Takes place 4 years after the plot of the book

She is beautiful. Under the watchful eye of Mrs Jennings she has safely navigated through the balls, banquets, private concerts and upper-class gatherings. Maybe she is not that beautiful as Marianne was at sixteen. — the always realistic Elinor corrected herself in her mind.

But she is young, full of life, with cheeks coloured in light pink, an honest smile, eyes that easily reflect her excitement and a perfectly shaped mouth always ready for a witty answer. But now much more careful than she was at thirteen, just four years ago, carelessly teasing me and Marianne in public.

She's a woman now - a bride; slowly going down the altar to the carefully picked broom. It's Margaret's wedding day. Such is the circle of life. Her mother, Mrs Dashwood, Mrs Jenkins and maybe even me, we all did our best in educating Margaret, transmitting the most important values and qualities, broadening her talent and skills so that she'd be prepared for marriage, to be a good wife and mother.

Of course, we saw to it that Margaret's future husband would be a good and respectable man and were all very happy that they genuinely liked each other, cared for each other. Liked? Yes, I'm not saying "loved", but I know that love is born out of care and understanding and that my sister will be happy and loved. As I am.

We don't scream at the top of our lungs that we are happy, Edward would never do something like that. But we are happy. We are. We are happy in our everyday life, at the vicarage, taking care of things… Standing close next to each other. That's love. That's love, right?

I'm so incredibly happy for Margaret. This wedding is so gorgeous. I just feel butterflies in my stomach as if it would be my own wedding. Margaret's dress is so beautiful, as if it was a net woven by the most delicate silver spiders.

My heart swells with pride. I hope Margaret is deeply in love, that she's really experiencing and feeling all the love and warm feelings. I wanted to talk to her about it somewhere private but apart from the fact that we never were truly alone, with the children and Elinor, Elinor's children, brief visits, it took just one look at Elinor or my husband and I didn't say anything.

Though I still think love is the most important feeling in the world. Or one of the most important feelings. I have to know this, I almost died for love! No, I shouldn't be so dramatic. It wasn't for love. I got cold on a walk. And now I know there are more kinds of love, the family love, the caring love, the love for one's own children.

However, the all-consuming love you welcome and follow with abandon… That's love that I still cr— Marianne sighed aloud.

Colonel Brandon discreetly squeezed her hand. — Everything is alright, my dear Marianne. You don't have to worry. It will be a very nice, calm wedding.

Feeling his wife restless by his side, Colonel Brandon sank into thoughts. — Nice and calm wedding. And then a marriage that would be like a safe harbour for Margaret. Some may be wishing for passionate adventures but in the end all people, at least all good people recognize how misleading this thinking is. And those who don't, get a lesson provided by god or life itself.

It is just such a pity that, on their sinful adventures, those uncaring humans often mislead also good young people without strong will and the right understanding of moral life. Though through guidance, care, patience and understanding, everyone can be saved. Almost everyone…— Colonel Brandon thought and pressed his lips together more forcefully.

And maybe it's not love. Maybe it's just pretending for the sake of the society. Maybe it's just like me and Sophia. God rest her soul. I could perhaps say that the two years of marriage were almost good. It shouldn't have ended so tragically. Definitively. Too much death around me…

However, I can still admit it wasn't love. And all those respected members of society, colonels and sirs, ladies and gentlemen in tailored suits and dresses, standing close to each other but not too close, hats put on their heads in the perfect angle as required for this season by Paris, the city of couture, them lightly brushing their pinkie fingers against each other… they are happily married as they say, and therefore they are better than me?

They are in the spotlight, sitting in the first rows and I am persona non grata, hiding behind the soil just to catch a glimpse of Marianne.

All of this I see may be care, understanding, responsibility, burden-sharing but it is not the love I dreamed about: the burning love; the fear of not seeing your love for a day, an hour, a minute; caressing her face in your dreams and in reality; forgetting all the rules and conventions.

It's the playfulness and pretending that nothing matters. Even pretending that you don't take life seriously, that all you care about is wind in your hair and picking flowers. And in fact you burn with love, you catch yourself secretly winking at the lady of your life and are prepared to fly with her away should something or someone stand in your way. That's my love…

Was this what these people really thought or was this what Willoughby wished they had thought?