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Once the Dashwoods returned to Barton Cottage and reunited with Margaret, Elinor’s reward for her unremitting care of Marianne was to see daily improvement in her sister’s health and strength. Likewise, Marianne’s reward was to see the careworn expression begin to fade from her sister’s patient countenance.
At first Marianne was content merely to sit at the window, feeling the warmth of the morning sun early in spring, but by degrees the pull of her old haunts drew her to venture to the garden, then beyond the kitchen garden and the little paddock, and, as the weather ripened bringing forth spring verdure, she revisited all her beloved hills and dales, whither Elinor accompanied her gladly.
Elinor rejoiced to see Marianne walking with all her old vigor, sometimes swinging her bonnet by its ties so that she could look up at the light through the trees. As they walked, they talked, at first occasionally. When Elinor—however reluctantly, but she had promised—judged Marianne strong enough to hear Willoughby’s story, it was swiftly told while they two were alone on the hillside.
At first Marianne seemed to be cast back into her old grief but she swiftly conquered her tears. With her new awareness of how her unrestrained sensibilities reflected on others, she made an effort to accept these tidings with an appearance of calm, or at least rationality. Once begun, it became easier to sustain, and she and Elinor canvassed that and other subjects without the listening ears and wondering eyes of Margaret hanging on every word.
A day or two later on a breezy spring morning, Marianne announced, “I have made my plan. I am determined to embark on a course of serious study.”
As she outline a rather daunting schedule (music all the morning hours, and then serious books in the afternoon), Elinor hid a smile at the same eagerness Marianne had expressed the year previous in embracing tragic poetry and artistically blasted trees and heaths. But she knew that whatever Marianne did must be done with equal passion. Better so! Oh, much better, she exclaimed within herself at the terrible memory of Marianne lying listless and uncaring in that sickbed at Cleveland.
When she finished speaking, Marianne turned to Elinor, half-expecting to see the satiric eye of skepticism. Instead, Elinor clasped her hands together. “What an excellent example, even if you only complete half so much! I believe I shall join you,” she exclaimed. “At least in study, for there is no hope at my time of life that I will discover a talent for music that I have thus far lacked.”
“Say not so,” Marianne exclaimed impetuously. “For you listen well, which for my part indicates a natural taste.”
“Perhaps, but you have taught me that,” Elinor responded promptly. “I shall, however, seek to improve my drawing skills, especially in applying color. But it occurs to me that our united efforts to improve our minds might bring substantial benefit to Margaret.”
Marianne’s beautiful eyes, honest as her heart, widened at this. Here was Elinor confiding to her as one woman to another! Marianne smiled to discover how much she appreciated being accepted by Elinor as an equal, a co-conspirator in their young sister’s education. And she deeply appreciated Elinor’s delicacy. No words need be spoken that might be perceived as criticism of their dear and devoted mother. Whose heart no one could question, though as an educationist, perhaps she might be considered too lenient out of that very same loving quality.
Marianne slung the much-tried bonnet in a circle, exclaiming,“We have few books here, but there are many works well worth reading at the Park, and I believe there are others of more modern production, which I am sure we can borrow of Colonel Brandon.”
Elinor agreed most heartily, rejoicing in hearing “Colonel Brandon” said in that respectful tone, such an improvement over the careless scorn of last autumn! A very hopeful sign—how much she wished to see the quiet appreciation in his patient, discerning gaze, could he hear this new tone. She resolutely reminded herself here that the dearest wish of that good man’s heart was to unite with Marianne, as Marianne herself blinked upwards.
Elinor was startled to discover that the sun was slowly vanishing behind a considerable cloud, and with the same thought, the sisters turned downhill toward home.
Marianne did experience a twinge of regret at the memory of a showery morning, when she had tumbled down this very hill. She caught a concerned glance from Elinor. “Yes, I am remembering,” she said, and added firmly, “but I will put the memory away, just as I once put away my old dolls until Margaret should be ready for them. I know now that Willoughby—the real Willoughby, and not the hero of my imaginings—could never have made me happy.”
Elinor’s countenance cleared. There was no mistaking the relief Marianne saw in her lifted gaze, and she remembered, again, her sister’s faithful vigilance, without hope of recompense. She exclaimed, “I shall find a man more worthy, but first I must improve my own mind. I intend to bring to any friendship, with man or woman, something besides a head full of anguished verses.”
Elinor’s response was a sudden smile, and a murmured, “Be not too harsh with yourself. Verses, however anguished, might be for many much preferable to chatter about beaux and hats. Even at your most rapturous over your twisted trees and blasted heaths, you never filled my ears with tiresome chatter.”
“You are thinking of Miss Steele?” Marianne inquired.
Elinor was caught. “I hesitate to mention names,” she said contritely. “Even between ourselves. She is a harmless enough creature, and there are far worse in the world.”
“Such as her younger sister,” Marianna observed trenchantly. “Miss Steele does talk only of beaux and balls, though she is rising thirty, but at least she is not full of malice.” Then she saw Elinor looking away, and recollected that poor Edward Ferrars was still bound by honor to Lucy Steele. What a fine example of a pastor’s wife she would make!
But there was no mending matters. Marianne bit the words back, and returned to the former subject. “As to my new plan, we may begin this very day. Though all we have at hand is Papa’s old Rollins. Ought we to introduce Margaret to that?”
Elinor pursed her lips. “Rollins seems a heavy dose to begin with. Perhaps Madame de Genlis? Hi, what is that? On the road, there. The haze . . . it’s a man on horseback.”
Marianne, a few steps farther down the hill, shaded her eyes with her hand—forgetting the bonnet still swinging by its ribbons. “It’s Thomas. Our mother sent him before sunrise, do you not remember? She hoped he could get to Exeter and back before the rain. Look at the packages behind the saddle.”
“Is he waving at us?”
“He must be bringing the post from Exeter. Were you expecting a letter?” Marianne pulled her bonnet on, then cast a quick, anxious look Elinor’s way, for it occurred to her just then that the subject of Edward Ferrars had not been mentioned at all between them since their coming away from Somerset.
Elinor’s color did not change. “I am not in expectation of any communications,” she began, then Thomas, hailing them by waving his cap, was soon in hearing.
“A letter for you, Miss,” he called to Elinor, drawing up. “If I might just hand it down, I’ll take these baskets round back and give Joe here a good rubdown, before it sets in to rain.” And after Elinor spoke a word of thanks, he added, “It was given me by Miss Steele that was.”
Elinor and Marianne exchanged wondering looks. “Miss Steele that was?”
Thomas had begun to ride away, but he halted the horse briefly, giving the sisters a broad smile. “I see her myself, early this morning at Exeter, along with Mr. Ferrars. They was stepping in a chaise at the door of the New London Inn. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name, so I made free to wish her joy.”
He nodded affably, and rode off on his errands, leaving Elinor staring down at the letter in her hand. She knew that handwriting very well; had she considered the matter, she would have rejoiced to never see it again.
She glanced up at Marianne, whose eyes had gone wide with shock.
“Be easy, Marianne . . .”
Marianne reddened. “My only thought is of you,” she said with suppressed passion.
“Perhaps it will turn out better than I . . .”
“Oh, read the letter, do,” Marianne exclaimed in an agony.
Elinor would have preferred to do so in the quiet of her room, but she slid her finger under the hasty seal—it was still sticky—and cast her eyes down the scrawled page. At least it was short.
My dearest friend and benefactor (Lucy wrote)
I will carry my Gratitude to the Grave for your exertions on my Behalf. You were ever a good creature, but you have no doubt heard all the World attesting to your being as good as an angel, and I expect you would thank me to Have Done with adding to the world’s Approbation. I have had Occasion to reflect, and it seems to me that I must, in Honor, give up a Heart that was never Constant. Such a heart is not worth having, and therefore I cast it off for anyone who will bend down and pick it up, if she is in want.
It only remains to ask you to think well of us, as I accompany my dear Husband to Town.
Yours etc etc
Mrs. Robert Ferrar
The signature was underscored twice, so emphatically that the ink had sputtered.
In silence, Elinor handed the note to Marianne, whose eyes ran over it impatiently as if to grasp its message all at once. Then they widened even more.
“Mrs. Robert Ferrars? But he was louder against her even than Fanny!”
“And Lucy thought him a coxcomb,” Elinor said. Then a chuckle tickled the back of her throat, and a sound very like a laugh escaped her. Her hand dropped, crushing the astonishing missive against her side. “Well!”
“I wonder what could have happened?”
“It seems plain enough. Robert is the new heir, do you not recollect?” Elinor asked, as a few drops splattered on her bonnet.
“But Edward was disinherited because he insisted he was honor-bound to marry Lucy,” Marianne protested.
“Aye, or he was disinherited because he would not marry Miss Morton of the thirty thousand pounds. As for Lucy, as we saw, she is very adept at the most vigorous flattery. If Brother Robert was equally susceptible to cajolery and flattery, the matter explains itself.”
“He is a nodcock,” Marianne pronounced in a fiery tone. “As for her! What a designing creature.” She dashed raindrops from her cheeks with an impatient hand.
“Designing, perhaps,” Elinor said, “or contriving. The best that could be said of her is that she did look out for her elder sister, in spite of her silliness. Mrs. Jennings attested to Lucy being clever at making a shilling go a long way. They apparently had scant resources of their own, and so she must have found cajolery to be a necessary skill.”
“You are more charitable than I,” Marianne exclaimed. “One thing for certain, she and Fanny are two of a kind, and no more than that horrid Mrs. Ferrars deserved. What a fine, comfortable time they all shall have at Sunday dinners!” Then she smiled. “But that means Edward is free! And that means that you—”
Here, Elinor interposed quickly, “I expect he will want to explain his own views on the matter himself.”
Marianne hid the urge to sigh. Was Elinor still suppressing all sensibility? She recollected her new vows to remain calm and rational, and as they hurried into the house, she decided to leave it to Elinor to say what she would before their mother.
It was little enough. “Thomas met the younger Miss Steele in Exeter,” Elinor said. “Perhaps he will tell you all about it. It seems she is lately married—to Mr. Robert Ferrars.”
Mrs. Dashwood looked up from her sewing, and Margaret from her picture book.
“Is that not the man who was so silly about cottages?” Margaret asked forthrightly. “Is—no, I ought to say, was she not the Miss Steele who was to marry Edward?” She looked in perplexity from her sisters to her mother.
Mrs. Dashwood glanced worriedly at Elinor, then sighed. “Once again, it seems, my expectations were all awry. But in this instance,” she added thoughtfully, “perhaps it is better so! We are far less likely to meet them, you know. I don’t believe Robert Ferrars ever visited Norland but the once. And he has never visited us.”
“Are we to go to Norland, Mother?” Margaret asked.
“Perhaps some day. But however, when it transpires, we will be less likely to meet them there, is all I am saying.” Mrs. Dashwood glanced again at Elinor, then returned to her sewing.
Elinor saw her unspoken questions. They were reflected in Marianne’s countenance, but in truth, she scarcely knew what to say without a period of reflection. To the world, Lucy was the acknowledged betrothed of Edward. Though she had agonized in silence for months altogether, scruples had forbidden anything to be said about the future. She had waited for him to explain himself all through the winter. It must be for him, she decided, to determine what ought to be said about this new change, and what must not be said.
She did not have long to wait, for within two days, once again a horseman was spotted on the hill. This time it was Mararet, who, escaping from a hard morning with Madame de Genlis, had been tramping the hill with a couple of dogs from the Park, when she spied him.
She came running into the parlor, exclaiming, “He’s here! Edward is come!”
It was indeed Edward. He looked very much the same, except perhaps more tired. Marianne had never thought him handsome, or even distinguished, like Colonel Brandon. But she loyally took in his kindly and intelligent gaze, hoping that this was the face Elinor some day wished to see every morning across the breakfast table.
Mrs. Dashwood welcomed him with all her old warmth, though she did look once or twice at her eldest daughter, as if for clues.
But Elinor remained at her place, even after Marianne said, “Margaret, you have had your run in the fresh air. You must finish your sums before dinner. Come along!”
And with lagging steps, Margaret followed Marianne into the smaller parlor, one corner of which had been made over into a schoolroom.
After a short time of polite nothing-saying, Mrs. Dashwood rose, murmured something about having run out of thread, gathered up the flounce she was putting to one of Marianne’s gowns, and she, too, withdrew.
Edward sat where he was, his hat upon his knees, and his fingers worrying the brim. “Elinor—Miss Dashwood—” He hastened to correct himself.
She smiled his way. “Elinor will do. For we are nearly brother and sister, are we not? I know my mother regards it so, as do Marianne and Margaret. You will have noted her freedom of speech.”
He forced a nervous smile, then cleared his throat, and burst out, “The fact of the matter is . . . though the recent news comes as a shock, aye, more of a surprise, it must be said that it is not any more unwelcome than—” He looked confused, then began again, with rather more passion, “It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side.” And out it all came, everything Elinor had wondered about ever since the days at Norland, when she had thought herself at fault for misunderstanding his intentions.
It was much as she had supposed. He was young when he was sent to the tutor after having been raised to be idle, and just as he was struggling to get his life into some kind of order—without having been taught—there was pretty, winsome Lucy and her flattering words. Having heard scant praise hitherto, at first he believed her to be sincere, until it slowly dawned on him that he heard the same trite phrases when she wheedled her uncle, her aunt, and her cousins—whom she then abused behind their backs once they had gone away.
He came to a halt then, and glanced uncertainly at Elinor, as if for encouragement.
Hereto she had listened with compassion her chief sensation. Now she knew herself at the edge of a precipice. A word, a look of encouragement might very well start her down the very path that, the year previous, had been her dearest wish.
“I am very sorry,” she began slowly, “that you were used so.” She quoted as much as she could remember of Lucy’s last letter, to which he replied wryly, “That which I received was much the same. She informed me she had burnt my letters, asked me to do the same, then added that I might keep the ring of hair—though almost as soon as I got the gist of her having jilted me, I threw it most gladly into the fire.”
Edward then hesitated, as a fly buzzed against the window glass. He shifted his hat from one knee to the other, then said, “It was—is—a hard lesson. But a lesson, perhaps, wanted all the more.” His smile was pained.
“I don’t know if it offers any comfort, but you have not been the only learner,” she said as gently as she could.
The fly buzzed loudly in the sudden silence.
“I hear you,” he said at last, reddening. “I hear what you are not saying. Out of solicitude, perhaps? Or, you perhaps blame me for my blunders? Which are justified! Compounded by secrecy as they were.”
“Be sure I do not blame you for being young and without guidance,” she returned. “And your determination to honor your obligations in spite of your own happiness is all to your credit. Those with the ability to see it admire your steadfastness,” she added in haste, thinking of Mrs. Ferrars’ spiteful revenge against her own son, and of Fanny’s and John’s fatuous and spiteful reactions. “As to secrecy, perhaps it is not always clear what is delicacy and what is secrecy.”
“Yet you do mark a difference between the two,” he said slowly, the hat quite crushed in his fingers.
“My understanding—correct me if I am at fault—is that delicacy forbears to hurt the innocent. Secrecy . . . protects only the self. And often wounds the innocent when the secrets come out. As secrets will do.”
He flushed. “As in this case, perhaps?”
Elinor discovered her own hands gripping in her lap. But if she expected honesty, she must offer it. In as gentle a voice as she could contrive, she observed, “Almost the moment we met, Lucy Steele forced the secret of your engagement upon me. It certainly could be talked of, as she did it. Repeatedly. Though it was clear from the outset that, whatever she said to the contrary, her motivation was jealousy. But I might have been better equipped to sustain her constant references whenever we were in company had I been trusted, and thus forewarned.”
Edward’s gaze dropped. “I . . . have no defense. Not unless I make myself more risible,” he said, so low it was difficult to hear him. “I can only say I had no notion what was right.”
“Neither of us had experience in such matters,” Elinor said.
He sighed. “And yet I was the one who, still entangled with her, formed a friendship with you that became more of a, well, a courtship, without my being aware.” He did not seem able to bring himself to address that directly to her.
Elinor thought of those many times over the past months when he would go silent, and then warm again. She understood now. But that did not change matters.
He looked up at her. “Might we begin anew?”
“We will always be friends, I hope,” said she.
Edward reddened even more, and once again there was silence, which she was determined not to break.
At length Edward said, low, “Perhaps . . . though I rode here with very different expectations, perhaps it would be best if I set about learning my new duties as a single man. I came here straight from Delaford, where I spent the night, my purpose to lay the truth before the Colonel, and to give him the chance to withdraw his generous offer now that there is no longer a pressing necessity.”
“Oh?” She smiled inwardly at the mention of Colonel Brandon. Surely he could be trusted for the honorable, the compassionate course. “And he said?”
“He would have none of it. He affirmed that, single or married, I am welcome to the position. He is an admirable gentleman,” Edward added, heartfelt. “I now truly understand the praise heaped on him by those who know him. As for . . . as for surmises that I once heard in regard to him . . .” Now he was red to the ears. “I would not blame you if you chose Colonel Brandon instead,” he finished quickly, his eyes on his sadly misshapen hat without seeing it.
“Me!” Elinor exclaimed.
“Did not—but I am straying into repeating rumor, I find.”
He looked away, and Elinor forced an uncomfortable laugh. “That would be Mrs. Jennings. She is an excellent woman, though she has merely to see a single gentleman and she is instantly matching him with one or another of her young relatives or acquainrances.”
He accepted that, then said, “I think I had better refrain from, ah, compounding my errors, and take my leave.”
He rose, settling the ruined hat upon his head, then did his best to smile as she walked with him down the passage to the back door. “I remember once I was accused of being an indifferent reader. Tell Marianne for me that I’ve begun reading Shakespeare to the butterflies in the garden,” he said as they reached the open air. “If I cannot make Shakespeare interesting, what hope have I of getting my parishioners to sit through my sermons?”
In that moment, Elinor almost regretted her decision—her unspoken decision. But then heartfelt pity was not the foundation for a marriage, she had seen that much in life.
He paused once more, then murmured, “I meant what I said about Brandon.”
Heat flashed through Elinor, which she resolutely ignored. The gentleman loved her sister, and her sister was worthy. “You are mistaken,” she said only.
“Am I? I think I could bear your decision if I was to lose you to a better man,” he whispered.
She saw then the gleam along his lower eyelids and kept back further words.
He walked away quickly, and she heard his voice next, addressing Thomas as he horse was saddled once more. She waited at the door and soon glimpsed him riding back the way he had come.
The moment Elinor reached the parlor again Marianne crossed the passage, and shut the door behind her with a determined snap. “Elinor,” she began, “if you don’t tell me what he said, I shall instantly regress, cast myself upon that chair, and indulge myself in my very loudest fit.”
Elinor gave a watery laugh. “But there is nothing to say, really. He explained himself. I don’t think he’d mind my telling you that what he said was much what we had already conjectured: he was young, and inexperienced, and Lucy got him in her toils before he knew quite what she was about. And would not let go.”
“Until something better came along,” Marianne finished. “We already knew that. What about you? Did he not propose marriage?”
“I believe he came with that intention. But I did not let him get that far.”
“Elinor!”
“Marianne,” Elinor retorted, but with all the warmth and humor within her, and Marianne reluctantly smiled. “I collect your feelings have altered?”
“It isn’t just my feelings. My nature is such that I must have reason—sensibility is not enough. In short, though we know all the extenuating circumstances, I cannot marry a man who did not trust me with his secret. It would have hurt to hear of his engagement, however reluctant it had become, but not nearly as much as it did to keep wondering.”
Marianne nodded slowly. “You were not the only one hurt. Though of course you were the chief sufferer. But our mother had her fond hopes. Even if she was puzzled by his frowns one day, and his smiles the next.” She faltered here.
Elinor said, “I remain fond of him. I believe he is the best of that family. But my regard is as a sister. And I hope and trust any feelings for me that he harbors within him will swiftly resolve into a brotherly fondness.”
Elinor held her breath, but Marianne did not burst into tears, or impassioned speech. Instead, she lifted her head, gazing out the window in the direction Edward had gone, and observed, “I see it. I do see it. And I think it quite well, now that I am becoming accustomed.”
Elinor looked a question, but Marianne returned an inscrutable smile, then said, “Margaret is all but finished with her French. She must have a reward after toiling through être and avoir in le subjonctif présent. She wants a drawing lesson. So, Edward would not stay. Perhaps it is as well,” she added as she laid her hand on the door latch.
“He would go. Oh, but not without vouchsafing a message for you. He said something to the effect that his wisest course is to remain single until he learns his way about his new calling, which perhaps is no bad thing.”
“Oh? I must say, that sounds promising!”
“And I was to tell you that he is practicing by reading Shakespeare to the butterflies.”
Marianne’s eyes brightened. “I almost wish I could hear that! Especially if he improves.”
Elinor agreed, only keeping back Edward’s remarks about Colonel Brandon.
The week passed, attended by a series of spring showers, without any visitor save Lord Middleton. The first nice afternoon, Lord Middleton sent his carriage to bring them to dine at the Park, where they found Mrs. Jennings newly arrived, full of praise for Charlotte’s extraordinarily clever and handsome baby. A fond grandmother, she was equally ready to purchase affection from the little Middletons by having brought them baskets of sweets—which sufficed to keep their noise to a minimum, as even the cleverest children cannot eat and shout, stamp, or hurl toys at the same time.
The next time the Barton Cottage ladies came to the Park to dine, they discovered Colonel Brandon newly arrived.
Elinor rejoiced to see that the Colonel was looking far less careworn than he had during those wintry days in London. She noticed at once that he had acquired a new coat, which looked well on his tall form. Othewise he seemed unchanged, his manners excellent, and his gaze searching. Hanging back, she was pleased to see Marianne’s prettiest manners on display as she greeted him with all the respect that had been wanting the year previous.
That no one at the Park knew of Edward’s short-lived visit was soon evident when Mrs. Jennings exclaimed to the Colonel, “And how is that poor young gentleman, the one that Lucy threw over in that harum-scarum manner? I am sorry to own her as a connection, for nothing was ever carried on so sly. Not a soul suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul, was left behind after Lucy borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on purpose we suppose to make a show with.”
“Mr. Edward Ferrars is recovering as well as might be expected,” the Colonel said, with scarcely a glance Elinor’s way.
“And after all that pother with Mrs. Ferrars! I trust she received the news of her youngest throwing himself away on so disastrous a marriage with all the shrieks of a scalded cat! And may it be hoped, for never was there such a mother, that’s all I can say.” Mrs. Jennings shook her head. “At least she might as well restore the eldest son to his rights, and cut out the younger one.”
“I know nothing of her arrangements, but that she changes her mind with the wind,” the Colonel said. “Mr. Ferrars does not rely much on expectations. As for his disappointed engagement, it is no bad thing for a gentleman in a new living to have the time to look about him and to find his feet, as my naval brethren are wont to say.”
“Aye, that’s just what we might expect from you, generous man!” Mrs. Jennings winked at Elinor here, then to her relief went on to inform the company of far more of Miss Anne Steele’s matters than anyone had any interest in, until she was called to the table by Lady Middleton, and the subject dropped as they all went in to dine.
Colonel Brandon managed in a quiet, deft move to escort Elinor to the dining room. Using the cover of their chatter—Mrs. Jennings’ voice prevailing—the Colonel gave Elinor another of those brief, searching glances, then said, “Mr. Ferrars’ second suit did not prosper?”
Elinor’s voice was equally soft. “It is not to be.” And then, because this was Colonel Brandon, to whom she had confided so much, she added, “No blame to the gentleman, but one could not engage where there had been no openness.”
That was all they had time for; they had reached the table, and Mrs. Jennings was looking around for the Colonel, ready with a joke and an allusion as he took his place between the sisters.
They were all soon chatting about the prospects of spring. Even Lady Middleton offered a few conventional remarks. Lord Middleton promised to ride around to the neighbors for the purpose of getting up a ball in two weeks, when the moon would be at the full, if the Colonel would promise to stay until then.
Elinor secretly rejoiced when he said he would—and consciously rejoiced again to see her sister smile. After that, he was his accustomed sensible self, with an intelligent word for everyone. Elinor scrupulously cherished every smile, and noted every thoughtful glance Marianne’s way.
As soon as Colonel Brandon heard about the new schoolroom at Barton Cottage—no mean feat, with the constant interruptions—he offered measured praise in his quiet way, and Elinor treasured every word for its sincerity.
The following morning, Lord Middleton surprised the Dashwood ladies earlier than customary, riding up to the breakfast window with his hounds dancing about his riding hack. After his bluff greeting, he began with, “Did not you hear the Colonel promise to stay? My ears did not deceive me, eh?”
Elinor and Marianne exchanged wondering glances, as Mrs. Dashwood exclaimed, “I trust there has been no emergency, such as called him away last year.”
“No, no, he was in the best of spirits. And he did leave behind some of his things. My mother in law is sure he is to come back. I hope so! I have as promised invited all the neighbors to come when the moon is full, and I even engaged Bartholomew’s quartet, so that Miss Marianne needn’t hide away at the instrument. You shall all have to dance twice as much to make up for his absence if he doesn’t ride back, ha ha!” And, chuckling at his own jape, Lord Middleton rode off again, the dogs barking in his wake.
Mrs. Jennings’ prediction proved to be correct. Late afternoon brought a visitor—it was none other than the Colonel, driving his open gig, the boot laden with what proved to be books!
Marianne flew about, profuse in her thanks. Margaret looked a little less sanguine at this bounty, though once she discovered that a great many of the books were novels, she was more enthusiastic. Even novels of a decidedly improving tendency were far superior, in her eyes, to the prospect of similar tomes to Rollins’ Ancient History.
The Colonel, though invited to stay at Barton Cottage, elected to continue on at the Park as he felt that his horses and equipage would be too heavy a charge upon Mrs. Dashwood—showing a delicacy that Elinor gave him credit for. Lord Middleton was not at all incommoded, his stables being so large, but whereas Lord Middleton might have first claim on the Colonel’s attention, the latter either rode or drove over each day. He adapted to his company, reading in the schoolroom with all three Dashwood daughters on school days, and after Margaret was set free, walking with the elder two.
Each day at his appearance, Elinor’s heart lifted. But she regarded these appearances as further evidence of his determined courtship of Marianne, which was no more than her sister deserved. And Elinor determined to keep herself out of their way.
When the schoolroom broke up in favor of fresh air, at first Elinor was very conscious of keeping Margaret by her side so that Marianne and Colonel Brandon might walk together. But Margaret darted about, and Marianne would follow, trying to take advantage of her interests to get in another lesson, like getting Maraget to name the wildflowers springing up.
“Marianne makes an excellent instructress,” the Colonel observed presently. “I think I may see the influence there.” And he smiled Elinor’s way.
She shook her head. “When we were young I did help Marianne with her lessons. But as for instructing, I discovered that, though I might know little more than she did, I learned the more in trying to help her to understand. She is very patient with Margaret, and quite determined upon her course. I admire her tremendously for her steady application as well as her vast improvement.”
She paused, so that he could take up Marianne’s praise, but it seemed he had something else in mind. “Forgive me if I trespass, but my understanding must have been at fault. I believed that Ferrars, that is, our friend Edward Ferrars, would have preferred a different wife than Miss Steele. And, once he found himself free . . .” He paused, sending her an inquiring look.
Elinor struggled against habitual silence, but stronger was the habit of speaking freely with Colonel Brandon, whose good sense had during the worst days of Marianne’s sufferings been her only consolation. How to answer that?
With the truth, but briefly—and without maligning anyone who did not deserve it. “Perhaps that other individual has had time to consider matters more fully.”
He did not press, as she had hoped; he only nodded, then murmured, “Speaking as one who made impetuous decisions that occasioned long consequences, I comprehend.”
Elinor then said contritely, “I only hope that our brother—for so we regard him—will soon see the wisdom of his decision to remain single.”
Here, the Colonel smiled. “Aye, when he is ready, there are plenty of matchmaking mamas in the parish waiting for him to begin accepting invitations for teas and dinners. From there it’s an easy step to routs and balls.”
Elinor chuckled. “I had not thought of that! Of course he will be an object of interest, a personable single man with a good living.”
“Indeed. Further, there are several young ladies who would make an excellent parson’s wife. One or two even have expectations quite beyond what the equivocating Mrs. Ferrars might choose to bestow.”
Elinor was about to ask more about Delaford—which she was always eager to hear about, but remembered in time that such questions by rights must come from Marianne. Then it occurred to her, with considerable dismay, that they had been talking together for a long time. Marianne and Margaret were already halfway down into the coombe, Margaret gathering armfuls of fragrant meadowsweet and angelica.
She called to her sisters, and the party rejoined. Elinor consciously stayed back a little, letting Marianne and Margaret engage the colonel’s attention.
And so the week passed, then another. The walks were now a regular thing, weather permitting. Elinor resolutely kept a little apart, rejoicing when the colonel engaged Marianne in conversation. She rejoiced even more as Marianne answered readily, her manner warm and friendly.
The conversations themselves were nothing to be remembered, even when verse occasionally stole in; though Marianne clearly appreciated finding Colonel Brandon familiar with all the poets, and even played a game of capping quotations now and then. This was mostly for Margaret’s benefit, it seemed, for invariably Marianne would turn to Margaret to ask if she recollected the poet. Or she’d quote the rest of a passage, and coax Margaret to repeat it.
They always fell into a foursome, despite Elinor’s determined vigilance. But time heals, bringing new ideas, she reminded herself, and a few days before the Middletons’ ball, she took care to equip herself with her crayons and drawing papers.
As soon as she found a pleasant enough scene, she stayed behind to sketch, begging the other three to go on. “Or, Margaret, I have here enough paper, if you should care to have your drawing lesson now. Marianne, if you and Colonel Brandon were to walk under those elms, we might get practice in drawing figures.”
Here, Margaret objected roundly. “It’s a boring prospect,” she declared. “And I did my sketches right after breakfast. Don’t you recall? It was a lesson on perspective. I want to look for baby rabbits.” And she ran off.
Marianne ran after her, calling her to order. Colonel Brandon lingered, saying, “I suppose the prospect of summer elms along a stream is not one to excite the young and impetuous, but I think you have chosen well.”
And he went on in his observant way to praise the verdant scene, as Elinor perforce began to sketch, to hide her frustrated intention. They fell into discussion of the efficacy of studying the sketches of the masters as opposed to the lessons to be learned by drawing from nature, a discussion she found more interesting than the dawdling exchanges of a week’s worth of walks. How she had missed those days at Mrs. Jennings’ house when the two of them sat together, talking over a wide range of matters!
But she must not be selfish. Her motivation was entirely for the benefit of Marianne and Colonel Brandon.
Two days before the prospective ball, a violent storm from the north nearly caught them just as they were setting out. They hastened back inside, and perforce Colonel must spend the day and the night. Elinor used this opportunity to invent tasks that kept her from the others, and Mrs. Dashwood, always hoping to see her girls happy, occupied Margaret with sewing tasks, leaving Marianne to entertain the colonel. This she did by filling the cottage with music, song after song, punctuated by thunder.
Music was the topic over dinner, and after an early supper, the Colonel offered to read to them from The History of Sir Charles Grandison, which lay on the side table. This he did with such eclat that Marianne declared him a capital reader, and of course Elinor—who brought her sewing in so that she could listen—relished every well-expressed word.
Music finished the evening as Margaret was coaxed to sing three duets with her sister, and then the colonel was pressed to offer his voice, which was fine and resonant as he gave them Reeve’s jolly “I am a Friar of Orders Grey.” After that they all parted for the night, Elinor with hopes that this storm had advanced the colonel’s suit. He was certainly excellent company—she could wish that the storm would continue to blow for days.
But they woke to sunshine, and a world of crystalline drips. The colonel thanked them for their hospitality and took his leave, promising to be seen next at the ball.
Despite the pure air that lured them outside, Elinor found the day curiously flat. But as no one else’s spirits appeared to be impaired, she attributed her want of energy to a restless night’s sleep.
The day of the ball dawned at last. The entire family was to go; Margaret danced in the chaise that had been sent for them, looking forward to wearing a new gown, and to the prospect of extra jellies and trifle. Those her age, not quite old enough for the ball, would be permitted to practice their country dance steps in a side-parlor, with Annemarie’s governess playing the instrument, and Margaret looked forward to dancing with another equally lively miss from the parish who also loved dogs. An interest in young gentlemen was still some time off.
Marianne was in excellent spirits. She and their mother wondered what pieces the quartet would be playing, a conversation which lasted until they were deposited safely at the front door.
On their entry, Elinor performed her curtsey to the Middletons, and then swept her gaze around the room. Her heart leaped when she saw Colonel Brandon. Though no one had ever called him an Apollo or an Adonis, she found such looks as exemplified in Mr. Willoughby altogether insipid. What a distinguished air the colonel had! There was no comparison.
Elinor turned to see what effect the colonel had on Marianne, to discover her sister finishing bowing to the colonel, then going to the side of a Middleton cousin her own age who beckoned impatiently. Elinor reminded herself that courtship took time, and satisfied herself with the thought that Marianne—restored to all her beauty—was the prettiest girl in the room. Did the colonel find her so, as well? She turned to see the effect of Marianne’s graceful form on him, to discover him coming her way, to greet her and Mrs. Dashwood.
There was no time for conversation as they were soon separated by new arrivals.
After that, Lord Middleton declared the musicians must begin. Dancing commenced, at first with plenty of room for couples to twirl and bound down the line. But as late arrivals continued to arrive, the ballroom, commodious as it was, became crowded. Elinor was glad to see Marianne accept the colonel’s hand for a dance—and watched every step, appreciating how well he executed them. Did Marianne notice? She smiled and spoke, a good sign, Elinor told herself.
After that dance, Marianne went directly off with the squire’s second son, and the colonel came to sit by Elinor’s side. “Would you like to join in the set forming?” he asked.
She thanked him, adding with a smile, “I award you full credit for the politeness, but it is unnecessary. I get more pleasure out of watching you with my sister than I could romping a scotch reel.”
“You don’t care to dance?” he asked.
“I do, but it’s not a passion of mine,” she admitted. “I enjoy watching the company as much as I do getting in among them.”
“If you are not inclined to dance a reel, may I claim your hand for the next cotillion?”
“You needn’t,” she said quickly. “I am sure Marianne has not promised all her dances—”
At that moment, there was a stirring at the door, and with an agreeable bustle and noise, Lord Middleton’s cousin, a young London blade, entered, bringing two gentlemen as fashionably dressed as he. “Here I am as promised, coz,” this gentleman cried. “And I brought partners for the young ladies. We always want more men, do we not?”
As they spoke, the tallest of the gentlemen, one with a very fine profile below swept-back blond hair, glanced around the room, and his gaze stopped on Marianne. Who, at this point in the dance, faced the door. Eyes met eyes, and the cheeks of both brightened to a rosy hue.
Then Marianne turned quickly away—quite properly—but her air had altered. It was an air, a quick, hidden smile, that had not been seen since Willoughby’s day. Elinor stole a glance at the colonel, whose countenance betrayed nothing as he listened courteously to a romantic prediction by Mrs. Jennings.
And so the evening progressed. Elinor had her cotillion, and three country dances besides. But the chief of her attention was on her sister, who danced the cotillion with the newcomer, then very correctly confined herself to other partners. But that did not stop the enterprising gentleman from speaking to her when he could, his manner equally correct—and equally with that air of . . . notice. An air that Marianne had shared.
Nothing was said on the ride to Barton Cottage shortly before dawn. What could Elinor say? She could not speak on the colonel’s behalf, however much she might wish to for his sake. Marianne had committed no error. She must decide matters for herself.
The next day, Elinor was immensely relieved to hear the now-familiar approach of the colonel’s gig. He greeted everyone as usual, asked after them, and even referred to the ball, joking them for looking a little wan after such a short night of sleep. “I suggest a brisk walk,” said he. “Surely you can lay aside earnest studies for one day? Frowsting in the schoolroom must be more difficult after so little rest.”
“I call that a capital notion,” cried Margaret, though her mother uttered a faint protest. “Well, Mama, I can hardly read for yawning! I think a walk would do us all a great deal of good.”
Bonnets and shawls were sent for. In the flurry of activity, somehow Marianne and Margaret got out ahead, and were vanishing up the hill as Elinor and Colonel Brandon reached the path.
Elinor looked after her sisters, but before she could set out to chase them, the colonel said, “One of the many qualities I have come to appreciate in you is our freedom of discourse. Do you not feel the same?”
Elinor stopped, turning anxious eyes up toward his face. The sunlight caught his smile, smoothing the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, which she knew had come from squinting against a far fiercer sun when he was stationed overseas. How much she wished to hear more of his experiences there—but the others had expressed little interest in places and events outside of England’s border.
“I do,” she began.
“And so I can observe to you that Marianne’s introduction to that young baron caused me some serious reflection.”
Elinor was walking, but she scarcely knew where. She wanted to deny what she knew they both had seen—to assure him that it would come to nothing—but he went on. “There is no fool like an old fool, as the saying goes.”
“You are not old,” she protested indignantly.
“No. Though I realized I had been feeling it, whenever I contemplated your sister’s lovely face. I was a fool to look for a youthful Eliza in her, as if finding a resemblance could bring back my own youth. Instead, I’ve perforce been contemplating the vast difference between thirty-six and seventeen.”
“But she will grow older,” Elinor persisted doggedly. “She is nearly eighteen.”
“Yes: in three years’ time she will be twenty, and I very nearly twice her age.” The colonel uttered a soft laugh. “Whereas when you and I speak, I am myself again, still a young man compared to much of the world. With a young man’s interests. Though I am old enough to recognize when I am favoring emotions over rational thought; Diderot would despise me, I very much fear.”
The smile in his eyes brought that warmth again, and she looked down to hide her heated cheeks. She knew what this sensation was. She had first felt it when walking about Norland with Edward, though not since. Now, it was if anything more insistent; in fact, did she have an air?
“Elinor,” he said, his tone tender with a little laughter. “I know I once confided a foolish wish to you, and you have been scrupulous, loyally scrupulous, on behalf of your sister, but it has been some weeks since I realized the folly of those wishes. Worse than folly. It was a mistake, to put it no higher, to be looking for a lost love in the living young woman before me. They are two very different persons. And I thank Providence for that.” After a pause, during which she knew not what to say, he went on, “And I’ve since come to believe that I am not the only one who has been mistaken in expectations.”
She remembered all that she had said about secrets, and trust, saying slowly, “I had never permitted myself to think of . . . to think differently.”
“That has been evident, and not just to me. In our very first conversation Ferrars mentioned how much you cared for others, whether they acknowledged it or not. Is it not time to care a little for yourself? If you cannot answer that, will you permit another who would gladly perform that office?”
“I—I don’t know what to say,” she addressed the toes of her walking shoes.
“You needn’t say anything. There is time enough,” he replied, still in that voice so warm with tenderness that she felt it all through her. “I think your sister will always be my friend, but she is very naturally looking to someone closer to her in age. If not the young baron, then someone like him. Would they not make agreeable guests at Delaford?”
When the meaning of his words struck her, she gasped, and looked up, to discover him silently laughing.
Laughter ignited within Elinor, and she had to look away.
“Tell me what makes you smile,” Colonel Brandon demanded.
“It’s not worth the hearing,” Elinor said at last. “I bethought myself of my absurd brother, and his exhorting me at the very worst time to think about Delaford and your two thousand a year.”
The Colonel gave a shout of laughter at that. “Shall we invite them for Christmastide, then, my Elinor?”