best interests at heart?"

"I have been...burned by her, Marianne. But if you wish it, I will try to look for ways in which I may have misjudged her."

"I love you, and I want you to be happy in your family relations," she said, putting her hand on his arm.

"I am-I am deliriously happy with the family that I have chosen. John is my brother, as is Edward, and now Elinor is my sister. Charity and Eliza are wards to me, and I love them with all the tenderness of a father. And now, I have you. And you mean more to me than anyone. It is enough, Marianne. I am a happy man, with a family whom I love. And I love them no less because there is little if any blood kinship between us."

She took his words into consideration and finally accepted them.

"I think...I think our honeymoon is now officially beginning, isn't it?"

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Oh, yes. I suppose it is, isn't it?"

She smiled. "Would that make tonight our first real night together as man and wife?"

"I don't know. I don't want to compromise your innocence, my love. Are you sure you're ready for me?"

"Oh, yes. But are you certain that you're ready for me?"

As they passed across the border into Italy and careened toward their hotel, it was with all the flirtatious joy and lust that they had missed in Avignon, and their night together was as fulfilling and wild as either could have wished.