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PROLOGUE
Delaford - November,
1814
Colonel Christopher
Brandon sat at his breakfast table, enjoying his second cup of
coffee. He had become enamored of the drink while serving on
the Continent during the wars against France; first against the
godless Jacobites then later against the Corsican artilleryman
who dared name himself Emperor of the French. At first, his young
lovely wife could not reason why anyone would drink anything
but tea; she had put it down as another of his eccentricities.
Then one cold winter afternoon, impatient for the tea kettle,
she snatched her husband's cup and drained half of it. That impulsive
act had the result of doubling the amount in the Brandon household
budget for coffee.
"Look, Joy.
There is your papa. Say 'hello, papa.'"
Christopher looked
up, delight spreading over his rather plain features. There was
his Marianne, returning his smile, holding the greatest miracle
of his life - his infant daughter Joy. Christopher got to his
feet and crossed over the pair. Holding his hands out, he received
the squirming babe from his wife. Christopher kissed and cooed
at the child for a few moments before handing Joy to the nurse
standing nearby. The baby gurgled happily as she was carried
back to the nursery. Christopher then escorted Marianne to the
table, pulling out her chair and giving her a discreet peck on
the cheek. Marianne returned the gesture with a caress before
sitting down to her first cup of the day.
"Goodness,
Colonel Brandon, I do not know what gift of yours has given me
more pleasure - our daughter Joy or a taste for coffee,"
she exclaimed, and not for the first time.
"Indeed, madam;
I will have to increase my rents to keep you in beans."
"Does my habit
of expense threaten Joy's dowry, do you think? Heaven forbid!
Well, I am afraid she will just have to marry for money."
"Like her mother,
my dear?" Christopher could not resist responding. He chuckled
at Marianne's glare.
"I should agree
with you, sir - it would serve you right!" But it could
not last; Marianne could never be displeased with those she loved
for long. Her face finally broke out in a smile at their teasing;
she shook her head and asked, "Has the paper come, then?"
"Yes my dear;
it awaits your pleasure," responded Christopher as Marianne's
breakfast was placed before her.
Several quiet but
pleasant minutes later the two retired to the library for their
morning ritual of reading the newspapers, handling the correspondence
and enjoying a last cup of coffee. The letters they handled first.
"Look, my love, a letter from the Continent," Marianne
said as she handed him his share of the mail. "And look
- an invitation." They both began to peruse their correspondence.
"What news, husband?" It was their usual practice to
discuss not only their correspondence, personal and business,
but also the news of the world as well. Since he began the improvement
of Marianne Dashwood's mind three years ago, he found that he
had developed a valuable partner. A better sounding board for
both parties could not be found; Marianne had a loving, sensible
person who could keep her emotions in check, while Christopher
gained an advisor whose sensibilities often gave him an insight
he would not otherwise gain.
"'Tis a letter
from Wellington in Vienna. He and Lady Barbara send their best."
"Lady Barbara?
And what of Lord Horatio?"
Christopher read
further. "It seems that he has gone on holiday to tour France
with a Captain Bush."
"Hmm…
you were right, it seems. Captain Hornblower's talents lie not
in diplomacy. Any other news?"
"Besides Talleyrand
being up to his old tricks? The same old frustrations - save
on the slavery issue…"
"My goodness!"
cried Mrs. Brandon.
"What-? What
is it, my dear? What has alarmed you?" Christopher almost
shot out of his chair.
"It cannot
be! Oh, could it be true? How?"
"Marianne!"
the colonel shouted. It served - he finally got her attention.
"Christopher!
There is no need to shout at me. I am right here."
"Yes, of course,"
sighed Christopher, "Forgive me." He reclaimed his
chair.
"Thank you.
Do you wish to know the news? You will not believe it."
"Believe it
or not, I cannot say, until I am apprised of this news."
"I can hardly
believe it myself…"
"Marianne…"
he gently interrupted her, "…I beg you, please tell
me what this news is."
"Christopher,
Sir John Buford is to be married… to Miss Caroline Bingley!"
"Oh…"
Brandon returned to his mail. "Does it say when?"
Marianne was astonished
at her husband's lack of reaction. "Did you not hear me?
Sir John is getting… YOU KNEW! YOU KNEW AND DID NOT TELL
ME!" This time the glare was real.
Christopher smiled
sheepishly. "I suspected…"
"OHHH!!"
Mrs. Brandon tossed down her letters and sat with a cross expression
on her face. After several minutes she asked, "How long
have you…'suspected'?"
Her husband had
no choice but to answer. "Buford wrote to ask my opinion
on the matter in September."
Marianne's eyes
flashed dangerously. "Two months…"
"Nearer three,
I'm afraid."
"Christopher
Brandon, I simply cannot believe you have kept this news secret
from your wife for nearly three months!" she cried. There
was a long pause. "Usually you crack after a week."
She picked up a pillow and threw it at him.
Catching her weapon,
he ventured, "When is the wedding?"
Trying not to smile,
Marianne picked up the notice. "The middle of January. She
marries from Bingley House in London, at St. ___."
"Good. I would
not like to travel to Derbyshire in winter."
"There is more.
Her brother and his wife are giving a ball in their honor at
Bingley House on New Years Eve."
Her husband eyed
her. "Do you wish to go?"
She sighed, "Oh,
Christopher, I cannot bear to leave Joy just now…"
"But nothing
is easier! We shall bring Joy with us. We shall simply open our
house in London early." He reached over and took her hands
in his. "You shall be fully recovered from your laying-in
by then, I think. A ball would do you good."
"Oh, my dear,
do you mean it? All of us; nannies, maids - it will take two
carriages at least!"
"Two or two
hundred - what is that to me when I have the opportunity to dance
with you, my Marianne…"
She stoked his face
with her hand. "You are too good, sir."
"I? I am a
poor fool saved by your love. You have given me joy - by giving
me Joy. I shall spend the rest of my life proving myself worthy
of you." As Marianne's face filled with affection for her
husband, Christopher gathered her into his arms. There was little
talking for a quarter-hour.
Elba
The Emperor stood
on the balcony of his palace surveying his domain, his arms behind
his back in the classic at-ease position. He was dressed in a
uniform, with sash of the Legion of Honor peeking from under
the coat, after the customary hour-long bath he insisted on each
morning. Of average height - he was four inches taller than the
five feet two inches usually believed - the causal observer would
not think much of him, unless he saw his eyes and the grim look
on his face.
The Treaty of Fontainebleau
had not given him much - this spit of land, a thousand soldiers,
and two million francs. His wife Marie-Louise and son in Parma
were 'guests' - prisoners actually - of the Austrians. But it
was enough - enough to start again. His lucky star would never
desert him.
A servant interrupted
his musings. "Your Excellency," he announced, "déjeuner
is ready." Exactly on time - the Emperor insisted on it.
He had a passion for consistency and routine.
"Merci,"
he replied in an Italian accented French that he had not been
able to overcome in thirty-five years. He returned inside and
sat before the first of the two meals he would consume that day,
this one of sautéed chicken (well done), croissants and
heavily watered chambertin wine. Such was the change in his life.
A year ago he would have been involved in the morning levee,
when his orders could shake the world. As usual, the Emperor
left half of his meal on his plate before retiring into his office.
The Allies thought
they were kind to give him this Empire - 100,000 souls on Elba
- while they placed that fool of a Bourbon onto the throne of
France. A lesser man would have either accepted his fate or despaired
of his condition. But was not like lesser men. Destiny was not
through with him, he knew. His preparations were almost complete.
Soon, very soon…
it will be time…
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