Chapter Eleven

The passing of years did not take away the sting. Her instinct had been right, but could she rightfully blame him? She had made a different choice, and to her better advantage. With it, she had thrown away all claim to feel injured. True, passionate, tender affection did not live as long with him as with her. Nothing but a promise and keen sense of honour would've made Edward agree to marry her. It was accepted as a matter of course in a matter of time. All anger and tears were carefully concealed from Robert, until her present status could bring her the contentment and composure necessary. Fortune had smiled upon her at last, but it came with the knowledge that it was not by her own hand.

In the early days of marriage, Mrs. Ferrars, outraged and betrayed, vowed as heartily to cast off Robert as she had done with Edward. When they returned to town, Robert was refused entry into her house. Letters were returned unopened. Now that money and property had been settled, Mrs. Ferrars relied on her lawyers to convey any communications with Robert. It was conveyed that any further interviews with Mrs. Ferrars, whether of business or a personal nature, were unnecessary. That was the state of the family for some weeks. Then, out of thin air, a letter was personally delivered by a servant, to Robert. Had she tired of isolation? Longed for her favourite son? Pined for a family circle which had been thoughtlessly reduced? Whatever the emotion behind it, it was clear the inclination had changed, and Lucy did not permit Robert a day to pass without action, nor allow his own pride to stand in the way now. By degrees and by patience, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ferrars procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars by the simple expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was adopted. The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks longer unpardoned. But perseverance in humility of conduct and messages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offense, and gratitude for the unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and influence.

For Lucy probably never would have succeeded at all in her endeavours were it not for Edward and Elinor's intervention. Between the two rebel children, the first to be conferred notice by their mother was Edward. Exhausting her last strengths of persuasion to urge the pursuit of Miss Morton, it was judged wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit—and therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed her own dignity, and as served to prevent every suspcion of goodwill, she issued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and Elinor. It was a great mark of respect, and perhaps owing to Elinor's merit by family connection, that Mrs. Ferrars attended their happy occasion without objections. What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was now her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a year, not the smallest objection was made against Edward's taking orders for the sake of two hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had been given with Fanny. It was as much, however as was desired, and more than was expected by Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses, seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more. With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them, they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the living, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon had settled on him.

News from that family quarter slowly trickled to London, mostly through John and Fanny. It was hard to bear, and there was no one to blame but herself. Could she have known that Mrs. Ferrars might relent—well, did it really matter? Sufficiency is not fortune, but it is to be preferred over a hundred a year and the living itself. Could she have yet prevailed on Mrs. Ferrars, just as well being Mrs. Edward Ferrars? The curses of a vivacious imagination, mingled with regret—nostalgia, a most cruel and incurable condition. Marianne had suffered from it but a little while, and she got over it in good time. Perhaps in that aspect alone, the two women, though very different from one another, might have rendered each other sympathetic. Even that bit of news did not sit well. Lucy endeavoured to balance the pining for lost time and chances with the reality. After the first family dinner with the Ferrars', she had met Colonel Brandon. The first impression of him was not a likeable one, and his first impression of her was, at the best, lukewarm. To have chosen Edward would be also choosing an intimacy with Delaford. She could not relish the prospect of communal dinners, with such a cold-faced and sharp-minded patron and Mrs. Brandon—too high-minded and lively, too candid and dramatic for good manners, and careless who might be offended. And how Marianne had called him 'dear Edward'. No! It would not do! To be tolerated and courteously treated for Edward's sake. It would also have placed her in close quarters with the rest of the poor Dashwoods—and Elinor.

Lucy had never wished evil for Elinor. Spite, anger, jealousy—many things she felt but never malice. That should've been a difficulty, to live in the same neighbourhood with the rival who, if she could not claim Edward's love, would always be held in highest respect. And worse, she could never overrule by objection. The irony, how much she had underestimated Edward in the span of four years. So shy and diffident, overly kind and always honourable—yet he managed to make friends in the world, even friends of high connection. Colonel Brandon's friendship would've been as profitable to her as it was disagreeable. He had made a life and a circle of friends for himself, without any of her help. Whenever she pined in her quiet moments, whenever Robert was out of temper, whenever Mrs. Ferrars sent a second summons on the same day, whenever a servant bickered about their low wage, she strived to teach herself preference for the choice she had made, instead of the man she had given up. And most of the time, she was capable of self-solace.

Edward's gracious entreaty to his mother produced a rather unexpected result, none which he or Elinor regretted, though it was at their own expense. Little did they suspect, at the time, Lucy already had her own plans formed. Robert must be welcomed back into the family. Edward and Elinor could never live in London, as much as Mrs. Ferrars had wanted all her children about her. Having the family made whole again was desireous to all parties, including the injured. With a few interviews, Robert was allowed to visit his mother again and sit down to tea. Lucy strictly bid him not to mention her name, and take care to give himself no airs with his mother. He ought not to be haughty and proud of his actions, though he was very much to the contrary. He must not defend himself, nor her; even if Mrs. Ferrars was very abusive in her language of the sly daughter, he was to bite his tongue. He was absolutely forbidden to be angry in her presence. All that was important and dear to him, which must be professed, was that he might be loved and welcomed by her again. Promise, promise anything, if only she might forgive him.

This method worked half the purpose. In time, Mrs. Ferrars began to inquire, and now, Robert was able to speak of Lucy and express all her desire to be known to Mrs. Ferrars. For she is without parents—any mark of attention would mean everything to her. Oh yes, indeed, his mother could not be untouched by it, who had so prided herself on love of family and a closely-knit family. However beneath her dignity and against all her principles, she agreed and condescended to visit Lucy. It was not in her nature or wish to be on friendly terms with the girl, but every mountain is to be scaled and conquered. Everything that had charmed Robert had charmed his mother. Quick learner as she was, learned to pick up on important names of people in London, formed fashionable opinions, and offered her practical services at any opportunity should they be wanted. This softened the heart, enough to permit Lucy's company for a trip to the shops and to pay a call or two on a dear friend. Dinner invitations came, from both Mrs. Ferrars and some of her own friends. In everything and everywhere, Lucy was recommended to all as a most affable, most charming, well-bred young lady. Robert Ferrars had been declared a lucky man and made a splendid match. This sufficed for maternal forgiveness; as long as Lucy's birth and upbringing were never known in society, assimilation could be easily accomplished. "Confer me a great favour, Lucy dear…" she had bid her. From thenceforth, Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars, as either Robert or Fanny; and in everything considered, she was always, openly acknowledged to be her favourite child.

With such an unspoken title, Robert and Lucy received the benefit of very liberal assistance for the years to come. They all lived in town, except for the holidays at the estate in Norfolk. It was a sweet claim to have boasting about at dinners. One voice for two—Robert and Lucy made a presence among high society. Miss Morton's thirty thousand pounds was never lamented again by Mrs. Ferrars after six months of contenting herself. Lucy called upon her daily, made herself available for little errands, asked favours of, and was readily obliged. With the start of children, Lucy frequently deferred to her superior opinions and experience. When deciding to throw parties of her own, for cards or any dancing in their own home, Robert observed his wife's judicious care to take his mother's advice. Society might look to her as a fine example among women, how young brides ought to honour her elders and husband's family. Among the ladies and gentlemen alike, there was plenty to admire and esteem in Mrs. Robert Ferrars.

Love and kindness only increased with time and the onset of Mrs. Ferrar's illness. Six years. All three of her children married, and four grandchildren. Fanny's declaration after inquiries, that "my mother is always in excellent health, thank you", started the decline gradually. Those in her closer circles noticed her conversation began to drop off, speaking little and going out less. Going about town or visiting ceased soon enough. Edward noticed it in her letters, the finest penmenship, turn to almost incomprehensible scrawl. It gave him enough alarm to write to Fanny, asking after their mother. His sister replied with two letters in the course of a fortnight. The first to assure Edward that their mother was well, and the second letter, recanting everything she said and entreating him and his wife to come up to town at once. However, it was not a proclamation of near death that gave Fanny urgency. Doctors had put the Ferrars and Dashwood branch on notice that old Mrs. Ferrars was in a state of decline, but that could be a matter of weeks or even months, depending on the spite and strength of the old lady.

When they did arrive, there was no waiting to be settled and unpacked. Edward and Elinor proceeded into the old drawing room with fearful expectations. This was only their third invitation to London in the course of six years; not so much a preference of Mrs. Ferrars, nor to say the couple stayed away, but neither side took great pains to give the other pleasure. Their reception and presence at dinner had always been treated coldly—with the utmost civility but cold still. The poor relations. It was accepted and unspoken by the other two couples. But on this day, however, Fanny quite astonished Edward and Elinor with real affection. She embraced each, her brother and her sister-in-law, with streaming tears and a choked voice. John likewise, much affected and grieved, gave them a more vocal welcome and seconded his wife's thoughts. They were so pleased that they made the sacrifice of so far a journey. Tea was set and tears calmed in the company of strong herbs and a tray of buscuits. No dinner had been ordered yet, late as it was in the day, but the Ferrars' had not had much to eat that day on the road.

"In an hour, cook should have dinner ready. It's only a stew. There's been no time for much else today, but you shall have it whenever you want it."

"Thank you, Fanny," said Elinor, genuinely feeling it. "That is most kind. We don't expect much. I think we are all of a scarce appetite as of now. How does she do, John?"

Her brother gave the particulars in the most delicate of language he could manage in the presence of his wife, made fragile by the distress of diagnosis. This was not the moment, not the time for goodbyes just yet—much to their relief. However, by his report, Mrs. Ferrars felt very uneasy at this time. By the day, her looks and actions had grown more and more agitated. Now, she no longer left her room. Any unnecessary noise vexed her extremely. A drafty corridor roused her to a degree of irritation that all servants declared extreme. Even worse, just a few days before, she fancied herself all alone in the house. A nearby servant found her in bed, woken by a dream likely, and crying hysterically.

"I'm happy to say, ever since, Lucy has been staying here. To be near and take care of her," declared John.

"Yes, she's taking good care of our mother." The look of old, the familiar grim mouth and cutting sharpness of the eye, like that first day and dinner, dining at Norland Park. The bitterness of such statement did not escape Elinor. John paled and cleared his throat, mumbled something to her. She heard him only irritated, but Edward caught distinctly the murmured words: "… don't understand." Mrs. Dashwood at Barton had occasional letters from John, affectionate yet dutiful letters; never to be expected with any regularity. Her stepson had few people to hear his complaints of life and living. Edward and Elinor, along with the rest of the Dashwood-Brandon branch, were left to conjectures. No letter depicted the family portrait accurately enough, how contentious, how dismal the relations between them in London had become. After Mrs. Ferrars granted forgiveness, Robert and Lucy had settled in a house just down the street, receiving very liberal assistance. Reportedly, they had been on the best terms imaginable with the Dashwoods. Setting aside the jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy, in which their husbands of course took a part, nothing could exceed the harmony in which they all lived together. Mrs. Jennings did not require hearing the gossip and reports through letters to have predicted, with astute precision, the awkward position Mrs. Robert Ferrars had placed herself. She married into a family, whose first object was based, not on real achievements but the appearance of it.

Before Edward could make any inquiries after Robert and how he fared in this troubling time, the door burst open. Robert did not observe the new company, and came in with a fiery stride, huffing, and full of sourness.

"Tis nothing. Well, it's a most unfair inconvenience. Nanny has just given her notice, and I had to sort out which one of the maids should watch little Ophelia. Poor child. She should be much better tended to, and I'd see to her myself but I don't know a fig about children. I can't take charge whole days together! With Lucy always here and—Oh dear me, Edward! You've come at last, old boy. So glad, and dear sister, Elinor! This is a real pleasure." His brother' s hand was shaken hardly. Elinor received a more tender salutation, a kiss to the hand. "A real pleasure. I only wish you'd come sooner. How long will you be staying?"

"I wish to stay as long as we're wanted, but I'm afraid the curate cannot be engaged more than two weeks, I'm afraid. Bythat time, we'll have to return to Devonshire."

"And you stay on here? Edward, I won't hear of it. Please, you both must come and stay with us. It's so dreary and quiet, this house, at least these days. The servants have warned us that my mother does not like a lot of noise."

"Thank you, Robert," replied Edward, but deferred a look to Elinor.

"That is a kind offer, but—"

Before the historical blunder could be fully committed: "They shall be staying at our house in Harley Street," answered John. "After all, it's been so long since Elinor has visited." Where he should have been awkward, everyone else felt it for him. Had he really forgotten that his wife and brother were once engaged years ago? And that didn't strike him oddly, to all stay together under the same roof?

"Oh, naturally! Naturally! Blood relations must take precedence, though I'm sure you shall—" He did not proceed much farther in his ramblings when the door opened again, ushering in his wife.

"Robert, I've told you over and OVER, not to slam doors in this house!" she hissed. "Your mother heard you slam the front door and this one—"

"Oh bother!" His eyes rolled. "I did not slam any door—"

"I could hear you clearly! You know how she's getting. She's now very cross!" Now, her turn to be startled. Like her husband, the irritable mood and sharp words instantly sweetened. "Oh! I did not know you had arrived Edward, Elinor… And you arrive so quietly too. I didn't even hear the carriage." So said, of course, just to rub him raw. "Thank you for coming so quickly too. I've been looking out the window for half the day. Mother has been most anxious to see you both."

"Has she?" said Edward.

"Yes. And she was particular that once you have arrived and settled, that you will come and see her." A demure smile accompanied the request, more like a plea. "I do not wish to rush you, as you've both just arrived, but she's been so anxious. I think your presence will be the best cure for her now."

"Of course. We will be up directly."

"Well, actually… She wished to speak to you alone first, before she sees Elinor. Of course, she means it as no slight, Elinor. It's just maternal fondness, you know."

Elinor gave a gracious: "Naturally." It was hardly to be expected that Edward's presence would entirely soothe and placate the old lady. Even ill, though, Mrs. Ferrars' first fondness was for people she liked and those who obeyed her command. Edward was dispatched. Elinor made the best of it with the remaining four. John, by all his looks and colour, wished himself a thousand miles elsewhere. Full of agitation and unusual energy, Lucy rang for tea and began to pace near the windows by the street. Though everyone had their own anxieties and discomforts, Elinor supposed something more particular distressed, whether it had happened or was yet to happen. Robert and John entreated her to sit and have some tea, for her nerves. Lucy declined at first, before five minutes of no occupation persuaded her.

The first to break a painful silence was Elinor. "I think you are overtired, Lucy. Have you been sleeping well?"

"I'm perfectly well, I thank you."

"No doubt," with softer tones, "Mrs. Ferrars needs more than one attendant to look after her, or else, you'll need your own attending. Can you not ask one of her maids to relieve you for a short time?"

"Oh… Mother will not hear of anyone else looking after her." With a tired smile: "I'd love to call for help. I know they are more than willing to be of comfort to their mistress, but she's never easy when left alone long."

"And you've been staying here to nurse her?"

"Yes," answered a pettish Robert. "She's been here over a week, staying to look after Mother. And most attentive you've been, darling, but it's becoming too much a task for you. I've been saying so this last month—"

"I've not been staying here a whole month."

"I'd beg to differ," mumbled Fanny.

"Your child misses you, darling. You've been wholly tied up playing the nurse. Now that the whole family is here, it should do you good to get more rest and resume your usual routine."

Lucy did not feel nor appear thankful for this kindness, and Robert was not often noted among his loved ones for a kind or compassionate spirit. For the sake of family present, she declared such means of intervention were unnecessary. Mrs. Ferrars was very ill. She needed good care, and if it so pleased her to have Lucy or any of her family near, she was happy to oblige. And to hear it spoken, an outsider like Elinor might suppose that nobody else cared to forfeit any of their comfort or convenience to an invalid. That certainly had been true of Mr. Dashwood, her own late father. Of them all, John alone made the journey to Sussex. It was not Fanny's father; why should she be bothered about it, especially when secured her place and house by an entail?

"Did—Is that Mother's?" Fanny's inquiry had heads turning a moment blindly.

"Pardon?" piped Lucy.

"That—it's my mother's favourite clasp."

"Oh… It is, yes. She gave it to me, over four months ago. Remember the Shakeltons' party? She insisted upon something nice, and how could I say no? It would've hurt her dreadfully if I refused it."

"What? The Shakeltons'? That was not four months ago."

John's efforts were in vain. "My dear—"

"I'm sure it feels like only a short time ago, such turmoil you and all of us have been through."

"Well… It seems quite an unnecessary thing to be wearing jewelry in a house as ours and in a time as this. I'd almost say—even unbecoming. My mother is gravely ill, Lucy."

"Do you imply I've done something amiss?"

"No… I do not imply," she exhaled. "And I shall ask my mother about it directly."

"Fann! That is an outrageous accusation! Lucy has never stolen anything, and would never steal anything from her." First time ever in life that Edward had seen such fire between Robert and Fanny. The quarrel of right and righteousness was prolonged some minutes, as eventually both the husbands rose to the defense of their own wives; much against John's inclination and against Robert's easy humour. One side vowed to never be a liar and a thief, while the other side knew exactly how the matter stood without an authority to whom could be appealed. And of all persons, the one with the least to say in her own defense, without guilt and without proof of innocence, Lucy say amongst the bickering. By silence, and mastering self-control, she stayed on the outside of the argument, even if she were the cause of it. So much like the very beginning of their acquaintance, all of it struck her so, that Elinor could scarce control a sarcastic laugh. She remembered Lucy in those early days, six—seven years ago, both herself and her sister, trying to sit so composedly and dignified in Lady Middleton's drawing room while the children wrecked havoc all around them.

Defeated and too vexed for more words, Fanny rose up. "Dear Elinor, will you take a turn with me? I need a little air. I'm sure you do too." Disputing brought her near to tears. Skin felt hot to the touch, and the sound of her breath had grown a little shallow, enough to make Elinor suggest the smelling salts. No. It was not wanted. A few minutes of silence and her company. They seated themselves near the window, which Fanny opened directly.

"Oh Elinor, this has become the most insufferable…" Her voice had dropped to a whisper. "I'm so glad you are here. You don't know. You couldn't know…"

"Fanny, I am very sorry," confessed Elinor. With all genuine feeling: "I don't know what to say. I'm very sorry."

"You see how it is, Elinor. And this is not the first instance. That girl, she can assert her innocence and Robert can vouch for her as much he likes. She is a thief."

"Fanny—"

"A thief I tell you. Little by little, I've noticed certain favoured jewels of my mother's have gone missing. I know her servants. None of them in a hundred years would ever do such a thing. And Lucy, has been here, in the house for a month, nearly every day and all day long."

"Oh…"

"Yes. Thank you. I'm glad to see someone react with the concern it properly merits. Why? John sees it with his own eyes. I see it. Robert sees it."

Elinor's voice dropped a degree nearer Fanny's. "Have you and Robert spoken about it? In private, I mean?"

"I've tried," she admitted, plaintive. A handkerchief supported her grief. "I've tried so hard. Robert doesn't listen. They do have their domestic quarrels, no question. It's plain to all. But he will defend her—That I don't understand! He's complained to me himself. His own mother is as fond of Lucy as her own children: Robert, myself, even Edward. Lucy takes precedence in everything. My mother trusts her with everything, going everywhere with her, dictating her letters, helping on her errands, messages to her bankers."

"Is it so serious as that?"

"I'd tell my mother as much, and if she were in her right mind and sound in senses, she'd see it just as plainly as all of us see it… Oh Elinor, I've never understood. I could never make sense of it, why, six years ago, she had compromised. She could've forgiven Robert, but she need not have given Lucy a single moment's concern beyond being his wife. Before then, when—pardon me I bring up a bad subject, when she was engaged to Edward, my mother spotted her for everything she is—a social climbing little minx. Marrying Robert only made it worse."

"Are you afraid, Fanny, that Lucy is doing worse than you've already seen proof of?"

"I'm sure of it." A moist and anxious hand took hold of Elinor's. "Dear Elinor, my sister, you are my last hope. You and Edward. If we do not do something, Lucy shall see to it that our mother confers the bulk of her fortune upon Robert—and ultimately herself. I know—You don't suppose Edward has much influence with her, but you're wrong. Elinor, she's been asking for Edward every day for the last fortnight… I also know, by the way Lucy was so reluctant to send for you and Edward. She didn't want you to come too soon."

"Really?"

"My mother is not writing letters anymore. Lucy has to post letters for her, and she's delayed. On one occasion, she told Mother that she had written but the post seemed to be slow. And that was two weeks ago!" This gave an arc to Elinor's brow that, for once in a lifetime, agreed with Mrs. John Dashwood. After all, what association does light have with darkness? "My mother needs you, and Edward. John and I need you. For our sake, for all our children's sake, we cannot be silent and be put aside by someone who has no proper place among us."

"Fanny, I'm just like Lucy. Sister-in-law. I don't have much authority to dispute, but you, Edward, and Robert certainly. Be assured, I shall stand by you. As to… how your mother will be persuaded and whom she will favour, that is still entirely her power and perogative."

"Her powers of reason are gone. The fact of the matter is, she is no longer able to make a choice."

"Fanny, Edward and I talked about this on the way. We've come to the decision that we shall abide by whatever your mother wants. We will not contest."

"You must!"

"On behalf of your mother's interest, indeed, depend upon it. But on our own interest, no."

"Don't be silly. We have a claim."

"… I cannot help you, Fanny."

This certainly disappointed. What she couldn't comprehend another woman must feel angered her the more. "I thought you'd understand. You cannot be such a simpleton, Elinor." With a shaking voice: "Perhaps you don't feel it so keenly, not being her child. But I am, her own flesh and blood—and that someone should displace you in your mother's affections."

"I think I know something of the feeling." How could she possibly help it? If it were John, and not Fanny, however, it would've levelled him, conversation. The man would've rather crawled into a hole than owned to his share in the neglect of the Dashwoods. Wit was not wasted. She'd been too eager to make an ally of one whom she had deigned to recognize this last half decade, as an enemy seven years ago. 'Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at all.' With all the bitter self-reflections, while Elinor doubted that she felt them, still gave a gentle squeeze to the hand in hers. "I promise, should the chance come, I will take up these concerns with her. Neither your or I want your mother torn two and three ways in a family quarrel."

"N-No."

"Will you tell me something, Fanny? And please be honest." Already, the face had been struck in terror. "If what you say is true, and your mother's power of reason is gone, it's going to be nearly impossible to convince her that Lucy should not be trusted. It may cost you much to speak your mind. Are you willing to forego that?"

"Well, my mother's interest and mine own, and all of ours are tied together. To protect her is to protect all of us. I do not worry about that. She's not so far gone as that."

They were all kept waiting nearly half an hour, altogether. Fanny was silently gratified, that mother and son were together, and Lucy kept waiting outside even if only outside the door. Indeed, Lucy did check up on her twice. She did not intrude, but stole upstairs to listen at the door. Edward, as she always remembered him, had been a soft-spoken person. To add to that, his mother's growing dislike to loud noise, she could barely hear anything worthwhile. The only thing she distinguished was one phrase, from Edward: "Explain to me why he was called three times…" This he and three times, instantly known, caused Lucy blushing in spite of herself. Even if Edward's importance had diminished with time, to see her first love and as ever the best of men whose respect be worth having… She did not want to think of it, and tears arose in the place of condemning thoughts.

Taking advantage of the ignorance of others is a lack of honour and conscience.

The early days of courtship and marriage with Robert seemed nothing but a hazy memory now. What exactly he said to compliment and flatter her, nursing her wounded pride during the days of disgrace, she had no more memory of; they'd never really formed to anything of substance. But Edward—he didn't even have to speak, he could look it. Everything that was in his heart. When he emerged from his mother's room, she must not look him in the eye. She will hear his words and his memory, she will feel it, and their few precious memories that remained would be crushed, in her own hands. When Edward summoned the butler to call for Elinor, it was enough to make her scream.

"What do you really wish, ma'am?"

"Stay. Please stay, both of you."

"We shall, if it pleases you."

"I am glad of Lucy, but I feel so lonely."

"Do you not see your other children?"

"No. No… Lucy says they won't come."

"What does Lucy do for you? Is there anything we might do to help you, or help her?"

"I… Well, I don't know. I never see Fanny."

"Do you want me to call for Fanny?" offered Edward. "She's downstairs now."

"Fanny?"

"She'd love nothing more than to see you, Mother." The lady's eyes welled up, and making her throat swell. It was enough response for him to proceed.

"Is there anything else we might do for you?" persisted Elinor. "Are there any errands we might take care of for you, either now or later?"

"… I don't know. I did… Oh dear, what was it?" she hissed. "I was supposed to meet with someone—No, he's supposed to come."

"Who is?"

"… Mr. Collie."

"And who would he be?"

"He's the lawyer," answered Edward. "Why would Mr. Collie come? Did you send for him?"

"No… Yes."

"Why do you want him? Does it have anything to do with the estate?"

"W-Why I don't know! Why you asking me all these questions, Edward?"

"Mother, I need you to be honest. Fanny is coming up directly. We need to know what you want, and if this is what you really want."

"Why don't you ask Lucy about it. She knows all. She handles everything."

"No, Mother. You can't just put this off on Lucy. This is your money, and your estate." Fanny came in on light foot and with all haste. Ideal time. "Mother, Fanny is here. I think it's only proper that we all talk this out together."

"But I don't know anything about it. The lawyer already took care of it."

"Then why do you need him? It makes no sense. Mother, Fanny and John, Elinor and myself, we're very concerned." Fanny echoed him. "We don't want anything to happen to you. And if you're not feeling well, you should be comfortable and resting."

"I am not sick."

"You don't fool anyone, Mother," sighed Fanny. "When I was a girl, you'd tell me not to be so cross with the doctor's orders. Well, it's time you hear it too."

A little smile crackled in the sallow, haggard face, the eyes tiredly blinking.

"Mother," Edward began again, "let me ask you this. Does Lucy settle accounts with the servants?"

"Yes. She does everything." Fanny went pale.

"Everything? So, she is paying their wages? And the house expenses?"

"Yes." Where the book was kept was inquired, and together, Fanny and Elinor discovered it in the old master's study, which had become the mistress' in the years since his passing. The ledger, by all appearances, was pristine and accurate. However, in later and private conversation with servants, the two women verified that several of the servants were paid less, and were in the arrears. And by accident, parcels from the bank were uncovered from the bureau of the study. Parcels and receipts produced. More awkward conversation followed with Mrs. Ferrars. And before long, the lawyer himself was sent for, with Mrs. Ferrars' dubious reluctance and at her daughter's adamant insistence. Lucy saw too much coming and goings from the sacred room, and insisted on enlightenment. All the while, entreating that: "Mother is not to be disturbed. She doesn't need all this noise." "She doesn't need her doctor or the lawyer today. The doctor shall be here on the morrow, on his usual visit." The women ignored her protests. Edward called for Robert to come up and together, the brothers remained with Mrs. Ferrars, until the arrival of the two professionals.

Though Jane Austen chose to stop the story where she did, honestly, I feel like this end was inevitable for Mrs. Ferrars. It's really sad sometimes how some people with this kind of family, combined with dementia or other health issues, set themselves up for financial and elder abuse. It's not their fault. But where Austen ended it, it feels like the stage was set for another entire family drama.

Alright, last chapter incoming.