Mistress of a Family

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Chapter Four

The invitation was dispatched and gratefully accepted, and a day in mid-October set for Eliza's arrival for a stay of ten days, all that Mrs. Sutton could spare her at present. Elinor, who witnessed more of her sister's nerves concerning the visit than did Brandon, remarked that it was generally preferable for a visit to be too short than too long.

The day arrived, and such was Marianne's agitation that she could eat only a small piece of dry toast. "I hope Eliza will be pleased when she sees the wardrobe and desk in her room."

"You've placed them beautifully," said her husband. "The light from the window will fall perfectly across her page. They look so well there that perhaps I shall make her wait until she marries to claim them."

She smiled at his jest, and then said, "'Until' she marries?"

"I have not lost hope of it--though sometimes I believe she has."

"Surely your patronage will be an asset to her."

"I do hope so."

"Is her father still alive?"

"No. He died a very few years after her birth. Looking back I can see that he was then showing the first signs of consumption."

"What? Did you meet him?"

"I did. I called upon him to insist that he support his child." His expression and tone were briefly wry, as if to say "I really do not intend to make a habit of such encounters"; but then he sobered again. "He refused to acknowledge her--and in truth there was not the compelling evidence of resemblance, for Beth is a mirror image of her mother in almost every feature--and, unlike her daughter, Eliza had not been blameless since. But to avoid further scandal he offered a hundred pounds, and to my shame I took it."

"Why to your shame?" she asked, with some indignation.

"Because had I investigated him more thoroughly I would have learned that he was estranged from his father and in danger of being disinherited as punishment for his many sordid affairs. That is why he did not marry Eliza; his father was very devout and would not have accepted a divorced woman into the family. He probably would have paid much more--though an acknowledgment of his child would have been impossible for the same reason."

"I think you were very clever to get such a large sum at all. I admire your courage in confronting him--you were but two-and-twenty."

"I had been a soldier for five years and had learned how to give orders to other men," he pointed out. "But this man reminded me so much of my brother that--I found it difficult to face him."

"Then I admire you all the more for doing so."

His frown of self-blame and castigation faded before a self-conscious smile. "I did not marry you with the expectation that you should flatter me, you know."

"I do not flatter, sir, and if you believe I do then you do not know me at all and should not call yourself my husband."

"Oh, but I must call myself your husband, and so I will never again accuse you of flattery--I swear it."

"I accept your promise." They were completely alone in the breakfast room, it being their habit to dismiss the maids after the meal was brought, and they took full advantage of their privacy. And then he continued, as he applied his napkin to a smudge of jam that had migrated from his finger to her ear, "That hundred pounds allowed me to place Eliza in a better school than I could have afforded, and gave me time to save enough from my pay and appointments to maintain her there when that initial sum was exhausted. So for all his faults her father did fulfill more of his obligations to her than--"

He stopped abruptly with a guilty glance toward her, and Marianne finished the sentence for him. "Than Willoughby has done for Eliza and John."

He nodded. "If he had gone even so far, I would not have challenged him, for the fault was of course partly hers."

"Does Eliza know about the--the encounter?"

"Yes. It was a cause of estrangement between us for some months, but she seems to have forgiven me. We have never discussed it since."

"No doubt she realized she should be grateful for your intervention."

"Perhaps, but I hope it was more than that. I hope she came to understand the necessity of some sort of punishment for his crime. He was so callous when I confronted him, so unfeeling with regard to her predicament. He knew she could not sue him for breach of promise, for all his promises had been uttered where no ears but hers could hear them. He knew that I could not bring suit for seduction because I am not her father. And even if either of those remedies had been available to us, he knew I would never subject her to a public trial, when not only her history but also her mother's would be brought into the record, possibly even published. Such selfish calculation--" Again he halted, but not before Marianne had seen and heard some of the rigidly controlled but inexorable wrath he must have directed at Willoughby on that awful morning. "Forgive me. No matter your current feelings, I should not speak of him that way to you."

"Why not? It is all true. Do not think I have never wondered whether I would have succumbed had he tempted me, and how he would have behaved toward me afterward, especially had I conceived. Would his respect and admiration for me--given his subsequent behavior, I cannot call it love--have survived that intimacy? I do rather doubt it. And then I would have lost not only him, but you as well."

"No," he said softly, "not me as well."

His look said, you see how deep and strong is my love, and as she met that look with one of grateful amazement she thought of tempests, and how this man had never quailed before them.

********************

The aromas of slow-roasting hams, baking bread, and cooling apple and berry pies filled the air as Marianne and Mrs. Baynes made lists of all the items Mrs. Howell insisted she needed in her kitchen and pantry. More frequent entertaining, argued the worthy cook, required additional crockery and utensils, sponges and washtubs, and Mrs. Baynes and Tim were to be dispatched into the village on an expedition to procure them.

"A half-dozen more mixing spoons would be of use, madam, and another pastry slab--"

The worthy cook was interrupted by the crunch of fast hooves in the sweep and a spraying of gravel against the stone steps. Marianne went to investigate, thinking that such a dramatic arrival did not suggest the post-boy delivering Eliza in his pony-cart. She reached the door in time to see Christopher tear open the sealed missive delivered into his hand by an express rider, who stood off to one side holding the reins of his blowing horse. He looked up at her approach, astonishment written on his features.

"It is from Sarah. She and the children are at Plymouth."

"At Plymouth!"

"The tension in Avignon is increasing, and Claude thought it prudent to send them on. There wasn't time for her to write. Marianne--" A look of dismay and frustration came over his face. "I must go to them."

"But--" she began, unable to stop herself even though she feared he would be disappointed in her--and that possibility all at once let her reclaim her courage. "Of course you must go. I am weak to utter even one syllable of protest." His look had changed to one of relief and pride; he knew the upcoming encounter would be difficult for her and applauded her determination to see it through almost alone. "But can you not stay until Eliza arrives? It should not be above two more hours."

"I would not go without seeing her. In the first hour I shall dress and pack; the second--" he brushed leather-scented fingers across her lips "--I shall spend in saying a sweet farewell." He called out to George, who had also heard the rider's approach and was hovering at the stable doors in the event his services were wanted, to ready the chaise. He then glanced toward the house as if to enter, but could not seem to tear himself away from Marianne. "The best laid schemes--" Wistful apology was in his smile. "We should not be gone above three days, but I did expect to be here to ease the way for you and Eliza."

"My dear Christopher, we are two grown women. We should be ashamed of ourselves if we cannot sustain an intelligent conversation between us. By the time you return we shall be the best of friends."

But her bravado deserted her as soon as he started for his study to pen a hasty reply to his sister, and she hurried down the lane toward the parsonage, forgetting entirely to ask anyone to accompany her.

In minutes she had laid the crisis before her relations, but they offered her no relief. Thinking it only appropriate that Marianne's first meeting with Eliza be conducted in the privacy of her own family, they had not hesitated to accept a last-minute dinner engagement with neighbors who wanted to celebrate the news of a son's promotion to first mate.

"Can you not come for an hour later in the evening, then?"

"If we return in time," Elinor said, "and if we can pry Edward loose from Rosalind after an entire evening away from her."

Her husband looked up from his newspaper. "And who was it who would not even take a drive Sunday last after church?" he asked archly, and then winked at Marianne.

Elinor's smile admitted the truth of his accusation. "But Marianne, the Caseboroughs will want to toast Martin half the night. Do not depend on our being able to come away early. We cannot be rude to them, even in such a dire emergency as this."

"Mock me if you like--I have no pride. I did so count on Christopher's being there. If Eliza and I found we had nothing to say to one another we could always talk to him. But now what shall we do?"

"Remember it is you who must make her feel at ease," her mother said. "She is probably more nervous than you are. Ask about her interests, and her work with Mrs. Sutton, the sort of people she meets, her plans--"

"But such conversation is so stilted and artificial."

"One must begin somewhere. Ask her then what she reads--does she like music and painting--

"And have her think I want to display my own taste at her expense?"

"Take her about the house to show her the changes you have made," Elinor suggested.

"And have her think I only want compliments from her?"

Elinor gave it up and returned her attention to the bonnet she was sewing for her child. "If you did not want our suggestions why did you ask for them?"

"I thought you would think of something useful, but you do not care--"

"Marianne!" from her mother.

A tiny wail was heard from the bedroom, and Elinor said evenly, "I do have my own concerns, Marianne." The nurse appeared and reported that little Rosalind was awake and demanding to be fed.

"Of course you do. I am sorry, Elinor. I'm so dreadfully nervous--Christopher is so pleased that I have invited Eliza and I want the visit to go well. Will you please try to come?"

"We shall try, my dear," said Mrs. Dashwood, patting her hand, but as Marianne hurried back to the manor house, nearly tripping over the stable lad George had assigned to follow her, she felt only the slightest bit heartened, for it would be many hours before she could begin to hope for that support.

She was glad to have the distraction of consultation with Mrs. Baynes as to whether extra towels, soap, etc., should be purchased in the village for the impending influx of guests. When they had added several items to the shopping list, she went to Christopher's dressing room and found him clad in a comfortable suit for travelling, and directing Tim to take his case out to the chaise. When they were alone, he pulled her into a tight embrace, wrapping his arms about her as if to make her part of himself so that they would not truly be separated, so that she would always be with him. "I shall miss you, my Marianne."

"And I shall miss you." She returned his embrace with equal fervor, though she was aware that at the moment she clung to him with a certain desperation that she would not have felt in other circumstances. "Take care on your journey, and please tell Sarah and the children that I look forward to meeting them."

"I shall. I'll reach Plymouth tonight, but I expect we'll break the return journey into two parts. If we look not to return by evening of the day after tomorrow, I shall send an express to let you know. I shall be at the Prince George, in the event you should need me."

He rested his cheek against her rose-scented hair, felt her warmth flowing into his body. To have someone with whom to exchange farewells, someone to embrace him and concern herself with his safety; to know that she would be waiting when he returned, perhaps looking up from her work at every hoof beat in the sweep with the same eagerness he would feel as he turned in at the gate, was nothing short of overwhelming. After Eliza was taken from him he had spent quite some time in a state of distracted misery alleviated only by the determined efforts of Jonah Masters, who had taken an interest in a comrade who was far too young to consign himself to melancholy for the rest of his days. Once admitting the possibility, thanks to Masters's badgerings, that he might love again, he conversed and danced with every daughter of the army he could meet on posts and at balls, his willingness to do so ensuring that he was invited to every gathering at which young marriageable ladies were present, especially as his rank and pay increased. This practice he continued after he became master of Delaford and found himself and his assets in even greater demand, but within a year it had become mere habit, for by then, having met every such young lady, it seemed, in three or four counties, he had accepted that he would find no one who could touch his heart as Eliza had done so long before, who could rekindle the youthful liveliness and joy he had lost. To then meet such a one, after giving up any dream of doing so--and to be shown very soon that she was hopelessly beyond his ability to captivate her--had been inexpressibly poignant. To find that situation overturned, to feel her arms around him, to see fondness in her eyes when she looked at him, was quite beyond anything he was capable of wholly believing.

"You will not disappear?" he murmured. "You will be here when I return?"

"I will be here. Come home soon, my dearest Christopher."

"It does feel like home now, with you here, rather than merely a place I sleep and store my clothing."

"I am so glad you feel that way." She began to demonstrate her sincerity, but their kisses were interrupted by the sound of jogging hoofbeats in the sweep. She clutched his arms and drew a deep breath, he pressed his lips against her forehead, and together they went downstairs to meet Eliza.

She was just stepping out of the post-boy's cart, her grip on its side more white-knuckled than one might think necessary for her to steady herself. Marianne hung back while Brandon strode out onto the gravel to welcome her with warm hand clasps and kisses, thanking Polly for her service as Eliza's travelling companion. Then he reached to give little John's chubby shoulder a pat where he squirmed in the chambermaid's arms. She would serve as his nurse during his stay, having gained much experience in caring for six younger siblings at home before going into service. Marianne's eye, thus drawn toward the boy by her husband's gesture, then fixed upon him to the exclusion of all others within her sight.

Nearly two years old now, he was Willoughby in miniature. He possessed Willoughby's curly dark hair and laughing brown eyes, his fine nose and chin and brow, his same open, lively expression. God help me, she thought. What a fool I have been. I cannot see this through--

********************

Chapter Five

She could not have said how long she stood fastened to the step. Long enough for Christopher to exhaust his words of welcome and explanation, long enough for Eliza to send anxious glances her way, her composure visibly faltering.

And then she heard Eliza say, "Perhaps I should go," and she was shamed. After travelling for most of a forenoon, Eliza--her guest--was proposing to turn right around and go home again. She at least had had a little time to accept the new arrangements; poor Eliza, as yet uncertain of her exact standing in her hostess's eyes, must be badly taken aback, having probably counted on the colonel just as Marianne had to direct the conversation and give her hints as to appropriate behavior.

"Nonsense," she said, at last able to coax movement from her legs, words from her lips, and taking strength from Christopher's reassuring smile. "Of course you must stay." When Brandon introduced Eliza to her, she met Eliza's curtsy with a handshake to make amends for her earlier hesitation, and she could see that Eliza was both surprised and encouraged. "And we shall hope your cousins arrive as planned so you may see them while you are here."

"That would be lovely. I have a vague memory of my cousins Marchbanks, but I have never seen the children at all." Eliza's voice was soft and of a medium pitch; she spoke with some hesitation, as if afraid to be thought trying to dominate the opening moments of conversation. She was pretty without being striking, with a subdued air that might result from either nervousness or a natural gravity. Her resemblance to her cousin was not remarkable, but it was plain enough that Marianne thought it not surprising that Mrs. Jennings and others might believe her his own daughter. She could see Eliza examining her though trying not to, and knew she must be wondering what sort of woman had been so fortunate as to win her cousin's affection. And I have yet done precious little to make her think me worthy of him.

Some progress was made, perhaps, in the guest room, where Eliza exclaimed with delight upon seeing her mother's wardrobe and desk restored to a place of dignity, and expressed shy gratitude when Brandon revealed that the suggestion had been all Marianne's. But delight faded before renewed alarm when he was forced, with further apologies and promises to return as soon as he possibly could, to take his leave of her. He and Marianne withdrew to allow her to refresh herself and tend to the usual needs of children younger than a certain age. They did not proceed immediately downstairs, however, but slipped into their own bedroom for a last quick embrace.

When they drew apart he placed his hand gently against her abdomen, firm now but not yet much rounded. "Do take care of yourself and our child, my love."

"Do not worry--I shall keep all my promises." She had to make herself let him go, and when she had seen him to the carriage and he was off, she stood in the sweep until after the vehicle had passed from sight, until she could no longer hear the wheels in the lane.

Recollecting only then that she had left Eliza in her room with no suggestions as to their activity, she directed reluctant steps toward the stairs--but saw Polly taking John's small things to the laundry and asked where were Miss Williams and her son. "In the garden, ma'am," was the answer, and Marianne turned toward the back of the house, reflecting that Eliza was actually more at home at Delaford than she yet was herself.

When she joined them, Eliza immediately began to offer explanation for what she clearly feared her hostess might consider a liberty. "I thought I should give John opportunity to tire himself, or he will never nap--"

And indeed the child was displaying a boisterous energy--just like Willoughby's, Marianne thought--squatting to study a flower and then trying to eat it, thrusting a hand into the pool in an attempt to grab a fish, racing down the paths shrieking with glee as his mother chased him. When he was briefly still, poking at the gravel with a stick, she said, by way of attempting conversation, "I understand that Mrs. Sutton employs a nurse for all the children where you live?"

"Yes, ma'am--there are four little ones there now, all younger than three and walking, so she is very busy." And then Eliza quieted, and seemed grateful when John resumed his spirited investigations.

Marianne was unable to take advantage of the most natural way to pass the time when a child is present, by playing with him or talking about him, for she could not look at Willoughby's son without a pang of remembered mortification and grief, and felt a constriction in her chest until Polly took him upstairs and out of her sight. She had then to fear that Eliza, like most doting parents, would want to boast about her child, and waited in sick expectation for the inevitable recitation of his accomplishments and genius, for it would not require anything like the usual quantity of such sentiment to make her writhe. Eliza, however, spoke not a word of him, and that was worse, because the fear only grew from not being satisfied by actuality.

Marianne offered tea in her sitting room, glad of the little subjects for chat provided by the familiar ritual, on whether or not they liked cream and sugar, on favorite varieties and techniques of preparation, on preferred sweets and savories. But these topics filled but ten minutes, and then they were silent. Resigned, she plunged into her mother's and sister's suggestions for conversation one after another. Inviting Eliza to name her favorite books and paintings, she found that they had similar tastes, but had little to say to each other about any given novel or play or watercolor, each perhaps recalling comparable discussions with Willoughby. When they had finished their tea they walked through the house, Eliza politely complimenting the new paper and chairs in Marianne's sitting room and the general shine all about, the rooms having been scrubbed and polished to welcome the new mistress. But Marianne's thoughts were full of her tour of Allenham with Willoughby, of how happy she had been that day, and of her later understanding of how wrong she had been to go there with him. What had happened to Eliza might so easily have happened to her--there, that day. What if he had pressed her? Would she not have hesitated, refused, distrustful of any urgency when he had the approval of her family? Would she not?

Eliza knew more of the history of Delaford and the family than Marianne had yet learned--which Brandon ancestor had fought for the martyred Charles I, which had sailed for America and married a red Indian, which had raised horses renowned throughout the county--but conveyed it only in snippets as they inspected this portrait and that, perhaps apprehensive that Marianne would think her suggesting that she had some claim on the house besides that of emotion. They talked of the countryside surrounding the estate, and of the neighbors and village life in general, Marianne always, as a dutiful hostess, carrying the burden of opening a new subject when an old one died, Eliza seeming to prefer to follow wherever she led rather than put forward a suggestion herself. She was too diffident for Marianne's taste, reluctant to express an opinion without seeming first to estimate its possible effect on her listener. She could be interesting, even animated, on subjects in which she could claim a certain expertise--her favorite receipts, for instance, and of course sewing and embroidery, for she truly enjoyed her work at Mrs. Sutton's establishment. She had, in fact, sent the Brandons as a wedding present two silk pillowcases embroidered with woodland scenes, and Marianne took this opportunity to compliment her skills anew, having already done so in her letter of thanks. Eliza blushed and professed herself honored by Marianne's praise--and that was all that was said of embroidery. To Marianne this interviewing style of discourse was every bit as formal as she had anticipated, but she preferred it to the silence they would have faced had their conversation depended upon Eliza's initiative; always when Eliza had talked uninterrupted for a minute or two, she would let a thought trail away unless a question or remark from Marianne brought her back to it. They spoke with each other in this unnatural manner until John awoke noisily from his nap just before the dinner hour, and Marianne--and probably Eliza as well--was relieved that the child and the need to dress separated them for an hour. During dinner they complimented each other's gowns minutely, every bit of lace and riband, and then proceeded desperately to a long discussion of china and silver patterns.

In all the interminable afternoon and evening the only subject they did not address was the one on which they had most in common.

After dinner John was brought to the drawing room to be adorable, which he did with many smiles that made Marianne think of Willoughby; but his mother could not be at ease when she could sense that her child's presence was unwelcome, and despite his protests sent him up to bed earlier than his usual time, informing him that after his long journey he was very much tireder than he realized. Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret walked up about half past nine, and it was all Marianne could do not to throw her arms about her mother and plead for rescue. They brought regrets from Elinor and Edward, who had not liked the sound of Rosalind's cry when they arrived home from the Caseboroughs'. "I told them it is only the colic," said Mrs. Dashwood, "and Nurse Garmey agrees, but I promised we should not be away long." They stayed but half an hour, only long enough to exchange pleasantries with Eliza and accept an invitation to breakfast. But it was half an hour filled and done away with, and when they had departed it had grown late enough that Marianne, without seeming very rude, could suggest that Eliza also might like to retire, and Eliza could acquiesce without appearing too relieved.

Marianne fell into bed exhausted by the effort of being amiable enough for two, but she could not sleep; anxiety made her ill for the first time in weeks. How she did regret her boast to her husband--we shall be the best of friends. She could carry on an easier conversation with Mrs. Holcombe, for Mrs. Holcombe would allow it. As hostess she was responsible for the awkwardness of the afternoon, and yet surely in fairness Eliza must share some of the blame. But as hostess it was her place to make her guest feel at ease, and at that she had clearly failed. She herself was not at ease, and was quite incapable of pretending that she was; she wished for some of Elinor's ability, not to mention her husband's, to conceal emotions. Was it even possible that they could ever be comfortable with one another? After such a day she thought there was little hope of it. Christopher would be so hurt, that two of those he loved most in the world could not be friends.

She longed for his arms around her, his soothing voice in her ear, longed to pour out her frustrations to him and beg him to help her find a way to assuage them. He knew both Eliza and herself so well, and was so accustomed to difficult situations; were he here this awkwardness would be less painful, might not even have occurred at all. By now he would be safely--please God, safely--in Plymouth, happy in reunion with Sarah, yet wishing, no doubt, that he could be at Delaford as well. She conjured his image in her mind as if to wish him good-night. How she did miss him! The bed was cold and lonely, the room oddly silent without the whisper of his breathing and the soft rustle of the bedclothes as he moved in his sleep. They had slept apart only during her monthly indispositions and once when he had had a cold and had not wanted to awaken her with his sneezes, but then she had known he was only as far away as the next room, and that she would see him in the morning as usual. Tomorrow's would be the first morning of their married life that she would not begin her day with his smile--and on a day when she most needed to see it, needed to take strength from his confidence in her. The thought made her ache for him, and she murmured his name into the darkness; but the murmur became a sob, and the churning mixture of her feelings at last found an outlet in tears.

********************

Chapter Six

"My God, you look well!" Sarah exclaimed, stepping back from her brother's embrace but keeping hold of his hands. "I have not seen you so relaxed in years. Dear Kit," falling back upon his boyhood nickname, "you look as if you've put aside all your cares at last. Philippe, Christophe!--here is your Uncle Colonel! Come in, come in--you see we have a very comfortable parlor, and you must be tired, coming all that way so quickly. And how does Marianne?"

"She is feeling very well, much improved since the first weeks. She is so looking forward to meeting you all."

"Not as much as I am to meeting her, especially now that I see what she has done for you."

Brandon's nephews, fourteen and twelve respectively, had thundered out of their bedroom, and he saluted them and shook their hands and gave them the bag of sweetmeats he had bought during his brief stop for dinner in Ashburton. "You should have seen Mama when your letter came," they shouted, each continually interrupting the other so as to have the first honor of telling it. "She let out a great shriek--and plastered us all with kisses--and swung Papa around the room--until they were both dizzy!"

"Did she really--my dignified Sal? I should like to have seen that."

"Well, I had worried about you for such a long time, you know," said their mother. "But on the evidence of my eyes I believe I can stop worrying now." His wide smile was her answer.

He followed her into the second bedroom to pay his respects to Louise, aged three, who could not decide whether to be fascinated or frightened by him, and her sister, Marie, just eight months old, whom he was seeing now for the first time. All the children were blessed, or cursed, with the prominent Roman nose shared by their mother and uncle, but in their other features, somewhat narrow and sharp, they resembled their father more. Philippe was named after Claude's father, Christophe after himself; neither of Sarah's other three boys, who had all died in infancy, had been named after Gilbert or Charles Brandon. She had sided with her youngest brother in the ugly family quarrel, and after his exile had never spoken again to her father or to Charles.

It being now past nine o'clock, Sarah ordered coffee and brandy for accompaniment to the narrative of their travels, her note by the express having contained few details. They owed their safe passage to a merchant friend, whose carriage had conveyed them from La Tonnelle, their estate outside Avignon, to one of his ships at Marseilles; this had taken them to Minorca, where they had found passage to England in a British frigate. The voyage around the Iberian peninsula and through the strait of Gibraltar, though not perilous, had been rough, and they had been glad to be put off onto the wharf at Plymouth two weeks later.

"We were all ill for a few days at first--but only a little," put in Philippe and Christophe. They were fluent in English, but spoke it with a noticeable accent. "Except for Nurse Madeleine--she was very bad."

"Yes, she was, poor dear. I do not know what I should have done without my good boys to help me. Louise was also ill, and Marie needed nursing--I would happily have paid the sailors if not for my fine boys." And they blushed at their mother's praise and tried not to look immodestly pleased with themselves.

They did not appear very alarmed at this sudden removal from their home or very concerned about the perhaps uncertain fate of their father, and thus Brandon suspected that Sarah had not been wholly forthcoming with them about the danger. When they had at last gone to bed about midnight and the door was safely shut, he poured her another brandy and spoke in a low voice, lest a sharp young ear be pressed to the keyhole.

"And now, what is really happening? You look very tired, and you are thinner than I like to see you." Though she was the elder by five years, he could be at least as solicitous of her wellbeing as she was of his.

"Well, I do not lament that," she said with surprising cheer, and as always he admired the flexible strength that had allowed her to live with something like aplomb in what had been, in the early years of the Revolution, one of the most volatile areas of France. "Christophe told me after Marie was born that I looked like a brioche!"

"My namesake is kindness itself. You are not ill, then?"

"Oh no, only anxious. An unhappy time for us--"

"Is there anything I can do? I have an adventurous contact or two at Minorca--"

She was shaking her head. "You know that Claude is not too proud to ask, but really we think it will be all right." She sighed and picked at an embroidered rose on her dress. "He is selling La Tonnelle to an uncle. The laws concerning émigrés are relaxed now, but by tomorrow they might be as harsh as they ever were, and we should lose everything. I haven't told the boys yet--why upset them until it is all settled? Of course Philippe expects it to come to him. I suppose it will be many years before any of us can return. At least it will be in the family. Claude will follow when he can get free of the lawyers. He is going to plant acres of grapes in the home farm at Whitwell and become famous throughout the county for his wine!" Her smile was wistful, and her eyes swam a little. "Of course we are very fortunate to have Whitwell, but La Tonnelle had become home to me. I shall miss it."

"It is a lovely place--I shall miss visiting there. But as sorry as I am for the loss, I am so relieved that you are finally quitting France, and I cannot but be overjoyed at the prospect of your living so near. I want my children to know their aunt and uncle and cousins. It is selfish of me, I know."

"But so very sweet. And to hear you talking of your children! Is marriage all you hoped?"

He drew a deep, reflective breath. "I feel--alive again."

"Yes," his sister said with great satisfaction. "I shall definitely like her. And of course she thinks you the most wonderful man on earth."

His hesitation was very brief, but she noticed it and gave him a puzzled look. "I hope--I believe--she would not have married me otherwise, but--well, I confess that of the two of us I am the more completely infatuated."

"Oh, I see. Don't worry, dear Kit, it will come. I love Claude more with every passing year. It is inevitable that love should grow after shared experiences--or affection become love." She looked briefly self-pitying. "I have never been separated from him as long as this. He looked so forlorn on the dock as our boat pulled away-- I must try to stay busy."

"You will have your work cut out for you at Whitwell. Does Mrs. MacIntyre know you're coming?"

"Yes, I wrote to her at the same time I wrote to you, telling her to engage more servants and consider which workmen we shall need first."

"We have kept it in one piece for you, but it does need attention." A leaking roof in a remote wing had gone unnoticed for a time and had resulted in some damage to joists and ceilings. Brandon, with the assistance of the housekeeper and steward, had overseen the roof repairs, but had been going to put off the interior work until after the rents were collected. "The village will be pleased to have the house occupied again."

"I do wish we had been able to find a satisfactory tenant--absentee landowners are such an evil--but then who knows how long we should have to trespass on your generosity now?"

"My dear Sarah, Delaford is your home as much as it is mine."

"It will feel it with you as master. How strange it will be to live in England again. It is true we shall live well, and not be forced like some of our friends to make straw hats or paint watercolors to sell at the émigré bazaars--but the differences of culture, of habit--" Her own speech was laced with the faintest touch of foreignness. "You will have to give me helpful instruction."

"Stay with us as long as you like--do not feel you must hurry your arrangements. We have even got new mattresses in the guest rooms."

"How domestic you sound!"

"Our next task is to ready the nursery," he added with a smile, furthering the impression. "Will you want to travel tomorrow?"

"Yes, we have not even unpacked completely. I know you want to return home as soon as you can."

"It is a joy to have a reason to go home. But beyond that--Eliza is there, you see."

"Eliza!"

He explained about the visit she had inadvertently interrupted. "They were so uncomfortable with each other, and I do feel as if I have abandoned them."

"But why should they be uncomfortable? They'll have great fun talking about you."

"I had forgotten--I have not yet had the opportunity to tell you of Marianne's earlier experience. The details are of course hers to reveal if she chooses, but she loved a worthless young man who encouraged her affections and then deserted her for an heiress--and it is that very cad who is the father of Eliza's child."

"Oh dear--that is awkward. But if they wanted so badly to meet each other they must have thought they could survive it."

"No doubt, but the indications were not very promising when I left."

"And you would like to rescue them, hmm? Well, I am sorry to have pulled you away. You should have explained in your note and told me to travel post."

"With four children and but one nurse? I would not have it."

"And so you charged to our rescue as well. Bless you, my dear. It will be so nice to see Eliza all grown up--and of course make myself foolish over little John. My own boys are almost young men now. Poor child--she has not made herself an easy life."

"No, she has not. But she is bearing it with resolution, and I am proud of her."

"If she is, you taught it to her--she did not inherit resolution from either of her parents. I'm sorry--I know that is painful. But it is true. You were deserted for an heir, you know." His look said he agreed with her. "But now you have got your just reward!" And his contented smile as he sipped his brandy told her he agreed with that as well.

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Continue to Chapters 7-8

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