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Colonel Brandon received Sir John's message absently, thinking it just their usual get-together for an afternoon's idle pursuit–-billiards, perhaps, or if Sir John felt up to it, a ramble with the dogs. So when he did finally open the note, he was surprised, and even a little disappointed, at its contents.
You must meet the Dashwood sisters, Sir John had written, for they are come at last and you'll find them the freshest flowers in these parts for some time. Though fair warning: Mrs J. already has designs for you–-but I trust when you meet them, you will hardly object to her matchmaking. Join us for dinner to-day.
He felt a mix of gratitude and annoyance, for Sir John's way of both looking out for him and at the same time consistently misunderstanding his desires or needs. Nor did he particularly want to entertain Mrs Jennings with her constant meddling.
The last time she'd set her cap to match him was with Charlotte, now (thankfully!) Mrs Palmer. A chatterbox as insipid as she was ill-suited, with none of her mother's sense of humour to recommend her, he had endured not one, but two interminable dinners with her during her visit, before contriving to take a trip to London out of season, just to avoid any further question of their attachment. (Though it was true that he found Mr Palmer quite tolerable, and thought Charlotte easier to take when offset by Mr Palmer's caustic observations. But at least with Palmer along, they and John had more to talk about.)
So while he appreciated John's assessment, he found it suspicious that he put the prospect of young ladies on the table so boldly. Coupled with a warning about John's mother-in-law, it struck Brandon as more ominous than opportunistic. Thus it was that he dragged his feet when it came time to ride over. The last thing he was good at was table conversation with genteel ladies. As the day was fine, he could at least suggest some activity, which might disguise his lack of pleasantries or polite exchange, and could remove him from the immediate scrutiny of Mrs J. But as he approached Barton Park's entrance, he heard her first–-a soft, angelic voice floating over the cloud of arpeggios that carried softly out to the drive. Even the servants were so enchanted that no-one arrived immediately to take his gloves and hat; he tossed them absently on a table, drawn like a magnet to her music. And the sight that greeted him when he approached….
Another man might have called it Providence. Brandon called it doom. Miss Marianne Dashwood could have been his Eliza back again: nearly as young as when they last parted, and every bit as beguiling. He could not tear his gaze away, even after her song concluded and its spell dissipated.
He barely heard John greet him, but when Mrs J. said, "What a pity you are late, Colonel! You've missed hearing our delightful songbird, Miss Marianne," he never even thought of correcting her.
"A great pity, indeed," he said, hoping only that his feigned disappointment might induce her to sing again. Instead, John went on to tease Miss Dashwood about something-–some comment from their dinner conversation, no doubt-–that left Brandon confused and, for her sake, somewhat embarrassed.
But he could tell, immediately, that all John's mother-in-law's "designs" were misplaced. Her heart may have been in the right place, but her methods left much to be desired. Marianne Dashwood was too young, too vibrant, to pay any attention to him. And why should she? What had he to offer, that would interest a young lady? He was in love, yes, but with a spectre–the shadow of Eliza that he saw in her. And yet, he could not help himself. He wanted…to be of use, at least, if not to be adored.
Even Sir John's encouragement merely dredged up his old regrets. He loved the man almost like another father–indeed, he credited (sometimes blamed) Sir John for saving his life in India. He'd gladly have laid down and died had it served Sir John's life or happiness. And he knew John felt much the same–-so he understood why John wanted to see him happy. It wasn't John's fault that he didn't understand the nuances of Marianne's situation or his own.
"Don't think of yourself so meanly," John had said when he'd broached the topic. But how else should he think of himself? Thirty-five, and what had he to show for himself? He knew himself for a failure, in ways that he did not think he could admit to another, even to John.
He'd failed Eliza utterly–more than once. First, he'd failed back when they were young, in not finding a way for them to escape his father's judgment. He'd compounded that failure in being unable to keep track of her while in the army, to send her money from his pay, to keep her from falling into ruin. He'd completed that failure on his return from service, in not finding her sooner, finding her only when it was too late for her. And now, he'd failed even to honour her dying wish. He'd seen to Beth's upbringing, but had not done right by her at all–and now she was gone, too. It had been months with no word, despite his efforts to locate her. He had no right to happiness, and it seemed, anyone he attempted to love came only to despair as a result. It was better to leave well enough alone.
That did not mean he couldn't be neighbourly, of course. Or that he had any reason not to regard Marianne with…fondness…even knowing it would only ever be one-sided. He did hope, by patient means, that Marianne might eventually look upon him with friendliness, at least. Mrs Jennings' attempts to throw them together–-her suggestion that they play music together, for example–-were entirely too heavy-handed. Marianne Dashwood reminded him of a skittish colt in that regard. She could not be cornered or manipulated; her choices had to be her own, and no one else's. It was part of her charm.
And it was only a matter of time, of course, for her to set her sights on someone younger, dashing, altogether as high-spirited as herself. He'd heard about her rainy tumble, of course-–it was the talk of the country-–and felt compelled to pay a call on her in her recovery. He was not surprised to see John's pack of hounds outside, nor Margaret's cheerful exuberance as she ran outside to play with them, but he had not expected that the mysterious person who had rendered assistance would have captivated the entire family's attention so quickly. From the moment he arrived to see Sir John already there, he could tell the man was peeved on his behalf.
"Miss Marianne, I cannot think why you should set your cap at Willoughby when you've already made such a splendid conquest," John said, locking eyes with Brandon as he entered.
The name sent a shock wave through Brandon, but he carefully concealed his disappointment. "Mr Willoughby, Lady Allen's nephew?" he asked John pointedly.
"Aye, he visits every year, for he's to inherit," John told him, conveying his own disapproval more in his tone than his words. "And he has a very pretty estate of his own, Miss Dashwood, Combe Magna in Somerset. If I were you, I would not give him up to a younger sister for all this tumbling down hills," he continued, lightly addressing Elinor, though his words, Brandon saw, were not lost on Marianne, either. She had the grace to blush, at least, but did little to deny her interest in Willoughby beyond a cursory eyeroll at John's expense.
He was saved from worse awkwardness by Margaret, who came running, in clear delight that none other than Willoughby had come. It was suddenly obvious to Brandon that they had been waiting for just one visitor, and it wasn't he. He glanced down at Marianne, whose face, which had been cordial and polite, had now transformed into radiance in anticipation.
John caught it, too. "Ah-hah, the man himself," he observed wryly. "Come, Brandon–-we know when we are not wanted. Let us leave him to the ladies." Brandon felt a surge of gratitude for the older man, doing his best to cover and help him leave as quickly as possible. If anything, John seemed more upset than he was himself.
In fact, as they walked down the path and passed Willoughby on his way in, John made that clear, as well.
"How does he do? How do you do, more like?" he interposed, when Willoughby had greeted Brandon. "Go on in. They're waiting for you," he addressed Willoughby gruffly, and led them away.
"Come on, let's get a drink," he said to Brandon, without pretense.
"I'm fine, John," Brandon began.
"Well, I'm not," John said, unusually cross. "I hope you know I tried in there. They were all about Willoughby–-asking me all sorts of silly questions-–"
"You don't have to protect my interests," Brandon said to him as he tramped along, leading his horse for John had walked with the hounds.
"And why should I not? Not that I begrudge the fellow his youth or looks, but dash it, you're as fine a catch as there's to be had in these parts, and he's-–"
"He's young and handsome, John. And she's–a romantic. Of course, she'll find the circumstances of their meeting to be the stuff of passion." Brandon congratulated himself on actually sounding rational as he gave voice to what he imagined was her sensibility.
"Passion is overrated," John said dismissively. "Stability is of more value."
"Not when one is seventeen," Brandon reminded him.
John went on to tell him how he attempted to portray Willoughby in a dull light compared to Brandon–-a fact which Brandon found even more embarrassing, but also endearing. "This was inevitable, John," he said finally. "I know you wish me happy, but–-I could not be happy if she were not. Please. Let us leave it there. If she and Willoughby form an attachment, do not interfere. If you love me-–you will not sunder two young people who are drawn to each other by temperament."
John's face faltered slightly, his paternal concern warring with his sincere desire to honour his friend's wishes and believe the man when he gave voice to them. "Let's get that drink," he said, finally, and fell into silence.
They were back at Barton Park and ensconced in the billiard room, brandy in their hands, before John spoke again.
"I was just thinking of how you were when you arrived in India," he said slowly. "Do you remember?"
"Well, I was thinner," Brandon said sardonically, prompting his friend to laugh.
"No, I meant–-you were…you had a streak then, of…well, I should say it was melancholy. You've always been a brooding sort, but I'd call it…self-hatred, almost."
Brandon nodded. "You're worried I'll do myself a mischief? It's sweet of you to care, John. I assure you; I'm all right." And he was. Dejected, of course. But in a way, happy to see them happy. He even resolved that night to organize a party at Delaford, to prove his goodwill to them.
~
Trust doom, again, to interfere. That very morning, the news of Beth he'd been waiting for arrived, and left no room for his delay. She had been found, at last–and if the message were true, she was in dire need of help.
Walking into the shack she was calling home made him think of Eliza again. Here was yet another opportunity to dishonour her memory-–to fail her. He could not let that happen. The landlady led him up rickety steps to a dingy room lit by tallow candles and draped in rags for curtains.
"You're here," Beth cried, when he entered.
"Of course," he said simply. She turned…and despite his expression of shock, she ran into his arms. One look at her told him much, but he could only guess the rest. He held her for a moment, then pushed her away enough to see her face. "Tell me," he implored. "Tell me everything."
Beth's story was nothing original, of course. He listened without interrupting, cursing himself for his indulgences over the years. But she'd been so like Eliza, he couldn't bear to check her, even as she'd grown more reckless. He'd promised her everything, it seemed. He'd have promised the moon if it had got him what he'd wanted. He'd assured her money was of no consequence, that he had an inheritance that allowed him to wed where he wished. He'd said he could bring her back to his estate and they would marry, if only she would go away with him. He'd even shown her the house, Combe Magna-–
"Combe Magna?" he blurted, unable to contain his recognition.
"...Yes?" Beth said.
"He told you he owned Combe Magna? What name did he give?" he demanded quietly.
"You'll challenge him," Beth guessed. "You'll kill him."
Brandon suppressed a growl of frustration. "Not necessarily. Is his name Willoughby?" he pressed.
Beth's eyes filled with fresh tears and she nodded. "John Willoughby," she wailed.
Brandon's hands curled into fists. He shook them out only to rake his fingers through his hair in a moment of utter fury. Willoughby!
"Uncle?" Beth asked tentatively.
Brandon shook his head emphatically. "How long ago did he abandon you?" he asked softly.
"I…. About five months ago? Right after-–"
"After you discovered your condition," Brandon concluded. She nodded. So he'd known. He'd known he was leaving her flat when he went to visit Allenham, and there he had encountered Marianne and….
No, Brandon told himself. You can't know what he intended, or did not. Or whether his feelings for Beth were genuine, or his feelings for Marianne. You don't know. What mattered for now was Beth. 'Well…what shall we do, now?" he asked. "It's not too late to remove you, if you-–"
"You'd…let me come back?" Beth breathed.
Brandon shrugged. "Child, the important thing is your health. What do you wish?"
"I–want to go home, Uncle," she confessed tearfully.
"Then, home you shall go," he promised. "But you're not staying another night in this place, either," he concluded. "Let's get you to a better room, at once."
He made the arrangements, and then his next errand was to return at once to Devon to learn from Willoughby himself, just what he thought he was about with Beth-–and Marianne Dashwood, for that matter. But the morning he was to leave London, he learned that Willoughby had already left the county with no word as to his next destination. There was nothing to do but remain with Beth and convey her to her new situation in the country.
By the time he returned to London to settle her affairs, word reached him that Mrs Jennings, the Palmers, and the Misses Dashwood were in Town. And there was another rumour going 'round as well, that Marianne and Willoughby had an understanding not yet announced.
Armed with his new information regarding Willoughby, he seemed compelled to seek out the Misses Dashwood and ask if the gossip were true. To share the man's true nature would undoubtedly do nothing to dissuade Marianne from such a propitious match, but he could not help himself, if there was even a chance he could forestall disaster for her. Even up to the moment he knocked on the door of Mrs Jennings' townhouse, he was not certain what he would say or do if Marianne confirmed their engagement. Marianne would not even speak to him, it turned out, but left immediately upon his entering. He was forced to ask Elinor about her sister's status. And when she answered….
No, he thought firmly. Whatever opinion he might have of Willoughby, however he wished to throttle the man, his liaison with Beth and his proposal to Marianne were two separate affairs. And the dishonour of the one had little to do with the intention of the other. "To your sister, I wish all imaginable happiness," he heard himself saying. "To Mr Willoughby, that he…may endeavour to deserve her." Damn, he admonished himself. He'd said too much already. He knew now that he should never have come.
~
He resolved to leave them alone, as much out of self-preservation as from consideration of Marianne's obvious disregard for him. Yet, barely a few days later, the news came out that Willoughby and Miss Grey were to be wed, and Brandon cursed himself again for holding his tongue when he'd had a chance. In addition, he received a letter from Lady Allen, explaining all from her position and assuring him that she, for her part, had punished Willoughby to the extent of her ability. It made the entire situation clear–-so clear that when Miss Dashwood requested that he come to see them, he felt, finally, able to share with her the whole truth about Eliza, Beth, and Willoughby.
"I would not have burdened you, Miss Dashwood, had I not from my heart believed it might, in time, lessen your sister's regrets," he assured her at the end of his tale. Such was her distress that he knew he should go, but at the door, he turned. It was not out of kindness to Willoughby that he added his postscript; but solely out of interest in Marianne's well-being.
As to Elinor's request, it was no trouble in the slightest to accompany them to Cleveland and then back to Barton Park. The journey would be made much easier since he'd be riding alongside, with the others in the carriage, but again, the important thing to him was that he was being made useful. His own heart broke for Marianne's pain, but he consoled himself that at least he had a duty to see to the ladies' welfare and that he would discharge it without complaint. It was a bit like being back in the army, in that way, and that was its own comfort. There was no thinking nor any doubt about what was right to do.
Just as there was no thinking what was right when Marianne went missing upon their arrival at Cleveland. It was only a matter of hoping that she had not done exactly what he feared she had done. But when the greenhouses and the grounds showed no sign, there was only one place to look. Despite the clouds and the rain, he spotted her white gown easily among the fields heading to Combe Magna.
It was not all that surprising. He'd said himself to John that she was romantic. She must have believed pining, dying for love was the ultimate expression of it. By the time he caught up to her, she had half-collapsed from exhaustion and wet. Her skin was chilled to the touch and she was already drifting in a semi-conscious stupor.
"Fool," he muttered, bundling her into his arms. If he meant her, or himself, or possibly both of them, he couldn't have said with certainty.
It had been easy to tell Miss Dashwood the truth about his past and Willoughby's ills, because it was what Marianne needed to hear. It had been easy to offer Mr Ferrars the parish, because he knew what it was like to be taken away forcibly from one's love over petty concerns such as money or birth. It had been easy to conduct Marianne home, because she needed the escort. It had been easy to look for her, and even, in its way, easy to push himself to his own limits to bring her back to Cleveland when she was soaked by the storm.
But after that, there was nothing but waiting. As he stepped into the hot bath he'd asked for, warming himself and cleaning up from his mission, he allowed himself to dare to think that, perhaps, she would see his own gesture as at least as fantastic as Willoughby's initial and dramatic encounter. Perhaps more. Or perhaps she would, finally, grow up a little from her ordeals, and recognise that romance for its own sake had little in the way of value.
He ought to have known better than to hope. No sooner did he allow the thoughts than he learned she had sickened overnight…and now they were waiting for Palmer's doctor to deliver news, good or ill.
"What is the diagnosis?" he demanded, the moment the man emerged from the sickroom.
"She has an infectious fever…." he began, and Brandon heard nothing more. It seemed mere moments before the Palmers were decamping to the inn in town for the safety of their child. Brandon promised to stay and look after the Dashwoods, though it was at the expense of his own sanity.
There was nothing to do. No enemy, no material goal to accomplish. He was useless again.
"Give me an occupation, Miss Dashwood, or I shall run mad," he imparted. And he meant it. Here was Eliza, Beth–his entire life, over again. Able to do nothing to help the women he loved.
"She would be easier if her mother were here," Elinor said after a moment.
He could have embraced her like a sister for the inspiration. "Of course," he said–-genuinely grateful. Even so, he boldly took Elinor's hand and kissed it. "In your hands, I know she will be safe," he told her, before rushing to order his horse, and freshening his clothes for the journey.
Here was something he could do, even if it was only riding to Devonshire and back. He put aside the thought that Marianne might slip away while he was gone on his errand–for it was unthinkable that it might be so, and he refused to give the idea even a toehold in the mountains of his mind. He spurred his horse urgently, contemplating only the road ahead and the importance of bringing Mrs Dashwood back to her daughters. She came immediately, of course, and their only impediment was how fast the carriage could travel. He thought of Eliza, and how she had suffered in the poor house with no one to provide care for her until it was too late to make any difference other than to ease her passing. He thought of Beth, even now coming close to the day when she, too, would need bedrest and recovery, and how the child might grow up differently than mother and grandmother.
As they came closer to Cleveland, he grew more and more impatient to return to Marianne's side. Dimly, he realised what a sad case this made him–-still longing for her even after all his protestations of resignation. His only consolation was that Mrs Dashwood, too, seemed to will the distance to shorten, as she encouraged him to drive all night, and neither of them complained as the carriage bumped and rolled over the uneven road.
The relief Mrs Dashwood felt, he imagined, must have been greater than his own–a mother learning that her daughter would recover–-but he could not help feeling at least as grateful to fate or Providence that for once, it seemed to favour him. He followed them in to see Marianne for himself, and only dimly realised, moments later, that he was intruding on their private victory. He would have been content to fade backward and leave them alone, but for the fact that as he began to close the door, Marianne's eyes scraped beyond her mother and sister to regard him softly.
"Colonel Brandon," she called in her post-fever weakness. "Thank you," she breathed.
He felt he could have dined a week on the nourishment of that thank-you.
In the weeks to come, he found it easier and easier to decide what was right. It helped that, it seemed, his prayers that night in the bath had been answered, somewhat, for Marianne did seem changed by her catharsis. She still harboured a love of music, literature, and all the trappings of romanticism–nor would he have wished her to curb her interests. But she was…a good deal calmer, he thought, in observing her as they made the journey back to Barton Park Cottage in easy stages for her benefit.
Her regard for him had changed, as well. That made it easier to resume his original approach: to be present, to be useful, to gentle her into affection and deepen that into something more. One thing that he appreciated was that Marianne's emotions were so frankly displayed, still, that he could have little doubt that she no longer found him old, infirm, or whatever else she had believed to make him unsuitable. She paid him the kind of quiet attention he had always imagined would be gratifying. And it was. If he'd offered her his hunting knife now, he expected, she would not find the gesture unsettling or confusing, but would simply accept it without question. He still wished to lavish her with all the finery she deserved, but he suspected that now, he could do so at a sedate pace-–sure-footed, inexorable, and confident of the response.
He never asked if her rescue had been a turning point, or if she had promised herself to change after narrowly escaping death, or quite where the change derived. Perhaps it came from knowing that he, too, had known disappointment and had made mistakes, and that he still loved her despite hers. He never asked, though, because if he were honest with himself, he didn't much care. It was enough that he could tell it had occurred.
For his own part, he decided it was probably better not to question why his own stars had changed, either. For all he knew, fate might step in if he seemed too happy–-and yet…perhaps in saving her, and perhaps in keeping Beth from complete ruin, he had finally earned some measure of happiness, as well. As if, he had somehow, in loving without expecting love, done enough right that he could truly lay Eliza to rest. Whatever the reason, he meant to keep their quiet courtship from attracting unwanted notice-–for he intended for it to last, and to enjoy it, as long as possible.