Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
1778
1779
1781
1782
1783
1792
1793
1796
1797
1798
Praise for Edmund Bertram’s Diary
“Amanda Grange has hit upon a winning formula and retells the familiar story with great verve.” — Historical Novels Review
“Once again, Amanda Grange has provided a highly entertaining retelling of a classic Jane Austen novel, as seen through the hero’s eyes . . . Pure fun, with the story told in a diary format that makes the reader feel like she’s taking a peek into Edmund’s innermost thoughts . . . I enjoyed every moment of it.”
— Romance Reader at Heart
“A sympathetic portrait of a young man struggling with the difficult choices that life throws at us all.” — AustenBlog
Praise for Captain Wentworth’s Diary
“Amanda Grange has taken on the challenge of reworking a much-loved romance and succeeds brilliantly.”
— The Historical Novels Review (Editor’s Choice)
“In this retelling of Persuasion we are given a real treat . . . Like the other books in Ms. Grange’s series, scrupulous attention is paid to the original, even while interpreting what is not explicitly shown, and some well-known scenes are fleshed out while others are condensed, nicely complementing the original.” — AustenBlog
“Amanda Grange’s retellings of Jane Austen’s novels from the point of view of the heroes are hugely popular and deservedly so . . . Captain Wentworth’s Diary, a retelling of Austen’s Persuasion, will entrance and enthrall old and new fans alike.” — Single Titles
“One of those wonderful historicals that makes the reader feel as if they’re right in the front parlor with the characters . . . this book held me captive. It is well written and I very much hope to read more by this author. Amanda Grange is a writer who tells an engaging, thoroughly enjoyable story!” — Romance Reader at Heart
Praise for Mr. Knightley’s Diary
“Sticks close to the plot of Austen’s Emma, mixing [Knightley’s] initially censorious view of Miss Woodhouse with his notes on managing the hereditary seat at Donwell Abbey and affectionate asides on his collection of young nieces and nephews.” — The Washington Post
“A lighthearted and sparkling rendition of the classic love story.”
— The Historical Novels Review
“Charming . . . knowing the outcome of the story doesn’t lessen the romantic tension and expectation for the reader. Grange hits the Regency language and tone on the head.” — Library Journal
“Ms. Grange manages the tricky balancing act of satisfying the reader and remaining respectful of Jane Austen’s original at the same time, and like Miss Woodhouse herself, we are given the privilege of falling for Mr. Knightley all over again.” — AustenBlog
“Readers familiar with Emma should enjoy revisiting the county and its people and welcome the expansion of Mr. Knightley’s role. Others will find an entertaining introduction to a classic.”
— Romance Reviews Today
“Well written with a realistic eye to the rustic lifestyle of the aristocracy, fans of Ms. Austen will appreciate this interesting perspective.”
— Genre Go Round Reviews
“A very enjoyable read and an amusing tale.” — Fresh Fiction
Praise for Harstairs House
“With its mysterious overtones and brooding hero, this is a nicely crafted, intriguing throwback to the classic gothic.” — Romantic Times
Praise for Lord Deverill’s Secret
“Fans will want to know just what Lord Deverill’s Secret is.”
— The Best Reviews
Titles by Amanda Grange
MR. KNIGHTLEY’S DIARY
CAPTAIN WENTWORTH’S DIARY
EDMUND BERTRAM’S DIARY
COLONEL BRANDON’S DIARY
LORD DEVERILL’S SECRET
HARSTAIRS HOUSE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with Robert Hale, Ltd.
Copyright © 2008 by Amanda Grange.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Grange, Amanda.
Colonel Brandon’s diary / Amanda Grange. — Berkley trade pbk. ed.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-06030-8
1. Guardian and ward — Fiction. 2. England — Social life and customs — 18th century —
Fiction. 3. Diary fiction. I. Austen, Jane, 1775-1817. Sense and sensibility. II. Title.
PR6107.R35C65 2009
823’.92 — dc22
2009000520
http://us.penguingroup.com
1778
Tuesday 16 June
I thought the holidays would never arrive, but I am on my way home at last.
‘Remember, you are to visit us in August!’ said Leyton to me as he boarded the stage.
‘I will not forget,’ I promised him.
His coach pulled out of the yard and I went into the inn where I ate a second breakfast before it was time for my own coach to leave, and then I was soon on my way to Delaford. As the buildings of Oxford gave way to open countryside, I fell into desultory conversation with my fellow passengers, but it was too hot to talk for long and we were soon silent, watching the fields and rivers and hamlets pass by.
The light began to dwindle. Night fell, and the coach stopped at a respectable inn. I partook of the ordinary and now here I sit, in my chamber, looking forward to the summer.
Wednesday 17 June
I dozed through the first part of the journey, but as I neared home, I took more interest in my surroundings. My eyes travelled over the fields adjoining the estate and
then I saw a welcome sight. It was Eliza, walking by the river with her straw hat dangling by its ribbons and her brocade skirt held up in her hand.
The coach slowed to turn a corner. I opened the door and, much to the consternation of my fellow passengers, I threw out my pack and then jumped after it, slithering down the grassy verge before reclaiming it at the bottom and calling to her. She turned round and, eyes alight, ran towards me. I caught her up and spun her round, thinking, I cannot remember a time when I did not love Eliza.
‘Did you miss me?’ I asked her, as at last I put her down, though I kept my arms around her, for I could not bear to let her go.
‘And what am I to say to that?’ she said with a smile. ‘Am I to tell a lie, or am I to tell the truth and make you conceited?’
I laughed, and she slipped her arm round my waist, then we began to follow the river towards the house.
‘How was Oxford?’ she asked me.
‘Much as ever. The lectures were dull and the fellows, save for a few, either dissolute or boring. But never mind, in a few more years I will have qualified for the law, and then we will buy a house somewhere, a snug little cottage — ’
‘Though you do not need a profession, because we will have my fortune to live on.’
‘I will not touch a penny of your fortune,’ I said seriously.
‘Why not? It will make us comfortable, and more than comfortable. When I come into it, it will make us rich.’
‘I want to support you.’
‘Then what are we to do with it? It seems a pity to waste it, when it is there for the taking.’
‘Save it for our children,’ I said.
‘Our children? Pray, do you not know it is indelicate to speak of such a thing to an unmarried woman?’ she asked me saucily.
‘Our children,’ I said, unrepentant. ‘Once we are married — ’
‘If we are married. You have not asked me yet.’
I dropped my pack and fell to one knee, taking her hand.
‘Eliza, will you marry me?’
‘When you have nothing to offer me, indeed when you are far too young to think of marriage, being a mere stripling of eighteen?’ she teased.
‘A stripling, am I?’ I asked, rising to my feet.
‘A stripling!’ she said tauntingly, then she turned and ran. I gave chase and, easily catching her, I lifted her up and put her over my shoulder. She beat on my back with her fists, laughing all the while.
‘Put me down!’
‘Not until you say you are sorry!’
‘For what? For speaking the truth?’ she asked.
‘For calling me a stripling.’
‘Very well, I apologize.’
‘That is better.’
I put her down again.
‘It was very wrong of me. You are not a stripling, I see that now, you are a sapling,’ she said.
‘But a sapling you will marry?’
‘If you do not know the answer to that already, my dearest James,’ she said tenderly, ‘you never will.’
She lifted her hand to my face and I kissed it, saying, ‘Then as soon as we are of age we will be wed.’
‘You will have to ask your father for his permission first,’ she said, reluctantly pulling away from me. ‘He is my guardian, and he must have his say. Only do not do it yet. I want to have some time to ourselves, with no one knowing; no fuss made; no calls to make and return; just the two of us, secure in our love.’
‘Whatever you want, it is yours. You know I have never been able to deny you anything.’
We walked on for some time without speaking, rejoicing in the day, with nothing but the sound of the river and the song of the birds to break the silence. We came to the gate in the wall and entered the grounds, going in through the orchard, where the trees were beginning to swell with fruit. The house lay before us, and as I saw its solid façade I realized how much I loved it. I thought of all the happy years Eliza and I had spent there, and all the happy years to come.
We began to talk again, and I asked her what she had been doing whilst I had been at Oxford.
‘What every other young lady does,’ she replied. ‘I have been practising my music and improving with my watercolours. I painted a very pretty view of the bridge last week, though the proportions were wrong and the colours false; however, it was very pretty. And I started a portrait of Miss Jenkins.’
‘And how is the estimable Miss Jenkins? ’
‘She is very well, though a little deaf.’
‘And how did you manage to evade her this afternoon?’
‘I told her I needed some exercise, and as she was sleepy after a heavy lunch, she was content for me to go out alone, as long as I did not stray beyond the grounds.’
‘And what else have you been doing?’
‘I have been netting a purse and singing and dancing — ’
‘Ah, yes, so you told me. I believe you said you had a new dancing master. I am very glad of it, for the last time I was at home I noticed that Monsieur Dupont was ruining your feet. I believe he stepped on your toes more often than not. This new man is very ugly, I believe you said, with a face like a gargoyle. Poor fellow.’
‘Not a bit of it, he is very handsome; I will go further, and say that he is very handsome indeed. He has dark hair, clear eyes and good teeth. His chin is pronounced and his forehead is noble. Moreover, he has a finely turned calf, broad shoulders and overall the air of a gentleman. His address is good, and his manners pleasing. We are very lucky he condescends to be my master.’
We left the orchard behind us and entered the pleasure gardens, where the roses were in bloom. They filled the air with their perfume, and their dancing heads bobbed on their stalks as the breeze blew them this way and that.
‘He does very well for an elderly man, then, for I believe you said he was in his dotage,’ I remarked.
‘On the contrary, he is very young, not a day over five and twenty,’ she returned.
‘Nonsense! Dancing masters are never five and twenty. They are always at least sixty. They would not be allowed in the house otherwise, especially if they were handsome — young ladies being prone to unsuitable fancies.’
‘I do believe you are jealous!’ she said, turning to me with a mischievous gleam in her eye.
‘Of Mr Allison? ’ I snorted. ‘I hardly think so.’
‘There you are, you see, you even remember his name, a sure sign of jealousy!’
‘It is nothing of the kind. It is just because you mentioned it so often in your letters.’
‘I mentioned it once!’ she contradicted me.
‘And once was all I needed, for I have an excellent memory.’
‘Your memory is abominable,’ she returned.
‘Nonsense. I never forget anything.’
‘Then what colour is my new ball gown, which I mentioned to you in my letters?’
‘It is . . . that is to say . . . I believe, yes, I am sure . . .’
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘I do not immediately recall.’
‘No? Not even with your good memory?’ she asked satirically.
‘Ah, I have it! It is blue,’ I said, hazarding a guess.
‘And what material is it?’
‘Broc . . .’ I saw that she was about to say No and changed my mind. ‘Probably . . . that is to say, it was satin. Yes, I remember now. You distinctly said it was made out of satin.’
‘Fie upon you, James. I told you at least three times, it is made of silk.’
I was undaunted.
‘Whatever it is made of, I am sure you will look enchanting in it,’ I said.
She laughed.
‘Well recovered, sir! You should be a courtier, not a lawyer. It is a great skill to be able to turn a pretty compliment, especially when you have just been bested! You should see if they have any openings at St James’s!’
We had almost reached the lawns and she stopped, letting her skirt drop from her hand and settling her straw hat on her h
ead.
‘Here, let me help you,’ I said, tying her ribbons for her.
‘I had better go in through the French windows,’ said Eliza, when I had done. ‘I am meant to be practising the pianoforte. I promised your father I would heed my music master’s instruction and practise for two hours every day, but I could not settle to my music this afternoon, knowing that you would be home.’
‘So you came to the field on purpose to catch an early sight of me,’ I said with a feeling of satisfaction.
She raised her eyebrows and said lightly, ‘How vain men are! I merely thought some exercise would do me good and so I walked through the fields accordingly. The fact that you happened to arrive at that moment was the merest coincidence.’
And with that she left me.
I watched her walk away from me, admiring the line of her back, and I kept watching her until she was out of sight, and then I slung my pack over my shoulder and carried on my way.
I walked round the house, and as I passed the stables, I saw my brother Harry coming out of them. He was looking dissolute, with his cravat pulled awry, and he was adjusting his breeches. My mood darkened.
‘Some things never change,’ I said, as I drew level with him. ‘Who was it this time? The milkmaid, the scullery maid, or one of the farmers’ daughters?’
He leered.
‘Molly Dean, as it happens, one of the most beautiful girls hereabouts. You should take the trouble of getting to know her yourself. She’d soon put a spring in your step. A girl like Mol ly’s just what you need on a morning like this one. A roll in the hay with her would wipe that sanctimonious look off your face. It would make a man of you.’