Chapter Thirteen
Life at Barton Cottage remained much the same as it always had for Elinor, at least to all outward appearances. She helped Betsy and her mother; pressed drapes, mended clothing, dusted furniture, and baked bread, and was as much an industrious woman transplanted to the countryside as she ever had been upon first inhabiting the cottage with her mother and two sisters. The greatest difference lay, of course, in Marianne's absence, which was an alteration felt by all. The house was a great deal quieter, for one. Mama was still as verbally forceful and decidedly open about her opinions, but did not retain the same measure of continuity without Marianne to encourage and exacerbate her. Though Elinor missed her sister's lively company, she could not pretend to be wholly displeased with the hush of silence that overtook the little house more often than not; when Margaret was outside and her mother in the garden, and even sometimes when they were all together in the house and no one had much to say in the way of tumultuous sentiments.
Her mother felt Marianne's absence most—though she was by no means unhappy to think of her dearest child in that grand house only eight miles away—and Margaret, too, felt the loss more than if Elinor had gone, she was certain of that. Elinor's serious disposition and unwavering determination to fulfil one's moral duty did not suit such a young and impetuous girl. Margaret was not romantic in the same way that Marianne was, but neither was she happy to sit for an hour or more at a time in order to learn French grammar or improve her copybook; her thirst for imaginary adventures proved impossible to slate by focused and regulated study.
The gap in age was not so very great between Elinor and Margaret, but with a sister between them the gap seemed greater, and Elinor understood the inevitable bond that Marianne and Margaret would share, considering similarities in disposition and a shared enthusiasm for all things amiable to youthful sensibilities. However, with Marianne away, and no diversions more readily accessible than one another's company, Elinor and Margaret grew to understand each other better by and by, and Margaret even accepted some of Elinor's influence with more sincerity than Marianne had at the same age.
There was one haunting thought which cast a dark cloud over the pleasant steadiness of Elinor's everyday life, and that was the knowledge that any day would bring Edward and his new wife to Delaford where they would establish themselves permanently at the Rectory. She wondered that she had not yet received a letter from Marianne, telling her that they'd come and to be on the lookout. She did not think it likely that she would fail to mention such a significant event, since Marianne knew how anxious Elinor would be to prepare herself for any possible chance of their meeting, whether in consideration of her next visit to Delaford, or by accidental meeting in a gathering of friends hosted by Mrs. Jennings that might not be politely avoided. It had been days since the dinner party in which their marriage had been made known, and Elinor had heard nothing of Edward's whereabouts nor of his official acceptance of the position there.
Elinor sprinkled more flour over the lump of dough she turned over on the shelf, and worked the soft powder in with her knuckles. The methodical work gave her something to focus on besides the lack of communication from Marianne. Until that moment, Margaret had been watching in disinterested silence, but now she interrupted Elinor's unspoken thoughts with a question of geography.
"What are the five rivers of Punjab that flow into the Indus?"
"I do not know," Elinor admitted. "You had better consult your atlas rather than me, dear."
A peculiar lethargy had overtaken Margaret that afternoon and she idled with a cheesecloth rather than heeding any mind to Elinor's suggestion. "Colonel Brandon would know without looking at the atlas," she complained.
"I daresay he would, but the Colonel has been to the East Indies and would have an easier time remembering the names of rivers he might have had reason to come across during his military exploits."
"Do you think he misses travelling in such exotic, faraway places?" Margaret asked wistfully. "If I should go to India, I don't know that I would ever want to return."
"Perhaps," she mused, "Although he was there as a soldier, under circumstances that were not always pleasant, so I believe it more than reasonable to assume he is far happier now, having settled back in England."
"Do you mean by marrying Marianne, or taking possession of Delaford?" she put slyly, and with more understanding than her sisters were likely to give her credit for.
"I mean both, dearest. I am confident he is even happier now than when he first became master of Delaford."
"How could you know such a thing for certain?" Margaret questioned dubiously.
"It is not difficult to tell. Especially when one does more observing than interrogating," she said with a meaningful raise of her brows, and a playful smile.
Margaret grumbled to have been so easily defeated, but soon brightened at the thought of something else to test her eldest sister by, clearly undeterred by the jab at her methods of questioning. "Would you have liked to marry someone with a grand estate, Elinor? With two libraries, and two dining halls, and more rooms than a whole dinner party can fill at night?" Their recent stay at Delaford was still fresh in her mind, and the experience had left a curious impression on her. "Do you find it hard not to be jealous of Marianne?"
"I think not," Elinor said with perfect candour and a small smile hidden by her head lowered over her task. "I would not reject a man for having a grand estate and wealth besides, but they are not inducements to jealousy for me. I am grown very used to the busy methods of a modest living, and I know now that I prefer it to a life of luxury and idleness."
The idea of two libraries suddenly did not hold as much allurement for Margaret at the mention of idleness. "Is Marianne very bored at the great house?"
Elinor laughed softly. "Not dangerously so," she said, taking care not to be dishonest with her sister. "Not at present, that is, and being with child she is allowed some measure of idleness."
"But you should not like to always be dressed handsomely and hosting dinner parties to fashionable people like John and Fanny, should you, Elinor?"
"No. Would you?" she asked with real interest, pausing in her kneading to await Margaret's answer.
Margaret tossed her head with an emphatic, "No. But then..." she amended, thinking it over more carefully, "If I had a rich husband with a large estate, I could always find some form of excitement in riding horses, or travelling expeditions sponsored by my husband's wealth, or even by inviting all sorts of interesting people to my home. Perhaps I could host parties, but for foreign diplomats or privateers seeking asylum."
"I think that a suitable compromise to being idle. All but for the last part," she cautioned laughingly.
Margaret giggled, but refrained from argument, considering the conversation at an end.
Elinor sighed as she continued working the bread, sadly trying and yet failing terrifically to imagine Lucy Steele—now Ferrars—tending to all the necessities of the parsonage and Edward's parishioners. She would need to minister to those of both high and low estate, showing partiality to none. She would be required to ensure that the household and the manner of their lifestyle could be supported by Edward's modest salary. She must take care that the curtains she chose for the sitting room were not too heavy for the thin rod that would bear them up. The requirements Elinor conceived for Edward's wife to possess were impossible standards for many a better woman than even Lucy to strive for, and the thought made Elinor more unhappy than she cared to admit.
Margaret had grown tired of watching her sister prepare the evening meal, and had been easing her way towards the hall and the open door for some time. She now let out an excited squeal, announcing that there was a rider on his way to them this very moment. She bounded away to find her mother, and shouted throughout the house, "It is Edward! Mama, I think Edward has come!"
She returned to her sister, but seeming to recollect Edward's recent marriage, her countenance fell in devastation and sympathy. "E... Elinor," she stuttered, "It's... Edward is come."
Elinor tried in vain to appear untouched by this unexpected arrival. She hastily wiped the flour on her apron, and made her way to the sitting room where Mrs. Dashwood had been transported by Margaret's enthusiastic cries. She inspected her eldest daughter with a terrific gleam in her eye that conveyed part horror, part pity. She bade Elinor turn around, and released her from the floured apron with as much speed as her trembling fingers were capable of.
When Edward entered, it might have appeared to him as if they had all three been quietly sitting for hours. They rose to receive him with all due formality, and the subsequent silence that immediately befell them lasted just long enough to be uncomfortable. Nobly desirous of re-establishing an easy repertoire with their good friend of old, Mrs. Dashwood reached forward, and taking his hands in her own, said, "Dear Edward! We wish you joy."
"I... I thank you," he said as if her thoughtfulness took him by surprise. Elinor wondered if the recent cruelty of his relations caused him astonishment to find friendship elsewhere. It pained her for his sake to think it could be so.
Mrs. Dashwood offered Edward a chair, and he took it, though rather stiffly. That awful silence once more filled the room, and Margaret took the lead by remarking on the fine weather they had been enjoying. Edward smiled, looking moderately more at ease, and agreed that the roads were very dry.
"Are you... settled, then, at the parsonage?" Mrs. Dashwood continued, grasping for a topic to increase discussion by. Elinor had still not found the courage to speak.
"I am on my way now. I thought to impose on your good will by stopping here, first, as I... had something... Barton Cottage has always been dear to me." He could not bear meeting Mrs. Dashwood's searching look, and though she inwardly recoiled from furthering the topic of his marriage, she could contrive of no other way to have the uncomfortable wedge between them done away with.
"Have you left Mrs. Ferrars in London?"
"No," he blinked confusedly. "No, my mother is returned to Norland Park. I thought you would have seen her at Delaford recently."
"I did not inquire after your mother, but your wife," she amended softly. "Mrs. Edward Ferrars."
Edward started in his seat, turning his head slightly in Elinor's direction and quickly back to Mrs. Dashwood. "Then... you have not heard? I had thought... I wrote to the Colonel, explaining my change in circumstance. Lucy has married Robert. She is Mrs. Robert Ferrars, now."
Elinor let out a cross between a choke and a whimper, the first display of thought or emotion since the beginning of their conversation.
Edward stood, not knowing where to let his gaze fall, and found himself nervously playing with the ears of a porcelain lamb upon the mantle as he explained. "Lucy wrote to me, confessing a transfer of affection to my brother. They were much together in London, it seems, and bearing in mind my recently... changed circumstances, I only thought it right to, um, release her from the engagement."
"Then," Elinor begged, her voice strained with her attempt at self-composure as she stood to ascertain whether or not this strange dream was able to persevere, "You are not... married?"
Edward answered her statement with a nod of affirmation, hope evident in his eyes.
No longer able to contain the feelings that afflicted her, having gone from hopeless resignation to despondent indignation, and back to resolute despair all within the course of the past hour, and now to be suddenly struck with such a real and tangible hope before her, it was all too much. She let out a cry, falling back hard into the chair, and releasing the veritable storm of emotions from the weeks and months she had suffered a broken heart in silence.
At this uncharacteristic outburst, Mrs. Dashwood hastened from the room, dragging Margaret with her, and making no pretence of subtlety as she did so. Margaret followed as far as her mother's bedroom door, and then petitioned that she might run outside to sit in the tree house rather than join her mama in her relentless pacing across the room. Mrs. Dashwood assented distractedly and Margaret ran back downstairs, stopping just before the entrance of the sitting room in order to shamelessly eavesdrop, something Marianne in the long run was most grateful for.
Elinor was sitting too near the doorway for Margaret to see her, but she heard her, as she was vainly struggling to suppress her crying.
Edward was in the midst of explanation, it seemed, for his previous engagement and behaviour.
"Elinor, I met Lucy when I was very young—we both were very young. Had I an active profession then, I never would have had such a foolish inclination. My behaviour at Norland was very wrong. I could not imagine you would care for me as I did you, and I convinced myself it was my heart alone that I risked. I have come here today, not with any expectation, but only to tell you, now I am at liberty to do so, that my heart is and always will be... yours."
Margaret stole a glance into the room, and Edward was bringing himself to one knee. Feeling a sudden and unexpected guilt for spying, she left her post just as he was taking Elinor's hand in his, but what the end of their exchange was, even young Margaret did not have difficulty imagining.
Author's Notes: You didn't think I'd forget about Elinor and Edward, did you? Having read the book again recently, I forgot about how little I love Edward in the book. Forgive me, Jane Austen! I did struggle to write him in my adaptation enough to like him again, but Hugh Grant's movie version helps. :)