Mistress of a Family

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Chapter Thirteen

"I do look forward," Sarah said, with a kind of weary resignation, "to the day when you can enjoy Whitwell's hospitality." She contemplated the leaves at the bottom of her tea cup as if she might divine the future. "I wonder if it will occur before the year is out." More delays in the work at Whitwell--some of the plasterer's men had given notice, and the carpenters had caused further damage to the roof--had necessitated the Marchbankses' removal to Delaford for the celebration of Philippe's fifteenth birthday.

"I am just as pleased that you have come here," Brandon replied. "Marianne is less than a month away from her delivery, and though Avery has said that so short a journey as to Whitwell would be no danger to her, I would rather she not risk it."

His sister studied him. "I believe the two of you will be excellent parents. Young parents can sometimes be too indulgent, but if Marianne has that tendency you will correct it, for you know the value of discipline."

"We have discussed this very issue, in fact, and have decided that Marianne is too impatient to be indulgent, and I too afraid of calamity. Our children will never be allowed to do anything and will very likely be miserable."

She laughed gaily. "The most pitiable in England, no doubt!" She was occupied for a moment in pouring herself another cup of tea, and when she looked up again saw that he had become serious.

"I want us to be as you and Claude are with your children, or as Mrs. Dashwood is with her daughters. For years I believed that all families were as disharmonious as ours, until I was out in the world and learned that there are also loving fathers and strong mothers."

His last comment interested her greatly. "Then you do not think Mama would have intervened for you and Eliza."

He gave a little shake of his head. "I did once, but not any longer. It was a sad, difficult realization. The world also taught me a certain comprehension of human nature, even in those I love. She would have done what Father ordered, and thus his victims would have been three rather than two, for it would have torn her heart to be forced to choose between husband and son." He added softly, "If she had to be taken from us too soon, I am glad she was taken before she was made to suffer that."

"She would be so happy for you now."

"Yes, and for you. A strong marriage, wonderful children-- How goes it with Claude? Have you received any letters of late?"

"A bundle arrived just this morning before we left, the most recent written a month ago. At that time he believed he would be with us by summer. But so much can change in a month-- He worries that Louise will not know him. Marie certainly will not--"

"They will, with a little time."

"Yes, and in the meanwhile he is so thankful that the boys can turn to you--"

And they did so readily, though perhaps not in the manner their father assumed. On this occasion they set out to mock him, begging at dinner with feigned excitement to be taken immediately to see Mr. Increase Jones's drains. "We shall not rest until we examine them, Uncle Colonel. Have they increased in number--?" Philippe's witticism was greeted by Christophe with appreciative elbowing and snorting. But both subsided at once when Brandon announced, with a gleam in his eye that made Marianne stifle an unladylike snort herself, that as they were such excellent young fellows and so devoted to their duty, he would be pleased to escort them to Mr. Jones's farm without delay at seven o'clock the following morning. "And what a fine birthday present that will be for Philippe--I cannot think of a better!" But he was not truly such an old ogre as that; the party did not actually set out the next day until nine, and as Philippe had entered the breakfast room to see a fine new saddle and pair of boots on a rack next his chair, he did not find the ride very onerous.

It was about two o'clock when Marianne heard her husband's firm step in the hallway outside her sitting room, where she and Sarah were sewing new linen shirts for both boys; though it might not be Christophe's birthday, he was growing at least as quickly as his brother. "You have had a long ride!" she exclaimed when he appeared in the doorway. "Exactly how many drains has Mr. Jones installed?"

"We have not, in fact, spent all our time with Mr. Jones. Sarah, I bring someone to see you--"

He did his best to sound nonchalant, but when she looked up from her seam and saw his face, the blood surged to her cheeks and her hands began to tremble. In an instant she had rushed from the room.

"Oh, Christopher--is it Claude?"

"Yes! He is safely arrived at last, stopping here on his way from Dover as he knew the family might well be with us."

Marianne hurried down the hallway but halted in the shadows of the entry hall, her eyes filling at the sight of the noisy rejoicing before her in the sweep. Christopher coming up very close beside her, she slipped her arm through his and felt his hand curl around hers, and silently they shared in the happiness of the moment. So inundated was the new arrival with embraces and kisses from his wife and sons that it was some minutes before Marianne could even see him, but finally he was able to extricate himself and be introduced to his sister-in-law. His countenance and bearing were open and pleasant but determined, and, though her judgment was no doubt influenced by what she knew of him, she could easily imagine him masterfully avoiding confrontation in Avignon no matter what faction was ascendant at any given time, yet risking fortune and safety to protect his family.

With the exception of the landing port, Claude's journey had followed much the same pattern and route as his family's, though he had not waited as long in Minorca for a British vessel. Upon landing at Dover and realizing that he might arrive in time for his son's birthday, he had been travelling all the previous day and night with only brief respites. "Bonaparte has already caused me to miss my Marie's first birthday--though she does not know it, at least. By God, he would not make me miss this one!" Had he not found his family at Delaford he would have quickly paid his respects and hurried on to Whitwell. He was soon settled in the breakfast room with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches, in his haste having had nothing to eat since the night before. He was tired and rumpled and unshaven, and quite obviously the most wonderful sight any of his family had ever seen; they clustered around him at the table, engrossed in his every word. Little Marie was happy to sit in his lap and sip milk from the cup he held for her, and Louise, though she had not yet spoken to him, did not run away but regarded him thoughtfully from her mother's lap, and smiled whenever he said "chère Lou-lou" in the way she had always liked. "And how my sons have grown! I should hardly have recognized you had you not been with your uncle!"

His observation pleased both boys greatly, though they stoutly denied that he should not have known them. While on the turnpike they had been startled by shouts of "Philippe!" and "Christophe!" from a passing post-chaise. Slowing, puzzled--for who in this neighborhood could be well enough acquainted with them to halloo them from a carriage?--they saw the chaise pulling up, discommoding several vehicles behind it, and the passenger fumbling at the latch in his hurry to exit. When they saw who emerged they jumped off their horses, shouting "Papa! Papa!" in their turn, and Brandon, though he was almost as glad to see Claude as his nephews, was obliged to be sensible and suggest that perhaps the reunion might be better held on the verge rather than in the road. "And I wanted to race back to tell you, Mama, but I could not tear myself away--"

"Dear Christophe, I would not have wanted you to tear yourself away from your papa--"

Claude reported that the threatened uprising had come to naught, the worst of the royalist agitators having found few sympathetic listeners and given up their cause--for the moment. "It is a relief to have calm in the region for a time. But still I am not sorry to have left it all behind, so weary am I of living from moment to moment. The France we loved is dead, and when Bonaparte falls, as he eventually must, who can say what new chaos will prevail?"

The boys wanted to know then about La Tonnelle--whether the crops were faring well and whether their friends and their favorite tenants and servants were in good health. Their parents' eyes met briefly over the table, and the Brandons sensed their silent agreement not to taint a day of celebration with the sad tidings Claude had brought. But the next morning after breakfast they were closeted with their sons in the library for over an hour, and when the door was at last flung open both boys ran out of the house in different directions. Later they rode together for several hours, and by dinner-time they were able to join the others with a dignity that made their parents proud, their training as gentlemen and the strength they had gained from their recent ordeal supporting them well through the experience of learning that the events of their lives would not often be theirs to control. Their grief was also partly assuaged by circumstance, the loss of stones and mortar and fields dimming in significance beside the joy of their family's restoration. Philippe understood, with his head if not yet his heart, that he would learn to transfer his interest and affection to Whitwell, and Christophe similarly understood that he would learn to appreciate the advantages of purchasing an estate of his own choosing some years in the future; and after dinner both young men were more than ready to help their aunt and uncle plan a party for a date one week hence to celebrate their father's return.

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The festivities were very well attended given such brief notification, with upward of fifty guests. Few had ever met Claude in former years, but many by now were acquainted with Sarah, and were happy to honor her husband for her sake. In any case, Marianne's musical sensibilities had ensured that the Brandons quickly earned a reputation for engaging the finest musicians available, and word had also been spread very efficiently that for this occasion Monsieur Dupuy was to be summoned from Whitwell to augment the tables with French delicacies. Brandon declared that the Whitwell staff would probably welcome a brief return to simple pork and celery and beet-root, to which Sarah retorted that he need not fear for his own palate, for Monsieur Dupuy would not deign to serve an unappreciative audience.

The colonel looked on with indulgent amusement as his sister ordered his servants about, and pressed upon Claude all his best fishing tackle so that he and his sons--and little Louise, who had actually requested to be taken along--could escape the preparatory chaos. "You are looking benevolent again," said his wife, when he came into the drawing room to be assured that she was not overtaxing herself by selecting the music for a planned duet with Susan Wilverton.

"I am feeling benevolent. You worried once about disrupting my family, but in truth you have brought my family together."

She beamed at him, but objected mildly, "You give me too much credit. I had nothing to do with your sister's family's leaving Avignon."

"No, but you have made the home that has welcomed them. And my gratitude for your attentions to Eliza is beyond my capacity to express. And best of all, within a very short time I shall be a father, beginning a role I had thought I would never play. My Marianne--" His voice trailed off, and for a moment he simply gazed at her. Then he clasped her hands. "Are you very certain this party is not too much a burden for you?"

"Quite certain. All the authorities say that it is better for a woman near her delivery to do what feels right for herself. I cannot sit idly about and be anxious for the next two to three weeks; such a mood would not be healthy for me or for the baby." She had written her letter to her unborn child one bright day when she was feeling very energetic and not morbid at all, and then tried to put all her fears out of her mind. "It is much better to be busy. Oh, Christopher--I received a note from John and Fanny today. I am sorry to tell you that they will be pleased to attend the party, and we may expect them by three o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

"Well, I would much rather endure them than offend them. I wonder what value they will place on Monsieur Dupuy?"

She burst into giggles not unshaded with surprise. She had never expected that their union would be so filled with laughter; but as time passed her husband recovered more and more of that part of himself that had been buried for so many years. He was positively lively as they greeted their guests the following evening, trading political witticisms with Mr. Wilverton and rhapsodizing over Mrs. Holcombe's hat (some lovely early crocuses and daffodils nestled amidst tufts of bright, spring-green grass). She could not often be near him, for she was feeling heavy and slow and had no difficulty keeping her promise to him to sit down frequently--though as movement seemed to lend some relief to her aching back, she would soon get up and walk around again. But no matter on which chair or sofa she came to rest he would soon find her, to bring her the latest compliments from a guest regarding the food or the wine or the music. "You are a marvel, my Marianne. No one would know that this party had not been planned for weeks. But I do wish I could dance with you. You are so very beautiful tonight."

"I am round and red-faced and panting."

"You are beautiful, and I am looking forward to the return of your strength and energy--for many reasons."

"You are a flatterer! It is no wonder that every woman in Dorset wanted to marry you. But now you must stop whispering sentiments that will make me blush even redder than I am already, and go and dance with Mrs. Holcombe so that I can admire your figure from afar."

"Is it fair then, lady, to make your husband blush?" He obeyed, however, and she was soon trying to repress a fit of chortling, for he was sufficiently taller than Mrs. Holcombe that his nose was exactly at the level of her bobbing daffodils.

"What is so amusing?" Eliza, bright-eyed and flushed from dancing, had taken a seat beside her. Marianne could only point, but Eliza comprehended at once as Brandon and Mrs. Holcombe joined in a turn. "Oh dear! But look at my cousin--he is unfazed--it is just like him."

"He has had many years of practice being unfazed by Mrs. Holcombe and her hats. How is John Brandon?"

"He is permitted to watch from the landing until half past ten. It is much too late for him to be up, but he was so excited. He is disappointed, however, that you will not sing him his lullaby tonight--but I promised you would sing to him in the morning. Louise was with him, and they were actually talking--though not very intelligibly--about what they would wear to their first balls. Heaven only knows what the fashion in hats will be then! Did you ever watch parties and balls from the landing?"

"Oh yes--I was known to bruise my cheekbones, so eagerly did I press against the balusters at Norland. I could not wait until I was old enough to attend. And you?"

"I did not ever visit Delaford until Cousin Brandon inherited, and his parties did not usually include dancing; but I did peer downstairs to watch the ladies and gentlemen in their fine clothes arrive for card parties. On one occasion, though, he hosted a tremendous celebration in honor of Lord Somebody-or-other, with at least a hundred guests and an orchestra, and he allowed me to stay up as long as I wanted; I fell asleep on the landing about four o'clock and was carried to bed by a footman!"

Even as primarily an observer, Marianne was caught up in the evening, in the snatches of overheard complaints about the income tax and the rising poor rates and debate over whether Britain should come to terms with France, in playing duets with Miss Wilverton while the musicians were granted a brief respite in the servants' hall, in graciously answering the many queries about her health. Claude and Sarah danced and talked together as if they were newly wed, and she was filled with a deep contentment to picture herself and her husband behaving in like fashion after a marriage of five and twenty years--though she hoped that they would never suffer such a lengthy separation. Mrs. Holcombe, inevitably, sought her out to give advice, with which she had been generous ever since Marianne had called upon her in the matter of the school subscription. That endeavor, once begun by the Book Society in response to Mrs. Holcombe's exhortations--Mrs. Bagglesham and Mrs. Thornton being in town for the season and no longer an obstacle--was an unqualified success; the first dozen children so supported were showing great improvement in their characters and their knowledge, according to the schoolmaster and mistress, who were happy to benefit from the added employment. Marianne replied now, as she had replied every time Mrs. Holcombe had been similarly helpful, "Thank you, ma'am--that is very useful information. I must present it to Mr. Avery" (who had, no doubt, already been told by Mrs. Holcombe herself).

The baby was kicking and squirming a little, and she could not but think it equally stimulated by music and chatter and the mingled aromas of food and candles and the scents of many different perfumes and sweetwaters. She smiled to think that it would not be any time at all before her own sons and daughters were pressed against the balusters, impatient to grow up and enter the bright world below. So immersed was she in the merriment all around her, in fact, that it was not until after one o'clock, when she was actually beginning to think of taking a brief nap in her sitting room, that she realized that these spasms of discomfort were striking at regular intervals.

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Chapter Fourteen

"How long--?" Marianne asked when she could speak without first crying out. Gradually the pain receded and her breath ceased to come in gasps.

Elinor consulted the library clock. "Eighteen minutes."

"We had better get you upstairs, my dear," said Mrs. Dashwood cheerily, dabbing with her handkerchief at the sheen of perspiration on her daughter's forehead. "You will be much more comfortable."

"But it could be hours yet. I would rather not make an exhibition--everyone would know-- Oh, why did Mr. Avery's estimate have to be too generous rather than the reverse?"

"Everyone will know as soon as the surgeon arrives," Elinor pointed out. Swearing Tim to secrecy among his fellow servants, Marianne had sent him for her mother and sister and then for the surgeon and nurse, long engaged for about this time and only awaiting the summons. She had not yet sent for her husband, for she was not at all certain she wanted him to witness any portion of the indignities she would soon suffer. "And so will Colonel Brandon," Elinor added, more urgently. "Let me bring him to you, Marianne."

"No, Elinor, your sister is right. This is not a situation in which men excel."

Marianne leaped to her husband's defense. "Christopher is highly competent, Mama, and hardly squeamish! I simply do not want to worry him--or to be worried by him."

But her attempt to spare them both was successful only five minutes longer. Coming in search of her to begin his usual loving interrogation as to whether she had stayed too long on her feet or desired another sandwich or cup of punch, at the sight of her mother and sister flanking her on the sofa he understood instantly what was occurring, and went white. "Marianne, are you all right? Good God--why did you not inform me?" All his early anxieties, that had been subdued by her robust health and his own constant exertions, now threatened to inundate him. "How could you keep this from me?"

His agitation in turn upset her and made her defensive. "I thought it was only the baby kicking, and it has been but a few minutes, and besides, there is nothing you can do."

That she did not deny his accusation did not escape his notice. When would she have summoned him? In half an hour, an hour--not at all? "Nonsense. I shall send for Avery and the nurse, and have your room prepared--"

"It is already done. Tim has gone for Mr. Avery and Nurse Tarville, and Elinor and Mama have seen to the room."

"Than what can I do?" he burst out in frustration, some of the color returning to his face. "Marianne, I am a part of this as much as you--"

"You did your part nine months ago!" Marianne cried, an absurd and panicked lashing-out; then immediately burst into tears at his stricken expression, at his small exhale of shock, as at a blow. "Oh Christopher, I am sorry, that was terribly unfair--"

Elinor began to think that Marianne and her mother had been correct after all to want to keep the colonel in ignorance as long as possible, for Marianne's sake if not for his own; she had been calm until his arrival. He was kneeling before her now, offering her his handkerchief. "Colonel, I think perhaps Marianne would be more at ease upstairs--"

"Yes, of course." He stood and held out his hands. "Can you walk, my love?"

"Certainly I can walk. The pains are still eighteen minutes apart. Christopher, I wish you would go back to the party--"

"Back to the party?" He was incredulous, and hurt by her dismissal. "Marianne, you--you cannot seriously ask that of me--"

"Would it not be better to continue this discussion upstairs?" Elinor pressed them. "If you do not want your guests to know, it would be best to remove from the public rooms."

This appeal to reason prevailed, and they were all soon arranged in the bedroom that Marianne had chosen for her lying-in chamber--the largest of the spare rooms, well-ventilated, that had been scrubbed from ceiling to floor and fitted with clean linens and furniture covers according to Mr. Avery's instructions. "Christopher, please--"

"Really, Colonel," said Mrs. Dashwood, clasping his hands, her voice rich with sympathy but firm with maternal protectiveness, "there is no need for you to worry. We shall make Marianne comfortable, and your guests will be wondering what has happened to their hosts." It was obvious, however, that the host was prepared to let his guests fend for themselves. "Do you not want to go down and wait for Mr. Avery?"

On that point he surrendered. "Yes, yes, all right." Again he knelt beside Marianne. "If this is how I can help you best--"

She smiled as she brushed away her tears. "For now, yes. Please." He went, though with great reluctance, and when his step could no longer be heard in the hallway she said, "Thank you, Mama. He is a man who must always help."

"He will not stay away a moment longer than necessary," Elinor predicted, having witnessed the intensity of his anxiety once before.

Again Marianne was more relaxed without her husband's anxious gaze upon her, for her mother and sister's concern was more practical and brusque as they helped her out of her gown and into her shift. Within the hour Mr. Avery had arrived, Tim having ridden swiftly and the surgeon having been immediately available. Brandon was at his heels, almost underfoot as Avery washed his hands and arms in the basin of hot water brought by a maid.

"I congratulate you on your timeliness, Mrs. Brandon. Mrs. Clement at the opposite end of the parish is approaching her lying-in as well, and I was very much afraid that both your babies would choose the same day to enter the world. Though I am quite a talented surgeon, you know, I cannot be in two places at once."

The colonel, banished to the hallway during Mr. Avery's examination and unable to see the smile his jocularity brought to Marianne's face, was not at all pleased by the surgeon's seeming lack of appropriate gravity. "I will thank you, sir, not to jest where my wife's health is at risk," he said, advancing on Mr. Avery the moment he emerged from the bedchamber.

But Mr. Avery, having faced many overwrought fathers-to-be in his thirty years as a medical man, was wholly unperturbed. "Mrs. Brandon's health is excellent, Colonel--though," he added very sternly, "you do not aid her resolution by talking of risk."

Edward reached the scene in time to hear this last, and suggested that if his patron felt the need to vent his anxiety he might find suitable targets downstairs. "There was no hiding a surgeon with his bag, and now the whole assembly know why he has come. I fear that nobody has any intention of leaving."

"They cannot all stay until the baby is born!" Marianne cried. She was pacing the room, having found that continued movement provided some slight balm to her nerves. "Christopher--!"

"I shall go and explain to them," he said, and once more departed--more readily this time, and she knew she had hurt him again.

By the time he returned, however, he was more composed, his own nerves having been eased by the performance of a necessary task, and the sheer physical activity of navigating a staircase and a crowded drawing room. "Sarah and Claude have appointed themselves our surrogates, so all is well below. They send their warmest wishes but will not add to the clutter, as they say, up here. I have indicated to our guests that your needs must dictate our actions, and that as your preference is for quiet and privacy they would do you the greatest favor by departing. Most are calling for their carriages, but a few, alas, are determined to wait it out with us." A hubbub of conversation in the entry hall against a fainter backdrop of musical accompaniment drifted up the stairwell. "In addition, I have been lectured by every parent in the house. Some assert that I must not let go your hand for the next twelve hours--"

"Twelve!"

"--others that I must immediately take myself off to the nearest alehouse--"

"Of what use are they as husbands, then?"

"Some wives, my dear, would rather their husbands were not in the way at such a time," Mrs. Dashwood pointed out serenely, while Elinor glanced quickly at her brother in fear that he might assume that this remark applied to the present situation.

But he had eyes, and ears, only for Marianne. "Most, however, suggested that I could be of some use by providing distraction. I thought--that I might read to you?" Elinor now saw that he held in his hand a volume of Shakespeare, but he spoke hesitantly, pleading rather than demanding to be included.

"I should like that," said Marianne, aching to make amends, though she paid him only intermittent attention as he began The Merry Wives of Windsor. She did not want to be read to. She did not want to be confined--that awful word--to this room for hours, days. She wanted this ordeal behind her, longed to be holding her child and gazing at her husband with affection again rather than with this strange, vague, unjust irritation--even as he read himself hoarse to give her something on which to concentrate besides her own apprehensions and the pains that assaulted her. They came steadily faster--fifteen minutes apart, then twelve, then ten--and strengthened in intensity until she doubled over with each one and clutched at his strong hands until her own ached. Eliza had come upstairs with him; she added the benefit of her own experience to that of Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood, suggesting that Marianne should breathe this way or sit that way, and some of her recommendations did seem to help. She also fetched wine for her cousin's parched throat and gave him respite from reading, glad to be able to keep vigil with him as he had for her--though when he was not reading he was no longer distracted from his own apprehensions, and the anxious lines around his eyes and mouth deepened into canyons. Marianne appreciated all their efforts more than she could say, even as she fought to keep from screaming at them that she would rather be walking in her beloved woods, amidst the night breeze and the crickets rather than in this expectant chamber whose walls seemed to be moving nearer.

How could her mother and sister doze off in their chairs, no matter that three, and four, and then five o'clock had passed them by, and leave her defenseless against Christopher's hollow stare and unceasing efforts to cheer her? Even Mr. Avery was snoring softly in a corner, unconcerned and uninvolved unless a real crisis developed, for he was a strict non-interventionist, believing that to interfere unnecessarily with the process Nature had prescribed could actually increase the danger to both mother and child. Surrounded by people, she felt very much alone. With her mother and sister or with her husband separately she could be unguarded, but with all of them here together, with guests in the house--John and Fanny--! Of all her sins, which had been so vile that she should deserve John and Fanny at this of all times? She could hear them as if they were in the room with her--their comforts inconvenienced, such a long journey only to have their pleasures interrupted, why could their sister not have waited a day or two?--and of course Fanny had not made one offer of assistance. That was in truth something of a blessing, for Marianne did not at all desire her sister's cold interest--how had such a woman ever produced a child?--but might she not have offered?

Dawn was breaking, and Brandon and Eliza--and Margaret, who had begged to be of some use--had nearly reached the end of As You Like It, when Edward came to report that the stamina of most of the remaining guests had at last been worn down, and that only the Wilvertons and Mrs. Holcombe were yet in the house. "Except for John and Fanny, of course, who went to bed hours ago." He himself sported purplish circles around his eyes.

"Well, that is typical," was Elinor's frosty comment. "Gone to bed as if nothing extraordinary is happening."

Her husband's expression reflected her sentiment. He further reported that the musicians and the additional servants had been told to return in a day or two for their wages, with the exception of three who claimed a desperate need of funds, whom he had paid himself. Brandon was just beginning to thank him for his thoughtful assistance, when Mrs. Holcombe's strident voice could be heard in the hallway, demanding to see Mr. Avery. Marianne froze in her pacing, which she had hardly ceased for the past hour. Her pains were five minutes apart and seemed determined to fix there forever, and one more strain she could not bear. "Christopher," she said desperately, taking little care to lower her voice, "I do not care how much we both respect her. I cannot abide her just now not ten feet away." He rose at once and started for the door. "And--and perhaps you would like to go downstairs for a time--you must want some fresh air--"

Elinor never knew how he managed even the faintest of smiles--or the lie. "Yes, I--I do."

His voice was so raspy she could hardly make out the words. He laid the book on a chair and was gone. With her eyes and a gesture she pleaded with Edward to follow, to be of what comfort he could, at the same time smiling to think that in this situation the younger man was more experienced by far than the elder.

When the two men were out of earshot she confronted her sister. "How could you send him away just now? Did you see his face?"

"Of course I saw his face! I know I have hurt him! But if this continues I shall be snapping at everyone within reach, and I would rather snap at those less sensitive than he is-- Oh my dear sister, please forgive me--I am saying all the wrong things--"

Elinor clasped her hands and pressed her forehead against Marianne's. "Dearest, if you cannot be forgiven for saying the wrong thing now, there is no justice in the world. Only explain to him later and all will be well."

"Will there be a later? I am beginning to feel that I shall be trapped in this state for the rest of my days!"

But Mr. Avery, awakened by her frantic voice, upon examining her again pronounced himself satisfied with her progress. He checked to make certain that Nurse Tarville, whom he knew well and had recommended, had arrived and was arranging for cloths and blankets and hot water, and then slid complacently back into his doze.

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Having at last dispatched the Wilvertons and even Mrs. Holcombe homeward in their carriages--though not without having to endure hearty blessings from the former and relentless advice from the latter even as she was trotting down the drive--Brandon stood indecisive on the porch. The stone radiated a chill in the thin early morning light. He was stumbling with sleeplessness; he was unnaturally alert. He could sleep on these very stones; he would never sleep again. Sarah and Claude were napping in the library, having been helpful to the point of falling asleep even while talking, but they had not succumbed to fatigue without extracting a promise to be awakened in time for the birth itself. "She will be all right, Kit," Sarah had said to him again and again. "Trust Mr. Avery and try not to worry so. The important thing, you know, is that Monsieur Dupuy's fruit tarts did not go to waste." He could not smile, but he embraced her tightly in gratitude for her attempt to hearten him. Claude, however, having suffered his own agonies through Sarah's most dangerous pregnancies and the subsequent grievous losses, rested an arm briefly across his brother's shoulders before trudging wearily down the hall. Brandon cast an anguished look toward a particular window above, imagining that he could hear Marianne's every gasp of pain. He felt utterly, irrelievably helpless.

"Can I interest you in a walk in the garden, Colonel?" He had not heard Edward's approach. "The air is bracing, and the birds chipper--" Edward thought that Marianne, if she could know, would be pleased with him for thinking to mention birds.

After another glance toward the window, Brandon nodded dully. "But I must stay near the house."

"Of course. I have already told the servants where they might find you."

They walked for a long while in silence, Edward waiting to be shown what sort of comfort his friend and patron might want, Brandon lost in his own morose thoughts. Did Marianne truly resent him? Tension always made her petulant, and though her comments might sometimes sting he knew that she would not make them were she not completely at ease with him, did she not feel completely free to speak her mind to him. But pregnancy and childbirth, a burden even in the most companionable of marriages, surely must be intolerable for a woman who did not love the man who was responsible for her condition--

"Wives must hate their husbands at this time," he said, gloomily.

"If they do it is but a temporary animosity." Brandon greeted Edward's reply with a weak smile. "Elinor says the pain does not linger."

"If all goes well."

"It usually does."

Brandon knew full well that even during Edward's brief tenure as Delaford's rector, two of his parishioners had died in childbed. He tried to stretch the knots of tension from his shoulders, but the muscles only bunched again. "You have had some practice soothing fearful husbands."

"Some. Many of them drown their anxiety in liquor. I always thought that a cowardly remedy until I was in their place."

"I remember how calm you were. How did you do it?"

Edward gave a little laugh. "Did I appear calm to you? I was only petrified. As to how I retained any sort of coherence-- Prayer. Quite a lot of prayer, actually."

"I have tried it, to no avail. Mr. Ferrars--is it wrong to wish to remain childless rather than lose the woman one loves?"

"Good Lord, no--I think it is perfectly understandable. But that is a choice God has not seen fit to give us. To remain childless deliberately would mean denying both husband and wife what should be one of the sacred pleasures of marriage."

Brandon directed another bleak glance toward the window. "A pleasure that can carry a terrible price." Before Edward could try to combat this morbid sentiment, however, Brandon was able to rouse himself a little. "As it happens, I have a new case of port in the cellar. Perhaps I should break it open--"

Though it might be doubted whether the colonel would have acted upon his own suggestion, the truth will never be known, for at that moment Mrs. Baynes's cry rang across the garden. "Colonel Brandon, sir!" (urgently beckoning). "Only a little while now--"

But he hardly heard this happy postscript as he dashed across the garden and into the house, up the stairs two and three at a time and down the hallway and into the lying-in chamber, not even seeing John and Fanny in the breakfast room eating their bread and cake and tea in sleepy unconcern, or the several servants who scuttled out of his way with smiles and giggles, having never seen their master in such a state. At his first sight of Marianne, positioned now in the usual manner upon her left side, with her mother and sister clutching her hands and bathing her face--he had never known such terror. But in the next instant he realized that all the faces that greeted him were cheerful, that the comments he heard were bolstering and untroubled; and he dragged air into his lungs and commanded, from a place inside himself he had not known he possessed, tranquility.

Elinor said with great kindness, "She has been asking for you, Colonel. Come and take my place."

"Christopher?" Marianne's voice was a weak sob.

He did as he was told, sitting in the chair Elinor vacated and kissing Marianne's sweaty hair. "Yes, my love, I am here." Her shift was tucked up under her arms and an old petticoat covered her lower body, to provide her a little modesty in this cruelly immodest situation.

"Please do not leave me."

"You know I shan't ever leave you."

Mrs. Dashwood was quite taken aback to see a husband in the actual delivery room, but her daughter had insisted upon it and Mr. Avery had recommended indulging her, "as long as he will not faint." But a soldier is certainly no stranger to pain or to blood, and even though watching his beloved in her suffering and labor was torment for him, Brandon was not in the slightest danger of a swoon. In fact, Elinor thought with amazement, with the possible exception of Mr. Avery himself her brother was the most steadfast person in the room. He bathed Marianne's face and neck and hands with a cloth soaked in cool water, soothed her with his hoarse voice and gentle caresses, kissed her hair and her brow and her cheek and let her clutch his free hand until it was bruised.

But even his calm had its limits. "How much longer must she endure this?" he finally demanded of Avery, after thirty minutes that seemed an eternity.

The surgeon, restoring the petticoat after an examination, could but reply, "Until it is over. I can only tell you, Colonel, that though Mrs. Brandon's labor is slow it is progressing steadily. I shall remind you that a slower delivery means less chance of laceration. Mrs. Brandon, please remember not to push--" (as she was racked by another contraction).

Brandon bit back a sharp retort that would only frighten Marianne. In an effort to be well informed he had read all the medical literature on pregnancy and childbirth he could find, and now knew every possible complication that she and their child might yet face. He had kept those texts from Marianne and wished now he had not read them himself, wished he could have faith in Avery's placid, low-voiced assurances.

And then, somehow giving an impression of suddenness even after so many interminable hours, Mr. Avery announced, in the aftermath of a frightful cry from Marianne, that the infant's head was delivered. Marianne gripped her husband's hands as if drawing strength from him during her last and most intense pains; and in a few moments a tiny wail was heard in the room, and Mr. Avery was saying with as much pride as if the labor had been his own, "We have a girl."

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Chapter Fifteen

"You may come in now, Colonel," said Mrs. Dashwood, beaming at the new father. He had been banished to the hallway once again while Nurse Tarville washed the baby, Marianne was made presentable by her mother and sister, and the maids put clean linens on the bed, so that when he tentatively entered the room he saw no mess or disorder, but only the astonishing vision of his wife suckling their newborn daughter.

He could hardly take his eyes from them, but he managed to thank Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood for all they had done. "I am so glad you were able to be here to support her--to support both of us."

Mrs. Dashwood kissed his unshaven cheek. "Dear Colonel Brandon, you were really quite wonderful yourself. Now, the three of you need some time alone without any intrusions, before all the household comes in later to stare. Margaret, for one, is beside herself, and John Brandon insists that Marianne promised to sing to him--though of course we have told him that he must wait until she is strong enough. Elinor and I shall tumble into a bed for a few hours, but Nurse is just outside, and Sarah and Eliza are downstairs should you need anything. God bless you both!" Elinor added her kisses and blessings, and reminded them that Edward was ready to christen the new arrival as soon as she had been given a name.

And then they were alone. The room was gently lit with the spring sun filtered through half-closed draperies, freshened by a mild breeze from the partly open window. Brandon sank into the upholstered chair that had been brought near the bed, and simply watched the two nearly motionless figures on the bed before him. Quiet prevailed, so that the small, sucking sounds of the babe were clearly audible. Marianne, propped against a mountain of pillows, gazed down at her child with that familiar unworldly expression almost universal in paintings of the Madonna or any maternal figure; he had thought it an idealization of Motherhood, a romanticization--but it was genuine. And then she looked up and smiled, a radiant, proud smile, and was again his own Marianne, exhausted and content and disbelieving that this long-anticipated event had finally arrived. "Are you in any pain now?" he asked her, his voice soft and slow with fatigue, and thought the baby stirred a little in response to the sound.

"Only the pain of hard physical effort, but I am so happy I hardly notice it--especially, I must admit, when I lie very still."

He wanted to gather her into his arms, to envelop her with the love and gratitude that overwhelmed him, but he was under orders from Mr. Avery to be careful of her--"She is somewhat fragile now, you know." The surgeon would not leave the house for several more hours, perhaps as long as a day; having made use of a basin and ewer he was now presentable himself, and was taking a hearty breakfast downstairs. Fragile in body Marianne might be, but she showed no sign of being emotionally unbalanced by the recent assault to her delicate feelings. Brandon was beginning to suspect that to designate women the weaker sex was a vast oversimplification. Had he escaped to the nearest alehouse, or even into the library, he would not know it. "You must promise me," he said, "to obey all of Avery's instructions as to rest and diet, and to allow us all to wait upon you for at least two weeks."

"Yes, I promise--though I do not look forward eagerly to four days of only tea and gruel."

"Shall I come and eat some with you, so you do not suffer alone?"

"Oh, such a noble gesture--my dear husband! The greatest favor you will pay me will be to keep me company when I become restless from being shut up here in this room. At the moment, however, I haven't the strength to be restless." The infant moved a little in her arms. "Look at her, Christopher. Is she not incredible? I am already worried to death that I could lose her. Mama says that the anxiety of a parent never goes away, even when one's children are grown." She shifted the babe to her other breast. "Christopher--are you pleased--is it really all right that I have had a girl?"

He regarded her with all the incredulity he retained energy for. "Marianne, when I offered myself to you I did not care whether or not you had any children at all. I wanted you. I do not think of you as some sort of brood mare."

"Christopher!" So surprised was she to hear an indelicate comment from him, so near to laughter, that she nearly dislodged the baby. Clearly his behavior, too, was adversely affected by tension.

He passed his hands over his face, as if to rub away weariness. "Good lord! Forgive me, please, for speaking so bluntly. What a comment to make to one's wife!"

"You are only tired."

"I am tired? You are exhausted, and still you tolerate my ravings. My dearest, if I had intended to allow this estate to take precedence over my own happiness, I would have married years ago." He smiled at last. "So--you may have as many girls as you like."

"As many as I like? Then you will not mind providing ten or fifteen marriage portions?"

He gave a little cough. "Ten or fifteen! I see that I had better increase my rent rolls, and locate some new investments." He was quietly amused that he was able to contemplate tin mines and shipping fleets while still in a state of awe at having witnessed the miracle of birth. "I am glad you have chosen to nurse her yourself."

"The arguments in favor of it are so persuasive. I always wanted to, even before, and now, having known the--the-- 'Pleasure' hardly begins to describe it-- The sense of a bond forming, perhaps-- I cannot imagine any woman denying herself, no matter the inconvenience, if she is physically able." Her forehead wrinkled in brief distaste, remembering who was at the moment a guest in their house. "No, I am wrong--I can imagine some women."

He agreed with a wry smile, then said, "Actually, my love, I meant--because you will delay conceiving. I would happily finish out my life without enduring this dread again. Wilverton tells me that succeeding births are less terrifying because husband and wife have gained experience, but I cannot believe it. No measures we might take would provide certainty--but every precaution will lessen the risk for you."

"Be thankful Mrs. Jennings was unable to attend our party. When she learned of my pregnancy from Mama, she wrote to me a letter of congratulation that detailed every ghastly emergency she had ever heard of. She had performed the same service for Elinor, so I knew to expect it, but I dared not show such a recitation to you!"

Her affectionate concern touched him deeply. "You were very kind to protect me, but as it happens I was rather harrowingly well informed myself." He explained about his researches and his reaction to them. "Next time, perhaps, we can be more forthcoming about our qualms."

"Should there be a next time. There is one positive way of not conceiving, you know."

He felt his insides congeal. His lips moved but for a moment no sound emerged. "Y-yes," he was able to say at last, "if you were to ask me--" Other husbands would be angry, he knew, but all he could feel was a stunned and empty grief. If the risk genuinely frightened her, however, did he have the right--

Had she thought her legs could hold her, Marianne would have lunged off the bed and thrown her arms around him. "Christopher, I would never ask that of you! I would never ask it of myself unless it meant my life. How can you think I would? My dearest husband, I was only teasing you--I am so sorry--I only wanted to make you smile--"

The wave of relief made him dizzy, and it was a moment before he could manage a soft, weak chuckle. "I should have realized it. Fatigue has made me too sensitive."

Chagrined, she replied, "How can you not be sensitive when I have been so unfeeling toward you, so concerned with my own fears that I was unable to accommodate yours? I only sent you away, you know, so I should not compound my offense."

He blinked in surprise. "Offense? I had forgotten it, truly. You asked for me at the end--that was enough. To be present when my child was born-- Marianne, you cannot know what that meant to me."

"I felt so much stronger for having you there." She was stirred by an infinite tenderness as she observed him, as he gazed in wonder at the tiny bundle she held, blinking back moisture, his nerves and emotions still raw and beyond his complete control. She felt that they were conjoined in a way they had not been before, that they had embarked upon shared elations and fears, that when they had married they had been stepping toward one another, but now stepped forward along life's path together. The infant's sucking had become intermittent, sleepy, and now the tiny mouth fell away from her breast, the small form sagging into slumber in her arms. She closed the slit of her nursing dress and shifted to one side of the bed. Softly she said to him, "Come and hold your daughter."

He was hesitant, alarmed, but she was gently insistent, and he rose onto unsteady legs and slid carefully into the bed beside her. The baby's entire length fit into his two spread hands. "My God," he whispered, and no longer tried to stop his tears. He cradled her in the crook of his arm, pulled aside the soft blanket and traced each small finger and toe, the delicate shells of her ears, caressed the fine strands of corn-silk hair. "It is so light."

"It will probably darken, as mine did."

"We have made her, you and I."

Marianne nestled against him, feeling the catches in his breath, seeing the trembling of his hands. "Kiss me," she said, and he did, gently at first and then with an intensity that contained nothing of passion or desire, but only gratitude and love, his stubbled cheeks and chin rough against her face, his tears salty on her lips. When they drew apart, she said, "You must choose her name."

"I?"

"You." Gently she dried his face with her handkerchief. "I shall accept anything you suggest."

"You are very tired--should you make such a concession now?"

She laughed sleepily. "I am reasonably coherent. Whatever you choose will be perfect."

"Even Elizabeth or Jane or Susan?"

"Even those. All three if you like."

He was too tired to laugh but his smile was warm and rich to the very depths of his eyes. Pondering all the disparate and often unhappy events in his life that had led him to this blessed moment, he said softly, "Joy. I should like to name her Joy--because joy is what I feel when I look at her, and at you."

She gazed at him for a long moment. "It is perfect, as I said it would be. Perfect."

She pressed tighter against him and slipped one arm around his back and the other across his stomach and the precious, trusting burden he held, and as she allowed sleep to claim her she felt only a deep, abiding sense of safety and peace.

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© 2000 by Karen A. Beckwith

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