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Chapter 1

Posted on Tuesday, 18 January 2000

His eyes shut, not completely, but enough to reveal how weary he was. Brandon slumped into one of the comfortable armchairs he suspected of being Mr. Palmer's favorites. The ride back to Cleveland had been quite exhausting. For as soon as he'd arrived at Barton, the night before, he'd retrieved Mrs. Dashwood and begun the journey back. Christopher could still recall with vivid clarity the alarm written on Mrs. Dashwood's features when she'd learned of her darling child's illness. Her eyes, dark like Marianne's, took on a worried fire, and she'd nearly rushed into the Colonel's arms for comfort. But, she didn't-only gasped and tugged on his wet jacket sleeve.

"Take me to her, my friend."

"That was my intention." He spoke calmly. If Brandon betrayed the dread he felt to the core of his being, the pain at possibly losing the woman he cared about most in this world, Mrs. Dashwood would become all the more distressed. "Please, pack your things. I shall wait for as long as you need. If you like, I can take Miss Margaret up to the house, so that Mrs. Jennings and John may look after her during your absence...?

"Yes, please. Thank you, Colonel." The alarmed woman tracked down the hallway towards her bedroom, her steps eager and frantic. "Margaret! Margaret?"

Brandon shrugged his shoulders, the muscles in his back still tense, and waited. It was the only thing he could do at the moment. He'd sped from Cleveland as quickly as Elinor had suggested that her mother's presence might quell some of Marianne's pain. Now, eight hours later, he'd arrived at Barton Cottage, prepared to leave just as quickly.

"Colonel Brandon!" A light soprano squeal echoed through the foyer. "Mama says you are to take me to the big house!" The adorable child was seemingly unaware of the dire state of her older sister's health, and skipped up to Brandon, excitement ringing through her bright face.

"That would be correct, Captain." He forced a smile for her sake, and offered a sharp salute, clicking the heels of his boots together as was the custom when he saw the littlest Dashwood. He often wondered if Marianne had resembled Margaret at that age. . . It would be best not to inform the girl of her sister's condition. After all, if her mother had not, then it was definitely not Brandon's place to do so. "Shall we go?" Carrying on the masquerade of cheerful adventure, he extended his arm towards the door in a gentlemanly flourish.

"Of course." Margaret beamed and let her tall friend help her onto his horse.

It had been easy to deposit Margaret with Mrs. Jennings-the woman was absolutely delighted. However alarmed she'd been when he'd whispered of Marianne's condition, the woman had, for once, kept her lips sealed to save the little captain from bouts of tears. After promising John and Mrs. Jennings that he would write them when he arrived again at Cleveland, Christopher Brandon headed back to the cottage, John's carriage right behind him and his own horse, to escort Mrs. Dashwood to his ill love.

It had rained horribly the whole way back. It was almost as if the swollen gray clouds followed their every turn and step. Brandon had departed Cleveland in dire haste, not taking his hat or a thicker cloak. Luckily, Mrs. Dashwood was dry and warm inside the brougham-it would not do to have more than one sickened Dashwood. They made no stops on the journey. It was imperative to arrive as quickly as possible. There was no telling what state Miss Marianne would be in when they arrived. Brandon shuddered. . .his ghosts had returned, and to a far greater strength. Death might claim the woman he loved to the very depths of his being. His love for Marianne Dashwood ran through every limb of his body, coursed through the stems of his soul. No, he was not going to lose her. Even if they'd never share a life together, they'd at least share another breath.

Elinor was racing from the large oak front doors when they arrived, her wrinkled day gown flowing back and hitting at her legs. "She's going to be all right, Mama! She's going to live!" Pushing away her mussed hair, Miss Dashwood rushed into her mother's arms, the sadness present on her features when Brandon had fled now replaced by a illuminated happiness. Elinor looked over her mother's shoulder to the Colonel, mouthing a silent and sincere thank you. It was enough. He felt he would never ask anything more of the world, of God, now that Marianne was safe. His fervent prayers, pleadings actually, had been heard, he realized, following the women into the house. Before he stepped inside, he inhaled some fresh air, squinting his Slavic, hazel eyes in the sun. It was morning...

He did not take the time to remove his cloak or straighten his outward appearance before making the journey to Marianne's chamber. Miss Dashwood had insisted he accompanying them when he'd protested that this time should be intimate-for the family.

"Colonel, you are kinder than any family has ever been to us. Please, come..." She'd said, ushering him forward.

He stood in the doorway, his weight supporting by the wooden frame. He was so tired, so very worried and relieved all at once. Again, watching Mrs. Dashwood hug her recovering daughter, Christopher felt useless. He had done his part, and only wished to be of more service. But, what could they ask of him, or, more likely, what would they even want to ask of him? Miss Marianne would soon be out of danger and would only require a few weeks of relaxation, refraining from her cursed rain lit strolls. She would not need the assistance or company of a man she considered feeble and dull.

"Colonel Brandon?" A familiar, if not wavering voice, roused Brandon from his melancholy reverie, and he lifted his eyes to meet those of Miss Marianne. He didn't answer her, but acknowledged her with a look that could only be defined as deeply moved and relieved. "Thank you..."

Brandon's heart clenched as if caught in a vice. He'd never heard something so sweet and truthful. It was pure anguish and joy all at once. Was he crying? Had he been since she'd taken ill? He knew that to be the truth. But, he had not tried to mask it. He did not care who knew his feelings, his ardent concern and love. He gazed into his beloved's own tear-glistened eyes, not moving yet, but savoring the unvarnished tones of her still weak voice. Brandon nodded with sincerity and left the room, his fingers sliding from the doorframe in a slow silence.

Now, surrendering to his weariness in Mr. Palmer's library, the Colonel gave free flow to his emotions. In the privacy of leather bound tomes and a deteriorating fire, Christopher Brandon wept. He cried for Eliza, and for Beth, but not without realizing how the pain he'd suffered for them, with them, was so small in comparison to what he'd just felt. He'd been able to move on after the lost of his dear Eliza. And, he knew, with fatalistic certainty, that had Marianne Dashwood surrendered her life, he would then have taken his own. "Marianne. . ." his own, velvet-lined voice now wavered, and he took his face in his chilled hands. Sleep enveloped Christopher Brandon without his knowing it, the name of his dear girl caught on the edge of his lips.

Chapter 2

Posted on Friday, 21 January 2000

Sunlight crept through the newly parted drapes of the window facing west, washing across Brandon's face. He lifted his head from his arm, only a little so that he might peek out to glance around the room. It was morning, that much was certain, and he would have called it beautiful if he'd been asked to describe it. Inhaling deeply, the weary Colonel sat up, blinking a few times to clear his eyes.

"Good morning, Colonel. It is going to be a lovely day, don't you think?" Elinor appeared before him, chirping and smiling, her mood altered to the opposite extreme it had been only a few days past.

"Yes, that it is." His lips turned up on the corners. It was a genuine smile, but not bright as it might have been had he rested longer. Of course, how could Elinor have known he'd been awake most of the night?

"I am glad to see the happiness restored to your face, Miss Dashwood. It is a welcome change." Pushing down on the arms of his seat, Brandon rose and stepped to the large bay window. "And, I am thankful that your sister will also be able to cherish this weather." He did not think he was revealing too much in this statement. But, what did it matter? If anyone was aware of his ardent regard for Marianne, it was surely her own sister. A sister who'd, over the last few months become a dear friend to the Colonel, a unique and trusted confidante.

"As am I, Colonel."

With only slight trepidation, he posed a question that he knew, he had every right and conceivable reason to ask. "Miss Dashwood, how is your sister this morning? Or, is she still asleep?" His fingertips grazed the windowpane, tracing the outline of the faraway hills. "I carried her in my arms..." He mused, silently, staring out across the rich green moors. "She shivered, and cried...how she cried..."

"The doctor is in with Marianne at the moment." She answered rather plainly, her eyes following Brandon's movements, the wistful manner in which he stared out over the landscape.

"Is she all right?" He spun around to Elinor, dropping his hand to his side, struck with the thought that the darling girl might have relapsed.

"My friend, do not be alarmed, he is simply assuring that she is progressing with her recovery." Elinor lightly touched his arm in comfort. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must be getting back to her. She will be asking for me as soon as he leaves." Elinor turned on her heel, after a kind curtsy, and departed the library, closing the door soundlessly behind her.

Brandon bowed in return and resumed a seat at the window, pressing his smooth palm to the glass. He glanced at his fingers, wondering if they had actually been the same ones that he'd wrapped around a quivering Marianne, the same hand she'd taken...

"Marianne!" Brandon ran through the rain as if demons were at his feet. Pouring and icy rain cut across his face, forcing him to shut his eyes in reaction and then to shield them with his arm. This was definitely not walking weather, especially too harsh for such a delicate young woman as Miss Marianne Dashwood. He'd traveled at least a mile already, and had yet to decrease his speed. Life in the army had taught him endurance and strength, and chasing after a maiden through a rainstorm could be considered a very undaunting task compared with his East Indian days. But, unlike his military days, the goal of this trek was far more precious.

"Miss Marianne!" He halted abruptly, the rest of his body wanting to move forward where his feet stopped. Her opalescent skin, and fragile, enchanting frame stood high on the hill directly ahead of him. But, she did not turn around, his urgent calls were swallowed by the storm. Brandon did not wish to startle her by creeping up without a sound. Still, he pushed forward, wondering if he was only imagining this. For, she stood as motionless as a statue, lovely as Aphrodite, but more delicate.

"Marianne." His voice was no more than a whisper now, the distance between them only a foot or so. "Miss-" He stepped forward and met her eyes.

"Colonel Brandon?" She could barely speak, it seemed her own words had been crushed by the chill winds as they escaped her whitened lips. Her whole face was puffy with tears and cold, and her shawl rendered transparent by the downpour. It was doing more harm than good, keeping the ice against her instead of fending it off. She started to say more, but weakness prevented it. The look she offered him that moment had been of realization-that they'd both suffered so terribly, in much the same way. Marianne took a step towards the stricken Colonel, to a man whose friendship she had forsaken for so long, a friendship offered so selflessly and without any expectation of its return.

"We must get you inside." It was all he could say. Finding his love in such a state had rendered him half the man he'd been before taking out from the house. Clearly, Marianne was falling. Her breathing came in forced gasps, and her words had evaporated before they'd been given sound. Christopher took in the sight of her shaking legs, her reddened fingers clutched tightly around her arms.

And then, she'd advanced a step towards him, only to collapse midstride. The lady did not even have the strength to cry out, but surrendered herself to the man whose arms instinctively went out, catching her before the soaked grass stopped her descent. "Marianne!" He hefted her up and watched her eyes close. She was giving up. Brandon cradled her against his chest, feeling one arm drape weakly across his shoulders, a cheek lull against the sopping fabric of his shirt. His only instinct was to run, back to the house. The Colonel was certain he'd just witnessed the most perfect spirit leave her body, and he wasn't about to let the life drain of her as well.

It was an eternity before he reached the doors of Cleveland Manor. The entire way back he'd kept his eyes on Marianne-the precious weight in his trembling arms. What had she meant to say to him? He knew it would not have been an avowal of love; but any words from her lips were treasures to his heart. Seconds before the doors had opened-they'd been watching for his return-Christopher Brandon had gazed down at the ailing angel, her hair turned scarlet by water, water and tears coursing down her temples and ashen cheeks. She was so lovely, so irreplaceable. Unwillingly to fight it, and realizing that he might never again have the opportunity, Christopher bent his head low and placed an innocent, depthless kiss to her forehead.

Then, the doors had opened and everyone had swarmed around them as he carried her in. "She is not hurt, but we must get her warm!" They'd taken her from him, all gasping and clamoring to help the fallen girl. Brandon had not said what he longed to-that he loved her beyond all reason. . .that if she died. . .

The precious weight gone from his arms-not that he'd felt it-Brandon fell to his knees. Was she aware of his kiss or the way he'd carried her, as if she were made finer than any crystal? He thought her lips had moved as he'd kissed her forehead. Had she meant to protest? It did not matter. He wanted her to be certain that someone loved her more than money or station, beyond reason.

The hall was empty, dry. His first thought was to make for Marianne's chamber, where he was sure she'd been taken. But, instead, he collapsed, and the world fell along with him. Time seemed to stop. He knew he was still alive, only because he could feel his heart beating like a hammer in his chest, because his lungs were continuing to draw in air and push it out again. Because he sensed his soul shattering into a million pieces. And, he could feel a single tear trickling down his right cheek.

"I hate to intrude upon you again Colonel, but Marianne has asked to see you." Elinor's voice roused him, and he averted his eyes to the library door. Miss Dashwood blushed hotly, as if she'd just interrupted a private moment.

"She has asked for me?" His tone remained unchanged-calm and friendly, but his eyes spoke worlds to Elinor.

"Yes, she would like to speak to you . . .very soon is how she put it." Elinor grinned, sharing in the Colonel's hopes.

"Then, I shall be there very shortly."

Chapter 3

Posted on Sunday, 23 January 2000

His steps were unhurried as he made his way down the hall. She could probably hear the delicious hollow click of his footfalls from her room. The door was wide open and only a feet away, now. Brandon paused right before reaching the door and leaned against the wall, head in his hands. He wouldn't know what to say to her. So, why had she asked for him? Brandon wasn't even sure if he could handle another sincere 'thank you', if he could remain calm when her fine eyes locked his. It was undeniable that Marianne had seen his tears yesterday. She might ask what had upset him, even if she knew the answer to that question. But, it all came down to one thing-Marianne Dashwood had asked for his company, and very soon at that. It was something she'd never requested before, his presence, and the significance of her action could not be thrown away with all of Brandon's fears and rationality.

Inhaling deeply and hoping that his trepidation did not reveal themselves on his face, the besotted Colonel, knocked on the open door, peering in to see the lovely invalid with her head propped up on a number of plush pillows. "Miss Marianne?"

Marianne's pale features lit with a smile, and she pushed down on the mattress so she might sit upright. "Do come in, Colonel." Her light voice was still weak and dry. Had he been in his right mind, Christopher would have thought to bring a glass of water for her.

Hesitantly, he stepped over the threshold, hands stiff at his sides. He was so tense, when he'd hoped to be calm and collected, or at least give the appearance of such. "Good morning," He managed without stuttering, and flashed a kind smile.

"It is a fine morning. Elinor could not stop talking about what a nice day it is going to be..." Marianne looked anywhere but in the Colonel's eyes. In reality, Brandon should not have worried how he would appear to her-for she was feeling quite at a loss for words. Small talk, if nothing else, might ease any tension and quell a bit of the awkwardness.

"Yes, she came in the library about half an hour ago and drew the drapes back. I think she was a bit surprised to find me asleep in one of Mr. Palmer's armchairs."

Had the Colonel actually just laughed? Marianne bit her lip, imprisoning a tiny grin from spreading across her still sunken cheeks. "I take it that she woke you, too, then?"

"Yes, she did. It was the sunlight coming through the windows, I think...it could have been her laughter when she found me."

Marianne wondered how late the Colonel had been up. His amber blonde hair was rustled, and his jacket showed signs of wrinkling. She would have believed him to be quite tired had it not been for the bright relief showing in his expressive hazel eyes. It occured to her that she'd never really studied him, as she had most men and women in her circle. Often, Marianne spent hours examining every mannerism and speech pattern of those she came in contact with, and made guesses about their favorite color, flower, if they read or attended the theatre. But, she'd never wondered over the Colonel's loves, his hobbies, or the kind of music he enjoyed. The thought now came to her that she might ask him to play the pianoforte. Mrs. Jennings had once mentioned something to that effect, but it had been only a meddling quip. Still, Brandon had received the teasing gracefully, transferring praise to Marianne's musical abilities.

The whole time these musings were careening through Marianne's active mind, Brandon had been silent. The few seconds that had passed were uncomfortable for him, but not without some reward. For, she was still smiling, her eyes were still lit with renewing strength. It seemed to him that he should say something to fill the silent void, so he asked the first thing that came to mind. Thankfully it was a valid question. "How are you feeling, Miss Marianne?"

"Better...but still very weak. I cannot wait until my energy is restored. So, I might be able to play the pianoforte and help my mother."

Conquering a little of his concealment, he added, "We shall all be very glad to hear you sing again." His hands ran nervously over his knees, his fingers tightening like talons then releasing as he exhaled.

"It occurs to me, my friend, that I have yet to hear you play." Marianne noticed the Colonel's face darken then relax, as if he had been surprised but then come to terms with a response.

"There are not many people that have heard my playing, Miss Marianne. I must admit, that I can be a rather reclusive pianist."

"But, you should not have reason to be. Mrs. Jennings speaks of your abilities with much praise."

"Mrs. Jennings had the misfortune to creep upon me as I was undertaking a Beethoven Sonata in her music room." Another chuckle issued from his full lips. They were both pleasantly surprised by his change in humor.

"Well, perhaps, one day I might have the 'misfortune'," she smirked, "of hearing you play."

"Let's hope that you are luckier than that."

"All kidding aside, Colonel, I would very much like to hear you play some Beethoven for me. Is he your favorite composer? He's very popular in Vienna, right now."

Could she be aware of his love of Beethoven's music? He couldn't simply answer yes, without going on to say how greatly he felt the man's music, how, to him, the composer's works presented and augmented every emotion with perfect beauty.

"Colonel?" Marianne touched his arm, lightly to regain his attention.

"Yes," He cleared his throat and found his voice. "I find that Beethoven's compositions have something not found in any other music," He searched for the right phrasing, "a perfect grasp and understanding of the human heart..."

Marianne was undone by his comment; how could she have thought him to be devoid of feeling, and unappreciative of all things beautiful? His answer could very well have been issued from her own two lips, which now felt quite immobile and useless. "I could not have stated it better myself."

"Well, you must need your rest, Miss Marianne. I have kept you far too long." Brandon made a motion to rise. It was obvious that he felt he'd overstepped his limits, stayed in her company to long for her liking.

"But, you've only just come. And there is so much that I should like to ask you."

"I shall see you this evening, if you like?" He straightened his coattails and looked to the door.

Marianne was not satisfied with that dismissal and pressed on. "Before you go, Colonel, I would very much like it if you would read something to me. . ." From under her pillow, Marianne removed a small book, its pages of gilt, and a red ribbon poking out from the edges.

"You would like me to read to you?" His gaze was all uncertain timidity. What if she asked for a Shakespeare Sonnet?

"I would like it very much...please?"

Brandon resumed his chair, looking for approval from Marianne before scooting closer to her side of the bed.

"I've marked the page with that red ribbon." Her hand extended, she offered him her book, which, after a moment's hesitation, he took from her fingers and opened.

Brandon did not take the time to scan the words, but began immediately, in a soothing, deep baritone.

"I have not forgotten my past deceptions
The demons I could not blink away,
Nor the pains I might have beat upon your breast.
I fell to the flame, as a foolish moth
Seeking its destruction.
A breath put out that malicious fire,
before I'd seared my fate, a blade
Held by a hidden knight-
Whose scarlet rose he offered when
He gave of his heart.
I could not ask it off you, now,
And only plead for those deserving thorns:
My friend, whose name is understanding,
Forgive me, it was your shadow cast against the wall,
the ghost of your fingers that stole my tears
To shed them for my sake."

Brandon shut his eyes and closed the book. His hands were shaking as he offered it back to Marianne.

"Thank you, Colonel." She breathed, moved, but unsure of how to proceed. The tension was as thick and impenetrable as the London fog.

"No, thank you." With all the uncertain timidity of a schoolboy, Christopher took her frail hand in his and pressed a kiss to its surface.

As he was making for the door, Marianne's voice stopped him. "This evening, then?"

"Yes, of course," He choked on his grief, not turning back to look at her. As he traveled back to his own quarters, in hopes of recovering himself, it did not escape him that the poem Marianne had asked him to recite had been handwritten, the ink barely dry.

Chapter 4

Posted on Sunday, 23 January 2000

Elinor stopped Brandon in the hall, her hands occupied by a warm bowl of fresh soup for her sister. "Colonel!" She smiled, satiated. "If he is just now leaving Marianne's room, then they must have talked for quite some time." She pondered, watching as the aromatic soup slapped against the rim of the bowl in a precarious whirl.

"Miss Dashwood," He bowed to the waist. The expression painted across his face was not one of plain joy and satisfaction as Elinor had expected, nor was her friend grinning from ear to ear. Instead, he seemed rather solemn, his lips closed but relaxed, and his irises appeared darker and more intense.

"Is everything all right, my friend?" Elinor, ever curious, still knew better than to ask him precisely how his meeting with her sister had progressed.

"Yes, your sister seems to be recovering very quickly."

"That is good to hear. I imagine she had much to say, then? After all, it has been more than an hour since I left her this morning." Elinor almost bit her tongue. How could she prod him with such barely veiled inquiries? Well, when one spent too much time around Mrs. Jennings, a bit of her nature was bound to rub off.

Not sure of how to answer-these Dashwood women had a manner of keeping their company on their toes-Christopher took a moment to think. He had every reason to be frank with Elinor, it was not as if she did not know the nature of his feelings. He'd even come to her while they were staying in London to learn the state of Marianne's relationship with John Willoughby. Still, the Colonel would not reveal but a fraction of his conversation with Marianne. However innocent their words had been, they were still private. It would be the girl's choice whether she wished her older sister to be made aware of the particulars of their meeting. Besides, the romantic in Brandon feared he might wake and find it had all been a dream if he gave it further voice. "She spoke rather enthusiastically, Miss Dashwood. I think she finds conversation to be healing; it makes her feel as if she is once again a member of the revolving world."

"She enjoys spending time with her true friends, Colonel."

"I am extremely grateful that I may be of service to your sister. It has been my dearest desire that she and I might be friends..."

Something had definitely changed in the Colonel, and it had not gone unnoticed by Elinor Dashwood. He'd begun to speak freely and share his true thoughts, although, he'd never done anything to the contrary. But there was now a want in him that he does so, an enjoyment in bringing sound to his feelings and opinions. Brandon had always been a clever and handsome man, and over the last twenty-four hours he'd grown vigorous and youthful once more. It was as if the despair that had masked his heart and life was now evaporating, allowing the man to indulge in his prime years. Elinor thought it a welcome change. "She is very lucky to have your trust. Now, if you will be so good as to excuse me, I must bring Marianne her lunch."

Elinor passed down the corridor, her mind filled with aspirations and wishes for the happiness of two very dear people.

Situated behind a finely carved, rolltop desk, Christopher Brandon set to the task of fulfilling his promise to John and Mrs. Jennings. He scavenged through the desk drawers and retrieved a smooth sheet of stationary and a seal. Of course, he'd not brought his own crest, but the residents of Barton Park would identify the letter and the purpose of its contents. After taking a short time to plan his account, Brandon dipped his quill in a full inkpot and touched it to the paper.

My dear friends,

I shall not waste your time and Mr. Palmer's ink with further greetings and niceties, but instead speak of the subject of which you are longing to hear. When Mrs. Dashwood and I departed Barton two nights ago, we left knowing that Miss Marianne was suffering from a violent, life-threatening fever. Needless, to say our hearts were heavy with sadness and dread of what we might find when reaching Cleveland. First of all, I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to you John, for the use of your carriage and driver, without such the journey might have been all the more difficult for Mrs. Dashwood. Although we sped through the night, it seemed the trip would never end-that we might be too late.

I can not express in words what we felt upon arriving early the next morning. Miss Dashwood met us at the front door, her face full of relief and happiness. Miss Marianne's fever had broken over the evening! Mother and ailing daughter were soon reunited under the circumstances of joy, not grief. At the present, Miss Marianne is still weak and pale, but she is eager to regain her strength and return to her usual activities. I spoke with her at some length this morning, and to my pleasure, I found her in high spirits, anxious to return to her music and reading.

My friends, I hope this news will cease your worries. The doctor has advised that Miss Marianne stay at Cleveland for at least another week. When no question remains concerning a full recovery, and when she is fit for traveling, I shall escort your dear cousins home to Barton.

Kindest Regards,

Christopher Brandon

Brandon read over the finished letter and carefully folded it. He took a long, dripping taper and held it over the sheet, allowing a few drops of crimson wax to pool on the paper. Quickly he pushed the seal into the puddle-the letter was ready to go.

"Marianne, will you not eat your soup? I don't have to tell you that skipping meals is not the best method of recovering your strength."

"Elinor, I have no intention of starving myself." She stuck her tongue out in a childlike gesture, before picking up her spoon. "It's just very hot. I will eat it when it cools off a bit."

"You will have to forgive me. I worry for you."

"Yes, I am glad that you do, but how shall I recover fully if you watch over me every second of the day? I already have one mother, I do not require another." Marianne opened her mouth and sipped at a spoonful of the warm broth. When she swallowed it, the liquid soothed her dry throat.

"I am aware of that, Marianne. But, we must also assure that you do not over exert yourself. Your energy will be completely restored, but it will not happen in just twenty-four hours." Elinor's eyes scanned the room, falling on a small leatherbound book lying open on the chest next to Marianne's bed.

"You've been writing in your journal. That is a good sign, indeed. I do not believe I've seen you take up your pen since we arrived in London all those weeks past."

"Yes," Marianne answered nervously, her fingers immediately moving to the little book and closing it up. "But, only a page or two. I had been working on a poem since you woke me this morning. I finished it right before the Colonel arrived."

Elinor's interest sparked, but she did not add a comment.

"I asked him to read it aloud to me...to see how it sounded to someone else, of course." Marianne was fiddling with the red ribbon that served as a bookmark, rolling it between the pads of her fingertips.

"You did not criticize his reading as you did poor Edward's, I hope?" A pang of heartache raced through Elinor's blood as she thought of him, soon to be married to Miss Lucy Steele and established in Delaford parish.

Marianne's reaction was one of melodramatic horror. Yes, she was returning to her normal state of romanticism and felicity. "Of course not, Elinor! How could you think that, when the Colonel has been so very kind..."

"The Colonel's kindness never stopped you from throwing insults behind his back."

"There is no reason to remind me of my past mistakes. I feel badly enough for so mistreating a friend."

"Just be sure, Marianne, that you do not act kindly to the Colonel only to soothe your guilt. That is not worthy of him, it is not worthy of you. Seek him as a friend because you want to, not because it will ease your conscience or please your family."

Wounded, Marianne remained silent for a moment, and thumbed through her journal searching for her latest composition. "Elinor, when have I ever acted simply to please others? If I befriend the Colonel, it is only because it is my sincere wish to do so."

"Then, I apologize."

"Besides," the younger sister added, smile spreading across her lips, "Colonel Brandon reads extremely well, with a clear and expressive voice."

Elinor patted her sister's hand. "Such praise for a man you once spoke of as dull and frail." Again, Marianne blushed, ashamed of her harsh and inaccurate judgements.

"Well, I have made my peace with the Colonel and offered my apologies for treating him so ill, in the truest and best of ways." Without giving further explanation, Marianne handed her journal to her older sister.

Elinor started to ask her reasoning, but was silenced by a look from Marianne. Eyes to the page, Miss Dashwood read her sister's heartfelt words and kind apology. After finishing, she was silent, placing the book on the nightstand and making for the door. "Just be sure that you do not toy with his emotions, Marianne. Colonel Brandon is the kindest and best of men; see that you do not hurt him." Knowing her words had been heeded, Elinor exited the room, praying that in time, feelings greater than friendship would bloom in her sister's soul.

Chapter 5

Posted on Monday, 24 January 2000

Brandon paced his quarters, only lifting his eyes to give the occasional glance to the large oak clock resting on the fireplace mantle. It was seven thirty; an hour and a half into the night already. Marianne had asked that he come again to visit her 'this evening', as she'd put it. He would not sit down, and continued to flex his long fingers in a mixture of nervous energy and contemplation. He found himself more highly-strung now than he'd ever been before a battle. Why is it that a man can look through the receiving end of a gun barrel and still retain his composure, and transform into a simpering idiot when faced with a pair of dark, sensual eyes? Only two minutes had passed when he checked the time once again.

"To hell with it," he muttered. And before he could talk himself out of it, Christopher Brandon found himself knocking on the oak door of Marianne Dashwood's bedroom. "Miss Marianne?"

The sound of shuffling objects and rustling sheets touched on his ears, soon accompanied by a familiar soprano. "Colonel Brandon? Please, do come in. The door is unlocked."

With some hesitancy, Brandon circled the doorknob with his palm and turned. He listened to the sound of his own breathing in tune to the click of his heels on the varnished wood floor. The Queen Anne chair had been pulled up close to the bed, and a few more candles had been lit. "I am glad to see you, there is much I would like to discuss." Marianne smiled, her back propped up on two feather pillows, her hands folded one on top of the other across her quilted lap.

"I shall be happy to speak of whatever you wish." Quietly, he started to sit, but spied a pitcher of water and an empty glass positioned on the windowsill. Brandon stepped over and poured a fresh, cool glass for Marianne, setting it on the beside table so she might reach it. "You might grow thirsty." He added, smile tugging on his lips.

"I had hoped you would say so. For, I do not intend to make idle chit-chat of your time." Marianne lifted the glass to her lips and sipped as if she'd been crawling along desert sands for forty days. When she finally placed the drink back on the chest of drawers, the cup was empty. "Thank you." A flush pinkened her ivory cheeks, washing away the pale.

Brandon filled the glass again, staring into the swirling water. "Miss Marianne, if you wish to ask me anything...to speak frankly, I will readily comply."

For once in her short but glorious life, Marianne did not spew out words as quickly as they became thought, but waited and formed them in an acceptable manner. "Colonel Brandon, as you surely must be aware, my sister Elinor was so good as to relay one of her past conversations with you, in the hopes that it might serve to ease my pain." A long pause in which Christopher lifted his head and met the sweet girl's eyes.

"Yes?" This was definitely not going to be an easy conversation, not comfortable in the least.

"What Elinor failed to tell me, and what I would now mist like to know, if there is anything to be known, is this-"

Brandon's throat went dry and he began to wonder if he was still breathing. What would she ask of him?

"Due to the circumstances which involved your ward and Mr. Willoughby," To Brandon, the way she still hinted at a sigh when speaking his name was enough proof that she still loved the blackguard. "I was very curious to know if you have had further dealings with him. Please, Colonel, it has been much on my mind." Then, she did something completely unexpected. Marianne reached over and covered his hand with both of her own.

"Miss Marianne...it is in the past, and nothing came of it." Had she only asked him to come in hopes of learning any news on her lover, to drive the nails deeper into Brandon's chest? How could there have been any other pretext? After all, she'd nearly abandoned her very life in grieving for the scoundrel. But the kindness and honesty in her face, the concern when she touched his hand. She lacked all callousness and did not display any great affection for John Willoughby as she spoke his name. How he wanted to leave the room and withhold his answer! Marianne would drive him mad with love, as she had very nearly done already.

"My friend..."

"Miss Marianne, I challenged Mr. Willoughby. We met, he to defend, I to punish his conduct."

He could have only been imagining it, but it seemed that Marianne's irises had darkened. "But, you both walked away?"

"Willoughby missed his shot, the bullet landing in a tree far off to the right..." Brandon's face seemed to emanate shadows of doubt and impending sadness.

"And what of your shot?" She squeezed his hands with a reassuring firmness.

"I...I also missed."

The evidence that he was now lying to her was clear on his features. After all, for a man who never deceived anyone, lying was not a natural action. "Colonel, I can not believe that. You are a military man, and supposedly the best shot around."

"Miss Marianne, you will think me a fool-"

"I will only think less of you if you do not tell me, but I shall never think you a fool."

"I shot my pistol into the air."

Marianne paled lighter than she'd ever been in her illness. "But why!?"

"Because I could not kill him." His voice was grave and weighted with sorrow.

"I would not wish him dead, Colonel, but you had every reason."

Unable to bear it any longer, Christopher released her hands and rose abruptly from his chair. "I could not do it because you loved him, because you still love him...and I could never hurt you, Marianne!" Before Marianne might answer, Brandon had dashed out of the room, head in hands.

"Because I could never hurt you..." The words reverberated in her ears, through her temples and pulse until she could do nothing but bury her head in her pillow and weep.

Chapter 6

Posted on Tuesday, 25 January 2000

Marianne wiped at her face with the back of her hand. The tears were sticky and tightened her skin, flushed her cheeks. The pillow she'd buried herself in was very damp, and she shoved it off the bed with an angry push. She was so tired of lying in the bed, so mad at having to look at the same boring walls everyday, and being confined to lay back and rest. It wasn't as if she'd broken any limbs or contracted some exotic plague. On the way to recovery, Marianne Dashwood saw no reason why she should remain cooped up in her drab room with only a bed, a journal and the thrice-daily meal to keep her occupied. And now, it didn't seem as if she'd be receiving any visitors besides Elinor. Her frank mouth had done it again, as surely as she might have shot the Colonel with her own hands.

"He won't speak with me anymore." Marianne sighed, sitting up and hanging her weak legs over the side of the bed. Distressed, the young woman promised herself that she would not be the cause of further suffering to her dear friend, and that he would not be allowed to storm out of her chambers without explanation. So, Marianne set her bare feet on the hardwood floor, and gripping the bedpost, she stood. If the Colonel would not come to her, she would go to him. Every single thing he'd said in their last, tense conversation had more than astonished her. It seemed Brandon was a man consumed by emotion, a prison to his heart, his mind holding the keys. This discovery had come quite unexpectedly, but not without bringing some joy to Marianne's breast. It all seemed like a great novel or play, so passionate, so many elements and twists. For all the pain, Marianne's old romantic nature could not have been more satisfied. Beneath that calm, brooding exterior beat a heart as alive and haunted as her own.

Marianne stepped into her long-neglected slippers, still stained and damp from the rain. Placing her feet inside them brought back memories, not of her injured ankle or of Willoughby's 'rescue', but of that storming afternoon when the Colonel had cradled her in his arms and brought her back to Cleveland where it was warm and safe. He was warm and safe, and kind...good...intelligent...and considerate. Elinor's words rushed and reverberated through her mind, "He is the kindest and best of men." Marianne combed through her hair with splayed fingers, then walked to her armoire to pick out a fresh day dress. If she were going to make amends and to step out among the living it would not do look like a drenched rag doll. How could Colonel Brandon take her seriously if she appeared as a street urchin? She must make the best impression. His friendship had become extremely important to her these last few days, and it would hurt her more than she could fathom to have him snatch it away.

Marianne slipped the gown over her head, then straightened it over her body. It struck the young lady that she had been thinking much these nights if a man she had once regarded as dull and grave, ignorant in the affairs of the heart. As she pinched her cheeks to add some color, a thought crept into her head...could she possibly be developing feelings for-"No, ridiculous!" She muttered aloud, testing her balance. "I could never love more than once in my life, and any lesser fancy would be out of the question." And, although she denied it with her strange brand of reason, Marianne's feet urged her down the long corridors of Cleveland, in search of a man she told herself she could only greatly esteem and admire.

Brandon dismissed the timid maid who'd brought his food, sending her back to the kitchen with all the hot coffee and stew she'd arrived with. Elinor had been so good as to send the meal to her friend when he'd not shown up for dinner. But, Christopher could not eat, he was having difficulties enough trying to think in a sane manner. How could he have left her so abruptly, as a child throwing a tantrum? It was not his custom. He'd always been so good at controlling his frustrations, his sadness and anger. But, she'd changed him-cracked his armor. And, now, after having a glimpse inside the real Christopher Brandon, Marianne Dashwood would most definitely wish to see no more of him.

The cognac was warm and wet against the back of his throat, and he swallowed it greedily. Brandon did not often indulge in spirits - his own real ghosts were enough but he didn't want to think of how he'd stormed out of Marianne's room, or of the pathetic truth he had bestowed upon her. His glass was empty before he'd even taken a seat. All the better - he wouldn't have to get up in order to pour a second. He paced the room, agitated and completely uncertain of what to say to her, how to act when next they met. And they must meet again, it was inevitable. In a short time he'd also promised to escort her and her mother and sister back to Barton. How would Marianne tolerate it? She'd think him a slobbery hound at her heels. A fire of anger and self-loathing amassed inside his soul. To quench a spontaneous desire, the Colonel hurled his glass at the far wall. Not even the cracking sound of shattered crystal could satisfy his demons. He would not scream, nor would he run any longer. It was all so useless, so futile, he finally realized. It always had been. Marianne Dashwood would never love him. It was time to return to concealment, to rebuild the shell.

Marianne rushed down the long, carpet covered hallway. She made it to the open door of the library in just enough time to watch a passionately irate Colonel crash his wineglass at the back wall. "Brandon!" Her scream fled from her lips faster than her legs pushed her into the room. His broad back faced her, motionless except for the rising and falling of his shoulders, silent, save his violent heaves. "Brandon..."

Chapter 7

Posted on Wednesday, 26 January 2000

Brandon started, his breath catching in his throat, preventing his words. "Colonel Brandon..." Marianne repeated and set foot into the room where a toasty fire stirred some warmth into her shivers. She'd never been in Cleveland's library before, and she could definitely envision herself spending countless hours in such a place in the near future. But, the young lady resisted her urge to scavenge the shelves, and turned to the important situation directly in front of her.

"Miss Marianne, you startled me." His voice, always so deep and resonant seemed forced, pained. Although he had found the strength to address her, Christopher did not yet move to look in her direction. And, of course, as he said her name, he knew it to be her, there had been no doubt as to who had called out his name only seconds before.

"Then, forgive me and-"

"There is nothing to forgive."

"And give me a moment of your time." Marianne moved to sit in the Colonel's vacated chair, crossing her arms over her chest. She'd made up her mind; she would not leave the room, or leave Brandon alone until they'd had a very frank and limitless conversation. When he did not respond, save the rhythmic sounds of his labored breathing, Marianne rose from the armchair and advanced in his direction. "I shall only leave when secrets cease to exist between us, Bran- ...Colonel."

Finally, he turned to her, surprised that she wanted to speak so candidly. Well, not astonished that she wanted to speak frankly, but that she'd chosen him as her conversationalist. Having her attention was a delightfully alarming sensation of which Brandon was wholly unaccustomed. He hadn't yet managed to think of her addresses and kind words as anything less than a marvel, and doubted he ever would. "I have no secrets, Miss Marianne," He knelt, one hand palm upwards, and began, with the other, to pinch up shards of broken glass, cautious as not to cut himself. "I find that secrets can destroy every form of relationship. I keep nothing from you. I value your friendship above any other..." Had he not been focusing on the crystal-speckled carpet, Marianne Dashwood would have viewed a face ignited with ardent, tender love and honesty, hazel eyes flecked with an intense, fiery passion.

"If that is true," Marianne gulped and found her breath. How could she expect him to survive this meeting, if she herself was having a hard time maintaining her composure? "why do you always mask your feelings with weaker words?"

"Words are extremely powerful, my lady. That much is certain simply by reading the works of your favorite poets, even that poem you asked me to read this morning."

"I-I wrote that poem." Marianne gripped onto the delicate silks of her gown, nervously twisting the fabric between her fingers. She waited for his reaction, if it would show that he'd known all along, if he felt he'd been toyed with, or if her slight confession had been startling...

Brandon straightened his legs, standing impressively tall. And although he'd expected she'd been the verse's author, he nevertheless found himself moved beyond expression. After a moment's contemplation, Brandon glanced right at her, wondering that if he chanced to hold her eyes, she might forever imprison him in the unique beauty of her soul. "Then I must compliment you on the loveliness and skill of your writing." Gaining confidence, he smiled to her in the lighthearted manner she'd seen that morning.

"Thank you, Colonel...I wrote it for you." It was almost a whisper, and certainly a stammer, the way she now spoke.

"Miss Marianne..."

"I thought it the best way to make my apologies, to show you how much I have come to value your friendship...how thankful I am for your caring protection and loyalty."

He once again began collecting the remaining glass shards, not taking as much care as before. It was now a manner of distraction and discretion, an occupation so he would not be forced to lose all his bearings. "I am glad of it, that you may always call me friend, and trust me completely. That is my dearest wish-that I may have the opportunity to be the best friend possible, to you, Miss Dashwood."

Marianne paused, then clenched the feet between them, moving to kneel to his side. He stopped her with a quick and reflexive gesture of his splayed fingers.

"You might cut yourself."

"As you might." She countered, sitting on her knees to his right.

"Better I than you."

"I should not think so, Colonel. You've borne far too many of my wounds, already."

She started to touch his shoulder, but pulled away when her fingers were mere segments of air from the fabric of his jacket. "You said your dearest wish was to be the truest of friends as may be possible. My desire is this: that you would take the danger from those hidden words by speaking them to me, now. Speak of your heart, act of it!"

She was pleading with him, her eyes clouded like foggy, moist gems. He could not refuse her request, there was no avoiding her or lightening the strength of his words. Brandon turned from the glass on the floor and transfixed his eyes with Marianne's. "Miss Dash-...Marianne, if I were to act of my heart, right this instant, I would kiss you! Wipe your fresh tears away with my fingertips," He closed both his fists in what must have been an unnoticed gesture of self-control. How he wanted to hold her! "I should tell you that you are the center of my being.. "

Slowly at first, then with growing resolution, Marianne brought her fingertips to his cheek in a tender caress. Her other hand closed over his - it was shaking for the fist was closed so tightly. She'd never heard such a heartbreaking, sincere confession. The young lady was quite undone. "Brandon..."

He made a motion to stand. But soon, Marianne's fingers were closed over his forearms, her delicate hands viselike. He bent his head low, not daring to meet her concerned, tearful gaze. They were silent for a long while, watching the dying firelight lick against their features. Looking into one another, but not having the capability or bravery to see completely inside.

He broke the silence, his resonant voice possessing a gravity so sensual that she felt herself drawn closer to him, as if his very soul was pulling at hers. The fathomless depth of his eyes was beginning to pale. "I love you, Marianne." He uncurled her fingers from their grip about his arm, each one in turn, then brought her hand to his lips. And when he'd released her hand and stepped away only a pace, the touch of his kiss lingered, seared.

"Brandon, I'm...I..." Words failed her. Giving up, she plopped into the oft used armchair, shrugging and defeated. Her eyes scanned him, resting on his face, the Slavic hazel eyes flecked with green, his almost wild hair, and the endearing disheveled manner of his linen shirt. Everything about him was so honest, so passionate. Marianne looked last on his hands, focusing a few times before rising in alarm. "Your hand, Colonel, it's bleeding!"

Alarmed, Christopher opened his palm and found the remains of his wine glass embedded in his flesh, blood streaming along his lifelines and curving about his wrist, the creases betwixt his fingers. Marianne was at his side in a moment, ripping fabric from the dress she had taken such time in choosing to use as a bandage.

"Sit down...let me tend it." She felt she would go mad if she did not have this distraction, a distraction that allowed her to show her tenderest feelings, which she would otherwise not even admit to her own heart. Marianne clasped his fingers and supported the back of his hand with her own. With tender and cautious attention, she removed the tiny specks and tossed them into the fire, which was quickly becoming more ash than flame. They locked eyes during the whole procedure, not chancing to speak words that would no doubt be inadequate to the ones shared only moments before. "There now." Marianne knotted the silk around his fingerspan. "That should be sufficient."

"The patient has become the doctor, it would seem." He smiled, lips closed and winked at her teasingly.

"You make a far better patient, Colonel." She laughed nervously, not sure of how she should be acting.

Christopher Brandon cupped her cheek in his good hand, his thumb stroking just below her eye. In my dreams you become real, and forever, you are etched into my mind. . . he murmured, barely audible. Leaning forward, he planted his mouth to hers, beginning as a timid schoolboy, but then gaining the passion and confidence of one who knew he'd been accepted.

Marianne shut her eyes with dreamy gentleness and tilted her chin upwards. It was inexplicable, This felt right. The correctness of it nearly drove her out of her mind. Only days ago she'd been willing to die for the love of a foolish cad. Now, she found herself sharing an embrace with a man she'd once deemed an emotionless bore. More than simply sharing a kiss, she was enjoying it.

Brandon released her and exited the chair. "Miss Marianne, it is late...you must rest." He walked to the doorway, chest heaving, and knuckles white. "Until tomorrow..."

"Until tomorrow," She nodded demurely.

"Goodnight, Miss Marianne." He bowed with dignity and pivoted out the room.

"Goodnight, Colonel..." But he was already gone, at least physically. Marianne Dashwood found herself tracing the shape of her lips, searching for the ghost of his kiss.

Chapter 8

Posted on Wednesday, 26 January 2000

Marianne did not rise from her chair for a long while, concentrating on her own haywire breathing, instead. Breathing was the only concept that seemed to make sense at the time. Disbelief, shock, anger, giddiness, surprising joy, and...and...she was unable to decide how to feel. But she was moved, stirred beyond her own imagination which had always been so active, vivid.

The fire was dying, the glowing embers blinking ceremoniously before they sputtered out into shapeless ash. Marianne's dying, faded stars reminded her that love was not always constant, that it paled and flickered out. Such was John Willoughby. Marianne rose from her chair, running her hand along the mantle. She sighed and relaxed her shoulders. Dust ghosted over her fingertips when she lifted her hand and stepped away. The room was so dark now, dark and cold. She blew the dust from her skin, seeing a tiny cloud form in the air, then vanish. The room grew dimmer, drafty. Marianne clasped her arms about her chest. She'd not noticed the chill or the dark before the Colonel had left.

Marianne was not about to admit to herself that she was lonely, that Brandon's company had invigorated her in a way that had seemed all but completely alien a short while past. How could she find herself restless and wanting in such a room- a spacious and filled library? The high shelves rose up, filled, to the vaulted ceiling, high enough that Marianne had to crane her neck just to see their tops. But, for once, the literature did not stir her. How could she think of reading, when she now played in a drama so much greater than any she'd ever read? The events of the last few months, even the last few hours were unfathomable.

"The fire is dying down, the stars are guttering..." Marianne breathed, her voice crisp on the consonants, a whisper on the vowels. So quiet, but so powerfully she felt her words. In her haste, she'd left the bedroom without a shawl. Her words dropped from her lips with a slight shiver. It had been cold like this, no, numbingly colder the day she'd set out for Combe Magna. Had it only been a handful of days past? Marianne bit down on her bottom lip, promising herself that the tears would not flow. She did not really feel like crying, at least not out of sadness. But, some things, events, were so utterly bittersweet...and others so painful and selfish.

She'd once remarked that Willoughby had carried as if she weighed little more than a feather, that his manner was impressive, and his looks dashing. His speech eloquent and energized. John Willoughby was all about presentation, how he appeared to others. It was very important to him. Even now, his money, the splendors of wealth and a fine manor home seemed his only comfort. The cad had confessed his unhappiness and his undying love for Marianne to Elinor. He'd come in the night, heaving and frantic-concerned. "Is your sister all right?" But, had that been his real concern? "Will you tell your sister that I am sorry, that my wife made me write the letter?" Yes, it had been all about him in the end. He wanted Marianne to view him still as the Adonis demigod to whom she'd lost her young heart. For all that Marianne knew was true, her emotions were not those of hate or anger in regard to her former love. Regret grew in her breast over what could not be reversed- and not the fact that she would never be Mrs. John Willoughby of Combe Magna and Allenham. She rued her actions, the nails she'd twisted into Brandon's heart...a heart she wasn't quite sure she wanted, but one she would, nevertheless endeavor to deserve.

Her mind was muddled, as if she'd sipped too much wine. Sense-something her older sister had in abundance-once again escaped her. The words ran over and over through her head, stirring her heart, frightening and astounding..."Marianne, I love you..." It clasped her memory as a new melody might, her lips moving to repeat it in silence. Someone loved her beyond all reason, as Abelard loved Heloise, with the emotion as Anthony felt for his Egyptian seductress. It was unreal. Not the sweet, playful love she and Willoughby had played at, no, this was deep, darker, and more intense. It was something Marianne was not sure she would ever be able to handle. Yet, it seemed so strong, almost palpable in her hands. Brandon had said the words as Willoughby had only implied. Had Willoughby said the words in his rousing tones would she have quivered as she did now? A giggle, perhaps. Love, true love, was not laughter and daydreams. It went beyond that. Selflessness, humility and honesty, total abandonment of pride. It was powerful enough to scare one, to drive one near mad.

Marianne, besieged by her own heavy heart, gave a last look to the room, kneeling down to pick up one remaining shard of crystal. Her steps were unhurried to her bedroom, as fleeting thoughts of knocking on Brandon's chamber door whipped through her. The idea was abandoned-what would she say when he pulled the door open, weary, hair mussed and eyes intense but tired? She would not say anything.

Tucking herself under a warm quilt, Marianne stared up at the ceiling. There was little point in sleeping. Rest was not easy for the confounded and distressed. Her thoughts turned to him, as she squeezed her arms about the pillow, her hair spreading like a mermaid's on the water surface. The covers tangled about her legs.

It was safe to call him 'dear friend', "Colonel'. even 'Brandon' sometimes-these addresses held no consequences. The fact that she'd allowed him to kiss her and hold her fingers in his hands held no consequence. No decisions to be made. Her fortress still stood-rocking, but not crumbling.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired;
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see;
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo! Thus by day, my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself, no quiet find.
(Sonnet XXVII-Shakespeare)

But, Marianne recalled while her fortress shook. She had returned his kiss.

Chapter 9

Posted on Thursday, 27 January 2000

Brandon plunged his hands into the wash basin, cupping water into his hands and bringing them to his face. Another sleepless night, he realized, watching the sunlight creep in through the bedroom curtains. Now that he thought about it, the Colonel could not recall the last evening when he'd slept peacefully, when he hadn't dreamt of her.

He wrung his hands of the remaining water and slipped a fresh shirt over his head. It was impossible. Last night had NOT happened. It was too unreal. But try as he might, he could not doubt the events of the prior evening. His mind was actively replaying them like some never-ending verse. He'd kissed her, without asking, without any warning or sign of acceptance. And, she'd not pushed him away or screamed. If he dared to entertain the possibility-for it was quite useless to deny it- Marianne Dashwood had actually returned his embrace.

Perhaps it had been the moment, the encroaching darkness mixed with the warmth of the licking fire. The atmosphere could have an amazing influence on two very emotional, deep souls. Such words had passed between them, the tension thick and palpable as granite. How could a kiss have been avoided? They'd been walking a thin line, and knocked off balance by heightened emotions. But, he'd taken such liberties, overstepping the laws of propriety and insulting the one person he cherished above all others. Brandon was ashamed and awestruck at the same time. Ashamed that he'd allowed his impulses to take full control, and awestruck that he'd not been rejected.

It was overwhelming. Suddenly the room was stifling and he could not think. Hurriedly finishing with his dressing, Christopher exited the room, not sure of his destination.

"Colonel Brandon!" Elinor's energetic voice echoed down the winding hardwood corridor. "Good morning!"

"Miss Dashwood," he stuttered, unable to meet her eyes for the first time in his life. What was he to say to her? *Miss Dashwood, it is indeed a fine morning. Last night I insulted your sister. But, yes, a fine morning, indeed. * Instead, he bowed politely and added. "It is good to see you, Miss Dashwood."

Elinor's eyes traveled over the walls, then the vaulted ceiling. She seemed very anxious, not quite herself. As if her smiles were masking some inner conflict.

Brandon took a step towards her, noticing the tension in her words and the tight quality of her smile. Something was worrying her. Perhaps Marianne had shared her news, the occurrences of the last evening. It was not inconceivable. After all, such sisters rarely kept secrets from one another. But, Elinor was upset. That much was evident, no matter how valiantly she'd tried to conceal her emotions. His fear and concern battled in his mind. Did he extend his friendly comfort, or risk an interrogation? The confidante in Brandon won out. He was an honest man and had little reason to fear the consequences of his actions. He advanced a pace in her direction. "Something troubles you?"

"No...um..." Elinor's hands curled into the fabric of her gown, then up to the stray ringlets of her hair. "I didn't sleep well last night, I'm afraid." Well, it was the truth, although partial. How could she share with him the source of her unrest when he was the very man who'd assisted her dear Edward, allowing him the means to marry Miss Steele? She did not desire that any awkwardness enter into her friendship with the Colonel, so she did not offer a further confession.

"May I help in anyway?" He was unsure of how to cure insomnia, but it seemed the appropriate thing to say.

Yes, this was the Brandon she knew-kind and inhumanly considerate. "Thank you, but I am sure I will be all right." She laughed nervously, "It was only a nightmare. Very childish, really."

"Then I am glad you are well. If I may make a suggestion, Miss Dashwood?" He straightened his cravat, clearing his throat.

"Of course."

"It is very early. I am sure it would go virtually unnoticed if you were to slip in bed for another hour or two in order to get the sleep you so deserve." Brandon smirked, "I would not tell a soul that I had seen you any earlier than nine."

"Thank you, Colonel. I only wish that I could take such liberties. You see, once I am awake, I can not return to bed. It is strangely impossible." How could she rest when her mind was plagued with thoughts of Edward's impending marriage? He haunted her dreams...all the kind words they'd shared. Unsure of how to proceed, Elinor added, "Besides, Marianne has already risen. Hours before me, if I remember correctly. I doubt she even went to bed."

He started. "Is your sister all right?"

"Oh yes! She seems to be recovering rather quickly. Almost too quickly for my liking. I believe she's been so happy with her progress that she does not wish to stay any longer in that 'abominable sickbed'. She wants to dance and take her long strolls through the grounds. I only wish she'd realize it's a bit premature for all the activity."

Relief washed over Christopher's face, the color returning to his face along with a jovial gleam in his hazel eyes. "She is young. I am sure she will be fine. As I am certain she wishes to be home shortly."

"That must be part of it." Elinor nodded, tucking a rebel lock behind her right ear. It dawned on her that perhaps the Colonel suffered from many the same pains as she did. The lack of sleep, the great feelings of hopeless love. Surely, he had felt such pangs during Marianne's courtship with Willoughby. A fleeting notion to confide in Brandon passed through her mind, but was soon denied. There was no reason for her to subject the Colonel to her miseries. Especially when he had been so selfless as to offer Edward a parish. "Well, my friend, I must be on my way. Marianne has requested that I run an errand for her. She would see to her own matters, if I had not intervened and instructed her to stay inside."

"I will see you at dinner, then, Miss Dashwood." He bowed, and turned in the opposite direction. He made towards the study in order to inspect the condition of the room following the previous night's occupation. It had been dark; he could not be certain he'd picked up all the glass. Faint music poured into his ears, growing to a molten gold as he neared the music room. Christopher halted in his tracks, the heels of his boots causing the rug to bow up. Pressing his body up against the wall, he listened intently. Marianne was playing. Something very plaintive, honest...

The door had been left ajar. Cautiously, then with growing resolution, he crept inside, standing right past the threshold. Unnoticed. His attuned ears recognized the melody, so haunting and simple. "Beethoven . . ." he breathed. The world outside of the music room ceased to exist, as if he'd crushed it in his palm and tossed it into the fire. There was only Marianne, only Marianne and the music that oozed so effortlessly from her delicate fingertips. He never wanted the piece to end, never wanted more than to languish in this moment and savor her presence. If he could not hold her, he could cherish her memory, this memory forever.

The notes drifted out, sustained for a mere moment before evaporating into the air. Although it seemed to vanish after it was heard, music was constant, always in his soul. Brandon shut his eyes as the final notes sounded out, barely audible in pianissimo, breathing a prayer that the dear girl might forgive him for his past actions. There was the sound of a book closing, of padding footfalls across the floor. And the feeling of one's breath very near his cheek.

Chapter 10

Posted on Monday, 31 January 2000

"Colonel Brandon," Marianne's voice was breathy and nervous.

"Miss Marianne, I am sorry to have intruded upon your playing. It was beautiful, and I could not help but listen." He looked down to the ground like a frightened boy, preparing to be chastised for his actions.

Marianne blushed hotly, her dark eyes darting about the room. It occurred to her that she was completely unable to look him straight in the face, scared of what emotions might betray themselves in her own features. "Thank you, Colonel."

He simply nodded, not knowing if he should head for the door or take a seat. "Beethoven, I believe..."

"Yes, a new aria, "Ich Liebe Dich". It's a very simply melody, but I find it quite lovely." She ran her hand through her hair quite nervously, then moved to straighten her dress.

"That it is, Miss Marianne." Brandon walked past her and assumed the piano bench. His hands hovered in the air above the smooth ivory keys, yet he did not touch them. "Have you played any of the piano sonatas?"

Marianne was surprised to see the Colonel take to the piano bench. She waited in barely hidden anticipation for him to caress the keys. She'd glimpsed deep inside his soul over the last few days, and knew that if he were to play the instrument, the feeling and skill involved would be exquisite and real. There was something very mysterious about this man who appeared so reserved and silent. It was as if his mind and heart had opened like Pandora's Box-without the consequences of pain and tragedy- that she had pulled the latch of this box almost without knowing she'd done so. It seemed to Marianne that she had never before been so fascinated with another person as she was now with the colonel. Her thoughts and actions were guided attempts of learning more about him, his interests, and the emotions that fueled his soul and resonant words. She'd never known such a complex individual, with so many facets.

"No, I have not played any of Beethoven's sonatas, I must regretfully admit, Colonel. I suppose that I am afraid that my abilities would not be equal to the task." A nervous blush pinked her cheeks, as she realized she had taken more than a few moments to answer his question.

"Miss Marianne, I am sure your skills would be well invested in any composition. What you might consider a challenge would not remain so for very long." He smiled to her very gently, not even parting his lips. It was more a look in his telling hazel eyes.

"Your flattery is far too generous," She advanced to the piano, running her fingertips along the curve of the singer's nook.

"Miss Marianne, I must disagree. My comments do not do justice to your talent. I hope you do not mind my saying so." He set one hand down on the keys with a slow pressure so light that only a peaceful, vibrating hum issued from the instrument.

"No, Colonel. I only wish that I were truly deserving of such praise. I know you will protest otherwise- it is comforting to have such friends."

"I value your friendship very highly. I...cannot..." he paused, the pads of his nimble fingertips sliding across the treble.

"Brandon?"

He caught her eyes and held them, the end of his sentence evident in the look that passed between them. "I cannot imagine my life without it."

It was overwhelming, this admonition, so honest and humble. Sweeter words had never soothed her ears nor touched her heart. Marianne Dashwood, for the first time in her life, understood that words or actions were inadequate to express her feelings at this time. She had been moved beyond all reason by a simple sentence, devoid of flourish and impressive rhyme, but resounding with numbing truth. "Colonel Brandon, had it not been for your friendship, I might not be here in this room today." She sat down beside him on the bench, her shoulder brushing his, and shyly blanketed his hand with her own.

Brandon glanced down at the joining of their fingers, forever imprinting the image in his mind.

"You have saved my life in more ways than you know."

Chapter 11

Posted on Monday, 7 February 2000

"You have saved my life in more ways than you know."

The silence crescendoed in that room, compounded only by the sound of two breathing in the time of one.

"I have only endeavored to be a worthy friend to you, Miss Marianne. I hope that I may continue to be such." He made a movement to rise, but replaced himself on the bench following an insistent squeeze of his hand.

"You never allow a single commendation or accolade to be addressed to you, do you, Colonel?" Marianne had no desire to offend her dear friend, but she could not hide her frustration. Here was a man, the kindest and best she'd ever known, and he could not bear the praise of others, only their condemnation.

"I deserve no more praise than any other friend, Miss Marianne."

"Then, as a friend, you must allow me to think otherwise."

Brandon was silent for a time, his unspoken words weighted with emotion. How to receive such kindness from her was beyond him. In the past, he'd found himself undone by her mere civility. This friendship, it's continuing growth and tenderness, had him quite at a loss as how to react. He wanted nothing more than to speak frankly with her, to share his thoughts, and offer her his protection and trust. And if he were to admit it to himself, his greatest desire was to hold her very tightly, and feel her hair brush across his cheek.

"Will you play for me, then?"

Her sweet request roused him from his reverie. Smiling, he added, "Yes . . .if you will be so good as to sing to my accompaniment."

"It would be my pleasure, Colonel." Marianne dipped her chin in a mock bow. She could not recall the last time she'd felt so at ease with anyone. She had not forced happiness to reveal itself on her face as she had in order to placate others in the past, nor had she censored her words to prevent a minor scandal or scoff. *I may say anything to him. He will be honest and understanding. He has never judged me.* And although he'd said it so passionately only a night past, the revelation was just gripping Marianne's mind and soul. *He loves me.* A warm flush enveloped her cheeks and her pulse began to quicken. How amazingly satisfying it was to be sure of one's regard and sincere affection!

"Is there a certain aria you favor?" His hands stroked the keys with a sliding pressure, a small vibration of clear sound resulting from his touch.

"Shall we attempt a bit of Mozart?" She smiled brightly, footing herself solidly to the floor.

"If you like." He searched the stacks to the side of the piano, and after removing the top three or four leafs, he came upon a score of Mozart's "Voi Che Sepate". He offered it to his companion who took it with an enthusiastic nod of satisfaction.

"I had hoped you would find this one." After thumbing through it, to assure she knew the lyric, Marianne handed it back to her doting accompanist.

Brandon opened the score and straightened it across the piano's bridge. Poised, hands relaxing in the air above the keys, he looked to her, making the eye contact that was so necessary between the singer and the pianist. Wordlessly, they began. The Colonel's touch was light and precise as he tackled the ornamented aria. His fingertips barely touched the ivory as the notes and runs trickled out in perfect balance with Marianne's delicate but dexterous soprano. Memories stirred his soul as her voice oozed mellifluously through his ears, weaving a song of sweet love and renewed innocence. The first time he'd heard her play, saying nothing, only listening as the ghosts of his youth rushed through his mind, only to be replaced by the image of this enchanting girl with whom he'd not yet shared a word. He'd never predicted that she would stay, that her place in his heart, the indelible brightness she'd caused within his soul, would never again be occupied by another, dead or living.

It was the same to listen to her now as to recall the memories they'd already formed. Even if he did not avert his gaze to watch her animated features, the relaxed 'O' of her lips; he could still conjure, with perfect clarity, the radiant smile, the light in her dark eyes, seeming to emanate from a candle within.

Marianne's voice flew over the difficult runs with careful ease, a tone of playful joy in her head voice. She was thankful to know the lyric, for she would have found it hard to concentrate on anything but the movement of her accompanist's hands, his flawless technique. Her eyes followed his slightly curving fingers, the subtle lean he made towards the keyboard, and the gentle way his lips pressed together in a focused half-smile. There was something very bewitching about this music, this particular moment. If only Marianne could give free reign to her feelings. They welled up in her like a star near bursting, so brilliant and warm that her cheeks colored. Too soon, it was finished. Voice cut out as the piano resolved in the last major chords.

Silently, Marianne advanced to the piano bench, her hand shaking in the air above the Colonel's shoulder. Before she'd made a move to set her fingers down, Brandon turned, not smiling, not frowning. Yet, she could read his face, the unspoken satisfaction and happiness that would not be made inadequate by a simple smile. Nervously, she stuttered-which was something she had never done-"Colonel Brandon, you play extremely well."

He nodded modestly and extended his palm; "My playing would be nothing save your beautiful vocal skills, Miss Marianne." He gestured to her with that palm and rose from the bench.

"You are too kind, sir." She curtsied.

"Then, as a friend you must allow me to be so." He grinned and winked. He took a step or two towards the open door, then turned back to her. "Miss Marianne, if you would like..." Christopher paused, forming his question. "Would you do me the honor of a stroll among the grounds?"

That inescapable light resurfaced on her cream features. "My good sir, I would be delighted." Without a moment's hesitation, she took his arm.

Chapter 12

Posted on Friday, 10 March 2000

"The grounds are lovely this morning." Marianne's eyes roved over the lush landscape, settling on grass dunes and the outstretched branches of ancient oaks. Her voice was unsteady and she found she could not quite meet his eyes. In short, Marianne found herself to be quite nervous. It was not a small event in her mind that they were walking together, her fingers curled comfortably about the Colonel's arm. Six months ago she would never have imagined it. Or if the idea had been proposed, the old Marianne Dashwood might have either laughed at the ludicrous suggestion or turned her nose up in disgust. But, now, although she could not begin to explain it, her lips formed a slight smile of satisfaction, as if it were very natural that she should be strolling along a tiny lake with this man.

Brandon turned to her, silent for a moment, unspoken satisfaction revealing itself in his eyes. After inhaling in a relaxed manner, he answered her. "Yes, Miss Marianne, the day could not be finer." Whenever he spoke it was as if his voice was a violin, his lips- the bow caressing the strings of language- smooth, languid and warm.

To the young lady, that voice had become nothing less than incredible, as if she might simply hold its volume between her hands to listen to it whenever she felt the desire. Marianne gazed down at the water in front of her. How still it was to her, not a ripple, just as if it were fine crystal, the sun catching on its surface and beaming down towards her feet. Yes, the day could not have been finer. It had been nearly two weeks since her last venture outdoors, and she vowed she would never again let one day go by- with the exception of threatening weather- without taking a little time to appreciate a flowerbud or shard of grass.

"Would you like to sit down, Miss Marianne?" Brandon gestured to a nearby stone bench located on the right side of the pond. "After all, I believe this to be the perfect spot at which to take in the beauty of Cleveland. Also, we have come quite a distance from the house. You should, perhaps, rest?"

"Of course," Marianne sat down on the stone and relaxed her shoulders. It did feel good to sit. Her legs were tired and still a bit wobbly. Following some exertion, she often had the sensation of a sailor stepping on land after months at sea. The two companions shared an understanding look before the Colonel soon placed himself on the bench beside her.

"Miss Marianne, about the other evening...there is something I wish to say..." Christopher's gaze was steady, the anxiety he felt found a release as he clenched the edge of the bench.

Chapter 13

Posted on Wednesday, 22 March 2000

"Miss Marianne, about the other evening...there is something I wish to say..." Christopher's gaze was steady, the anxiety he felt found a release as he clenched the edge of the bench.

Marianne tensed, the well-formed muscles of her slim back tightening in expectation. It was not quite the feeling of awaiting the guillotine, as she might have thought several months past, but one of curiosity that would not be easily quelled. "Then, sir, please say it."

He reached for her hand, seeking the reassuring refuge of her fingers, and hoping she would not rebuke him. When her hand curled inside of his, he had the strength to speak. "I only wish to apologize for my actions against you yesterday evening. I was out of myself, and chose only to act on my own desires, not taking into consideration your best interests."

The dear girl rose from her seat on the bench, to face the repentant colonel face to face. "Colonel Brandon, I will not stay to listen to unnecessary and offensive apologies!"

"Offensive, Marianne, Why I had no intention of offending you!" Brandon stood up besides her, running his hands through his hair because it seemed the only thing he had any control over was his body. Certainly not his mind or voice. It would be madness to remain still, staring dumbly at her with nothing but unintelligible sound spouting from his lips.

"To say that you regret acting upon your emotions is just as if you were to say that my very presence disgusts you!"

"Quite the contrary, Miss Marianne. Your presence is dearer to me than any other, nothing you would do could ever disgust me!" He paused, catching himself in the dark, bewitching depth of her eyes. "It is only my own behavior that is revolting..."

"And, to that, I must disagree, for I have all reason to admire you, to enjoy your company, to care very deeply for you, and to..."

"Marianne, you are too kind and complimentary. I do not deserve your flattery." He had cut her off during that sweet tirade, afraid of what she might have said. Words could be mountains at times, wonderful to behold, but impossible to fathom their greatness. And there were mountains Brandon was unsure he could climb.

"Anything I have said has been an understatement, Colonel. If I say that I admire you, let it then be known that I think more highly, that I respect you more than any other individual I have had the pleasure to know." She advanced toward the bank of the lake, but did not yet step into the pliant mud that might cake her satin slippers. "If I have said I enjoy your company, then you must surmise that spending time with you brings me great joy and stimulating conversation." Another pace towards the little pond, Marianne turned her back to Brandon, her shoulders rising with her heaves. Brandon did not dare to open his mouth and protest, finally realizing that it was best to listen. Listen, believe, and understand - it was all she asked. And, he had always desired to please her. There was a long silence, weighted with their rhythmic breathing, before she continued, her voice laden with a power it could not hold.

"And, finally, Colonel- no Brandon- if I have declared that I care very deeply for you, then you must believe that...you must believe..." She could not finish, and shut her eyes on fresh tears. If she were to speak the words, they would no longer be impossible, but have weight and time, existence. Consequence.

Chapter 13

Posted on Sunday, 2 April 2000

If it were possible, the silence between them crescendoed. There was nothing that need be said further, at least not with words. But, Marianne helplessly swam through propriety- something she had little practice at- in an effort to recover her dignity. "Colonel, if I say that I care very deeply for-"

Brandon, unable to bear whatever milestone she might toss in his direction was unwilling to allow her to continue with this rash tirade. "Miss Marianne." Now, they were both drowning, for the Colonel, so gifted in strategy and such a support to his friends, found himself anchorless in the tide of emotions raging between them. And, although he had never done so on the battlefield, he knew for certain, that in every man's life there came a time to...surrender.

Which is exactly what he did.

Catching the small circle of her white wrist, Brandon brought Marianne to him. The embarrassed girl had turned in the direction of the house, possibly to the sanctuary of the music room so she might escape in some mournful aria. When Brandon had grasped her arm, she started and jerked around to face him, her dark eyes burning with an emotion quite unreadable. Surprise, sadness, hope, and-

"Miss Marianne, I now see that I must discuss with you the subject...the questions which have plagued my mind since you recovered. No, since I first heard you sing at Barton all those months past."

"Colonel Brandon," Marianne locked her gaze with his, as color slowly returned to her face, and composure to her body. "Please, speak."

For a moment, he simply looked at her, amazed as if it had been the first time he'd done so. Her red hair crowned her face so well, the gentle curve of her neck as it met with her chin, the brightness that shown in her eyes and smile. No, he could never have imagined her, nor could he ever dream her as wonderfully complex as she was.

"It is no secret that I love you...and it never was. I have loved you as long as the moment I stepped into that drawing room at Barton, Marianne."

At this, her face flushed as cherries on porcelain. His voice was pulling her in, his eyes closing tightly around her to shut her in his mind.

"I had never hoped, had forced myself to regard you as I only dreamed you would regard me. As a dear friend. And, a dearer friend I could not ask for." He squeezed her hand, fascinated with the smooth warmth of her palm. "But, my heart has always held more sway than my head, Marianne. I could not deny my feelings, but only hold them in check and wish for your happiness." Here, he paused, his eyes straying from her only momentarily to reflect over the past as he glanced over the rush covered earth. "I will not resurrect the past. I have too much respect for you, for what you have suffered. I ask only this, and this is all I shall ever ask you, Miss Marianne." He bent down on one knee, scarcely believing he could still breathe, and confidant that he held her full attention. "Marianne, I've never desired anything more than your happiness, and I would endeavor to please you all the days of my life. You know that you could never doubt my love or my trust. My dearest, you must know the question...Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife, Marianne?"

"I only wish, Colonel, that I could give you more." Marianne swiped at fresh tears with her free hand, and knelt down by Brandon. "I will marry you, Brandon. Not because you are good and kind, loyal or trustworthy. I might find all that in a friend. Not because you are handsome and wealthy. But, because you have shown me the kind of love that I might only endeavor to give through your every action. But, it is that love which I endeavor to return."

Not wasting that moment- for they would both imprint it in their souls to return to on a rainswept day- Christopher Brandon took her cheeks in his palms and touched his lips with hers. It had not been the first time, but now he might be certain, it would not be the last.