Colonel Brandon's Diary (13 page)

I laughed at Mrs Jennings three years ago for saying that children grow up very quickly, but Eliza is growing up before my eyes. She has gone to Bath with a school friend, Susan Southey, whose father, a man I know to be respectable, is visiting the town in order to take the waters. I am persuaded that she will enjoy herself, for bonnets seem to form the chief part of her conversation and there are plenty of bonnets in Bath!

I have decided to buy her a new horse. She will need something better than her pony when she joins me for Easter.

I had a letter from Eliza this morning, telling me all her news.

I smiled at the notion of her carrying home a pile of books on history. If she shared her mother’s tastes, she would be carrying home a pile of books on poetry, or the latest romances!

 

 

Eliza has disappeared! Oh God, where is she?

Southey’s letter reached me this morning, and couched in roundabout terms, he told me that Eliza had vanished. I was immediately alarmed and I set off for Bath at once.

Southey, looking very frail, could tell me nothing except that Eliza and Susan had gone out walking on Tuesday and that they had become separated.

‘Susan did all she could to find her friend but at last she had to return home alone,’ he said. ‘She hoped to find Eliza waiting for her, but alas! that was not the case. We kept expecting her at any minute, but when it grew dark and there was still no sign of her, I felt I ought to write to you.’

‘And did you not send the servants out to look for her?’ I enquired.

‘I am a sick man, I cannot think of everything,’ he said peevishly. ‘If I had known what sort of girl Eliza was, I would not have invited her to keep Susan company.’

I fought hard to master my temper, for he was ill, confined to his chair. I saw that he could tell me no more and so I said, ‘Might I speak to Susan? ’

‘She can tell you nothing. Poor Susan is as much in the dark as I am.’

But I was determined, and Susan was brought into the room. I questioned her closely, and grew cold at what I heard, for it became clear that, because of her father’s ill health, the girls had been free to go out without an adequate chaperon. Susan’s maid was meant to go with them, but it soon became clear that she had a sweetheart, and that she was in the habit of allowing the girls to range over the town and make what acquaintance they chose whilst she conducted her own dalliance.

‘That was very wrong of her,’ said Mr Southey.

I pressed Susan, but she declared that she knew no more: that she and Eliza had gone out for a walk, that her maid had stopped to speak to her sweetheart, that Eliza and Susan had walked on together, that they had been separated in a crowd, and that Susan had had to return home alone.

As she spoke, I was convinced that she was lying. There was an air of obstinate and ill-judged secrecy about her. She kept giving me sly looks, to see if I believed her, and I was convinced that, at the very least, she knew more than she was saying. But question her as I might, she would not admit to knowing what had happened.

I left the house at last, disgusted with Susan, and set about conducting my own enquiries, but I could find no trace of Eliza.

I returned, at last, to the inn, where I wrote to Sanders, telling him that I needed his help, and then I set myself to thinking.

Either Eliza was ill, or she had been abducted, or she had run away with someone. The more I thought about it, the more I thought that the last of these was the most likely, for only a love affair could have caused Susan to remain silent.

But why had Eliza run away? If she had met a man, a good man, I would not have stood in her way, even though she was only sixteen. My spirits sank. She had not met a good man. A good man would not have run off with her. She had met a scoundrel. And now she was at his mercy.

I thought hard. Where would he have taken her? But my spirits sank again, for he could have taken her anywhere.

Then I realized that he must have had some sort of conveyance. I asked again at the inn, and then at all the stables in Bath, but I discovered nothing.

Then he must have had his own carriage, which meant that he was a man of means. And he had taken her, for what purpose? To set up as his mistress? Surely Eliza would never have consented to such a thing. But with no mother to guide her . . . and then I grew cold, for I thought of another possibility: Eliza, knowing that her mother and I had planned to elope, would have been an easy target for a plausible villain. If he had said that he loved her and if he had promised to take her to Gretna Green . . .

But perhaps he had. Perhaps I was worrying precipitately. Perhaps a letter would arrive in the next few days explaining everything.

I clung to the hope, the better to sleep, for I needed sleep in order to be able to search again, refreshed, on the morrow.

 

 

It is more than a week now since Eliza disappeared and still no news. Surely she would have written to me if she was married? But she might be enjoying herself and her new life too much to think of me. She might write in another week.

I must hope so, for I have been able to discover nothing and Sanders has had no better luck. I mean to keep searching, and I have told him he must do the same.

 

 

It is over a month now since Eliza disappeared and there is still no news. I dread to think what might have happened to her. If she was alive, surely she would have written to me? She would want my congratulations if she was married, or my help if she was not. Surely I should have heard something?

I met Sanders in London, and my hopes were dashed again as he told me he had no news. In seven months I have discovered no trace of her.

I retired at last to my club, where I met Sir John Middleton. He greeted me cheerfully, for I had not told him about Eliza.

‘You must come to visit us next month, Brandon,’ he said. ‘We have not seen you at Barton for months.’

I was glad to talk to him, for his good cheer lifted me out of my own gloomy thoughts, and I accepted his invitation with gratitude.

‘Good, good. We will make you very welcome, and we will be able to offer you some new company. A relative of mine, Mrs Dashwood, who has recently been widowed, has come to live at Barton Cottage with her daughters. The cottage is only small, but it is capable of improvement, and if the ladies like it, I will alter it according to their taste.’

‘You do not have to introduce me to new company in order to induce me to visit,’ I said. ‘I am very happy with the company I always find at Barton.’

‘But you will not object to finding some new faces when they are there,’ he said jovially. ‘Four ladies! A mother and three daughters, and lucky for me that it is so, for a mother and three sons would have not been to my taste. The sons might have been sportsmen, and if so, I would have been obliged to offer them my game. And if they were not sportsmen, it would almost have been worse, for I would have found precious little to talk to them about. But it is different with ladies. Ladies never take a man’s game! I saw them once, many years ago, pretty little things, and I believe they are held to be very handsome now that they are grown.’

‘I am sure they are,’ I said as we went into the dining room.

‘It is about time you married, Brandon. Yes, I know you have had your share of unhappiness, but that is in the past. You need to look to the future. You are still young. A wife is just what you need.’

‘I have no intention of marrying,’ I said to him shortly, and then I was sorry for my bad manners, for he only wanted to help.

‘Well, you know best,’ he said.

We talked of other things as we ate: of his family and the political situation, of the price of corn and new ideas in farming; and then we parted, he to go back to Barton and I to return to my rooms.

And now my thoughts are once again with Eliza. That she has run off with someone I am sure. As long as she is happy, that is all I ask. But why does she not write to me?

 

 

I arrived at Barton Court today and I was glad to be among friends.

After admiring the family and greeting Mary, I walked down to Barton Cottage with Sir John. He was eager to show it to me, and to point out what he had thought of doing for the Dashwoods’ comfort.

The day was fine and the walk was a good distance, not so close that the inhabitants of each house would be forced into constant company, but not so far that walking between the two residences was difficult.

We came to the cottage at last, and I was surprised at its appearance, for it looked more like a house than a cottage. It was regular in shape and the roof was tiled, whilst there was a small green court in the front with a wicket-gate leading into it. There was not a trace of thatch or honeysuckle anywhere.

‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked as we stopped at the gate.

I cast my eyes over it and saw that it was in a good state of repair. The roof was sound and the paint on the door and windows was new.

‘From the outside, it looks well enough,’ I said.

‘Come and see it inside.’

We went in. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square, and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bedrooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many years and was very convenient in its arrangement.

‘The situation is good,’ said Sir John.

He looked out of the window at the high hills which rose immediately behind and at no great distance on each side. Some of them were open downs, the others were cultivated and woody. I went to join him at the window and saw the village of Barton nestling against one of the hills.

‘The prospect in the front is even more extensive,’ he said, moving to a different window. It commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. ‘Well, what do you think. Will they like it?’

‘I am sure they will,’ I said, thinking that they were fortunate to have found such a home, and such a good neighbour and relative as Sir John.

‘Ay, it will do.’

We walked back to the house and found that the children were downstairs with their nurse. John was well grown for six, whilst William was not far behind him, and Anna-Maria was growing into a pretty girl. Mary indulged them and Sir John played with them until they began to grow fractious, whereupon their nurse took them upstairs again.

‘I tell you, Brandon, you should be setting up your nursery, ’ he said to me.

‘I hope they play,’ said Mary, ignoring him. ‘I am very musical, and if the Misses Dashwood choose to entertain us, I shall not say them nay.’

 

 

‘I think I will just go down to the cottage and see if the Dashwoods have arrived,’ said Sir John as he pushed his chair back from the breakfast table this morning.

‘You will do no such thing,’ said Mary. ‘It is far too early for them to have arrived, and even if they have, the last thing Mrs Dashwood will want is a visitor. She will have enough to do without a stranger to take care of.’

‘A stranger?’ he asked, astonished.

‘A stranger, for that is what you must be to begin with. She will want to set her house in order before she receives guests.’

Sir John hummed and hawed but at last he gave way and said that he supposed he could wait until tomorrow to see them, but that Mary must take the blame if they felt themselves slighted.

I suggested we go for a ride, and he was happy to fall in with the suggestion, for he likes to be doing something.

‘What do you make of John Dashwood?’ he asked me, as we rode out to the hills. ‘Mrs Dashwood’s stepson, you know, and half brother to the girls. Inherited the family home when his father died but made no provision for his father’s second wife and left her to the mercy of a distant relative. Seems bad to me.’

It seemed bad to me, too, but I said only, ‘We know nothing of the circumstances.’

‘Ay, you are right, though what could prevent a son doing right by his father’s wife I do not know. Family is family, and a man should take care of his own. Though lucky for me he did not, eh, Brandon? It will do us good to have some new faces to look at.’

Sir John lost no time in looking at his new faces. As soon as he had finished breakfast, he said, ‘No one can object to my calling on my cousins this morning, I am sure. I am determined to walk down to the cottage and greet them. The girls will not remember me, for they were very small when last I visited them, but Mrs Dashwood will know me. I am looking forward to seeing them all again. Will you come with me, Mary?’

‘Certainly not. I do not believe Mrs Dashwood will be ready for such a call. But pray tell her I will call on her as soon as it is convenient for her to receive me,’ said Mary.

He left, intent on making the new arrivals welcome, and I went out with the dogs, returning to find that Sir John was in the drawing room, regaling Mary with an account of his visit.

‘Charming people,’ he said, ‘and what handsome girls! The youngest is only thirteen, but the other two are older and are both out. What manners! And what pretty faces! Oh, it will do us good to have them about the place. We will find them husbands, eh, Mary? And then we will have a wedding or two to look forward to. I have promised to send them my newspaper every day, and to convey their letters to the post for them.’