“What? Who do you mean?” His eyebrows shot up. “You speak of Brandon’s chit?”

“Willoughby! That innocent you ridicule is my husband’s ward and the mother of your child! You have no right to speak ill of her or anyone in my household!”

The gardener started to move closer, obviously alarmed at the tone of the conversation, but Marianne gestured that he stay where he was.

Meanwhile, Willoughby attempted to defend himself. “Innocent! You declare she had nothing to do with her situation. I assure you, madam, that was certainly not the case.”

Marianne grew livid. “For shame, Willoughby! You took advantage of a mere child! I believe my husband schooled you better in manners than that?”

Willoughby’s color rose. “He told you of the duel, did he? I should have known!”

“Of course, he did. There are no secrets between us.”

“Oh, yes, I am sure he told you everything! Tell me, were you impressed with his skill with a blade? Did that make you see him in a more favorable light? For there was a time when you thought as little of him as did I.”

Willoughby is jealous of Christopher! That fact reassured her; she knew how to revenge herself upon him. “Thank you for reminding me of my foolish youth. As you see, I have learned better. As for matters of my heart, they are none of your concern. But I will say this—I am ashamed of the girl you knew, and I thank our Lord every day that Colonel Brandon took pity on me and gave me an undeserved chance to truly know him. I am a better woman for loving him.”

Willoughby blanched, and for a moment, Marianne thought he was going to be ill. Just then they were joined by Elinor, who held a small bundle in her arms. Right behind her was an irate, cudgel-bearing Mr. McIntosh.

With a thankful smile, Marianne took her daughter Joy from Elinor. “Have you met Miss Joy Brandon, Willoughby?” She stroked the child lovingly about the head, cooing at her for a moment before turning her disdainful eyes to her former suitor. “Look, my love. This is Mr. Willoughby. Mark him well. He is just the sort of man with whom your dear papa and mama do not want you to associate.” She smiled at the mortified and angry gentleman, and moved Joy so he could better see her. “Do you not think she has the look of Colonel Brandon about her, sir?”

“I see I have wasted my time here,” growled a humiliated Willoughby. “I had thought, I had hoped… but it is no use. Is it possible I might see my child before I leave?”

“Why? You have never requested it before.”

“She is mine, as you say.”

Marianne shook her head. “Only if you formally acknowledge her as your daughter, sir.”

“You know I cannot do that. Mrs. Willoughby would never allow—” Willoughby bit his lip. “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time, Mrs. Brandon, Mrs. Ferrars. I meant no harm, no infamy, I assure you.”

“Why did you come, Willoughby?”

Gone from Willoughby’s face was the façade of bonhomie. Instead, it was replaced by longing and regret. “To see you, to renew our acquaintance. I have always regretted you, you know. Ask your sister.”

Marianne sighed sadly. “Oh, Willoughby, you only came because Brandon was not here. You are such a coward. Truly, I do not wish you ill. Look to your own marriage for happiness; you shall find none here.

“Good-bye, Willoughby. I trust we shall not meet again.” With that, she turned and walked towards the house with Joy in her arms and Elinor by her side.

Mr. McIntosh stepped closer to the visitor, his club twisting in his large and rough hands. The gardener joined him, brandishing his trowel. Neither looked the least friendly.

A nervous Willoughby took a reflexive step back. “Here now, none of that.”

McIntosh’s eyebrows twitched. “My mistress bade ye leave, sir. We’re makin’ sure ye do.”

“No need for that,” he said, eyeing the club. “I am leaving directly.”

The steward pointed towards the stable with the cudgel. “You’ll find your horse right where ye left ’im. But a wee bit of a word first. My master, Colonel Brandon, charged me to watch out for th’ missus, an’ that’s my sworn duty, afore God. I’ve marked ye, sir, an’ I mean to let th’ whole of Delaford know of ye. You’re not welcome here, and ye best remember that. Be on your way an’ don’t come back.”

*   *   *

London


Mrs. Rebecca Buford was walking from the parlor to the music room when she heard a cry come from the library. Rebecca did not hesitate to open the door to see to the matter. She discovered Caroline, staring at a letter in obvious distress.

“What on earth is the matter?”

Caroline looked up wide-eyed at her sister-in-law. For a moment, she struggled with the thought of fleeing to her room without a word. Instead, she did the bravest thing she had yet done in her young life—she handed the letter to Rebecca.


May ——, 1815

Buford House, London

Caroline,

Every evening I return to this small boardinghouse outside of Brussels, exhausted from my labors for the king. The food and fellowship are tolerable, but they cannot replace what I desire most in this world. Every day I look and wait, and yet no word comes.

Why do you not write? Since you went away, I have heard nothing from you.

If you are unwell, tell me so at once. Do not withhold word to protect me—my imagination is so great that nothing save your being in dire straits can be any worse. Let me share your burden.

Have I hurt you in any way? Please tell me. How else may I make amends? Please, just a few lines would salve my soul.

Your faithful husband,

JB


“I do not understand!” cried Rebecca. “This cannot be! You write constantly!” She saw that her sister’s distress had increased. Rebecca instantly realized that she must do what she could to help Caroline, lest the babe be endangered. She tossed the offending letter upon the table and pulled a chair near Caroline to take her hands in hers. “There has been some sort of misunderstanding.”

“He… he thinks I have forgotten him!” Caroline cried. “He feels so betrayed! What shall I do? What has happened to my letters?” She grew even more agitated. “Someone is stealing them! I know it! Who would do such a monstrous thing?”

“No one is stealing them.” Rebecca strove to soothe her sister. “There has been a mistake, that is all.” She picked up the letter again.

“Perhaps the French are sinking our ships on the way to Antwerp!”

“I do not think so. It would have been in the papers—did you say Antwerp?”

“Yes, that is where he is.”

Rebecca indicated the letter. “But this is from Brussels.”

“Brussels? No, he is in Antwerp. He must be!”

“My dear, look!” Rebecca pointed to a line in the letter. “And here he says that his lodgings are outside of Brussels.”

“I have been sending my letters to the wrong place!” Caroline wailed. “Oh, what have I done!?”

“Caroline! There is no time for that. The army has failed to forward the post. You must write to him as quickly as may be! The letter must leave this half hour!”

“Yes, yes, you are right.” Caroline began focusing on the problem at hand. “But, Rebecca, can one send an express to Brussels?”

“We can try, my dear.”

*   *   *

Delaford


Marianne sought the solitude of a long walk through the Delaford woods. She had much upon which to reflect, given the events of the day before.

Her confrontation with Willoughby had finally closed the book on that chapter of her life. She had not known how she would respond to him, had she ever come across him, and her forcefulness took her by surprise. She blushed to think how she could ever compare that man to her darling Christopher. At that moment, she doubted they were even of the same species.

John Willoughby had admired her but just for her exterior—her looks, her voice, her open manners. Christopher saw more; he loved her for who she was. He adored her body, mind, and soul. He shared everything with her, everything he loved and cared for. He trusted her opinions and sought them out.

Marianne’s improvements were not the result of a project taken on by the colonel to satisfy his vanity. By sharing his love of books and learning, her husband unintentionally ignited a passion for learning in his wife. She grew in talents and confidence, so much that, when he was called away to war, Christopher placed her in charge of Delaford Manor. He placed his unwavering trust in her abilities. If she had not already loved him, she would have fallen hard at that point.

Marianne berated herself. It had taken so long for her to realize her feelings. After her recovery, Christopher began his two-year courtship. By the time he did propose, his attentions were obvious to everyone, including his intended. She remembered wondering what took him so long to come to the point, because by that time, she had resolved to accept her great friend, and she had every expectation of marital felicity. However, when she did not feel the burning passion she had felt for Willoughby, she thought she did not love him.

Living with Christopher taught her there was more than one kind of passion, not just for the act of love but also for thinking well of another—caring about another’s comfort before one’s own and knowing that your partner in life considered your needs first as well. Yet it was not until Joy was in this world that brave, wise Marianne could admit to herself what Elinor saw on her wedding day: She was violently in love with Christopher Brandon. There were three days forever etched in Marianne’s consciousness—her wedding night, the day of Joy’s birth, and the afternoon she told her husband of her feelings for him.