Chapter 42

CHAPTER 42

T hat evening before dinner, when Elinor was strong enough to leave her room, baby Robert quiet with his nurse, the children at last put to bed, and Edward and Mrs Dashwood were at liberty to join them all, a full account of what had passed during the Colonel's absence was conveyed to him in the drawing room; the progression of Marianne's illness after she returned from town, the announcement of Margaret's betrothal to Mr Ambrose and its subsequent termination, and the sudden and dreadful loss of Edward and Elinor's small fortune.

The Colonel was exceedingly moved to hear all these accounts. He heard their tales of suffering with silent despondence, and only after all was accounted for, and all details made clear, did he venture in the utmost gravity, ‘Nothing will ever acquit me, no person, and certainly not my own heart, of the wrong of being away from home while such sufferings and trials were being undergone by the very people I hold most dear to me! But I trust that only once you hear my reasons—only when you have understood why I stayed away so long—that you will forgive me the extended absence which has surely exacerbated Marianne's illness and put such a burden on you all! I ought to have stayed—and yet, I could not!'

Elinor laid a most compassionate hand on his arm. ‘Do not reproach yourself. Marianne would not wish it, and you, I think, have had your own burdens to bear. You must share them with your friends, we who love you, now.'

It was then that they were able to hear for the first time a full explanation of the Colonel's own doings, and what had taken him from Delaford and kept him abroad for so long.

‘I cannot but regret my lengthened absence, and that I was not here to support you all in your trials,' he began. ‘It pains me more than I can say to hear of Margaret's disappointment—I hope that she will not be materially changed by it, for she is of a character which is one of the most fresh and natural of any young woman I have known, and I would not like to see her an altered creature.'

‘Nor do we supposed it to be so,' assured Elinor, ‘for Mama and I think her letter to us was calmer than we could have hoped for. Perhaps she is not so like Marianne as we had always supposed!'

‘In truth I do not like to see the young brought to a better acquaintance with the world—but we have canvassed the topic before, have we not? My own relations with Eliza—the mother of Beth—must always be first in my opinions, and Marianne's own experiences must bear the truth of it.'

Edward spoke. ‘My dear Brandon—none of us, I think I can speak for us all—none of us blame you for any of these things!'

‘Yes,' cried Mrs Dashwood, ‘Dear Edward speaks for us all, Philip dear, only will you not tell us all that has passed since you were so suddenly called abroad?'

The Colonel, even graver than usual, sighed deeply and began his tale. Quickly he related the particulars of the letter he had first received while at Whitwell, and his visit to Chester-street at the behest of the mysterious "Edouard B. "

When the identity of the stranger was revealed, the little party was astonished and wounded.

‘Claim Delaford as his own? But how could it be so? How can such a thing occur after so long a period!' exclaimed Mrs Dashwood warmly. ‘It is monstrous! Excessively ill-mannered!'

‘If his claim was legitimate, Mama, I suppose it was only fair,' said Elinor calmly. ‘But Colonel, how could you know if this Edouard Brandon was really who he said he was, even if there was a family resemblance? Perhaps he could have been taking advantage of a lucky coincidence?'

‘You must understand,' continued the Colonel, ‘that I had no proof one way or the other—although his resemblance to my brother was a first proof to me that his tale was genuine. I was deeply shocked, for I found myself suddenly confronted with the possible loss of Delaford. If I was no longer able to provide an income—a home and security for my family—my son's fortune and inheritance would effectively be swept from under our feet! I was for a time overcome with such feelings and such guilt as such a blow must invariably incite.'

Edward's countenance was all compassion. ‘I wish you had confided in us,' he said with great warmth. ‘You know I should have done everything I could to assist you to discover the truth.'

‘I was so full of remorse,' replied the Colonel, ‘that I found it most difficult to tell a soul. I determined within the day to go abroad and verify the young gentleman's story. I had received Marianne's letter telling me that she had gone up to town with Sir John, and I had had every intention of calling at Hanover-square immediately to settle things between her and I. But when I had heard young Brandon's story, I am afraid I was suffering from such guilt and remorse, that I could not bring myself to tell her anything that I had not first verified myself.

‘And so, I spent the following week consulting my solicitor over the veracity of the birth certificate, which he agreed may or may not have been forged. I also enquired as to a posting in the army again, should I need to earn my bread once more and support my family. If my nephew's claim had turned out to be a legitimate one, I would have been obliged to become a working man, once again, despite my army pension, as that would certainly not have sustained a family of five!'

‘After I had made my enquiries, I wrote to Marianne, for I knew that the Palmers would by now have apprised her of my presence in town, and that she would be anxious that I did not call to see her. By this time, I had decided that there was nothing else to be done but travel to France and ascertain the truth for myself by speaking to the woman whom my nephew claimed was his mother. I secured my passage to Calais, did some preliminary research into the legal standing of Delaford and finally, a week later, I called at Hanover-square. I had intended to reconcile with my wife, and share with her my fears for Delaford and what I had learned so far, but, unfortunately, when I called at Hanover-square, I found that I had interrupted an impromptu visitation by the very person I had the least wish in the world to see just then.'

‘Willoughby!' cried Elinor and her mother in one voice.

‘Yes.' The Colonel was grave. ‘I am afraid I was unhappy—and much astonished—to see them together, and while I knew that Marianne would never have admitted him unless she had been compelled to, I was discomposed enough in myself to be harsh—too harsh—with her, and where I had intended only a reconciliation, I had made the situation worse. I could not bring myself to stay. I left abruptly, without making peace with Marianne after all. I was eaten up with foolish feelings—jealousies—for which I am now ashamed!'

‘But I am sure you did not mean to be harsh,' consoled Elinor gently. ‘Marianne's love for you has never diminished, not even after she returned from town. Although she has been made very unhappy, she has remained loyal and true to you.'

‘Then it is more than I deserve,' replied the Colonel. ‘But I must continue on with my story. I met the ship and was three days in the channel, fighting a little bad weather. We made land on early on the fourth day, and I went at once to secure a hired vehicle to take me to the village where young Brandon's mother was said to reside—I shall call him my nephew, for by all accounts that part I cannot disprove! He had spoken to me of his mother's still being alive and at present living in a small village south of Calais, and I made directly for there without even waiting one night.

‘I arrived in the little village of Alquines the following day and made enquiries as to the whereabouts of a Mrs Brandon. No one had heard of the woman, and at first I despaired that my nephew had given me a false trail in case I should investigate. But after a day, I managed to make enquiries about any women who were widows and lived within a few miles of the village, and in that way I was informed of three potential cottages to which I might apply. The first was just outside the village and I made there in haste, but it was not the women whom I sought and so I turned my attention to the next one.

‘This was a seven-mile ride from the village, very isolated in a very lonely part of the country, and was said to be inhabited by a widow whose name was not known for she rarely left home and had servants manage her household. I managed to hire a horse for a few hours from the local inn, and I set off. My French being very poor, it took me some time to interpret the directions I had been given, but I managed to write them on some paper, and by taking the paper with me and showing it to people whom I passed upon the road, I was able to find the cottage. The place was very bare, perhaps had three rooms or four, and a small garden out the back. All was decrepit and run down.

‘The servant woman who answered my knock was very old, spoke no English, and she showed me to what I supposed was to be a drawing room, although it was shabby and dark and furniture was sparse. There, a woman met me politely, of around my own age, very dark, still handsome, but with much grey in her hair, and wrapped in an old shawl which I perceived to have been of good quality once. She spoke almost no English, and so I was obliged to go away again and procure an interpreter, in the form of the wife of the innkeeper who had hired me the horse.

‘Returning, the woman consented to my coming inside once more. The cottage was a picture of poverty—the furnishings old and the place in general unkempt, and I confess myself not unmoved that any sister-in-law of mine might be obliged to live in such a state. There was another servant, an old fellow who was deaf and limped, but he seemed to do all her necessary work outside. I wondered very much at how she could retain two servants and yet live in such poverty. When, by means of the innkeeper's wife for an interpreter, I revealed my identity, she paled visibly and insisted that I leave at once.'

‘But how strange!' cried Elinor, ‘if her son's story were true, she ought to have welcomed you—you would be her family, and it sounds as if she has very little excepting her son.'

‘Indeed,' agreed the Colonel. ‘I insisted on remaining until she had heard my story and answered my questions. Then, with the help of the innkeeper's wife, she repeated the story which her son had provided me when I met him in London. She claimed to have met my brother while he was abroad, that they fell in love and that six months after his arrival they married, and that Edouard was a product of that union. You may be sure that I questioned her closely—I asked her many questions about my brother—his habits and character—which she seemed to answer with accuracy and even—strangely—a touch of fondness, as if she had truly loved him. But I was not convinced. I asked her if she had a marriage certificate in order to prove that she had been my brother's wife, and when she replied, she told me that she had one, and if I could return in a week's time, she would give it to me.'

‘But did she not hold the certificate herself?' asked Mrs Dashwood. ‘It is very strange that she would ask you to wait a week when she had agreed that she could give you the papers.'

‘I was of the same mind,' replied the Colonel. ‘However, she indicated to the innkeeper's wife that the papers were held for her in safety in a box which was not kept on her premises in case of fire, and I felt that being a reasonable explanation for the delay, I could not decline. I therefore returned a week later, and the woman—supposedly the widow of my brother—handed me the papers which would prove her to be either a liar or telling the truth. I opened them up, inspected them, and concluded that on the surface they seemed legitimate.

‘The marriage certificate claimed that the place of marriage had been in a parish—a Catholic parish—not so far distant from the village as to make it a long journey, but it involved travel of around two days. I tried to hire a carriage to take me, but I could find none. I was advised that I would have to go to another village, and from there another—and so I was delayed a full week trying to obtain a carriage to make the journey. It appeared that everywhere I went, the local people were strangely determined to obstruct my purpose, and I believe that they were as suspicious of me as I was of the woman who claimed to be my brother's widow. I still suspect that the woman, having the support of her village, had tried to find a way to prevent me from travelling, for the result of my journey would be to verify her story and the veracity of her—and her son's—outrageous claims.

‘Finally, however, I was able to hire a carriage and without further delay I travelled into the region where she had told me the parish was established. There, I found the church easily enough, and here begins perhaps the strangest part of my tale.

‘I sought the priest but was only able to find a deacon available to speak with me. The fellow spoke rather good English fortunately and I proceeded to show him the marriage papers, and to ask to see the records. It was very strange, for when I showed him the paper, which ought to have been nothing to him but names on a paper, he appeared to become flustered, and then to recompose himself with a little difficulty. I insisted on seeing the marriage records, and with some reluctance, he set forth before me the books in which are kept the records and are available to all for the purpose of perusing the names and marriages recorded there.

‘On inspecting the date and looking for the names recorded for that year, I soon found an entry. But it was not quite as clear as the others, being smudged. It was also strangely bold in comparison to the faded writing of those marriages that surrounded it. "There is something amiss," said I, to the deacon, who had been hovering nervously nearby. "Would you kindly take a look at the entry here and tell me what you make of it?"

"Why certainly," said he, coming forward with so pale a complexion as must tell a tale of some guilt, or so it seemed to me. "Why," he says to me, "it says as written, Richard Brandon of Delaford, England, and Marie-Eva Toulouse of Alquines, 24 th day of April, 1779."

"This ink is fresh," said I, for indeed the ink was not as faded as the other writings, and it stood out to me clearly that this had been written fresh on the page perhaps in the last week or fortnight. "Will you explain how a marriage claimed to have taken place three-and-twenty years ago can only just now be written in at the bottom of a page and so boldly as to make me think it were written yesterday? Tell the truth," I reminded him, "or I will not hesitate to make further enquiry of your priest!"

‘Well, the fellow did not take much convincing, for he gave way at once to remorse and confessed that a woman had come to him only a week or so earlier with three one pound notes and a request for him to take the money if only he would preserve her from financial and moral ruin, and she would make her confession to God as soon as it were done and no more would ever come of it. He said that it was clear that the three pounds was such a sum to her as would be to a beggar, that he supposed it to be the most valuable thing that she owned, and on that score he gave in and agreed to make an entry in the books. She told him that someone may come to see the entry, and not to give her away or it would mean the end of her. The deacon agreed, and the deed was done.'

‘Good God,' exclaimed Edward. ‘A sin so grave must surely not make whatever pecuniary satisfaction that could be gained, enticing enough to commit it! A pillar of the church, too! I am very sorry to hear it!'

‘I supposed that the fellow could not resist the addition to his meagre yearly wage—but he broke down and I had it all out of him without much effort. Perhaps his conscience pricked him, I cannot say. But I knew then that the claim of my nephew was intended to dupe me of Delaford, my brother's estate, and that even if he were truly Richard's son, he was not the legitimate offspring of any union but a bastard son of my brother, who never married the woman, and for all intents and purposes likely left her in poverty after he died suddenly.'

The company were mortified. ‘My God,' said Elinor, ‘so this Edouard Brandon attempted to steal what was not his and represent that he was your brother's legitimate son and heir! It is unthinkable—but why did he do such a thing—and his mother complicit in the deceit! What in heaven was their object, for what would inspire them after such a lengthy period to suddenly have an interest in Delaford? Surely the woman must have known of Delaford's existence, and your own legitimate inheritance of it, long before now?'

The Colonel sighed. ‘I confess the questions in my own head were similar to your own, Elinor. I was determined to have the entire story and so I returned to the village and with the innkeeper's wife's assistance, I obtained the truthful version of events from the woman herself. At first she was angry, but after a time I feel that she could not continue the lie and decided to throw herself upon my mercy .

"It is true," said she, "that I loved your brother, Richard Brandon. I met him about three months after he arrived in France—he was travelling—I was pretty then, and young—hair so long and shining—I was a picture in those days!—and I saw him on horseback. He was thirsty, and looking for a meal, so I led him and his beast to the garden behind the house of my father, and saw that he was given water and food—and his animal too—and all the while I talked to him while he was eating—I spoke French of course, and I had no idea of his understanding any of my silliness—but he answered me in French sometimes and seemed to understand the gist of it. Afterward, he stayed in the village and we saw each other in secret—Papa discovered our liaisons and forbade me to see him—so we decided to marry. He was much older than me, and was not a Catholic—so, what could I do?" Here, she turned her hands out in the way the French do—and shrugged. She told me they at first tried to ask for permission, but because she was of a good Catholic family and he was Church of England, her father would not even give permission for him to convert and marry her.

‘She told me that my brother found her a cottage in Alquines, the very one that I was standing in, and that he lived with her there for several months. I found her story both poignant and difficult to believe, for I know my bother, and he had little heart for women—poor Eliza had already suffered at his hand, and now I found it hard to believe that he could truly love, let alone bring a female whom had been his mistress back to England to live as his wife at Delaford. It is not the Richard Brandon that I knew. His pride was the compass by which he lived. He would not bring home a spoiled woman, a ruined female, as his legal wife. And yet it seemed that he had indeed cared for her. He provided her with a cottage, and servants and a small but sufficient stipend to live off, before he left France. He also left her his ring, she says—the same ring that my nephew used to convince me that he was my brother's son. '

‘And what of the child?' asked Mrs Dashwood with a sigh. ‘What did she say of this nephew—her son?'

"Richard talked much of Delaford," she told me, "where he had his own estate, and his wish that I should return to England with him, once he had made it ready for me. At this time, I revealed to him that I had been blessed with his child, and he promised me that we would marry in England before I became too round, and that I would live with him there. But he kissed me goodbye and that was the last time that I saw him, for he never returned! After I did not hear from him for several weeks, I made enquiries for his ship and found that Richard Brandon had been drowned on the ship that he had boarded for England. Pirates, they said, and he had been shot and thrown overboard, as many were in those days."

‘I asked her how she had supported herself, after that.

"He had left me some money to live on," she told me. "Very little but enough to support our modest needs for a year or so, and then it ran out. My parents made sure that we did not starve, for my father finally relented after poor Brandon died. He took me back in and supplied our needs until Edouard became of age. I had a little money left from what Brandon gave me, but now it is run out and we are poor—my dear son must make his own living now—and all I can do is rely on the kindness of his generosity, and perhaps your own, if you will take pity on me, in order to survive for the days that I have left remaining!"

‘My reply to her was, I confess, ungenerous. I told her, "Together you and my nephew meant to dupe me—to take from my own legitimate son his own inheritance—and claim that your son is my brother's rightful heir? You would take my son's inheritance for yours?"

"Yes," she told me, "For I love my son as much as you love yours. And he has as much right, if not more, for he is Brandon's firstborn."

"I am not unmoved by your story, if it is the truth," I replied. " Tell me, which of you decided to come after me and try for Delaford?"

‘She broke down, and I do believe her tears were genuine. "It was I," she said in the most pitiful sorrow. "Do not hate your nephew, do not think badly of him—he was only trying to save his mother, to protect me from the poverty which must surely make my life very difficult once he is grown up and gone—I have nothing and nobody except him—if you must cast judgment, let it be upon my own head, for he only did it for my sake!"

‘I cannot say with certainly,' continued the Colonel, raising his head and sighing, ‘what part of her story is truth and what is fiction, but it seems that from my own knowledge of my brother, he certainly might have met and had a liaison with a young and pretty French maid. But finding that she was now with child, what was his true intention? He may have given her empty promises to return, with no intention of doing so. But he might well have had a real and abiding affection for this Marie-Eva Toulouse, or for the unborn infant within her. We perhaps will never know the truth, unless she reveals anything more. He left her money enough to live for a year, and so perhaps he was, after all, in love with her and intended to bring her to England. But my brother was a proud man, and would never receive the child at Delaford unless the connection was made legitimate. Perhaps his intention was to marry her after all. But one thing I do believe,' he added, ‘is that young Edouard Brandon was the product of an illegitimate union between my brother and Madame Toulouse, and as such, he is my nephew, legitimate or not.'

Edward, who had listened quietly to this strange tale, now spoke. ‘If it is true that Edouard Brandon is your nephew, then you will not abandon him and his mother, surely? Something might be done for them—for the boy, at least?'

‘On that score, I have had much time to consider the problem on my journey back to England,' conceded the Colonel gravely. ‘ As soon as we made landfall, I immediately travelled to London to confront the boy, and see what he would have to say for himself. I found him, still boarding in the rundown lodgings where I first met him, and knowing that I had been to France to confirm his story, he at first received me in a cordial manner, thinking, I suppose, that I had been unable to disprove his story.

"You saw Mama?" he queried of me, once I had informed him of my visit to his mother's village.

"Indeed, I did, and she gave me a marriage certificate," I replied. "I immediately made for the only place in which I could confirm its validity, and making contact with the deacon there, I asked to see the records, only to find that your mother had been busy in my absence, telling me she could produce it in a week's time and thereby buying time to bribe the fellow and have a false entry recorded in the book. I perceived at once that the marriage certificate must be false, and that no legal union ever took place. What say you now?"

‘At first he protested and became angry. But when I threatened to involve a magistrate, he seemed to give in. "Uncle, have mercy!" cried he. "I have only done what I could to preserve my mother and I as best I could. I am sorry—more sorry than I can say—to have lied to you, but you must see that there was little else we could try? I have not been lucky in the world—my grandfather supported me until my eighteenth birthday, and Mama too, but when I came of age, he disowned me due to my parentage and my being illegitimate, and told me that I must see to my own affairs now, and the stipend he had always given to poor Mama was cut to less than one third, less than fifty pounds per year." He held his hands out in despair, and I confess I was moved. "I have not been educated," he went on, "and could not find any work that I could do—I had been brought up to be fit for nothing except hard labour—and so I tried to find a position on a ship, or in the army, but because of my advanced age, no one would have me, and I had not the means to buy a commission. Then I thought of my father's family in England, and the estate which had been said to be my father's—Delaford—and we decided to try to claim it—for I am my father's heir, although I am not lawfully entitled—I came to England on the last of our money, leaving only a few pounds for Mama to have the deacon bribed—and finally, after some searching, I spoke to someone who knew you at White's—and was able to ascertain where I might send a letter. The rest you know—but now, all that has failed too, and I must now throw myself on your mercy, for the sake of my poor mother! If you have any heart, you will help her, at least!"

‘I sighed, and in the dim gloom of the room, I again saw my brother's face. "I will do what I can," replied I, "I will help your mother, and although I cannot promise that it will recommend itself to you, I shall procure you a commission in the Army. It is hard but honest work, and I believe you may yet make something of yourself."

"Thank you!" cried he, almost ready to embrace me in gratitude. "Uncle, forgive me my sins and if you only ensure poor Mama is provided for, I shall be forever in your debt!"

‘I then asked him how he intended to pay his hotel bill, and finding that he had not much more than fifteen or sixteen shillings about him, I paid his lodging bill, and bought him a passage to France again, bid him say goodbye to his mother for a time, and bid him return to England again within the month to take up the position of Ensign with the Regiment.'

The Colonel sighed. ‘He returned to France a few days ago, and I have promised him to put him in touch with my old comrade-in-arms, a Captain Bledisloe who is still in charge of a regiment, to whom I will write a letter of recommendation for the boy. My old comrade will not let him down, once he sees the letter.'

‘It is perhaps more than the both of them deserve, and yet, he is your nephew—legitimate or not,' said Edward thoughtfully. ‘ He cannot be so undeserving of pity and compassion. He must be helped, if it can be done!'

‘While he cannot lay any legal claim to Delaford, he is still my blood relation and I cannot find it in my heart to ignore them both.'

‘It is an honest living,' said Edward, looking much pleased with his brother-in-law's charity, ‘and he would do well to accept it.'

Elinor nodded her agreement. ‘I cannot at present find as much charity for him in my heart as you can, Edward dear,' she said dryly, ‘for he almost succeeded in snatching Delaford from my sister and her children, but by and by I shall perhaps think more kindly of him. You have behaved very nobly, Colonel, certainly more kindly than he deserves!'

‘Indeed you have bestowed upon them a great deal more than they deserve and you are to be commended for it, dear Philip!' cried Mrs Dashwood warmly. ‘How liberal are all your ideas of assistance to one who almost took your home from you! But he is, surely, to be pitied, and his mother, for being in so dire a situation as to make them think of such a thing! And you say she lives in true poverty? It is a wonder the father did not do more!'

‘It was not clear, even from what the innkeeper's wife was able to tell me, just what her position was, but it appeared as if the family had done very little for her comfort after the boy came into his majority. I think that with the support of her son, even though the yearly income of an Ensign is not great, that they will be able to live more comfortably. That is my intention in procuring for the young man a commission. As for their deserving it, my dear Mary,' he added turning to Mrs Dashwood, ‘it is my duty. He is family. My brother's son. It is right that he be assisted into a life which can, perchance, help him to become a more honest man.'