Chapter One

"That must be Uncle's new pupil." Anne observed a mud-tarnished barouche tiredly rolling to the house. The arrival was very much the style of old family and large money, plenty of space for comfort during a long journey from London. And yet, to the inhabitant, it proved the most comfortless arrangement. Both sisters lingered back, keeping out of the way of the bustle of luggage. Their uncle would have shooed them off at any rate. They were denied all introductions and having looks at the new pupil until dinner. It had been at least a year since Mr. Pratt had taken in another young man for instruction to make him suitable for Oxford or Edinsburgh. All he cared to tell of the new young man in residence: he was nineteen years of age and reputed by former masters as being very studious. Sadly though, lately, he had been scoring poorly in his examinations much to his mother's dissatisfaction. No academy in town could be compared to the quiet way of education, in the peace and fresh air of Plymouth. Their uncle held as much disdain for them as the young man's mother held for his parlour and over-valued, upgraded schoolroom. Yet, she was without choice, and Mr. Pratt had an income to be made from people without choices.

Edward Ferrars made a rather indifferent first impression. Their first dinner, altogether, proved to be a spiritless evening. Not all of Anne's teasing could get him to laugh, nor could Mr. Pratt's usual attempts bring the young man to talk. He wasn't like so many of the others before. Gloomy, taciturn, but not sulky—which was not acceptable given the circumstances. Such a young man in his position would be thrilled to have any chance at escaping his mother's house, while still on the pretext of furthering his own education. Did he miss the diversions of London society? Not at all. "I never was particularly fond of London. Even now, I'd say it verges on apathy… I am most grateful, Mr. Pratt." Something about his expression quite touched the old man. Lucy felt the sigh from him as much as she sighed herself. He was different from the other pupils. Boys of nineteen were just that, boys: boisterous, energetic, brash, maybe even a bit coarse of manner to start. This one came with all manners of etiquette perfected, but he did not present himself at their humble table so overly dressed to put a poor uncle and two nieces to shame. While refreshing, it was difficult, near impossible to be cheerful in the presence of reserve. To Lucy's eye, as she expressed to her sister in whispers: "I never saw such sadness before. What could have made him so low in spirits? He has a look about him more like a man of forty or fifty than nineteen."

Anne gasped. "Good heavens, sister! He doesn't look anywhere close to forty. How can you say so?" Could she have whispered any louder? Her sister grimaced.

"I don't mean how he looks, his appearance. I'm talking about his demeanor. He looks like he has all the cares of the world on his shoulders."

If he ate much less at dinner, they'd all have suspected him ill. The apetite was healthy. Whatever inquiries were made as to his home and family and the manner in which they lived in London, mostly ventured by Mr. Pratt, Edward gave each a reply. All that Edward asked in return was how long Mr. Pratt had been in Plymouth and had the Miss Steeles always been with him. As they seemed such happy company, in his own estimation, the sisters were fortunate to have each other and their kind uncle. "I daresay you've been through more than your fair share of adversity," he said timidly. That very glint, the shadow in his own eyes, made Lucy want to cry. How little he knew of them, and yet, how much he understood without words.

"You are not wrong," answered Lucy. A very forceful swallow cleared her throat for speech. "We've not always been so lively and cheery, as you see us here now."

"Forgive me if I speak out of place."

"No! Not at all. Why should you think it out of place? I find your concern very heart-warming, Mr. Ferrars."

"Resilience is not often found in my circles. Where one cannot endure it, they barter and buy their way out of it. If the convenience of that method were rewarding, I could understand. But it certainly doesn't make anyone happy, not my friends, my family… Beg pardon."

"Your mother," Mr. Pratt coldly interrupted, "has written to me as to your progress in the classics, particularly in the histories of the kingdom. For it would seem, she'd like to see you distinguish yourself. As to profession, does your family have any particular desires for you?"

"Oh yes."

"Well?"

"… Mr. Pratt…" He looked about him, trying not to blush while finding words. "My mother has had thoughts… which seem rather ridiculous the more you get to know me… of entering Parliament."

"Ah, a member of the peerage. Interesting!"

"But, I have no wish to pursue it."

"Why?"

"I've read much about what happens in the House of Lords and Commons. I read plenty about the court cases and the lawyers. It is a noble profession. I do not turn my nose up at it, or those who enter it, mind you. But one thing I do observe, those who take their stand before a judge and their own peers, is they must be willing to argue and believe themselves in the right. They're firm in their conviction they are right and the other is wrong. I can never do that or be that, Mr. Pratt." A little colour returned, as if relieved to have said so out loud. "Argument and quarreling is already most disagreeable to me. It's also required of them, a real art of speech." With a slight, scoffing laugh: "Right after my hate of argument comes my hate of speech-making. However, considering my preference, I must overcome that."

"And what is your preference?"

"These last few years, I've come to feel I'm better suited for the church." Mr. Pratt's brow cocked and a very audible hmmm filled the dining room. "Perhaps that is a disappointment for you, Mr. Pratt. I know you'd like to please my mother and nurture those ambitions for me, but I feel I'd fare better and so would you, if I be straightforward… Whether it's law, the army, government, I would do not justice to such occupations."

"Why a clergyman then?"

"I've found faith and much comfort in the scriptures, and those who seek to apply such faith in their lives, in my experience, are the kindest people I know. When a loved one dies, when the crop or business fails, when one faces a bitter disappointment… It was done for me, and I'd be honoured to do that for someone else."

"Helping your fellowman, there is no higher calling. But if you suppose I frown upon such endeavour, Mr. Ferrars, you are very much mistaken."

"T-Truly?" cried Edward, rather brightened.

"I admire your candour, and respect you for that. Pushing the pursuit of a profession that suits neither your abilities or your aptitude would be a disservice, to yourself and your family. I thank you. While you're here, I shall focus on some of your weaknesses, such as you've said already, public reading and speaking. If you're to become a clergyman, that is a necessity—every Sunday, at least twice every Sunday."

"Yes, sir."

"Though you will not go into the law, still, it would be advantageous to be versed in the legal system. As head of a parish, you may be called on to have a say in some disputes within the parish. Or the local magistrate or local courts might turn to you for your opinion or testimony. That's where it would be useful to unite your faith and good principles with a functional mind of the legal system."

"I understand."

"I may also introduce you to our local vicar. I'm sure you may benefit from the acquaintance. But fair warning, Mr. Ferrars. It will not make you a rich man."

"Of course. If a good fortune should smile upon me, I will not dispute it. But I'm not here to make my fortune. I'm here for an education, and… a little bit of peace."

Mr. Pratt confessed himself pleased. Though he certainly had no gift for speaking, his inelegant pauses and modest vocabulary could be easily improved, especially with such attitude. More than half of all pupils he'd taken in were rather against their own interests. The family, wherever they came from, had pushed the boys into certain expectations; so instead of a willingness to learn, Mr. Pratt often struggled with very self-willed and headstrong students. Edward would be a joy in comparison.

"Well, since Mr. Ferrars is here now," began Lucy, "I shall be sure to keep out of the study and the parlour. Anne and I will make ourselves scarce out onto the hills."

Mr. Pratt shrugged. "As you wish. Just as long as you and Anne don't get yourselves caught in a rainstorm. Have Mrs. Lennox pack you a basket for lunch."

"Yes. Now that our local strawberries are ripening, I shall ask Mrs. Lennox to pack plenty," said Anne. "Will give me a chance to walk by the Grady field. See if young Master Grady—"

"Oh Anne!" groaned Lucy.

"He's quite a smart chap! I shall, and shall be very pleased to see him."

In a glance over at Edward, their uncle gave him a shake of the head and roll of the eyes—begging pardon for his pert niece and begging off from any further explanation. Edward could merely shrug at it, and politely say no more.

"Shall you like to join us, Mr. Ferrars? That is, during your noon break?" asked Lucy. "We do not go far from the house. I'm sure you must've seen the fields and the hills back yonder. And the edge of the woods, it's a lovely place for picnics. Anne and I go out all the time. So much more pleasant and refreshing than eating here."

"I'm sorry my table isn't good enough for you," teased her uncle.

"Oh dear, uncle! Dinner is an entirely different matter. You misunderstand! Picnics are perfect for fair and mild days in summer. Certainly not after dark, no."

"Well, Edward, what do you say? My niece doesn't bite. The elder might, but not the little one. But Lucy, remember, we have a schedule to keep. You are not to keep him captive. So you and Anne better not go wandering far."

"Of course. I shall return him to you at the proper time bidden, and all the better for having been outdoors, I'm sure."

Early days of the acquaintance was marked by, not one picnic, but several, which came to be a routine part of Edward Ferrars' residence with Mr. Pratt. It was hard to refuse, especially when there was no desire to refuse. Lucy Steele, the younger niece of his tutor, possessed a great talent of bringing ease to anyone of low or uneasy spirits. She knew just how to pack a basket for a picnic, complete with a small vase for a single flower and delicately pack each dish without breaking. Anne plucked, instead of a single head, a branch of wildflowers. How silly a sight, trying not to abuse her sister with humour and cram the whole small tree into that tiny vessel. Edward offered to separate the bushel in two, to make it easier; yet still, it did not give. It was halved a second time, allowing for a centerpiece to stand in the midst of their picnic blanket—for a grand five seconds. All three began to laugh heartily.

"That is just pitiful, isn't it?" cried Lucy.

"It only wants a good couple of rocks to hold it upright," suggested her sister.

"Oh heavens, Anne! Don't bother. It's not going to stay upright."

"Or I might run back and fetch a larger."

"Miss Steele, don't do such a thing, really," cried Edward, blushing too. "It's just a frill. I'd rather you be comfortable and eat instead of running back to the house."

"But it would be so nice. Just like a table," sighing emphatically. "Oh well. I suppose it's not worth running all that way."

"Trust me, ladies. I wouldn't know the difference."

Lucy frowned. "Have you never attended a proper picnic, Mr. Ferrars?"

"No."

"No? Indeed, you jest!" supposed Anne.

"I do not, Miss Steele. I've never, well, done this sort of thing before. Suppose most of my family just prefer the dining room. The closest my mother ever came was taking tea with my father occasionally out on the terrace."

Lucy passed him a small plate and a goblet. "That's the first I've ever heard you mention your father," she noted.

"He passed away. Two years ago now."

"Oh dear… How dreadful. I'm sure you all must miss him so much."

"I do… miss him very much, especially lately."

"Were you and he most alike?"

"I'd say so. Robert, my younger brother, both of us resembled him in looks. Fanny took more after my mother's likeness, but between all three of us, I'd say he and I were very alike in disposition, in temper. As I grew up, he felt sometimes, to me, less like a father and more like a friend. Not out of disrespect I say that, of course. But we understood one another. We knew what made each other happy. He knew very well that I'm not for an ambitious career. And… I could tell he went through periods of life where he wasn't happy. In that understanding, we both had plenty of consolation in each other's company."

"I'm sure."

"… Do you remember your parents, Miss Lucy?"

"Very little. I was very young when they passed away."

"That must have been a great loss to you both, to all your family."

"I remember being sad. I mean, it was very long ago, and I was very young. I don't think I really understood what had happened. I was just frustrated to think they're so ill, and no they can no longer see us. And then, now they're dead, whatever that means. And then neither Anne or I could ever see them again. My uncle is a sweet man, dear to us, but I don't think he did quite right how he broke the news to us. He's not a soft person, if you take what I mean. Perhaps all the emotion between myself and Anne was an embarrassment for him, not knowing how to comfort. But he meant well. He could have foisted us off onto other relations to take charge of our care. Yet, he took it upon himself to give us a home, raise us."

"I am very sorry for you all. It's very unfair. So many experiences and tender feelings lost by it."

"I'm sure others are in worse circumstances. And perhaps, it was a blessing, in its way, that it all happened at so young an age. I think it would've been harder to bear if I'd have been a few years older."

"Regardless."

"I can see better now. You're still grieving your father."

"Can't deny that. I suppose my mother feels like getting away from home for a time will help remedy that."

"No doubt. But while you gain back your good spirits, you mustn't get the better of that tenderness of feeling. It is much to your credit."

"I do understand the sense of this plan. I realize that doesn't sound charitable to my mother. The way you describe your uncle's care during a crisis is probably very like her. She certainly suffered too, grieved, when she lost him. But she rallied her spirits in a few months, my sister and brother likewise. It feels odd. Why can't I do the same?"

"No! That's not fair, comparing your feelings to theirs. I'm sure they have their moments, all of them. And I do not think your words uncharitable. You seem to agree with your mother, as do I. I think this plan of hers will do you a world of good. Very sensible, a change of scenery. Even if not done with the most tender regard, it's from a good heart."

At one or two occasions during their tête-à-tête did Edward look glassy-eyed, hearing her and sharing himself. Of the two, he was the more to be pitied. He had known a parent's love; she had made due without it. It was a hard argument to make. The depth of this despairing topic apparently had driven away her elder sister. Anne had gone back to the house to retrieve a bigger vase after all, escaping a conversation beyond her capability. Anne had indeed experienced more than Lucy in that way, and proved determined not to return to times and emotions too painful to herself. Poor Edward would not have strayed to that subject later on, knowing he could have prevented it. Lucy protested with no feelings of awkwardness, none at all. It was her pleasure to hear him talk, to be a good friend in a time of need, and to be apart of his healing from grief. Soon enough, this one invitation to a picnic became regular habit—as much apart of his instruction as the hours reading with Mr. Pratt. With time, Lucy and Anne managed to get him smiling more; even greater was the day provoked him to laughter. Picnics in the afternoon. Cards in the evening. All four of them played 'til late sometimes. Mr. Pratt wasn't against cards, but he was very fond of chess. Edward would duel him when challenged, with two welcome spectators. Anne tired of watching the game quickly. Lucy never tired of it. When Edward was beaten by Mr. Pratt, Edward challenged her once to take his place and duel her uncle. A worthy opponent, indeed. One reason that Mr. Pratt almost never asked his niece to join him for chess. Lucy proudly danced her pawns between queen and knights. Knights were the favourite, tricky men. Bishops were odd pieces, predictable in their moves but never in a straight line, always crossing the board diagonally. Since Mr. Pratt dared not place himself in such position ever again, Edward was challenged. Of course, when they played and much to Edward's dismay and disappointment, he beat her a couple of times.

"Play fair, Miss Lucy."

"But I am, Edward!"

"No, you're not," he taunted, with a mischievous smile like hers. "I know you're foiling your game on purpose."

"Oh, how dare you—"

"Play fair. That's all I ask, or I shall never play with you again."

She giggled softly. "Naughty boy," mumbled under breath. This caused quite a fit of a laugh from himself. Since then, she battled like a real rival. How refreshing, to be charged upon her honour, to use her talent instead of hiding it. So many former pupils or Anne's former beaux took no pleasure being beaten by a smart girl. Who fell in love first was nearly impossible to really determine. In a matter of months, Edward had grown so much more lively and energetic. Ever the diligent and dutiful student during the day, he lived no longer for duty. He lived for the next picnic, the next stroll to the village, the next time that put him in the presence of Lucy. Lucy Steele. Such a playful, beautiful girl, and yet, so much more. The way she listened to a person as they spoke, himself or anyone, was probably her most unique quality. The good majority of the world could not wait to speak, just to hear oneself talk. And how many a person has fallen in love talking about themselves, and in so favourable a light that no one could possibly dislike them? Though a kind and dear creature, this thought was not to disparage elder sister, Anne, who talked every subject to death. So peculiar, how one sister can be a butterfly in the wind while the other is a locked gate. Even though a lively girl, a pensive spirit and good sense had given her a delicacy of feeling. She didn't care a jot that he wasn't the most handsome or clever fellow. The more he knew of Lucy, the more he felt his unworthiness.

Late in the summer, late one afternoon, the threesome were out with baskets on a mission for wild blackberries. Another simplicity of life that held so much pure pleasure. Anne ate as many as she picked, wandering and eating herself into a distance. A fresh rain had given a lovely fragrance to berry, bush, and the birches around them.

"What a fine day! I'd say most of these are perfect for our cook's pie. You'd like some, wouldn't you?"

"Of course. Very much. Though I suppose we ought to try harder, my harvest is rather meager." He tipped the basket sideways, the content only about a handful.

"There should be plenty. If not this hill, the hills behind are just flush with blackberries…" The pair trekked onwards. Lucy turned awkward, for the first time, and Edward, feeling it for the thousandth time. They proceeded and kept on the watch. For later when the cook questioned their scant harvest, they had the hardest time finding enough—though every bush offered berries right under their nose.

"It's a beautiful day… I wish every day could be like this," sighed Lucy.

"As do I. I wish every day were like this. But it's more than mere beauty. It's… peaceful. I feel like people are much happier here, living in simplicity. It's the way we all were meant to live… Miss Steele, Lucy, I-I wish everyone this kind of life, for myself, and you. And… and I wish it for us both… that is only if you would wish it…"

"Edward," she whispered. "Do I hear you right? Did you just ask me?"

With a nod and a smile, tinted by a slight blush, he affirmed. Even in his declaration of love, Edward did not fail to impress. No puppy eyes, no longing gaze, no thoughts of anyone but her. "I love you, Lucy. You know what I ask. Even if you say no, even if you're not sure about it, let me say this. Coming here and meeting you, you've already made me a happy man. To expect more than that is just greed. You need not make me happy. I am already. If I could possibly make you happy, I'd be… overwhelmed. I'm not—"

Whatever other self-abasing objections he might conjecture, Lucy put him to a definite silence. Her hands took hold of his. Standing on her toes, she fixed him to the spot so that she might experience the heights of love, express her delight and acceptance of his proposal without even saying a word. Her dear, her own dear Edward. He was everything in the world, and he was hers. No words could express their joy. Once Edward recovered his speech, the pair of them talked incessantly until they caught up with Anne. And when altogether, Anne couldn't help observing aloud how dull and quiet they both were, without a suspicion beyond it.

Hello! If this is our first time, welcome, and if you've followed from a previous story, hello again. I'm in the middle of two different projects at this time. One of them is a Mansfield Park FF, which is going kinda slow right now. And this is my second project. This won't be a long one. I don't think I'll ever aspire to another one so long as R, C&S ever again. It was a lot of fun, but yes, long. And personally, I think Lucy Steele is a very interesting character. Certainly not likeable, but deep. There's a video on YouTube called Lucy Steele the Charmer by Dr. Octavia Cox. That video inspired this story. If character profiling is an interesting subject to you, I strongly encourage you to go watch it. Dr. Cox shares some really fascinating insights about Lucy and her interactions with the cast of S&S.

I'll try and keep as close to the book as possible, with maybe some reference or visualizations from the 2008 adaptation. That one was my favorite. One reviewer on YouTube once commented that version filled in the gaps left by the novel. On paper, Edward can be a flat and very boring character. But the adaptation fleshed him out and still did justice to Jane Austen's character. How did Lucy originally catch him, and then lose him?