The Three Colonels

—”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mr. McIntosh put down the letter. “No.”

“No?” Marianne was confused. “I am afraid I do not understand your meaning. No to what, may I ask?”

“No—I canna take orders from ye, ma’am.”

“Excuse me?” Marianne cried.

“With all due respect, I canna take orders from ye.”

“But… but you have Colonel Brandon’s instructions right there in your hand!”

McIntosh nodded. “Aye, ma’am, and I means to follow them as far as the law o’ God allows.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Marianne.

“God made woman to be man’s helpmate. ’Tis against holy scripture for a man to take orders from a woman.” He held up Brandon’s letter. “I’ll follow any instructions written by Colonel Brandon, so long’s it dinna violate God’s Law.”

Marianne was astonished. “Mr. McIntosh, I am the Mistress of Delaford. Colonel Brandon has given me legal power to act on his behalf.” McIntosh shook his head. “I am deadly earnest, sir!”

“Mrs. Brandon, I am terribly sorry, but I canna do it. You are a good lady; you have been generous to th’ poor, but I canna put my soul at risk.”

Marianne stared at the Scot. “We are at an impasse, I see.”

“Aye.”

“I can dismiss you, you know.”

“Aye.”

Marianne was absolutely stymied.

“Maybe it would be best if I give ye my notice now, ma’am,” McIntosh offered.

Marianne paled. She was deeply offended at the man’s stubbornness, but she needed a steward to manage the farms. She could not afford to have him resign. “Mr. McIntosh,” Marianne drew breath. “I hope it does not come to that. There must be some way around this.” She thought for a moment. “What are your plans for the next month?”

“’Tis the plantin’ season, ma’am.”

It was exactly as she feared. She could not lose the Delaford steward right before planting season! “Yes, that was the last instruction given to me by Colonel Brandon. He wanted to change the ratio of barley and wheat.”

“What’s that, missus?”

Marianne thought hard. “His exact words were, ‘Switch the ratio between the barley and the wheat.’”

McIntosh looked down at the letter. “Beggin’ your pardon, missus, but that inna in here.”

“Yes, yes, I know that. He told me just as he was leaving.” McIntosh shook his head. “Is that not good enough?” Marianne cried.

McIntosh’s eyes were filled with worry. “Mrs. Brandon, that inna in here.”

“Are you implying that I am lying?” The mistress of Delaford rose in anger.

Mr. McIntosh rose in sorrow. “Mrs. Brandon, I enjoy my position here. The colonel’s been as fine a master as any could wish.” His eyes filled with a fanatical light. “But it inna worth losin’ my eternal reward. Would ye be wantin’ my notice?”

Marianne knew there was no moving the man. She needed to think. “No, not at this time. I think there is nothing left to say about this subject at this time. Perhaps we need to postpone this interview until a later date. We will have time to reflect on what we have discussed. Thank you for your time, Mr. McIntosh. You may return to your duties.”

“Thankee, ma’am,” he touched his forelock. “God bless ye an’ the colonel.” He turned and made for the door of the parlor. As he opened it he said, “I’ll not go against God, missus. I will not.”

Marianne sat back down in complete and utter frustration.

*   *   *

“Mr. McIntosh belongs to a rather evangelical church, Marianne,” reported Edward Ferrars that night at dinner. “I have no influence with the man.”

“What about the rector at the Scottish Reformed Church?” asked Elinor.

Edward rose from his chair and began to pace the dining room in the parsonage. “No, my dear, that would not help. The members of McIntosh’s church left the Reform congregation because they felt it was not… reformed enough.” He turned to their guest. “They take a rather literal view of scripture.”

“So I gathered,” remarked Marianne with an edge of irony.

“So, what is to be done?” asked Elinor. “The planting season is upon us.”

“Perhaps you could write to the colonel—” Edward began.

“God’s blood, I will not!” cried Marianne. “Christopher left me in charge. This is my home—my land. I will not bother my husband with matters such as this while he faces…” She could not finish.

Husband and wife looked at each other. Never had they heard such language from Mrs. Brandon before. “Marianne,” Edward began carefully, “I quite understand your feelings—”

“I will not write Christopher, and I forbid you to do so!”

Edward sighed. “As you wish, but I think I may say without fear of contradiction that you do need help.”

Marianne glared at her brother, mainly because she knew he was right.

“Perhaps your solicitor?” suggested Elinor.

“No,” snapped Marianne. “He would just storm about talking law and contracts and writs, and end up driving Mr. McIntosh away. I need someone who can find a way of managing Mr. McIntosh so that the planting takes place as Christopher wanted—without surrendering my authority. I need someone exceedingly clever.”

“Who? A magistrate, perhaps?” asked Edward.

Marianne looked at them both with determination. “Elizabeth’s husband, Mr. Darcy, is the cleverest man I know. I met his solicitor in London. If Darcy trusts him, then so will I. I need Mr. Tucker.”

*   *   *

“Friends,” called the preacher, “let us refer to the words of our Lord in Matthew, chapter five, beginning with verse seventeen.

“‘Think not that I have come to abolish the law and the prophets; I have come not to abolish them but to fulfill them. For truly, I say to you, till heaven and earth pass away, not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Whoever then relaxes one of the least of these commandments and teaches men so, shall be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but he who does them and teaches them shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven. For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’

“What could be clearer, friends? Our Lord Jesus Christ calls upon us to follow God’s law—the law that is here in this book! The law Moses brought down from Sinai, the law of the prophets…”

Mr. McIntosh sat with his eyes closed, nodding in his usual pew, the third from the front, next to his wife and his remaining son and his growing family. McIntosh had been raised in the Scottish Reformed Church and attended services regularly, but he was always uneasy; he felt there was something missing. The day his eldest son died was one of the worst of his life, and the patronizing platitudes of his minister only made things worse. The tragedy forced McIntosh onto a spiritual journey for fulfillment, one that ended in the very church pew in which he now sat.

For it was only a few months after joining this congregation that his wife fell ill with the same malady that had carried away his beloved son. The doctors shook their learned heads, despairing of his wife’s recovery. McIntosh could still see in his mind’s eye the long vigil in his small parlor, members of his new church holding hands with his family, led in prayer by the preacher. All night they prayed. McIntosh made a promise to his Creator that if he would spare his wife, he would become his instrument here on earth. With the sunrise came a cry from the bedroom—the fever had broken; his wife would live.

On his knees, McIntosh thanked the preacher, who refused credit, telling him that all glory belonged to God. From that moment on, McIntosh pledged his devotion to his new church. He gave up drink and all manner of vice—