Section I, Next Section

Chapter One

Author's note: I cannot deny that Alan Rickman has largely defined my image of Colonel Brandon in Sense and Sensibility. In my story, although I am attempting to keep closely to the story as found in the novel, Colonel Brandon's given name will therefore be Christopher, as it was in S&S2.

His companion, a young lady of nearly the same age as he, was making use of a swing hung in the aforementioned oak as a seat while she perused a small leather-bound volume. She sat with surprising serenity for one her age, her expressions of obvious delight and absorption in her reading showing plainly on her face. She was a small creature, though full-grown at fifteen. Her fair, clear complexion was graced with delicate, mobile features which, to those who knew and loved her, gave over to the viewer her likes and dislikes, pleasures and pains as they were felt. Her hair, a not-so-uncommon shade of strawberry blonde, had that sort of texture that would never consent to remain dressed despite the attempts of two housemaids, one governess, and the young lady herself. Even now, several strands had escaped their trappings to play about her face as her lips now pursed, now gave a faint smile, now parted slightly to allow the faintest inhalation admittance. She paused, gave a sigh and, marking her place with a bright blue ribbon, lifted eyes equally as blue toward her companion. Seeing that he was in no danger of awakening on his own, she hissed his name.

"Christopher! Christopher!"

When she saw there was no reaction, her eyes lit with a mischievous fire. She lowered the book slowly until it rested on the ground and, using her left hand to support herself on the swing, proceeded to untie one of her shoes. This mysterious action completed, she removed the shoe, held the top gingerly between thumb and forefinger and, with a flick of her wrist, launched it toward the offender. A smile played about the corners of her mouth as it hit him full on the stomach before falling to the ground beside him.

"Ugh!" Christopher sat up sharply, raising one hand to steady his hat. He replaced it in its usual spot, removed it again, stared at it in some consternation, and then tossed it to the ground atop his coat and neckcloth.

"You were asleep," she explained.

"Obviously," he retorted. His eyes, now visible, were a shade of deep brown - intense but, as was the case now, capable of expressing mirth. He leaned back on the bench, crossing his arms behind his head and his legs before him, and considered his cousin (for she was his cousin, though they had lived nearly all their lives as brother and sister). He continued with a wry smile, "Though most people of our acquaintance see you as an elegant, accomplished young woman, I alone have the privilege of knowing that you are something of a minx, Eliza."

"And if you were to tell them, I am sure that none of them would believe you."

"Undoubtedly, as you are something quite different when you are around them. And, by the by, when am I to have the pleasure of knowing why it was so imperative that I be awakened? If I am to undergo such...," here, he touched Eliza's shoe with the toe of his boot, "...humiliation, I do require an explanation." He raised inquisitive eyebrows as he waited for her response.

She took a deep breath and began, "There are three very good reasons why you should have been awakened. For the first, you looked entirely too peaceful sleeping there to be left alone...."

Christopher groaned and shook his head. "Not a very good reason for an accomplished young lady, I'm afraid. Pray, continue," he intoned.

"Second, I have a wish to swing, and you must swing me. Last of all, I desire you to recite for me." At the look of surprise - and yes, mild irritation, too -- on her cousin's face, she added, "But I love to hear you recite; your voice has the proper feeling and emphasis when you read, not like...," she lowered her voice, "...not like your brother Tom's." She felt that Tom must be something of an embarrassment to his brother. In fact, he was, though not for the reason she had just detailed.

Christopher arose, bowed with something of a smirk, and murmured something about being very obliged to her. Passing behind her, he began to push the swing. "Now, what shall I recite for you, my dear Miss Williams?" The last was said with a playful sneer.

"Shakespeare, if you please. One of his sonnets." Eliza was truly not always cruel to her cousin. In fact, he was very dear to her, and a certain playfulness had marked their relationship from the time she had come to live in the Brandon household as an orphan. She loved to hear him recite or read, especially since his childish voice had so recently been exchanged for one of much depth and richness. Paired with a love of poetry and literature and natural sensitivity, his voice was calculated to please as he read a bit of a sonnet or a selection from Cowper of an afternoon. She certainly could find nothing wanting in his delivery.

"Sonnet number one hundred thirty," he finally announced.

She turned her head sharply to look at him as her eyebrows drew together. "One hundred thirty?! But I am not familiar...."

"Hush, now! If you wish me recite for you, you must let me continue." Eliza turned back around and closed her eyes, preparing to hear his choice with significant pleasure, as this sonnet was one she could not immediately bring to memory.

"Sonnet number one hundred thirty," he repeated. For anyone watching, a curious change came over her face as he recited for her. Her look of pleasure changed to one of confusion. Presently, her eyes opened wide, and her face colored. All this happened within a few moments. "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;/Coral is far more red than her lips red;/If snow be white, why then her br--...."

"Christopher!" Eliza dug in her heels, stopping the swing instantly. She dropped to the ground and turned to face him, cheeks blazing, eyes wide. "How DARE you! And you mean to tell me that you have actually learned that one by heart!"

A grin spread slowly across his face. "Every last line. I felt I might need it some day, you see. A fitting punishment, I think, for disturbing my slumber." He picked up her shoe and brought it over to her, adding, "Come, now. You have made a rash decision, and you have suffered for it. Pray, let us be friends again and you will read something more...fitting for me."

Her cheeks were still red, but a smile met his as she gave him her hand. He picked up the book she had been reading and led her to a grassy area shaded from the sun. She seated herself and tucked her legs beneath her before reaching for the book he held. It was a copy of Romeo and Juliet, one of her favorites. She began to read with feeling, slowing down to enjoy some of her favorite passages. As she read, Christopher began plucking flowers and placing them fondly in her hair. A daisy here, a violet there - he knew her favorites were those that grew without the aid of a gardener, the ones that would have been discarded as weeds had not a sobbing Eliza declared to her beloved cousin that they must stay. Had he not, at ten, gone directly to the head gardener, bypassing his brother and even his father to insist that she must not be made unhappy? Oh, yes, he knew which ones would please her most.

Eliza accepted the gift without embarrassment - as though it were her due - but she must not be blamed for so doing. Christopher Brandon had been accustomed to adore his cousin from their youth, and although such kind attentions could not fail to awake feelings of gratitude, they had long since ceased to surprise her.

Sitting on the grounds of Delaford estate reading with Christopher was no new occurrence for Eliza. They had spent many summer afternoons thus employed in the past few years; it was a natural succession to chasing each other across the lawn as they had been wont to do at six and seven. Certainly, there were girls her age in the village, but a similarity of temperament, age, and interests in Christopher had given her no cause to look beyond her dear friend at home. They suited each other perfectly, both as playmates in their childhood, and as companions in their later youth.

Christopher, too, was glad to have it so and, though teasing her mercilessly at times, always watched over her with a fondness exceeding even that of her uncle/guardian. In watching over her so assiduously, he had learned that Eliza was particularly susceptible to colds. She had frightened him on more than one occasion with the severity of an illness contracted after walking in the damp or being caught in a rainstorm. It was this careful solicitude for her heath that alerted him to the gathering clouds overhead. Without warning, he simply reached over and, taking the volume gently from her hand, marked her place with the ribbon and closed it decisively.

Eliza looked up with no little surprise as her book disappeared mid-sentence. A sharp, questioning glance at him guided her eyes upward toward the grey clouds. She crossed her arms, her bottom lip protruding, as she replied pettishly, "It shall rain soon, and I see I am to go indoors." In all other respects a strong, healthy girl, she hated that in this her constitution should require so much coddling. It seemed hard to her that the most picturesque spots must be situated over a marsh and that the most thrilling of thunderstorms must be fraught with danger for her. It exactly suited her romantic sensibilities that she should sit among the dead leaves in the autumn or explore the underground passages of a ruin, but several infections and high fevers had taught her what was necessary. She had been lucky before; she might not be lucky again.

Eliza rolled her eyes, gave a deep sigh and, taking Christopher's hand, arose, pausing only to allow him to retrieve his neckcloth, hat, and coat. The walk back to the house, of necessity rather quicker than either would have liked, was punctuated by fretful remarks from Eliza and equally patient rejoinders from her cousin.

"We should have been quite well where we were for another half an hour. I think it hard that you should have stopped me so suddenly, and during one of the most soul-stirring speeches," she began.

"You see how quickly the clouds gather, Eliza," he remarked, pointing toward the sky. "It is more important than the most wonderful speech or sonnet that you be indoors when the rain begins. I will, in fact, be better able to attend to you in the drawing room where I will not, at least, be always dividing my attention between yourself and nature."

"I know well enough what my limitations are, since you are forever reminding me!" she exclaimed. "I can look after myself well enough, Christopher, without your hovering about and spoiling every afternoon filled with the beauties of uncertain skies."

"But if I had not hovered, as you call it, last week, you would have walked back one whole mile in the pouring rain for the sake of 'uncertain skies.' Had I not been there to 'spoil your afternoon' not only would you have been soaked through (and I won't state any further possibilities, as I do not like to think of them myself), but my father - your uncle - would have spent an afternoon pacing the floor. Tom and I would had been soaked to the skin looking for you on horseback, and Dr. Walsh, whom you know only too well for my comfort, would have been forced to make an extra call on his rounds that day, and on who knows how many days after."

Unable to argue with this bit of well-documented logic, Eliza merely commented, "I do not think it quite fair that I, who see beauty in all these things, must needs avoid them. I won't regret your good fortune in your constitution, Christopher, for you understand and share my feelings for the glories of nature, but Tom, you know, sees no beauty at all in anything worthy of notice."

"You mean by that remark that he finds more beauty in a bottle of well-preserved port, a fresh copy of the newspaper, and the new serving girl at the Rose and Crown," Christopher added. He was displeased with this facet of his brother's personality. Though five years his junior, he could see all the wrong in Tom's behavior and could lament that such a one would take over the estate upon his father's death.

"Precisely, and that Tom, someone lacking in proper feeling, should ride six miles - six miles - from Weymouth in the rain and show no ill effects..." There was a catch in her voice, and she turned her face aside so that he could not see her cry. As one so well acquainted with Eliza's feelings, however, he could feel her frustration and, taking her hand in his arm, proceeded to soothe her as best he knew how.

"When we are indoors, Eliza, you shall play for me." She nodded mutely, her face still fixed on some far distant spot.

They had reached the house, and Christopher was proved to have been in the right. Just before they made the door, the first torrent of rain struck. A servant, watching for them anxiously, had opened the door at that instant and Eliza found herself shoved in rather unceremoniously, only slightly damp. The hot water was rung for, and a promise made that Christopher would be found waiting in the music room as soon as she was bathed, warm, and dry.

Chapter Two

That summer afternoon, Mr. Brandon had finished reviewing his accounts a half hour since and had immediately withdrawn into himself. He thought on his wife, as he often did at these times. She had been an excellent woman, bringing the family a fortune, but bringing to him things of so much more importance: family, love, and a strong mind. He had relied on her more than he cared to admit, had trusted her judgment more than his own. And her judgment was worthy of trust; he could bring to mind only a few times in which she had used poor judgment, and she had immediately acknowledged her error and somehow contrived to make things, if not as good as they could have been, at least better than they had been.

He could recall the time soon after his father's death when he had been sitting in the study, attempting to make sense of his father's account books. The numbers swam incomprehensibly before his eyes until, frustrated, he had slammed the book down on the desk. Amelia had entered then and, immediately perceiving the problem, had come to stand behind him. She spoke no words of condemnation; she merely opened the accursed little book and began to explain until its contents had resumed their accustomed places and meanings. From that day, she had been near when she knew he was in need of assistance. However, despite his desire to turn the entire business over to her, she would never allow it. Explanation and suggestion she would offer, but never decision; that, she declared, was his responsibility, and he must not abdicate.

No, Amelia never could abide those who selfishly ignored their responsibilities. That was obvious when she had received the letter some three years later. Her sister-in-law, barely out of childhood, had died upon giving birth to her first child. The loss was felt by the entire Williams family, but especially by Amelia's brother. The two had been married less than one year when she had died. Amelia had hoped aloud to her husband that the child, a robust, healthy girl, might comfort her father and draw him out of his rather alarming grief, but her hopes, it seemed, were only to be dashed. The express came two months later, and she had opened it under her husband's solicitous eye, reading over its contents with concern and alarm.

"Hysterical nonsense!" she spat out, crumpling the letter into a tight little ball and hurling it into the fire. A tear trickled from under one eyelid. Lawrence rushed to her side; her health since Christopher's birth four months previously was not what it had once been.

"What news, my darling?" he asked. "What additional trouble has come?"

"My brother is dead," she replied. She set her mouth in a grim line, and as she continued he saw the struggle to regain composure worked out on the features of her still-lovely face. "The family's solicitor writes to tell us the news. It seems my brother had been pining away and neglecting his appetite for some time. Starving himself!" she threw out suddenly and harshly. "They might as well call it what it is! Silly, stupid romantic notions of following a person to the grave!"

Unsure what to say, Lawrence contented himself with stroking her hair while she fought and mastered the dual emotions of sorrow and anger. Presently she drew a deep breath and spoke again. "The pressing matter of business, however we may feel the loss of my brother, is what to do with the baby."

"I see." He went to the chair opposite her and sat down, pressing his fingertips together. "And?" he prodded.

"And all that remains is to collect Eliza and her nurse and to bring them here. Her parents are gone; her grandfather is old and infirm. We are her nearest relations, and here is where she must live." She looked up at him, expecting no opposition and receiving none. They had thought alike on matters such as these. "The question of finances is already decided for us. My brother met with his solicitor and has left her thirty thousand pounds. The interest on that amount may be used in her upbringing, and the principal will be made over to her husband upon her marriage."

"It seems," he ventured, "that your brother took great care in assuring himself that Eliza would be well looked after.

"Except, of course, in remaining as her father," she retorted. "That, of a necessity, must be your job now, and you weren't given a choice in the matter. Learn from my brother, Lawrence, that suicide, even in its mildest form, is a selfish act. He took nothing into consideration but his own interests, imposing upon many of those he claimed to love. You would never attempt anything so absolutely foolish, Lawrence!"

"I should hope not, Amelia, but then I shall probably never be faced with that circumstance."

"We never can see the future or what may come, but, focusing on the present, I see a host of letters that must be written, and I need to be busy just now." With that she had dashed the remaining tears from her eyes and headed resolutely to the writing desk in the corner of the room.

"...I shall probably never be faced with that circumstance." Those words rang over and over in his mind. How like him to be so wrong, and how like her to test his resolve as closely as she could.

She had been radiant on their daughter Amy's wedding day. Even though Amelia was within a month of her confinement with their fourth child, she had insisted on attending the ceremony. "It is only at Delaford church, my dear," she had reassured him, "but I would be there had the ceremony been in London. I am no newcomer to my condition." She had been proud of the match, for she had been instrumental in bringing each of the participants to the other's acquaintance. Happy to know that Amy, eighteen, was marrying a man she respected and loved, and relieved to know that she would be settled respectably at Avignon with no small fortune to support them both, Amelia looked the picture of health. There had been no difficulties. The marriage had been performed and celebrated, those who were expected to cry had cried, and the bride and bridegroom were on their way to Italy for a month.

One week later, however, the difficulties had arisen. Amelia had announced that the child was ready to make his appearance. After sending a servant to fetch the midwife, Lawrence himself assisted his wife to her bedchamber. Christopher and Eliza, then seven, and Tom, twelve, had been admitted to give their mother a kiss on the brow. When the midwife arrived, Lawrence had squeezed his wife's hand tenderly and had gone downstairs to the library to wait. That had been the last time he had seen Amelia alive. Her child was born dead, and a hemorrhage had claimed the dearest creature in the world to him.

Mr. Brandon was aroused from his reverie by a tentative knock on the door. Christopher entered the room, seeming desirous of communicating something of importance. "I thought you might like to know, Papa, that I have got Eliza safely in out of the rain and that she is upstairs in her bath."

Turning in his chair, Mr. Brandon looked out the window, and it was indeed raining. It would be more accurate to say that it was pouring. A clap of thunder sounded before he turned back to answer his son. "Thank you, Christopher. You may go now." The door closed, and Mr. Brandon could hear retreating footsteps. When they were at a safe distance, he brought his fist down hard on the desktop.

"Can I not even care for my own charges?!" he brought out in a forceful whisper. It had been raining - thundering, no less - and he had been lost in the past, heedless of the present. He pulled his fingers through his grey hair as he silently added this failure to the long list of failures he had mentally kept against himself since Amelia's death.

Chapter Three

Passing through the door, he handed his muddy boots to the waiting maidservant and left a significant puddle beneath him on the parquet floor. She produced a thick towel, which he took gratefully, violently rubbing it over his clothes and hair.

"Mr. Brandon be asking for you, if you please," she said, dropping a curtsey and giggling slightly. Hannah was a pretty, plump young girl with rosy cheeks. Though only sixteen, she liked men, and men liked her too. Young Master Tom, with his long legs, rakish face, and sparkling green eyes was just the sort to catch her eye, and in his presence, she found herself invariably reduced to giggles.

Tom groaned at the mention of his father. "Thank you, Hannah," he replied as he gave the towel an additional pass over his curly black hair and returned it to her. "Tell him I have been in the stables and will be down to the study as soon as I have washed up. Oh, and Hannah," he continued, "it is nearly tea-time, is it not?"

Another giggle passed the girl's lips. "Yes, sir. Mr. Brandon have asked for tea to be served in the study."

"Then bring in enough for two. I'll be wanting some when I get in there, there's a good girl." Tom reached over to pinch her retreating behind. "And be quick about it," he added good-naturedly.

Hannah jumped and let out a loud squeal before exiting toward the kitchen amid a torrent of giggles. "Dashed pretty girl," Tom said thoughtfully as he made his way toward the staircase. Walking up the stairs on the right, he heard a door shut, and presently Eliza came tripping down the stairs on the left. Unable to resist, he reached over to tousle her newly dressed hair, disarranging it and leaving a few strands hanging about her face.

"Good day, Eliza. Going to play some music for Christopher?" A broad grin spread across his handsome face. The exchange with Hannah had left him in a playful mood, and he was determined to share it with anyone he passed.

Eliza was desperately trying to restore her hair, pulling out pins and reinserting them and, having no mirror, generally making more of a mess than Tom had. "I was," she mumbled, a couple of pins in her mouth, "but I'm afraid I may have to go back upstairs. I can't play, you see, with my hair about my eyes." She lifted her eyes and he could see that, although slightly irritated, she was by no means displeased. He was aware that Eliza, though giving him all the affection he was due as her adopted brother, did not entirely approve of him. This knowledge did not affect him beyond his attempting now and then to ascertain that she did not totally despise him.

"Is that you, Eliza?" Christopher appeared at the bottom of the staircase. "Oh, good afternoon, Tom. I see you didn't arrive before the downpour began. Did you remember to stop by Miller's in town today?"

"Not today, Chris. I only stopped by the inn with Lancaster today for a couple of pints." Lancaster was, in fact, Lord George Lancaster, a wealthy gentleman a few years Tom's senior who lived about five miles east of Delaford. He was a man of an unfortunate propensity to drink and play at cards and who generally lived riotously. Stories about Lord Lancaster were well known across Dorsetshire and Surrey, where he had his estates, in London, where he spent a good portion of every year, and in any town or village where he had visited friends. To this ignoble personage Tom had recently attached himself and, ever willing to be influenced where base pleasure was the result, had begun spending a large portion of his time in the gentleman's company.

At the mention of Lord Lancaster's name, Christopher could feel anger seething inside of him. He longed to see Tom free of this man who was encouraging him to drain the family's accounts on ruthless pursuits that they could, in any case, ill afford. He had toyed with the idea of lecturing Tom on many occasions, but he had so far held his tongue. He had been afraid that talking about it would only make things worse; he was, after all, only fifteen. But holding his tongue had given rise to no improvement, and their father was either too blind or too weak to notice and check his eldest son's excesses. This time, thought Christopher, this time something needed to be said, and pray God that Tom would listen.

"If you were there with Lancaster, then likely as not it was more than a couple of pints you had," he began. Tom was instantly and angrily on guard, confirming Christopher's suspicions somewhat. "My guess right now would be a couple of bottles of the best they had to offer and entirely at your expense, regardless of the fact that Lancaster's got a vast deal more money than you or Father will ever have." His voice was rising with each word, and Tom's knuckles were turning white as he gripped the stair rail, anger flashing in his eyes. Eliza stood pale, her hair forgotten and hanging in irregular loops. Her hand was pressed against her mouth, her eyes open wide.

"I would also venture to suggest," Christopher continued, "that a fair amount of the morning and afternoon has been spent at cards, gambling away our father's money while the house..." he lowered his voice, remembering the servants, "while the house is in serious need of repairs we cannot possibly afford even without your lunacies." Eliza had seen her cousins disagree, but never had they been so close to coming to blows.

"You're a fool, Tom." Christopher stood at his full height at the base of the stairs, fearless and challenging. Tom, across from Eliza and halfway up the stairs, glowered down at him, red-faced and menacing. His jaw worked violently and a vein throbbed in his temple as he looked up and down the corridor.

"If Father were not at home, I would give you a thrashing you would never forget," he threw out and stormed to his room, slamming the door.

Christopher stared after him for a moment, then turned to Eliza, his face instantly gentler, and asked, "Are you coming, then?"

Her hand flew to her hair, still only half-dressed. Noticing her cousin's barely suppressed mirth, she declared, "I really must go up to repair the damage."

Christopher again became grave and glanced upstairs uneasily. It was unlikely that Tom would vent his anger on Eliza, but now was not the time to be taking chances. When he glanced back at Eliza, he saw that she had already turned and begun the ascent. Moving quickly, he reached her side, closed his hand firmly over her wrist and said, "Do come down, Eliza. There is a mirror down here and as I have already seen you in disarray..." His voice trailed off. Eliza paused, considering, and assented.

In his room, Tom was attempting to arrange himself for tea and a meeting with his father. The meeting would, of course, be about money. These days, his father only thought about money. It didn't help that Tom was still smarting from the reprimand his younger brother had given him. Additionally, it didn't help that he must either tell his father today about the debts run up at the Rose and Crown or deal with the shock tomorrow when the creditors were due to contact him.

He had by now changed into dry clothing and, angrily knotting his neckcloth, he glared at his reflection in the mirror. This would never do. His father might be a fool, but he was a stubborn fool. Once confronted, he was like a creature at bay, snapping and snarling. At this moment, Tom was feeling confrontational, and that could only lead to trouble. Approaching his father pleasantly could achieve the desired result, but in his present condition, Tom knew he didn't stand a chance.

A glass of brandy from the decanter he kept at his bedside soon restored him to his cheerful humor. Christopher forgotten, he even whistled a tune as he made his way to the study.

Chapter Four

Mr. Brandon had come to a decision, and not without some difficulty or misgivings on his own part or concern for the position in which his follies had placed his son - sons, to be more accurate. One of his last real decisions had occurred three years before. On the occasion of his seventeenth birthday, Tom had declared that he was no longer in need of a tutor, and his tutor had agreed. There was no question of Tom's going to Oxford; finances would certainly not permit that luxury, but his father was relatively unconcerned. Tom would inherit Delaford and, naturally, would make use of very little of Oxford training in the running of an estate. At that time, however, the idea had entered the elder Brandon's head of dismissing the tutor entirely -- and for that matter the governess as well. This he had done at once, and had felt immediately the influence of an additional eighty pounds a year unsecured. It was with relief that he had seen Christopher and Eliza continue their studies together as though nothing at all had happened; if they faulted him for the loss of their instructors, they were determined not to show it or give him any cause for regret.

The question of their prospects had soon arisen. Eliza gave him very little concern; she had her thirty thousand pounds and would never want for suitors. Christopher, on the other hand, would have no Delaford to inherit and, without the means of attending Oxford, could rule out the church or the law. Many a sleepless night over the next year was spent in pondering the question of Christopher's future career before Mr. Brandon's sluggish brain had found the answer: the army! The purchase of a commission would take some money, to be sure, but the cost would be significantly less than that of sending Christopher to school or fixing him with any sort of income. Yes, the army seemed the ideal solution, and Mr. Brandon had broached the subject to his younger son immediately. Christopher had, after some amount of surprise, readily agreed that this was the best solution by far, and there had been the end of the matter.

Now that he had come to another decision, it was right and necessary that he inform Tom, and as soon as possible, but the knowledge of his duty failed to make the task any easier.

Tom Brandon lounged in one of the armchairs facing the desk, his legs stretched out before him giving the illusion of even greater length than they possessed. Every few moments he would place the cup to his lips, but he remained resolutely silent. Even while refusing to meet his eyes, he could feel his father's nervousness from where he sat. Mr. Brandon had asked to see him, not the other way round, and he felt no desire to initiate the conversation. No, his father would have to say whatever it was he wanted to say without Tom's assistance. He contemplated alternately the blotting pad, the scrollwork design of the rug, his mother's portrait on the wall, and the tips of his shoes. Finally, he closed his eyes and sighed.

Perceiving he would get no help from Tom, Mr. Brandon screwed up his courage and plunged into the conversation. "Tom, I have asked you here to - to discuss the finances...."

Tom groaned and opened his eyes. "That old topic? I would have thought we had worn it out before now. You call me in here to tell me the funds are dwindling, would I ever-so-kindly refrain from spending what we have got. I tell you that it's a dashed dull life in the country without a bit of amusement to liven it up. I say!" Tom ejaculated, suddenly on the alert. "This isn't about the Rose and Crown, is it, because I can explain that."

"The Rose and Crown?" asked his father in some surprise, and in a changed voice, added, "How much is it?"

"Is that not the reason you asked me here?"

"How much?" Mr. Brandon asked again. He opened the account book, inked the pen, and waited for his son's response. There was silence. The pen hovered over the page, and he peered at his son, his eyebrows raised. Tom, in a quieter voice, named an amount, and Mr. Brandon grimly added it to the book. This bit of information, unwelcome though it may have been, at least lessened his unease concerning what he was about to do. After making the entry, he then turned the book around and pushed it across the desk.

Tom took it up hesitantly and looked. He felt his stomach lurch sickeningly as he began to comprehend the severity of their situation. His father had never shown him the book before, and he had never felt any curiosity as to its contents. Now, he could wish that he had known earlier, but what good would that have done? He could not feel remorse for his own actions though he could feel regret at the state of his family's fortune; he could not see his revelry as wrong, but he could now see it as coming to an end, and he felt fear. "That bad?" he managed to choke out.

"That bad," his father replied as he rang the bell for the servant. "I fear I have been an indifferent steward of what has been left to me, and for that I am ashamed. But today, as I gather more evidence of how you have assisted in draining our accounts, I have less compunction in asking you to assist me in saving our fortunes. There is a path that may save us, but I will require your full cooperation."

"Mine?"

"Tom, you will be of age soon, and for your sake and the sake of the family, I want you to marry well." The door opened, and a servant passed in to collect the tea, but before the door had closed again, Eliza's singing could be heard plainly from farther down the corridor. Mr. Brandon's eyes flickered in that direction.

Realization dawned on Tom's face in an instant, and he sat up suddenly, his eyes wide. "You mean...you mean - you don't mean Eliza, surely!"

"And why not, Tom? You know her; she knows you, and with the use of her thirty thousand pounds, we could keep from bankruptcy and have a fighting chance to get Delaford estate earning again."

"But she's fifteen. You don't mean to have her married at fifteen, do you?"

"She's nearly sixteen, Tom. For that matter, if you can control your debts, it could even wait until she's seventeen. Consider, though, that you are not in a position to marry where you choose; you have certain responsibilities as my son. Remember, too, that the lifestyle to which you have become accustomed will end, and soon, if you do not marry your cousin."

Tom sprung from the chair and paced the room from portrait to window to bookshelf, peering intently at each but seeing none. He paused at the fireplace, taking from the mantel a china figurine representing Othello and Desdemona. "As the eldest son of a family that is failing financially, I naturally assumed - that is..." He replaced the figurine forcefully, chipping the edge of Desdemona's foot in the process. His words escaped in a rush: "Oh, hang it all! I've known since I was twelve that I would be expected to marry well. It had never occurred to me to be distressed by this fact, provided, of course, that I could choose a wife who wouldn't meddle in my affairs. I never minded; I never said I minded! But Eliza? I mean, she's a dashed good sort if she is your sort, and she's served jolly well as a baby sister, but as a wife..."

The sentence hung unfinished between them, poisoning the atmosphere of the room. Embarrassed at the turn the conversation was taking, Mr. Brandon had refused absolutely to make contact with his son's eyes, preferring instead to focus his attention on a small inkpot located at the corner of his desk. He had rolled it between his fingers, examined it thoroughly, and stained his fingers with its contents before Tom lapsed into quiet. He could not bring to mind anything to say. Indeed, what could be said at such a time? He considered several responses, weighed them carefully, rejected them all, and ultimately contented himself with platitudes.

"One must do one's duty, you know, Tom. If there were another way, I'd..."

"Another way...another way," Tom echoed, musing. His eyes darted back and forth as he searched desperately for an alternative. In a moment he looked up, triumphant. Striding to the desk, he placed both hands on its front and leaned down in order to meet his father's eye. "There is another way," he declared slowly and deliberately. "I say to you that there is another way."

"But how?"

"London!" Tom brought the palm of his hand down hard on the desktop in order to better emphasize the leading syllable of this word. He again paced the room in his excitement. "Lord Lancaster leaves for London in a fortnight, and I shall do what I can to leave with him. He always takes a large party with him, so there should be no difficulty in obtaining an invitation. He shall be in London - I shall be in London - for half a year, maybe more. There will be dinner parties and balls, and I shall meet women. Scores of women! Rich women in search of estates! Oh, I've thought it all out now. I shall catch me an elegant, wealthy wife from the grandest marriage market of them all. What say you, Papa? Shall I give it a try? If I am not married well by the time Eliza is seventeen, I shall take her happily. I swear I shall!"

"Sit down, Tom, and lower your voice. We do have servants, you know." Tom returned to his seat dutifully. His father had not said "No" immediately, a good omen; he examined his hands thoughtfully, unwilling to intrude upon a silence which might prove propitious.

Mr. Brandon, however, was feeling all the embarrassment that comes from delivering a sweeping ultimatum only to have it rightfully questioned. The thought of London had, in all honesty, never crossed his mind, and for good reason. Preferring the country life, he and Amelia had ventured there only twice or thrice during their married life. Tom had been to London once; Christopher and Eliza, never. He could not challenge the sense of Tom's argument, though doing so might increase his own feeling of control over the situation. Eventually, he remembered Eliza's age and was willing to agree for her sake. She was young - there was no doubt about that - and if Tom could find a wife in London, why then, he would place no obstacle in his path.

"I could tell you where to marry, Tom," he began, "and be perfectly in the right, but I will allow you to look about for yourself. You may go to London with my blessing on the understanding that, should you fail to marry well within the next eighteen months, you must return to Delaford to marry Eliza."

In situations such as this, meaningful discussion is frequently succeeded by polite conversation, which is ultimately followed by embarrassed silence. Preferring to avoid the middle step, Tom, within half a minute of the discussion's end, offered his thanks, angled for his dismissal, secured his escape, and was on his way to the stables for his horse. It was imperative that he see Lord Lancaster right away.

Chapter Five

As autumn approached, commenced, and progressed, Christopher and Eliza spent less and less time together out of doors and more and more time together in the music room. The rains were not any more frequent than they had been in the summer, but the indolent sun, neglecting her duties shamelessly, retired earlier each night to her slumbers, leaving behind lanes still damp and dirty from showers two or three days previous.

With winter came the holidays, and with the holidays came dinner parties, house calls, and all manner of festivities throughout Delaford and the surrounding country. Mr. Brandon, determined to keep up appearances, and banking on future good fortune, entertained regularly though modestly. Even Christopher found himself caught up in the cheerful spirit surrounding him. So much, in fact, that he had been willing to part with a modest sum of his own ready cash when he chanced upon a delicate chain especially suited to Eliza's slender neck and pale coloring. The anticipation and pleasure he felt while hoarding his treasure can well be imagined, but they were as nothing compared to his joy upon finding the perfect moment in which to give and watch.

Seventeen guests were invited to Delaford for dinner on Christmas Eve, bringing the number at the table to twenty. Christopher felt a great deal of pride as he watched Eliza, in a gown of emerald green, performing the duties of the lady of the house. His memories of his own mother and elder sister performing the same duties were now quite faint, though not gone entirely. Silently, he compared her to the others and realized that she had a something that the others - yes, even his beloved mother - were missing. His mother, beautiful and emotionally strong, and his sister, much the same, had never had the social poise that Eliza possessed in abundance. Yes, she might be fifteen (sixteen in less than a month, he reminded himself), but inside that fairylike figure, so childlike still at play, lurked an elegance that made her a pleasure to watch in her adult role

Christopher stood at the doorway with his father and Eliza watching the last of the guests enter his carriage and leave for home. Inside his coat pocket, Eliza's chain pressed against his thigh, reminding him of the joy he had saved up for this time of the evening. As the sound of wheels against gravel died away, Lawrence Brandon left for the sitting room, expressing his warmest hope that the cards had by now been cleared away so that he could read the paper in peace. "Haven't touched the thing today with all the commotion around here!"

Eliza and Christopher followed more slowly, discussing the events of the evening with a vigor characteristic of youth.

"Did you see Mr. Parry? Can you believe it? Cabbage! No, really, it was cabbage! I wanted to reach over with my own napkin to clean his mustache. Oh well, he'll discover it when he gets home..."

"Mrs. Lawton will drone on and on and on and on. I thought the gentlemen would never return from the dining room. I could have used your company then. What do you mean? Of course I had to sit and listen! If Papa is the host, then I'm at least something of a hostess..."

"George Ramsey was cheating at cards. I know! I saw him slip a card in his sleeve. Yes, I know he lost anyway. Being a cheat doesn't naturally make you intelligent..."

"What makes you think I slipped my mushrooms under my napkin! Well, I don't know why one must put on a brave face and eat something one does not like. No, I don't think anyone saw but you, and if they did, I doubt they would have the nerve to say anything..."

Talking thus, they had paused in a doorway, and Christopher pointed up. Eliza looked where he was pointing. There, hung above them were the traditional waxy green leaves and white berries. "Well," said Eliza, the faintest hint of a smile playing about the corners of her mouth.

In response, Christopher bent down and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Merry Christmas to the best sister one could ask for! Wait!" Thinking that was all, she had been ready to walk on, but Christopher stopped her with one hand, plunging the other into the depths of his pocket and producing a long, slender case. He presented it to her with a bow, and she opened it. The chain shone warm and gold against the blue satin interior, the candlelight bringing forth gleams here and there. Eliza contemplated it for a moment, and then flung her arms around her cousin's neck.

"Oh thank you. Thank you, Christopher. It's - it's beautiful! I don't know what to say!"

He turned her around and, taking the jewelry from her hand, proceeded to fasten it around her neck. "Oh, I don't know. Say you've never had anything so lovely. Say I'm worth more to you than the rest of your family. Say I can do no wrong. Say..."

"I'll say none of those things," she replied, turning around again to face him. She tried to make her face look stern, but laughter soon bubbled through, and she embraced him again.

"Well, then," replied Christopher. "We had better continue on to the sitting room before Papa thinks we have lost our way." And so they did.

The remaining winter months were whiled away by the companions in front of the sitting room fire. Eliza would usually sit in an armchair, her legs tucked beneath her and in her lap a volume of Spenser or Jonson or Shakespeare from which she would read. Christopher, as was his custom, would choose a low stool at her feet, one elbow resting on her chair, his hand supporting his head as he gazed up at her.

On most occasions, this suited Eliza well enough, but once, in a fit of playfulness, she brought foot to elbow without prior warning, reducing Christopher to an ungentlemanlike heap upon the floor, whence he had retired in mock exasperation to a corner of the sofa on the opposite side of the room. Eliza, not understanding and really distressed at this turn of events, did not quite know what to make of it.

"Christopher," she called out plaintively. "I am sorry, truly. Won't you come back over here?"

Christopher, fighting back a laugh, sat immobile, his arms folded across his chest, his face grave. He did not intend to give up his bit of revenge so easily.

There was a pause as Eliza attempted to gauge his mood. Was he truly angry? She found it hard to believe, but he certainly did not seem pleased. "Christopher, please do return. I shall even fetch Spenser for you. He is one of your favorites, is he not? What shall I read for you? Come, do tell me."

No response issued from the statuelike form she had addressed.

Now she was really frustrated and angry with him. She had meant it to tease him, and he was taking it all much worse than she had anticipated. "Oh, do stop it! If such a little thing can make you angry, why then, you deserve to be ignored. I can do quite well without you. Hmph!" With that declaration, Eliza moved the chair about to face the fire and turned her attention to the volume she was holding. Had anyone then asked her what she was reading, she could not have told, for her eyes, though fixed on the pages, were rapidly filling with tears; and her mind, rather than considering with rapture the intricacies of the English language, was instead fixed on the cherished cousin she believed she had offended. Five minutes at most was all she could bear of this privation. She peered timidly round the side of the chair to see if Christopher were still very angry. Perceiving that he had not moved in the slightest, the tears spilled out onto her cheeks and her lips began to tremble with emotion.

At this first sign of tears, Christopher almost relented; he had not expected such a passionate response to his teasing. In fact, he had thought she would have realized by now that he was in jest. Nevertheless, he did wait longer - just a little longer - before bringing the persecution to a close: just until she had ventured to his side, taking his face in her childlike hands and dropping kisses here and there and looking between each to see if he would allow it. He did allow it, and allowed her to declare sadly, "Dear, dear Christopher. You must forgive me! You must! I did not mean it to make you angry. I -- oh!"

In an instant, he had grasped her about the waist and was spinning her around and around the room, faster and faster; the whole time, her little fists were hammering on his arms and shoulders. "How could you! You tricked me!" she shrieked. "Horrible, horrible boy! Put me down - put me down this instant!"

They heard footsteps traveling quickly down the corridor, and presently the door was flung open, revealing Mr. Brandon, pale and breathless. Upon hearing Eliza's piercing scream, he had run all the way to the sitting room, uncertain what he might find. Now that he had arrived, he was even more uncertain what he had found.

Christopher lowered his cousin to the floor, barely suppressing his mirth, and the two of them looked sheepishly toward Mr. Brandon.

"We were..." they began simultaneously. Christopher looked at Eliza and nodded: He would take his cue from her. If she were still angry, then he must bear the consequences.

"Well?" Mr. Brandon asked.

Eliza answered him. "We were reading Shakespeare - that is, I was reading Shakespeare, and Christopher..."

"And I was listening," intoned Christopher, "and..."

Both were silent, unsure how to explain the situation. Mr. Brandon glanced toward the armchair by the fire, contemplating Eliza's discarded tome. The cover read clearly: Milton Paradise Lost.

"I...um...well..." began Eliza again.

Her uncle cleared his throat noisily. "In that case, would you please oblige me somewhat and keep your...um...reading to a more reasonable level in future."

"Yes, sir," they mumbled, exchanging glances that told each that a truce had been drawn and that the quarrel was over.

The door closed heavily behind Lawrence Brandon. "Children," he muttered indulgently, and returned to his room.

Chapter Six

If these be the true - the only - forms of love, why then Christopher Brandon must be forever branded as an unnatural sort of young man. He did not choose the exotic - the strange and new - but rather one of the most familiar persons of his existence, one whom he had known and adored from infancy.

It came to pass in that time of year when nature begins to exchange the grim, grey aspect of winter for the softer hues of spring. Rivulets marked their meandering paths down Christopher's bedroom window, the remnants of the rain that had come the previous night. Drop met drop in an intricate, obscure dance - now left, now right - which at certain moments cast tiny rainbows about the room. The sun, genially spreading her warmth across the gardens, the lawns, the stream, the woods of Delaford, ascended inexorably, calling forth new growth in each place she shed her rays. Tiny blades of grass, minute openings of buds, each nearly invisible when viewed singly, yet together added a shimmering mist of pale green to gently rolling hills, larch and aspen, oak and elm. The crocuses, their needlelike leaves having fought relentlessly through the wet, compact winter earth, now burst forth, gasping for air and reaching for the warmth of the springtime sun. One week hence, their petals would be open, revealing tiny centers of violet and gold, but for now it was enough just to bask in the welcome change of season.

A robin came to rest atop Christopher's windowsill. Ignoring the still-sleeping inhabitant of the room beyond the glass, it hopped to and fro. Among drab olive-brown feathers relieved by the brighter red-orange of neck and breast gleamed two sharp little ebony eyes, which darted back and forth. He cocked his head, warbled a cheery tune, and fluttered to a nearby elm. Repeating his song at intervals, he hopped from branch to branch among the swollen buds until, distracted by a grub or worm moving along the ground, he swooped down to snatch it up.

Christopher woke that morning feeling rather than knowing that something had changed. A lovely thought - a pleasant sensation - lurked just out of reach, yet at the same time seemed to promise so much if only he could grasp it. He chased the thought round the corners of his mind as he took his morning tea; he had a sinking feeling that if he at any time ceased his pursuit, it would vanish entirely. It teased him as he stood at the basin to wash his face and smiled complacently from a distance as he was dressed. Without actually grasping it, he had yet kept it in sight from the moment he had awakened to the time he emerged from his room. He was beginning to despair of ever making a success of it, when a voice from behind him called out, "Christopher!"

The voice distracted him in its suddenness and, released from his constant surveillance, the thought slipped obligingly into his consciousness.

He was in love! And here at this moment was Eliza coming to bid him good morning and accompany him downstairs, as she had always done. But hadn't he always loved her? Was this feeling so new after all, or was he just now realizing something that had been happening for a long time? Even now - even at this moment - he could not determine when that childish adoration for his cousin had become something more. It certainly hadn't happened just that morning, for he could now bring to mind so many occasions when he should have known he loved her, but - foolish child that he was - he hadn't seen it for what it was. He loved her! Those words echoed over and over in his mind as he turned to face her.

"Is something the matter?" Eliza's brows drew together; she was looking at him in a rather curious manner.

He gathered his thoughts. "No, nothing at all. I can't think of anything at all that is the matter." He gave her a smile, hoping it did not seem too broad, too joyous. "Why do you ask?"

"When I first spied you, you were standing in the most distracted manner, staring off down the corridor. I was certain you were looking for something, but I couldn't make out what it was. Then, when I called your name, you gave me such a strange look, that I felt I had done something to offend you. Have I?"

"Offend me? Never!" Bemused, he proffered his arm. When she accepted and slipped her arm through his, a flush spread across his cheeks, and he turned his face away to hide it. He had not anticipated - had not had time to anticipate - how he would react in her presence. He was now conscious of the pressure of each separate finger on his arm, and a something - he could not name it -tightened in his chest. He could have sworn, when an escaping lock of hair brushed across his shoulder, that he felt it through three layers of linen and wool. On any morning before this one, he would have laughed and tucked the errant lock behind her ear, but he felt suddenly that he could not accomplish such a simple task and keep his composure. He fixed his attention resolutely on the path his fingers were taking as they slid lightly down the polished stair rail. This would not do.

"Are you certain you are not ill?"

He turned again to face her, willing himself not to stare at the slope of her neck, the delicate, high arch of her cheekbone, the soft curve of her ear. She was expecting a response to something she had asked, but he had not heard through the rushing of blood in his ears. "N-no, Eliza, merely distracted. What was it you asked?"

She spoke slowly, assuming the sing-songy tone usually reserved for children or simpletons. "Are you coming to the sitting room with me, or will you take a turn about the grounds before breakfast?"

He found it difficult to keep his attention from her moving lips so that he could hear the question. "I - I think I will take a bit of a walk first," he replied. Then, "No, no. You go ahead. I need a few moments to myself. I will not be long." And thus he escaped to ponder this new sensation alone, kicking at stones and stumps, and trampling the occasional early bloom in his agitation.

Christopher had not that impetuosity of youth that rushes greedily to snatch at whatever prize is offered. It did not occur to him to question whether his love would find a willing recipient in Eliza. He loved her and was certain that she would return that love in time. He did, however, possess youth's illusion of time, slowed painfully at best and stretching on endlessly to the unforeseeable future and ultimate conclusion of life. He loved, knew that he loved, and was content in that knowledge, relinquishing for a season any desire to pursue the emotion further. There would be time enough for that at a later date, he reasoned. For the present, he was happy merely to feel.

A man who has discovered a priceless jewel does not always share his find with others. Instead, he locks away his treasure where it cannot be found, happy just in the knowledge of his possession. From time to time, and only when he knows he is completely alone, he will retrieve his prize, hypnotized by its beauty, examining it and turning it here and there to catch flashes of light and glimmers of purity.

So was Christopher with his newfound love. At first he feared to investigate too frequently lest it lose its luster somewhat, but soon he discovered that, instead of weakening from his handling, it rather flourished from the attention. That concern quieted, he found examination a pleasant pastime, and indulged it whenever he could. But, as a jewel hoarded benefits none but the owner, and that in the most selfish way possible, so Christopher knew that he must share his love with Eliza if she - and he - were to enjoy the full benefit of his emotion.
If Christopher watched Eliza more intently as the weeks passed, she did not appear to notice. And if their walks through the park on fine afternoons became more frequent, why then Eliza never thought to complain. And if, when his cousin was playing the pianoforte, he chanced to stand ever closer to her, the lapels of his open coat touching her back as she played, his face brushing ever so slightly against her hair as he bent over her shoulder, he must be excused, for he certainly must have done so only in order to turn the leaves of her music as she played.

Chapter Seven

The Brandons were lingering amicably over the remains of breakfast when a servant glided in bearing a letter upon a salver. Mr. Brandon peered at the paper shortsightedly and tossed it on the table near Christopher.

"I left my spectacles in the study this morning, Christopher, and can make nothing of this. The writing is too cramped for me to read. See what your young eyes can accomplish."

Christopher lifted his napkin and wiped his mouth before stretching out his hand for the letter.

"With cramped handwriting, Papa, it is bound to be from Tom," put forth Eliza, who was just then rising from her seat. She passed behind her uncle's head and leaned forward conspiratorially. "Perhaps his dear Miss Simmons has turned him down," she whispered. "Whatever would he do then?"

Mr. Brandon's face turned a shade of scarlet incomprehensible to the others, though if Tom had been present, he might have succeeded in shedding some light on the subject.

"You must not talk so, Eliza," began Mr. Brandon in a pleading voice, his hand clenching and unclenching on his napkin. "Only think what a great deal this match means to Tom and to the rest of us."

Christopher interjected before tempers could become frayed. "The letter is from Tom. Shall I open it, Papa, or will you take it back to your study with you?"

"Oh, open it, open it." His father waved a hand toward him. "Let us hear what the boy has to say for himself. Go on, go on."

Eliza pressed her uncle's shoulder gently, causing him to turn. "I shall be with the housekeeper discussing today's meals. Is there anything in particular you want?"

"Want? Oh, something with gravy, I suppose. Use your own judgment."

"I shall do my best, Papa." She walked to the door, paused, turned, and said in a softer voice, "Papa?"

"Yes, Eliza?"

"I didn't mean what I said about Tom and Miss Simmons. I was only teasing; I often tease Christopher, you know. If Tom truly loves Miss Simmons - and I can only suppose he does since he writes of her with such regularity - then I could never wish him any ill success in his endeavors."

"I can only hope he does love her, but that will come in time," murmured Mr. Brandon once she had left the room. "It did for me."

Christopher, who was contemplating with fascination the back of the female neck, did not hear. About half a minute after Eliza had departed, he recollected himself and broke the seal on the letter.

"'Dear Papa'" he read, "'London is filthy and wet and your son is frightfully incensed. The carriage I was traveling in overturned in the street yesterday, pitching me into the mud. I gave the driver a severe tongue-lashing, but the damage had already been done. My best coat and pants are ruined, as the housemaid declares that whatever it was I discovered in the street won't come out in the washtub. There's nothing for it but that I shall have to have some new made.'"

Here, Christopher paused to send a guarded glance his father's direction. Tiny creases had appeared above the bridge of his nose as he stared blindly at something - who knew what - in the distance.

"'To make matters worse,'" the letter continued, "'Miss Simmons has left with all her family for Bath. At first, I was so vexed I paced the dining room, treating the chairs shamefully and bringing my fist down on the table more times than I ought. After an hour of this, Lord Lancaster wandered in to determine the cause of the ruckus and laughed heartily when he heard what had befallen me. As I was such a lovesick puppy, as he termed me, he decided that we should move ourselves to Bath, and rang the bell at once to make arrangements. We leave at the end of the week. I will send directions as soon as I am aware of them.'"

"To Bath," said his father thoughtfully.

"When Tom gets it into his head to marry, he certainly does it in grand style, following women halfway across the country." Christopher glanced again at the letter and turned it over. "Oh, there's more! Wait, not really. He merely sends his love to us all and would we wish him success, especially Eliza."

Especially Eliza? Christopher shrugged his shoulders. He could make no sense of that.

Eliza paused at the music room door before entering, contemplating today's discussion with Mrs. Hoyt. On her sixteenth birthday, the adopted daughter of the family had decided that it was time she learned the intricacies of running a household. As Mrs. Brandon and Amy had both departed her life at an early age, she had no one to whom she could turn in her ignorance save the housekeeper herself.

Mrs. Hoyt was a capable woman in her late twenties who had been promoted to her current position when the previous housekeeper passed on. Despite her youth, she knew a great deal about the running of large households, especially Delaford. When Christopher and Eliza were toddling about on fat little legs, she had been taken on in the position of scullery maid, and had worked in nearly every position since. Her knowledge of the jobs she assigned made her a fair and understanding person to work under; she never would be guilty of assigning too much work to a maid, but neither was she inclined to leave them too much room for leisure.

After his wife's death, Mr. Brandon had given over the entire job of running the household to her predecessor. Miss Hoyt had therefore spent her entire term of service as housekeeper in complete control of the running of Delaford, and it might be conjectured that she had been offended when an inmate of that great estate took it into her head to meddle in such affairs. But the housekeeper was a practical, unassuming woman, and Eliza a pleasant, earnest pupil. The arrangement worked well for them, and Mrs. Hoyt found great satisfaction in aiding her young mistress to learn what was needed. "She has a fortune, that one does, and will one day be a grand lady in some house. Why, who else is there in this house to teach her but me?"

When he was not otherwise occupied with more important matters, Christopher found himself irresistibly drawn to wherever in the house Eliza might be found. That was why, on this morning as he left the breakfast table, he found himself drawn as one mesmerized to the music room. Originally, he had intended to change into riding clothes and make use of the sunshine out of doors while it lasted, but good intentions, however seriously made, are frequently forgotten in the whirl of adolescent love. At the foot of the stairs, his hand rested atop the carved knob that adorned the first stair rail. Eliza must have finished quickly with Mrs. Hoyt this morning and gone directly to the pianoforte. Her pure soprano wound itself round him like some siren's song and, having no desire to stop his ears, Christopher allowed the sound to lead him.

The pianoforte was positioned facing the door, so that anyone playing might have a clear view of whoever entered the room. Christopher, therefore, did not have the luxury of slipping in unnoticed during the aria. If he had walked decisively to his usual spot behind her, he would have seemed pretty much at ease. He was determined, however, to appear nonchalant, which he was not, and moved by degrees through the room with no apparent object but to gaze out the window, examine some porcelain figurine upon the mantel, or pull a thread or two out of a worn spot at the back of an armchair. Having conducted himself across the room in an unusual and foolish manner, he finally reached his destination and attained his real object, which was to stand as close to Eliza as he dared while listening to her sing.

Alas for him, just as he arrived and closed his eyes to savor the moment, Eliza concluded and turned on the bench to find her cousin fairly breathing down her neck. Blood rushing to his face, he hastily took a step back, but nothing could alter the fact that she had seen.

Eliza, perplexed, peered at him through half-closed eyes until he was certain he should shrivel away to nothing under her scrutinizing gaze. Seeming to come to some decision, she turned, moved several inches to the right, and patted the cushioned cover of the bench.

"Sit, Christopher. I have a duet I have been wanting to play."

"A duet? Eliza, you know I do not play the pianoforte," he protested.

"I know that you do not practice the pianoforte," she replied. "But you do remember the little that Mamma taught you, do you not?"

"Well, yes - but -- well, that is all I know. A little."

She clapped her hands. "Good! That is all that is needed in the secondo part. It is easy. You will see."

Helplessly, he glanced around the room. A cloud passed across the sun; the shadow fell across the room, paused, lifted. The clock on the mantel whirred and struck the half hour. Nothing and no one came to his rescue. Christopher sighed and sat.

The nearness of her affected him instantly as he had known it would. As she arranged the music, her arm brushed against his over and over, each time sending a thrill through him and setting his heart to beating very quickly. He struggled to keep his breathing under control and forced his attention to the music before him.

Eliza was right. It was an extremely easy part - nothing more than an accompaniment for the significantly more elaborate treble line she would be playing. He rested his fingers atop the keys, feeling the coolness of ivory beneath them as they found their appointed places. His head was swimming.

"Are you ready?" Her voice broke in on his train of thought, a welcome distraction.

He drew breath deeply. "Eliza, I am not sure that this is such a good idea."

"Nonsense!" came the reply. "You will do very well. A few mistakes will not signify. After all, it is only a duet, and there is no one in the room but you and me."

His arguments exhausted, he submitted meekly, spending his concentration entirely upon what he was playing. Undemanding as his part was, he had practiced so rarely that playing required all the concentration he could muster. But there came a moment partway through the piece when his performance was not required for some fifteen to twenty measures. It was then that he remembered what she had said. There is no one in the room but you and me. He could not have asked for a more suitable moment to declare himself.

He stared at the slender fingers as they glided deftly across the keys and imagined what it would be like to imprison them within his own larger hands as he turned to her, confessing the feelings that had never once abated in the weeks since he had known. Did she know? Had she guessed? Or would she recoil in horror if the idea were presented to her? They had, after all, grown up as brother and sister, and young girls do not go about marrying their own brothers; it was just not done. It is certainly not an easy thing to exchange one sort of intimate relationship for another, very different sort.

For the first time since he had called her beloved, he experienced doubts whether she would or could return his affection. Fear welled up inside of him.

At that moment, the music stopped. Eliza, exasperated, was looking at him. "You missed your cue. Don't you see?" She placed one finger on his sheet of music and one on what must be a corresponding portion of hers. "I even thought to number the measures ahead of time so that you wouldn't lose your place."

Christopher, really embarrassed now and wishing himself on horseback, made a valiant attempt to reposition his hands so that he could begin again, but truth be told, he was so far gone that he could not make sense of the notes before him; they had been reduced to mere scratches and dabs of ink across the paper.

Eliza, seeing his fingers place and replace themselves on the keyboard with nothing resembling success, and perceiving the crimson adorning the tips of his ears, reached out and softly stroked his cheek. "Christopher, you are really distressed. You have been different for weeks now, but never distressed. I have wanted to know the reason, to know that you would confide in me, but I never was sure of the right way to ask. Won't you please tell me now?" She concluded in a wistful tone, taking both his hands in her own small ones.

There they sat, hands interlocked and facing each other, one set of eyes eagerly searching the other for an answer. This was so like what he had imagined, and yet so very, very different. Now, he thought, now is the time to confess. Now is the time to ask and know. Having opportunity handed to him on a silver platter, as it were, what could he do?

He stood swiftly and left the room.

Continued In Next Section