Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

WHITWELL, DORSETSHIRE

N otwithstanding those people in society for whom secrecy is a cover for purposeful wrongdoing and an intent to deliberately mislead, there is another type of person for whom secrecy is paramount. This person does not intend to harm others by keeping the truth from them but finds himself motivated to silence because of a deeply personal dislike of self-revelation to anyone, even his most intimate associates—even, should he be married, to his wife. If anything imputing a lack of character, anything denigrative, should be inferred by such secrets, he is even less likely to reveal even to his closest intimates his own personal shortcomings. Driven by pride and shame alike, these people prefer to suffer quietly than to admit their failings to others, even at the risk of losing those they love.

Colonel Brandon was that type of gentleman to whom secretiveness in others was abhorrent, and yet he could not but help keep his own secrets. Having suffered deeply in years past, first from an imposing and tyrannical father whom he could never please, to a love affair which had impressed upon him a great idea of his own guilt and unworthiness, he was now perfectly fit for concealment of shortcomings—and Brandon, a gentle soul in truth, had held within his heart an increasing burden of guilt over the death of Eliza Williams, his first love, which had accrued there over many years, and which could never be revealed to any person unless the stakes became greater than the loss of his pride.

Added to this was another burden—his guilt at not being with Eliza's daughter, Beth, when she had lately passed. He was tormented by thoughts that he could somehow have prevented her passing away by summoning the very best medical attention—although the doctor later told him she could not have survived the sudden and virulent illness which overtook her—but still, he had not even been there to hold her hand as she drew her last breath.

These things added so greatly to the existing burden of guilt that he already carried with respect to her dead mother, that he had found himself drowning in dark and gloomy sensations which were not easily thrown off. He had neglected his wife and his children because of it. He had failed as a lover, a husband, and a father. He had found himself withdrawing more and more from Marianne and the children as time passed. It was not that he did not love his wife and children, but after young Beth's death, who had been more like a daughter than a niece to him, he had suffered ever more shame. All he could focus on was William, to whom he was devoted. William was the only light in a dark world.

It was William who made him feel that he could somehow redeem himself. The boy was Willoughby's bastard child, it was true, but he was half Beth's also, and beset by guilt over his ward's death, he had refused to think of any other alternative but that the boy must come to Delaford and be brought up as one their own family. That this must have been a trial to Marianne had occurred to him but he had found his heart fixed upon assuaging his guilt in some way. Not certain that she would not have refused him if asked first, he could not consult Marianne's feelings over it, and so instead of asking her approbation, he had announced his decision and brought the child to Delaford.

Marianne, as he knew she would once the deed was done, had accepted it quietly and without complaint, for she had known that he was burdened with guilt from Beth's death. She was good for him, he thought with a pang, and yet his increasing shame over his actions had caused him to distance himself even more.

His being called away to Whitwell by his brother-in-law had been a provident excuse for being alone to brood over his mistakes and contemplate the loss of his ward. But finding there was little for him to do at Whitwell, his sister and Perville now gone across the channel, and the estate running efficiently under the hand of the new overseer, the Colonel had made excuses to stay on, rather than to go home to Delaford.

The boy, William, had been a fine distraction from his own unpleasant thoughts for a time, but even the Colonel knew that he must return the boy to his tutor, and get back to his own affairs. But his own affairs were in a riot, and he knew that when he returned to Delaford in the next few days, it must be to make peace with his wife, and with his guilty conscience.

He had been sitting in the library at Whitwell after breakfast, checking over the accounts, and he now sighed and returned his dried-up pen to the inkwell. In truth, the state of his own affairs made it difficult to carry on working. He knew that he was simply putting off what must be done. The new overseer had this morning been given his final instructions, and Brandon had full confidence in him. The man would look after the estate until his brother-in-law, Perville, returned, and that might be three months or more, depending on his sister Mary's health. Since the distance between Delaford and Whitwell was merely an hour on horseback, he felt equal to keeping an eye on the place while overseeing his own estate, and with this in mind, he determined to return to Delaford on the morrow, with William.

He had just taken up his pen again to begin a short note to Marianne, informing her of his return early the next day, when there was a knock at the door and the housekeeper appeared.

‘Two letters this morning, sir—both sent on from Delaford today.'

‘Very well, thank you, Mrs Gates.' He took the two envelopes, the topmost one gaining his attention for the handwriting was that of nobody known to him. Waiting until the housekeeper had left the room, he broke the wax seal and opened it out. It was dated two days ago.

Dear Colonel,

You do not know me, but I am a friend of your brother, now deceased, Mr. Richard Brandon. On this ground alone I hope that you will excuse me for not calling in person, but as my business is of a delicate nature, I thought it best to see you away from your family.

I had to make some enquiries as to where I should address a letter to you. I finally discovered that I might find you at Delaford Village, and I have given a charge to my man to see that this letter reaches you there.

Forgive me, but I am obliged to request an audience, on a matter of the greatest importance, and for which I cannot call upon you at home due to the delicate nature of the business. If you will humour me, I urge you to come at once to London, where you will find me at the Widow's Arms in Chester-street. Ask for "Mr Edouard."

I shall then make my business plain and beg your forgiveness for not doing so in this letter. You shall understand all when I see you. I shall be in Chester-street for a week. If you would be so good as to find me there as soon as possible, I would be greatly obliged.

Forgive me for any obscurity, and that I must, for now, sign myself only

Edouard B.

In God's name, what did this mean? Brandon stared at the paper. A friend of his brother? Richard Brandon had drowned at sea two years after he had divorced poor Eliza, and no friend of his had ever come forward before. What did it mean?

He sighed, dropping the letter, and went to the window. Outside, young William was being taught to ride a pony by Whitwell's head groom, and for a moment, Brandon smiled at the vision. The boy was going to be a good horseman, if nothing else. He turned away and took up the strange letter again, deliberating on what he ought to do. But the second letter, when it caught his eye, demanded his attention and when he noted the handwriting he flushed deeply. It was from Marianne and was dated that day. Guilt and dread now had an equal share with him, and he opened the paper up almost in agony. Its contents did nothing to allay his agitation.

You will forgive me for writing in such a manner, and with such feelings poured out upon this page, for I must have one last chance of relief from them by expressing them openly to you, my husband, who knows me best in the world, and to whom I have devoted myself for almost five years.

I can think of nothing I might have done to deserve the coldness of address with which you speak to me these days, and yet if I have given offence, then I beg your forgiveness, and ask only that you restore to me the peace of mind that I once had as your devoted wife, by your assuring me of your love, and that anything I have inadvertently done might yet be forgiven .

By the time you get this note I shall be on my way to town, with Sir John who has offered to take me with them when they all go up to Mrs Palmers. I hear the carriage coming now!

My dearest Brandon, I can only beg this one thing of you—come to me in town, to Hanover-square, and once and for all put me out of my increasing misery—to tell me finally, is all over between us, or has there been dreadful misunderstanding that can be righted somehow?

I remain your devoted and loving wife

Marianne.

Her words struck him with an agony that tore at his heart. He must put his pride to one side and save his marriage. His pride had been his downfall, but his own sense of what he knew to be right must now prevail. He had already determined to leave Whitwell tomorrow, but now he felt a great urgency to be gone at once. He would place William in the hands of his nurse and his tutor and leave for London directly.

Marianne, in Sir John's carriage, would arrive in town the day after tomorrow. He could, on horseback, make London by late evening tomorrow if he took the shortest routes and stopped only to change his beast. He would go directly the following day to see this fellow, the mysterious Edouard B. Then he would go to Marianne at Hanover-square, see her alone, and beg her forgiveness.

He had been a selfish oaf—a fool! He had almost lost her! He would confess his great guilt at Beth's passing, beg Marianne's forgiveness for bringing William to Delaford without consulting her, and although it would crush his pride to do so, he would accept her disdain and anger if that was his fate. But he would not let her down—he would not allow his foolish pride to bring an end to their marriage. Marianne was as dear to him now as she had been when he had met her, and if he lost her, it would be his own fault. He must fight for her, if he still had a chance.

His eyes had been opened to the folly of his thinking, and he was ashamed. He called for his horse to be prepared at once, and made the journey back to Delaford in quick time, young William seated in front of him. The groom came at once to meet him, and with the news that Mrs Brandon had gone only that morning to London with Sir John and Lady Middleton.

Not even taking the time to leave a note for Edward and Elinor, he left instructions with his footman to inform them of his going on to London, ordered up his horse and his trunk to follow by carriage, and was gone at pace, galloping towards a fate he could now only leave in God's hands.