When We Were Young – Eliza and Col. Brandon

Although I don’t think anybody’s used it yet, the optional theme for this month is “When We Were Young.” So today I have an excerpt of a young Eliza and Colonel Brandon, taken from Colonel Brandon in His Own Words. In Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen gives us just a teaser about their relationship, so that’s one of many blanks in Brandon’s life that I had fun filling in for this book!

Before I get to your excerpt, though, I thought I’d share something from when I was young.  And yes, that was back in the black-and-white era. I recently came across this shot of me with my big brother while going through old pictures in preparation for his memorial service.  I had the honor of writing his eulogy as well. So that’s why I’ve been in a particularly retrospective mood lately.

Colonel Brandon must have had some similar feeling when he explained to Elinor about his dear, lost Eliza in Sense and Sensibility. In the following excerpt from my book, he’s telling us …in his own words… about happier times with the companion of his youth. I hope you enjoy this retrospective glimpse of a pair of kids turned star-crossed lovers!

I cannot imagine what my childhood would have been like without Eliza. My mother was dear to me as well, of course, but her time was much in demand elsewhere. A series of nursery maids and private tutors hovered nearby, to none of whom I ever developed a tender attachment. Too many years separated my siblings from myself for any true camaraderie between us. But Eliza and I were of an age, of compatible temperaments, and in a common state of need. She had nobody else and neither did I. In many ways, we lived in a world of our own, especially in the early years, taking all of our meals and lessons together sitting opposite each other in the school room, where a kick under the table or a conspiratorial look between us served as secret communication.

I recall one occasion – we must have been ten or eleven at the time – when Mr. Loshbough was our intrepid tutor. He strolled about the schoolroom while trying to drum the order of kings and queens into our heads in a dry monotone. “…Then we come to the Norman kings: William the Conqueror, William II, who was followed by his brother Henry I, and then King Stephen…”

But I could not attend.

“…Henry II, Richard the Lionheart, and bad King John…”

A tap on my shin had caused me to look up and see Eliza grinning at me. When our instructor, who happened to be behind her back at that moment, mentioned the Lionheart, she silently opened her mouth wide and made an exaggerated face as if roaring like a lion, sending me into helpless peals of laughter. I was an adolescent boy, after all. Eliza, who pled innocence – and looked the part – was entirely spared. But I was required to write the long list of British monarchs ten times over as a punishment for my outburst. It was worth every bit of it to share that joke with Eliza, though. In my mind, I can still see the comical face she made that day.

Eliza had come to us in her infancy, the orphaned offspring of a distant Brandon cousin, now become my father’s ward. So we were raised together like brother and sister. And yet I always knew she was not my sister in reality. I believe I would have known it even without being informed of the fact. From my earliest recollections, my young heart told me that Eliza was something more, something special, something unique – not a sister but a friend of the bosom, my sweet partner and confidante, the perfectly designed counterpart to my own soul.

In short, I cannot remember a time when I did not love her. Who could have helped it in my place – so tender and affectionate as she was, so giving and vulnerable?

I was drawn to Eliza, not because she was exactly like myself, but because she was different, irresistibly so. Whereas I was naturally shy and reserved, she was open, artless, eager, and warm. While I lived confined by what my mind told me was true and logical, Eliza knew no such bounds. She was light and air – a free spirit – and she frequently took me along on her flights of fancy. In exchange, I balanced and steadied her, I believe, keeping her feet planted on solid ground… but only when absolutely necessary.

As long as we stayed clear of my father – something we became very skilled at doing – Delaford was our own private playground, indoors but especially out. The great but forbidden garden wall would have been an irresistible temptation to nearly any child of a certain age. My brother walked it first, of course, and then he dared me to do likewise. I was too young at the time and shortly tumbled off – fortunately, into the brambles on one side and not the rocky drop-off on the other. I came away bruised and scratched to pieces but otherwise unharmed. A few years later, though, both Eliza and I had mastered the feat.

There were lovely fruit trees to climb and to stuff ourselves from in season; stew-ponds and a lazy canal to float ourselves and our toy boats upon; and a place in the old yew arbor – we called it our fort – where we could spy on horsemen and carriages passing on the nearby turnpike road, imagining them enemy troops. Between the two of us, Eliza and I never lacked for ideas of games to occupy our leisure hours.

I cannot say what age we were when we first agreed we would marry. It seemed like a foregone conclusion from the start, something kept secreted between ourselves but never questioned.  As we matured in years, our feelings did as well. My love for Eliza – now that of a young man for a young woman – knew no bounds, and she gave every proof of her equally fervent attachment to me. It would be only a matter of time; we would marry as soon as we were old enough to do so.

Then one sunny day when she was sixteen and I had recently had my seventeenth birthday, I found her weeping in the garden…

Even though we know this won’t turn out as they had planned and dreamed, I’m glad Colonel Brandon had these memories of a happy childhood  with Eliza to cherish, aren’t you?  I hope you’ll read the rest of his story in Colonel Brandon in His Own Words. He’s one of my favorite Jane Austen characters and a very worthy hero.

Colonel Brandon is the consummate gentleman: honorable, kind almost to a fault, ever loyal and chivalrous. He’s also silent and grave, though. So, what events in his troubled past left him downcast, and how does he finally find the path to a brighter future? In Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen gives us glimpses, but not the complete picture.

Now Colonel Brandon tells us his full story in His Own Words. He relates the truth about his early family life and his dear Eliza – his devotion to her and the devastating way she was lost to him forever. He shares with us a poignant tale from his military days in India – about a woman named Rashmi and how she likewise left a permanent mark on his soul. And of course Marianne. What did Brandon think and feel when he first saw her? How did his hopes for her subsequently rise, plummet, and then eventually climb upwards again. After Willoughby’s desertion, what finally caused Marianne to see Colonel Brandon in a different light?

This is not a variation but a supplement to the original story, chronicled in Brandon’s point of view. It’s a behind-the-scenes look at the things Jane Austen didn’t tell us about a true hero – the very best of men.