“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.”
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.
Since embracing her love of her husband, she feared that she could not live without him. The last few months had proved otherwise. A thought that had been in the back of her mind flooded her awareness: She might have to do so for the rest of her life. A searing pain coursed through Marianne’s heart, but there was no panic in her mind. Should the unthinkable happen, she would grieve for her beloved for the remainder of her days, but she would not fall down and die. There was too much to live for: Joy and Delaford. They depended upon her, and she would have to be strong for them.
John Willoughby had dallied with a mere girl. Colonel Christopher Brandon had left Delaford Manor to the administration of a woman, full-grown and tested. Her soft heart might break, but her steel backbone could bear any burden.
With this resolve, the mistress of Delaford returned home to her duties.
Colonel Brandon was at his desk concentrating on paperwork when he noticed Major Denny leaving Wellington’s office. “Is that the schedule for the southern patrols, Denny?” he asked.
Denny assured him that it was and handed over the paper for Brandon’s perusal. A quick glance told him everything.
“This is it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Denny in an emotionless voice.
“And the duke
Denny looked over his colonel’s head at the wall behind him. “Yes, sir.”
Brandon thought for a moment before rising to his feet. “Wait right here.”
He strode to Wellington’s door, and with only the briefest of knocks, he entered the commander-in-chief’s domain. He found the duke in consultation with the Quartermaster General, Colonel Sir William de Lancey, who was acting chief of staff.
“Sir,” Brandon began, “pray, forgive the intrusion, but I must speak to you.”
Colonel de Lancey’s eyebrows rose, but Wellington’s imperial visage remained impassive. “Yes, Brandon, what is it?”
He closed the door behind him. “I hold here the schedule for the southern patrols—”
“His lordship has already dealt with that, Brandon,” interrupted the chief of staff, but the duke cut him off.
“You have some question about this?”
“Sir, the number of men assigned to this duty is completely inadequate for the task. You must increase the patrols.”
Wellington pursed his lips. “I disagree. Bonaparte will do nothing for at least six weeks, if not longer. We do not need to waste men touring the Belgium frontier.”
“Sir,” said Brandon sharply, “I beg you to reconsider. Has Bonaparte ever done the expected? We know troops are massing in the north. The earlier he strikes the better for him. It would be well to err on the side of caution.”
“Colonel, are you implying that I am wrong?” asked Wellington dangerously.
Brandon swallowed. “I believe you are acting under incomplete intelligence, your lordship.” Brandon knew he was risking his career. He did not want to be sent to Belgium, but now that he was here, he would do everything in his power to assure the success of their mission, including taking the risk of being sent home in disgrace. His sense of professionalism would allow nothing less.
Wellington gazed at the colonel down his long nose—quite a feat, as the Iron Duke was still sitting. “Double the patrols. Was there anything else, Colonel?”
Brandon came to an even more rigid attention. “No, sir,” and fired off his salute.
“Return to your duties, Brandon,” ordered the duke as he turned again to a bewildered de Lancey.
A minute later Brandon handed the schedule back to Denny. “Double the patrols, as per orders I have just received from his lordship.”
Denny looked upon his senior officer with near awe before responding. “Yes, sir—thank you, sir.” He hurried out of the office.
Brandon looked about the office to see Major General Sir Hussey Vivian, commander of the 6th Cavalry Brigade, looking at him. One hand was injured and in a sling.
“Not bad, Brandon. I wonder if you have anything on the old man.”
“No, sir,” replied the colonel in embarrassment.
“Do not be so modest. It is not just any man who can get the Iron Duke to change his mind. I congratulate you.”
Brandon nodded at the compliment and returned to his work. He was still uneasy. He felt they had far too many men at Hal, but he was not willing to beard the lion in his own den twice in one day.
