Colonel Brandon's Diary (9 page)

As I stepped ashore, I fastened the buttons of my greatcoat and hunched my shoulders against the rain. My countrymen hurried past with their colourless faces, dreary and sad, and I felt a stab of homesickness for the Indies, for sunburnt skin and bright colours and the heat of the sun, but then I shook it away. It was not England that had called me home again, it was Eliza.

I thanked God that I was at last able to take some leave so that I could do what I had longed to do ever since I had learnt of her sorrows. Return to England and find her. Care for her. Comfort her. And, perhaps, make her happy.

 

 

I set out early this morning, walking to the inn where I would catch the stage for home.

Home! Delaford is no longer my home. It ceased to be my home the day I was cast out, the day my father irrevocably set Eliza and me on a path to misery.

The coach arrived, and amidst the general bustle, I climbed aboard. The gaiety of the other passengers could not touch me. I was lost in my memories, and in my distaste for what was to come, for having learnt that my sister no longer knew of Eliza’s whereabouts, I knew that, in order to find her, I had to see my brother.

 

 

As the coach approached Delaford, to my surprise I was thrown back in time to the day I returned from Oxford as a young man, full of hope and optimism. I remembered it clearly, and not only remembered it, felt it, with the same sensations assailing me.

When the carriage came to the bend where, all those years ago, I had seen Eliza walking through the fields, and when I remembered my elation as I had leapt from the carriage and rolled down the hill to meet her; when I recalled the love that had coursed through me as I had picked her up and swung her round, then I was nearly unmanned.

How could it have happened? How could such love and happiness have led to such misery and despair?

My hands clenched themselves into balls, and I began to wish I had not come.

The coach rolled on, past the scene of such happiness, and continued along the road. Before long it was pulling into the inn yard. There were the usual cries of the ostlers as they changed the horses. The door was opened and the steps pulled up. I waited whilst a well-dressed woman and her daughter climbed out and then I followed them, looking about me.

The inn was very much the same, with its half timbering and its freshly painted sign, and the yard, though larger, was still clean and well run. I had no difficulty in hiring a horse to take me on, and I was gratified that Bill Sanders, who still worked at the inn, remembered me.

‘If it isn’t Master James!’ he said, his face creasing in deep lines — his only appearance of age — as I asked him for a horse. ‘You’re looking well. Been in the Indies, have you? ’ he asked.

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Thought so by the colour of your skin. Shouldn’t like it myself, but they do say it’s an interesting place.’

We exchanged news, and he assured me that he would tell his wife he had seen me, for she would be pleased to know I was keeping well, and then I mounted the horse — ‘the best the stable has to offer, Master James, a real beauty, with a soft mouth and a sweet temperament, but spirited with it’ — and was away.

The day was cold but bright, with a weak sun shining from a slate-blue sky, and every moment brought with it a new memory as I travelled the familiar road, each one more painful than the last.

I turned into the drive at last and halted for a moment, too overcome with emotion to go on, though whether the emotion was anger, fear or sorrow I could not say. And then I continued up the drive, with the parkland stretching away on either side of me; that same parkland where Eliza and I had played as children, chasing kites, throwing a ball, running, laughing. Always laughing.

I saw the house rising up before me with feelings so painful I could hardly bear them. There was her window, with the vine beneath it; there the terrace where she had walked.

I came to a halt in the turning circle and dismounted. No groom ran forward, as he would have done in my father’s time. With deep misgivings I climbed the steps to the house. The tall windows flanking the doors were dirty. I rang the bell, which clanged with a cracked note. And then the door was opened by a servant I did not know.

He asked my name and then he stood aside to let me in, and I entered the house. As I stepped over the threshold, I saw the same signs of neglect that I had seen outside. There were no flowers in the vases. The mirrors were dull and the console tables were filmed with dust.

I was shown into the drawing room, and I was overcome once again with memories as I saw the familiar wallpaper and the Aubusson carpet. I stood a moment looking round, and then my eyes came to rest on my brother. He was heavier than the last time I had seen him, with the signs of dissipation already on him. His skin was an unhealthy colour and his eyes were dull. His clothes had an unkempt look, and as he rose to his feet, he almost fell back again. I smelt his breath and knew that he was already drunk. He righted himself, smirking as he said, ‘Well, well. James. The prodigal son returns. Our father is dead — ’

‘I know.’

‘Then what are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘You know why I have come.’

‘To ask after that harlot who was once my wife, I suppose,’ he said.

I took a step towards him and he laughed, then poured himself a drink. He waved the decanter towards me in invitation.

‘Not at ten o’clock in the morning, I thank you, no,’ I said scathingly.

‘You are as self-righteous as ever,’ he said mockingly. ‘I see the Indies have done you no good. It seems that not even foreign climes could make a man of you. So, what do you want to know?’

He sat down, lolling in his seat; I doubt if he could have sat upright.

I had intended only to ask him where she was, but in the familiar surroundings where the memories of Eliza were all around me, from the vases that she had filled with flowers, to the carpet on which she had danced, all my feelings rose up inside me and my anger poured out of me in a torrent.

‘Why did you marry her? You were never in love with her. Why did you ruin her life? Why did you take her from me? ’

‘Because she was rich. Why else?’ he said. ‘The estate was encumbered and we needed her money. But you know all this.’

‘But why Eliza?’ I demanded. ‘Why not some other heiress? Some woman who would have sold herself happily in order to gain a respectable name and an old estate? Someone old enough to have given up on all idea of love, or someone too practical to look for it in the first place? Why Eliza, who would be crushed by such a marriage, her health and happiness destroyed?’

‘Why go to all the trouble of courting a stranger when Eliza was right here?’

‘Did you have no feelings for her? No tenderness? No pity? You had known her all her life. Did you have nothing inside you that said, “No, I will not do this. Not to Eliza”? ’

He looked at me as though I was speaking a language that was unknown to him and then said, ‘No. Not at all.’

‘How could you! How could you do it?’

He took a drink.

‘How you do rant on! Anyone would think I forced her to marry me at gunpoint. She knew what I was, and yet she married me anyway. She deserved what she got.’

‘If you were not my brother, I would call you out,’ I said, shaking with rage.

‘If you were not my brother, I would throw you out,’ he returned.

‘You are welcome to try.’

He reached out his hand to the bell.

‘Ah, I see,’ I said scathingly. ‘You mean you would have someone else throw me out.’

‘Of course. That is why I have servants. To do the things I cannot, or will not, do myself.’

I mastered my emotion, for it was doing nothing but hurting me and amusing him.

‘Then tell me this, and I will go,’ I said. ‘Where is she now?’

He shrugged.

‘I have no idea.’

‘But you must have. You must write to her from time to time — ’ He laughed in derision. ‘At the very least you must have an address to which you send her allowance.’

‘I did, to begin with, but no longer. She made her allowance over to someone else several months ago.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She sold it, or gave it away.’

I was horrified.

‘And you allowed this?’ I demanded.

‘It was her money. She had a perfect right to give it to anyone she pleased,’ he said calmly.

‘But why should she do such a thing? She must have been coerced.’

‘If she was coerced, it was by necessity. She was always extravagant. I have no doubt that she lived above her income and then, when her debtors pressed her, she had to have money quickly and so she sold her allowance.’

‘She will not have received a tenth of its value, and without an allowance, how is she to live?’ I asked.

‘I have no idea,’ he said carelessly, getting up to pour himself another drink.

‘And you do not care,’ I said. ‘Have you no compassion in you at all? She was your wife, Harry. Your
wife
!’

‘And she betrayed me,’ he said, with the first hint of emotion I had heard in his voice. He had no sympathy for her, but he had plenty for himself.

‘Because of your cruelty,’ I said.

‘Cruelty! I gave her everything,’ he snapped.

‘Everything? You gave her love, friendship, affection?’

He laughed at me.

‘I gave her something better than that. I gave her a town house and plenty of clothes.’

‘Eliza could not live without love,’ I said.

‘Love? Is that what you call it?’ he asked derisively. ‘Her seducers gave it another name.’

I could bear it no longer.

‘You have no idea where she is?’ I asked him.

‘None at all.’

‘Then give me the last address you have for her, and I will conduct my own enquiries.’

‘I cannot remember it.’

I was not going to leave without finding what I had come for, and so, angry and impatient, I picked him up by his coat and said, ‘Then you had better think harder.’

He knew it right enough, and, seeing I was serious, he gave it to me, and then I took my leave of him. I stayed only long enough to speak to the servants and call on the tenants who remembered me, and then I set out for town.

 

 

The rain continues. London is awash with it. The pavements are dirty and the roads are muddy. I was almost knocked down by a brewer’s cart as I went out this morning, and I only narrowly avoided a rearing horse. I returned to my club where, to my surprise and great joy, I saw Leyton, sitting by the window and looking the same as he had done last time I saw him, apart from a new moustache.

‘Whatever induced you to grow the thing?’ I asked him with a smile as, having clapped each other on the back and asked after each other’s health, we sat down together, prepared to while away the morning by reacquainting ourselves.

‘It is the fashion,’ he said.

‘Nonsense! I have not seen a single man with a moustache since I set foot in England.’

He looked sheepish, and said, ‘If you must know, Brandon, I am married.’

‘Ah! I see. And your new wife likes moustaches?’ I said.

‘It is for her I grew it. I find it a confounded nuisance, to be honest. It itches. But she likes it, and so it stays.’

I was happy for him, and I said so. He smiled and said that he had been fortunate, more fortunate than he deserved.

As we talked, I could not help thinking that, if life had been kinder, Leyton and I would be two lawyers together, plump and prosperous, and both married to women we loved. Instead of which, I was a soldier, hard and lean, and looked older than my years, whilst he looked younger. His face was soft, and there was still a look of innocence in his eye. The world had dealt kindly with him, and it showed.

‘You must come to dinner,’ he said, when we had talked ourselves to a standstill. ‘Caroline is eager to meet you, and I believe we may gather together sufficient friends to make your evening enjoyable.’

‘It will be enjoyable even without additional company,’ I said. ‘It is good to see you again.’

Our talk then moved on to my family and Eliza. Leyton hesitated as he asked after her at first, but his ready sympathy was engaged when he heard of her fate, and he was able to recommend a man who could help me to find her if I should not be able to find her myself.

‘I have used him before in one or two cases where information was essential. He is good at finding people,’ he said.

I thanked him and we parted, he to return to Caroline and I to begin my search for Eliza. I went to the address my brother had given me, that of Eliza’s first seducer, Sir William Rentram, but he was out. I declined to state my business, but said that I would call again on Tuesday.

 

 

I went to Sir William Rentram’s today and found him at home. He was in his dressing gown when I arrived, though it was close on midday, and he had a sore head, but he agreed to speak to me. He could tell me nothing of her, however, for he had not seen her since they parted. He claimed that he had treated her well and that she had been happy with him for as long as their liaison had lasted. Whether it was true or not I had no way of telling, nor did I care. I only cared about finding her, and to that end I asked him what had become of her when they parted.

‘She left me for another man when my interest began to fade,’ he said.

‘And his name?’ I asked.

He shook his head.

‘I have no idea. A foreigner, I think. A Frenchman. You know what Frenchmen are like. They have a way with women. He set out to win her, and as far as I know, he succeeded.’