Jamie’s hands came up—finally—to rest at my waist, drawing me towards him. He bent, lowering his head until his forehead touched mine. One hand moved to cup my jaw, and his voice was an uneven murmur. “I am so in love with you.”
Since I could not speak, I turned my head to press my lips against his palm, and heard his breath catch. “Margaret, don’t do that. Not unless—” His voice was husky. “Not unless you want me to kiss you again.”
“I suppose I can endure it if you can.” I smiled up at him. “That is, unless once was enough for you?”
Jamie caught me in his arms and kissed me—kissed my eyelids and my cheeks and the side of my mouth with fierce intensity before his lips settled over mine. “Never.” He murmured the words against my mouth. “I would have died to be able to kiss you again. I just never thought that I would have the chance.”
A long, long while later, he broke away and drew back a little. But he said nothing, only looked at me with the same wonder in his dark gaze.
“What is it?” I whispered at last.
The hard planes of Jamie’s face were silvered by the moonlight. He shook his head. “I was just wondering whether I might be only dreaming this.” His hand came up to cup my cheek, and his thumb brushed the line of my mouth, sending ripples of feeling through my every nerve.
“Why?”
“Because.” Jamie’s eyes were dark on mine. “You were all I ever wanted, when we were younger. I knew it was impossible. Someone like you—a gentleman’s daughter—and a gypsy’s son. But that did not stop me. I think I fell in love with you the first time I ever saw you—when you demanded I show you how to climb trees and then offered me the loan of your Christmas gown.”
I laughed. “I cannot believe that you remember that, still.”
Jamie was smiling, too, but then sobered, shaking his head. “I never forgot. I never forgot anything you said to me, all the time we were together at Norland during the harvest time. I would store up the memories so that I could think of them throughout the rest of the year, when I could not see you. Tell them to myself again and again, like the books of stories you used to read. I sometimes felt as though I was living just for those months we spent at Norland every year, when I could see you again.”
“I used to wish that I could go with you,” I said softly. I stood on tiptoe to touch my lips to his. “Every year, as I watched the wagons drive away, I would wish that I were going, too.”
Jamie’s arms tightened around me—and then a sound came from somewhere on the terrace up ahead: footsteps and a rattle, as of a kicked pebble, that made us break apart and both turn. Peering into the darkness, I thought that I saw the glimmer of a woman’s pale dress moving rapidly away from us along the terrace—but it was gone before I could be certain.
“I have to go.” Jamie’s voice was soft with regret. “You were right about my being seen.”
I looked at him, straight and tall in his uniform. There were a dozen things I might have said. Jamie, you nearly died—and you are barely recovered even still. … Please, I cannot bear the thought that you may be hurt again—or even killed. And I would never know.
I never really considered saying them out loud. But a tiny part of me wished that I could have. “I know,” I said instead.
“Margaret, will you do something for me?” Jamie asked. He spoke in a rapid undertone. “Will you give Colonel Brandon a message from me? I searched Rosford Abbey—that was the day you saw me. I thought that the latest shipment of smuggled goods was hidden there, in the tunnels of the old crypt. But it had already been moved when I got there—I suppose your exploring party put an end to Rosford being used for a hiding place.” He drew a breath. “But something Merryman said—I believe I now have a guess as to where the barrels of brandy and other goods are being stored. And who the Captain may be.”
That shocked me enough that I drew back to stare at him. “Colonel Brandon—then he knows that you are here, pretending to be part of the smuggling gang?”
A French window opened further along the terrace, and a few ball guests spilled outside, laughing and talking, their voices floating to us in the night.
Jamie swore under his breath at the intrusion. “I wanted to tell you before. But I didn’t want to put you in danger. And now there’s no time—” He lowered his voice and spoke in a rapid undertone. “As soon as I heard about … about Sam, I went straight to Colonel Brandon in Weymouth. I did not know him. But I knew of him. Colonel Forsythe had spoken of him as a good man. I went to Colonel Brandon and offered to infiltrate the smuggling gang, if I could. To send him reports, whenever I could, of what their plans and movements were. I could not tell him very much, as it turned out. I was a mere underling—no one, Merryman included—would tell me much of how the operation was run. And then I was shot—”
The group of ball guests were moving towards us along the terrace. Jamie broke off again. “Tell Brandon that I will be in touch tomorrow if I am right—and if I think there is cause to raid Willoughby’s house.” And then he was gone, vaulting easily over the low parapet that separated the edge of the terrace from the lawn.
When I had managed to collect myself enough to return to the ball, I found Marianne looking for me.
“There you are!” Marianne wore a gown of a deep purple silk with an open robe of pale lilac, belted with silver. Her face, I thought, looked slightly flushed, and the line of her mouth was grim. “Come into the library with me.”
She led the way into the Delaford library—a long, narrow room lined with shelves upon shelves of books. It was deserted, all the guests being either in the ballroom, the supper room or playing at cards. The strains of distant music and muffled voices and laughter were all that filtered through to us of the party going on in the rest of the house.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
Marianne turned to face me. “That depends on what you mean by ‘wrong’.” Her voice, too, was angry and clipped. “And upon whether or not you really were out on the terrace just now. In a compromising position—a very compromising position—with an unknown gentleman.”
I felt my whole body flash hot and then icy cold—and remembered the footsteps I had heard, and the glimpse I had caught in the darkness of a woman’s gown. I swallowed. “Who—”
“So it really was you.” Marianne rubbed her forehead as though it ached. “Honestly, Margaret, how could you have so little sense! Do you know who saw you? Sophia Willoughby, of all people! She came to me just now—oh, so solicitously—and asked whether I knew about my sister’s scandalous behaviour. Because she was terribly afraid that if word got out, your reputation would be utterly blackened.”
And so it would be. It is stupid, it is unfair. Men—like Willoughby, like Mr. Palmer, even—may be known libertines and adulterers, yet still be received in polite society everywhere. But any girl who is seen so much as kissing a man to whom she is not engaged is forever branded ‘fast’ and ruined in the eyes of the world.
At that moment, though, having just bidden Jamie good-bye so that he could walk off into danger, I could not honestly find it in me to care over-much for my reputation. Besides, I had stories I could tell about Sophia Willoughby, too—she probably thought to use this as leverage to ensure my silence on her affair with Mr. Palmer. “It does not matter—,” I began.
“Does not matter!” Marianne exploded. “Have you any idea of the damage that can be done by acting so foolishly? This man—who was he? It cannot even be someone with whom you have a lasting attachment. Sophia said it was an officer—and they only arrived here tonight. A virtual stranger!”
Since Jamie had already asked me to tell Colonel Brandon of his presence here tonight, there seemed little point in trying to keep it a secret from Marianne.
“He was not a stranger,” I said. “It was Jamie—Jamie Cooper.”
“Jamie …” Marianne looked momentarily blank, and then her eyebrows shot up. “The gypsy boy? From the tribe that used to camp at Norland years ago?” S
he shook her head as though in disbelief. “Margaret, do you not see that that makes it worse, not better? For you to associate with someone of—”
Worry and fear were already forming a queasy wash in my stomach, and Marianne’s words made my hold on my temper slip. “He has served in the army, just as your husband has! But even if he were nothing more than a gypsy horse-breeder, he would still have more honour than your choice in men, Marianne. Or do you deny that you have been sneaking out to meet John Willoughby at night?”
Marianne’s mouth dropped open, and her face went from angrily flushed to chalky white in the space of less than a heartbeat. I gentled my tone, but went on, “Marianne, it will grieve you, I know—but Willoughby is no more worthy of your regard now than he was five years ago. I believe—and so does Jamie—that he is in some way involved with the smugglers.”
Marianne had recovered herself somewhat, a little colour returning to her cheeks. At that, she gestured impatiently with one hand. “Of course he is! Why else do you suppose I have been sneaking out at night to meet with him these last weeks?”
It was my turn to stare in open-mouthed astonishment. “All this while … you knew?”
“Of course I—”
Marianne broke off abruptly at the sound of a commotion—running footsteps and raised voices—from out in the entrance hall. And a moment later, another young officer in uniform burst into the room. “Mrs. Brandon, ma’am—come quickly. It’s the Colonel—he’s been shot!”
* * *
I should have thought there would be a limit—a sort of plateau—to the amount of terror and worry one could feel. But apparently there is not—or else I have not yet reached mine. Because I am so much more afraid than I was an hour ago. So, so much more. If my blood were running cold before, it feels now as though I can feel painfully sharp crystals of ice forming all over beneath my skin.
As I was writing the last entry, Edward came down, to report that there was no change in Colonel Brandon’s condition. Elinor would never have said so, but I could see she desperately wished for Edward to stay with her for a while. So I offered to go upstairs and sit with Marianne in Colonel Brandon’s room.
I found Marianne sitting at her husband’s bedside, staring at his face and gripping his hand tightly in both of hers—as though she could physically hold the life inside his body. She was still wearing the purple silk gown, though it was smeared with Colonel Brandon’s blood. His men had carried him into the house, bleeding and insensible from the wound in his upper thigh. Marianne’s face had gone frighteningly pale, but she had neither fainted nor screamed—only pressed her lips together and directed the men to carry her husband upstairs.
As I entered the room, she glanced briefly up—but then her eyes returned as though drawn by a magnet to her husband’s face.
“How is he?” I asked quietly.
Marianne lifted one shoulder. “He is still unconscious. He lost so much blood. The surgeon was not sure whether he might lose the leg, besides.”
Captain Wainwright had asked her for directions to the nearest surgeon, then dispatched two of the men to fetch him.
Marianne’s voice trembled and she pressed her lips together as though trying to keep from crying. “I have been sitting here, making all sorts of bargains—with God or anyone else who might be listening. Let him lose the leg—he will hate it, but I will help him through that. Anything, if only he may live through this.”
I stared at her, unable to keep back the surprised words—thinking that although she is our sister, Elinor and I seem to have understood Marianne’s true feelings scarcely at all. “You love him,” I said.
Marianne looked at me as though she suspected me of having lost my senses. “Of course I do.” She turned back to her husband, gently smoothing a stray lock of hair back from his brow. “He is the best, the most noble man I have ever known. I love him so much—so incredibly much—” Her face crumpled again. “Oh God, Margaret, what am I going to do if he should die?” She rested her hand on the small roundness of her middle, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks and drip, unchecked, onto the counterpane. “He was so happy about the baby. How am I going to bear having this child if Christopher is gone—if he never gets the chance to hold his son or daughter after all?”
“He is not going to die!” I crossed to Marianne and hugged her tightly. “Do not think such a thing. He will live to hold this baby—and many more besides. The two of you will have a whole tribe of children in a few years’ time—and I will come and visit every year and be their eccentric Aunt Margaret who teaches them to catch frogs and grass snakes and spy on bird’s nests.”
Marianne hiccuped a laugh and swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “So long as you do not coach them to bring the creatures into church.”
“That is better.” I pulled up a stool to sit beside her, hesitated, and then asked, “Marianne—you never finished telling me about Willoughby. You knew all the while that he had some link to the smuggling?”
Marianne gave me a faint, wan smile and drew a hiccuping breath. “You are trying to distract me, aren’t you. To give me something to think about and speak of besides fear for Christopher. But yes, I knew about Willoughby—or strongly suspected, at least.”
She brushed her eyes again, then reached once more to take her husband’s hand, lacing her fingers with his limp ones. A single lamp burned by the bedside, and in its harsh light, Colonel Brandon’s face looked gaunt and greying pale. His eyelids flickered a little at Marianne’s touch, but he gave no other sign of being aware.
“Willoughby—” Marianne swallowed. “He came sneaking round to see me almost as soon as he arrived in the neighbourhood—as though I would be naive enough ever to trust or believe in him again.” Her lips twisted in scorn. “I sent him on his way. But then a few days later, I saw him in conversation with Mr. Merryman—whom Christopher had already told me he suspected of having ties to the smuggling. And then Mr. Merryman nearly ran me over with his horses and cart—and Willoughby was conveniently there to save me—I knew the whole thing had been a ploy to make me grateful. To induce me to forgive him for the past.”
I looked at her, trying to take in the sense of what she said. “But you said nothing. You allowed him to believe that he had wormed his way back into your good graces.”
“I did not know what else to do.” Marianne’s gaze was still fixed on her husband’s pale face, and she carried his hand up to rest her cheek against the back of his fingers. “Ever since those other excisemen were murdered, I have been wild with worry. But Christopher speaks to me very little of his duties—and he was far away in Weymouth, besides. Willoughby—” Marianne’s lips twisted. “He has not any great degree of subtlety. He never had. I realised—quite quickly—that what he really desired in fostering our acquaintance was any information he could worm out of me about the plans of Christopher and his men—where they might make the next raid, that sort of thing. I encouraged him—pretended not to know what he was really after. I even fed him false information a few times. Because that was the only way I could think of for me to help protect Christopher.”
“Then … the other night. When I caught you returning to the house—,” I began.
Marianne shivered, her face hardening. “After Tom Harmon died, I knew I had to put an end to the smuggling once and for all—before any other neighbourhood boys were hurt. The trouble was, I had not managed to gain any worthwhile information from Willoughby about how the operation was being run, or even who was involved. Before I could persuade him to trust me enough to tell me anything of that, I had to convince him that I was still in love with him—that I had never stopped loving him in all these five years. And for that, I would have to flirt with him, allow him to … to take liberties.” Marianne’s face twisted in an expression of disgust. “Not that I let him take very many of them. He kissed me that night, that is all. But even still, it was bad enough. I thought I would be sick all over his polished Hessian boots—which would have absolut
ely served him right. But it was worth it.”
Marianne drew a shaky breath. “He started to talk to me about his money troubles. To complain of how Sophia is constantly nagging him and how angry she gets with him for losing money betting on the horses. I pretended to be very sympathetic. I hinted that I thought a man in such a position would be entirely justified in doing whatever he might to recoup his losses. I even suggested that smuggling—free trading—ought not properly to be considered a crime, when no one was harmed, and the only result was a positive one: more sources of excellent wines and brandies for those who appreciate the finest things in life. Willoughby agreed wholeheartedly.” Marianne’s dark eyes hardened with anger. “Apparently, the lives of those excise agents and men like Tom Harmon do not count in his view as anyone being harmed. But it was enough—enough that I wrote to Christopher and told him everything. All about my suspicions, and what Willoughby had said. The plan was for me to hold this ball—to keep Willoughby and Sophia away from Rosford Abbey—so that Christopher and a handful of his men might search the premises for proof that he really is involved.”
Marianne smoothed the sheet over her husband’s chest.
I asked, “Then that is how he came to be wounded tonight? He was searching Rosford?”
Marianne nodded. “Yes. I had hoped the smuggled goods might be stored in the crypt—that was the whole purpose of my pressing for the visit there the other day. But our explorations proved that the goods must be elsewhere. According to Sergeant Macneal—the dark-haired one who helped to carry Christopher into the house—they had split up to better cover the grounds. And then they heard the sound of gunfire. He and the others ran to investigate, and”—she swallowed—“they found Christopher. Bleeding and—”
She broke off with a sharply indrawn breath as Colonel Brandon suddenly shifted on the bed and let out a low groan. “Christopher?” Marianne held his hand more tightly still. “Christopher, can you hear me?”
Margaret Dashwood's Diary Page 22
