Chapter Five

Lady Middleton had not been entirely pleased by unexpected visitors. Even the familiarity of the name Steele or the fact they had walked down the aisle before her at her wedding didn't compensate for her husband's overly generous invitation. But as there was no preventing it, the visiting sisters must be accepted and endured. The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil. And when the children came to have a look at them, Miss Steele and Miss Lucy stood in the foyer with their arms full of toys and playthings, one for each of the five children. Immediately, they claimed the good graces of all the children that were old enough to walk; quite the noisy reception, which ended in Sir John having to settle a squabble or two over one new doll for one of the girls. All were bidden to thank the Miss Steeles and off they ran. That gesture alone won over a half his lady's heart. Whatever was left was soon engaged by the Miss Steeles' raptures over the beauty of the house and the furniture. So elegant and comfortable, all colouring and arrangement just to taste for such a spacious drawing room so full of the light of the windows. Anne asked a dozen questions about the nearness of the ocean. As the carriage rolled in, they heard the distinct roar of the coast. How delightful!

Aside from children's toys laying about the place, a catalogue was also observed laying half-read at the table. When Lucy inquired after her latest acquisition, Lady Middleton responded in the negative. It was not a new order but a new pattern of dress. She was just on the point of sending for material and taking up the copy of the pattern in the catalogue herself. Lucy asked leave to look at it. It was just the thing! Beautiful! Colours and materials were discussed further, and by the conclusion of the interview, Lady Middleton's good opinion had been secured before the sistsrs had been an hour at the park. Although she still reproved her husband for carelessness, not scruppling to check with his wife before giving invitations, they still received a good verdict. "For their status, they certainly do not look or behave like it. They are very agreeable girls indeed, and so dotingly fond of the children." Enthusiastic admiration from her ladyship. "John, you must later invite the Dashwoods to join us. I'm sure Elinor and Marianne would be delighted with their company. So close in age and disposition, they'll get on delightfully." At first, Sir John promised they'd all meet over a family dinner that evening.

"Do come now, pray come—you must come—I declare you shall come—You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous pretty, and so good-humoured and agreeable! The children are all hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Eeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and I H ave told them it is all very true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted with them I am sure. They have brought whole coach full of playthings for the children. How can you be so cross as not to come? Why they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. You are my cousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be related."

It had been previously arranged that the Dashwoods would call up at Barton Park within two days. As he could not prevail upon them to drop their current occupations to have a look at his two guests, he managed to earn a compromise of their coming up the next day. Elinor or Margaret might have obliged Sir John, but Mrs. Dashwood suffered a headache that day. Marianne, not in the best spirits of late, had not the strength to endure the tedium. The friendship of two girls could never make up for the lack of one man. By the time they all walked up to the great house, the new acquaintance of yesterday afternoon had solidified into something like a lifelong bond. Lucy could never forget the morning. It was about half past ten, a warm sky of few clouds, and in high spirits. Lady Middleton had left off and come back to her new pattern, and she did not mind if Anne and Lucy wished to make their own copy and take note of her own personal additions to the dress. A watered dark blue silk, and red ribbon trimming the waist. "Of course, when I take up mine, I should do well to avoid the same colours. If I tried this colour, I will look dismal."

"Nay, you should look splendid in whatever you wear," decried Lady Middleton.

"It's true. Isn't it, Anne? Don't I look dismal in this dark blue?" Lucy held up the silk near her face.

"You look like you're drowning in water!" laughed her sister.

"Indeed! I think we are too fair for it, your ladyship. This dark blue up to either of our faces will give us a deathly pale countenance. But with your dark eyes and brown hair, this brilliance of blue is most striking."

In the midst of so much admiration, Lady Middleton was interrupted by the announcement from her servant. The Dashwoods. Lucy's breath caught as she turned. What to expect? She'd formed a thousand images of this moment, and Elinor Dashwood's face had a hundred different variations, all of them most displeasing. What she met with shocked her. All of them, widow and daughters, following introductions by Lady Middleton, rendered them a most genteel bow. Each face was serene and unaffected. Elinor Dashwood. For a girl of nineteen, she seemed older, not so in her physical features, but certainly in air and manner. She had the eyes, the graceful composure of countenance that belonged better in a woman of fifty. For all Sir John's advertisements of beauty, and for all that Edward seemed reluctant to admit, Lucy, within herself, found Miss Dashwood not deficient of beauty. Much to her relief, her face and form was a commonplace kind of beauty. If she hadn't known any better, Marianne might have been more the subject of suspicion, for captivating Edward. Except for a pallor in her cheeks and aloofness of manner, she was the more striking beauty of the two, particularly her wild gold tresses with a streak of fiery red running through them. And some thoughts to be spared for little Margaret… Not much, and to her summation, what was there to envy in a little girl of twelve or thirteen? She couldn't have been older than that. Edward had spoken of Margaret with the same warmth of regard as he spoke of his late father. And for how sparringly he spoke of Elinor, it gave Lucy a nervous heartbeat. There must be something more that Edward admired besides her plain face.

Unable to put her finger on it, Lucy buried everything with a charming smile and more than cordial delight to meet the Dashwoods. Anne declared herself monstrous glad to meet them at last, which caused a ripple of surprise. Why should they all be known to one another? It was imperative to talk, to keep Anne from talking as much as possible. Most fortunate but unhappily, they were saved from an awkward introduction by Sir John entering, expressing his joy at the union of friends, and bringing the children with him. Both sisters lost some of their colour and drew a quick breath as all the little Middletons flooded the drawing room. Thanks to their generous gifts and thousand compliments from the night before until now, the Miss Steeles were their very best friends. They clamored for both their undivided attention. Without any other choice but to give in, Lucy knelt down on the ground. Right and left, each one extracted a promise from her and Anne to play hide and seek with them in the garden. What a delight! It was their favourite game as children too. In a little while… Oh no, the children had no patience with a little while. They grabbed up their toys and pressed their demands to be played with now. Lady Middleton laughed and sighed, incapable of any real force, unwilling to suppress the joy of such beautiful friendships between her new friends and her children.

Their manners were particularly civil. Where was the challenge with ladies and gentlemen of high rank? They were easily appeased. Their offspring, on the other hand, were an entirely different matter. With her children, the Steele sisters were in continual raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate demands which this politeness made made on it, was spent in unceasing delight of her ladyship's occupations. Indeed, in this state, Lucy and Anne struggled to communicate directly with the Dashwood women. It was ridiculous, tiresome trying to talk about the dress pattern, and talk over the heads, arms, and legs that wrestled for dominance right before their faces. The fourth youngest, somehow, ended turning himself upside down in Anne's lap, causing quite the uproar from Sir John and motherly blushes in his lady. He babbled on happily, with both feet in the air, and flailing. His heel caught Anne in the chin, but went unheeded and unnoted to all the rest. Lady Middleton bid everyone else to have a seat. It was a rare opportunity to entertain with the children, and with the convenience of someone taking on the trouble of management. She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent encroachments, and soon to follow, the mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted.

As the boys could not get the Miss Steeles to indulge their immediate wish for hide and seek, they wondered what possibly could entertain them so much. One found both Anne and Lucy's work bags. Causing horror in the face of Mrs. Dashwood and her girls, the two boys discovered the sewing instruments, including their knives and scissors, which they declared would be theirs until Nancy and Lucy played with them outside. Both the Miss Steeles laugh. Lady Middleton gave them the weakest reprimands, to no avail. Out of the room with a war cry, and no protests from their mother against running with the sharp objects. Mrs. Dashwood rallied her own voice and begged they have care with them without any acknowledgement. Then, with the girls made aware of the sewing and their mother's projects, they turned attention to dresses and the lovely materials among them. Where did the Miss Steeles get their pretty sashes and gowns? Investigations got their sashes untied, without any permission given. And the little girls tried to wear the sashes themselves, or else, ran circles round the room with the sashes streaming behind them. Anne kindly and playfully pleaded against any harm coming to their sashes, for they had none besides them. Then, the youngest girl, who much admired Lucy's hair and curls, couldn't resist feeling them herself and wanting to brush them. Of course, her treatment of Lucy's hair was far from gentle, and hair was being pulled from its arrangement with as little mercy as Anne's handkerchief, which had been promptly thrown out the window by one of boys.

"John is in such spirits today!" observed Lady Middleton. "He is full of monkey tricks. John, you and William, take your games outside now. You're making too much noise for the Miss Dashwoods."

Of course, only the Dashwood women would ruin their fun, while the Miss Steeles should not mind anything. It quite surprised her ladyship that her regular guests, particularly Elinor and Marianne, should sit so composedly by without claiming a share in what was passing. They might have better endured the playfulness of her children, or attempted to help the Miss Steeles manage them. How tiresome to entertain guests without a tolerance for young children. Her disappointment in them and her approbation for the Miss Steeles was heightened when a stray pin scraped the arm of her youngest daughter. Some screaming broke out, and Miss Lucy hastily took her away to wash the wound with lavender water. The whole matter was given such attention, excessive attention for such a crisis as this; her child was returned to her lap by Lucy with kisses and encouragement, and a sugar plum in her mouth. It was delightful! But with the passing of minutes, even a fond mother tired of their noise and high spirits. Though she bid the boys stay, it was a relief to all when the nurse had come to vacate them from the drawing room, leaving all the women to placid quiet. Lady Middleton tended to her girls, who now begged for more sugar plums.

"Poor little creatures!" cried an empathetic Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone. "It might have been a very sad accident."

"Yet I hardly know how," sighed Marianne, "unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality."

To compensate for indifference, Lucy defended with another passionate declaration upon the sweetness of Lady Middleton and her motherly care. Marianne accepted with silence; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion.

"And Sir John too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he is!" She had nothing from them but modest assent. "And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine children in my life. I declare—I quite dote upon them already, and indeed I am always distractedly fond of children."

"I should guess so," replied Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have witnessed this morning."

Lucy, in a fair mood to humour, basking in Lady Middleton's good favour, condescended to smile at Miss Dashwood in return. "I have a notion," said she, "you think the little Middletons rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in Lady Middleton. And for my part, I love to see children full of life and spirits. I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet." By the looks of Elinor and Marianne, they saw a blatant lie and looked upon her with sympathy, as she was still trying to rearrange her curls back into a tidy state.

"I confess that while I am at Barton Park, I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence." Elinor couldn't help a slight laugh. It wasn't intended to be humourous, no more than an observation. For the Miss Steeles would've certainly preferred not to have their knives and scissors stolen away, have handkerchiefs thrown out of windows, or be pinched and pushed and screamed at impetuously. A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss Steele, who seemed untouched by the irony and too eager for conversation.

"And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex."

In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor confirmed it to be so.

"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is it not?"

Lucy blushed hotly, then turned to Anne and then Elinor, with some apology for her sister's tactless way. "We have heard Sir John admire it excessively."

"I think everyone must admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its beauties as we do."

"And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast addition always."

Lucy's eyes fell closed as Anne uttered the words. So unwilling to dignify her pert assumption, now was not the time, not in Lady Middleton's drawing room, in company, to chastise her elder sister. "But why should you think that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?"

"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't pretend to say that there aren't. I'm sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care about the beaux, and had rather be without them as with them. For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil. But I can't bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. I suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?"

Marianne had had enough of it. She took herself over to the instrument in the corner, busying the mind and hands with a more intelligible subject. Margaret followed, entirely at odds with a conversation that was too mature for her years, too young for talk of beaux. Normally, her mother would keep her with her sisters to share in the conversation; though in this instance, the girl might be flattered to know that everyone judged, between the elder Miss Steele and she, who was not even out in society, the better capable of acting grown up.

"Upon my word, I cannot tell you," replied Elinor, "I cannot tell you, for I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is not the smallest alteration in him."

"Oh dear! One never thinks of married men's being beaux—they have something else to do."

"Lord Anne!" Lucy cried, vexed and agitated. "You can talk of nothing but beaux—you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else." For her own safety, and the for the sake of everyone's sanity, she returned to the inane subject of the house and furniture as sources of praise. Of course by then, Lucy's quick tongue was far too late from saving herself or her sister, saving them from judgment, from the inevitable first impressions. Her sister looked like a fool, and being the elder sister, everyone naturally associated one with the other. All her wish to appear a sensible woman, equal to any rival, even if that be Elinor Dashwood, had been sunk by mental folly and vulgar manners. If only she could've known that she was wrong. In both their conduct toward Lady Middleton and their endurance towards her wild brood of children, of particular civility, Elinor could make one recommendation; they both could be praised for having a degree of sense. Beyond that, there seemed no real wish to distinguish the Steele sisters in affection.

To break up the cool reserve amongst the Dashwood sisters, Sir John endeavored over an early dinner, on the following evening, to make them all better acquainted. Being so close in age, the Miss Steeles and the two elder Miss Dashwoods, they must have a good deal in common to make them nothing but the most intimate of friends. Of course, by his own judgments, Marianne had more in common with Miss Anne, and Elinor and Lucy were a pair of prim, quiet girls. It was all opposite, the elder was better suited with the younger, on both sides. Added to his own kind schemes, Mrs. Jennings indulged the talk of lovers and husbands that Anne eagerly pursued. The pursuers and pursuits of the Miss Dashwoods soon surfaced, causing blushes and mortification on both sides of the table. How freely was the prodigious beau of Marianne spoken about, only recently departed from the neighbourhood and expected to return any day. Miss Steele loved everything about him from the musical ring of his name to the description of his person and temper; nothing better could be wished for upon Miss Marianne and gave her a thousand congratulations. And even worse still, when the attention shifted over to Elinor, Mrs. Jennings teased that it was a great secret. Elinor was full of secrets, except for the fact the name of her admirer, who had only lately been in the neighbourhood, began with an F. It was almost too much to be borne.

Elinor's entreaties against it being true or worth any speculation only incited Mrs. Jennings and Sir John to more excitement. It was not to be believed. It was bad enough for Elinor, in a way which made Lucy almost feel sympathy. Anne contributed to her own discomfort by demanding in playfulness to know the name of the mystery lover. It was Sir John who let it slip, in an audible whisper.

"Ferrars!" echoed Anne. "Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he? What! Your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? A very agreeable young man to be sure! I know him very well."

Daft! "How can you say so, Anne?" cried Lucy, full of colour on everyone's behalf and her own. "Though we have seen him once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well."

Elinor's eyes seemed to betray an interest in the subject, a look marked by some surprise and curiosity. However much both silent parties should've wished the continuance of the subject, at this table and among this company, both of them knew better than to give rise to more suspicions by inquiries. Better opportunity for it came when all guests were free from the dinner ritual. As Marianne wasn't feeling quite herself and wished to retire early, Mrs. Dashwood suggested they excuse themselves and walk home. No, the carriage was not necessary, but much thanks for the offer, all the same. Lucy then expressed a desire for a turn in the fresh air herself, and begged if she might accompany Miss Dashwood. Elinor welcomed her and obliged the request, and somehow, both of them understood that the desire was to converse alone. The pair of them walked slower and kept a little behind Mrs. Dashwood and the other sisters.

"You will think my question an odd one, I daresay… but pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars?" At last, the burning question she longed for an answer, and sadly, the answer was more disappointing than a cloud moving in front of the sun. And Elinor, though courteous, looked perplexed by such an unrelated topic. Perhaps, this wasn't the norm for two women on such short acquaintance, to ask the particulars about the character of their family members. Had any opinions been formed in favour of Mrs. Ferrars, no doubt Elinor would have been more complimentary.

"I'm afraid I cannot give you any real answer. I know nothing of her."

"I am sure you think me very strange, for inquiring about her in such a way," admitted Lucy, eyeing Ellinor attentively. "But perhaps there may be reasons—I wish I might venture; but however I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent."

"It does not affect me, truly. If you wish to speak your reasons, I am willing to listen." This triggered a wild heartbeat that did not slow with the progression of their walk to Barton Cottage. A silence fell for some minutes, until enough courage gathered to continue. For she hardly knew a better way to proceed. Many sleepless nights and a hundred hours of dwelling on it could not produce any worthwhile result. Could she trust her? It would just take one word, one letter to London—and Mrs. Ferrars would destroy everything. Feeling within herself, that were she Elinor, it would sate the pleasure of jealousy to destroy.

"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious," sighed Lucy. "I am sure I would rather do anything in the world than be thought so by a person, whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting you; indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble you. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars."

"I am sorry I do not, if it could be of any use to you to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character." This was a gentle reprimand. Lucy could not but feel it so.

"I daresay you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present—but the time may come, how soon it will come must depend on herself… when we may be very intimately connected." Lucy's eyes fell to the rocky gravel and sand in the path before her. Elinor's steps slowed to a stop. She feared a side glance at her companion, daring it only to observe the effect.

"Good heavens! What do you mean? Are you acquainted… with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?"

"No… Not to Mr. Robert Ferrars—I never saw him before in my life; but," with eyes fixed with Elinor's, "to his eldest brother." Though Lucy did not judge Elinor a very emotional or expressive sort of person, this declaration had overcome a placid nature. There was something in it that proved satisfying, and Lucy exercised great care that the discomfort she caused was not felt with pleasure. "You may well be surprised, for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before. For I daresay he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the wold… upon your secrecy. I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters."

Oh yes, what an insult to any woman's pride. And all the greater insult, which Lucy hid under all her blushes, knowing that was not easy for herself to believe. If Edward had ever uttered such words, with regards the Dashwood sisters, she'd never have risked thrusting so crucial a secret upon her rival.

Having recovered her natural colour and her voice, Elinor continued: "May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?"

"We have been engaged these four years."

"Four years!"

"Yes."

"I did not know… that you were even acquainted till the other day."

"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle's care, you know, a considerable while."

"Your uncle!"

"Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?"

"I think I have…"

"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother. But I was too young and loved him too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been… Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him."

"Certainly," replied Elinor, with lifeless tone. "I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really—I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars."

"We can mean no other," Lucy shrugged, with a smile. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean. You must allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends." Up until this time of life, to Lucy's recollection, she'd given her fair share of pain to Anne or a servant or old school fellow, a less than kind word or unintended slip of the tongue. Edward never received any such treatment. She'd done well in that. But for the first time, in all her memories, she had never gone out of her way to inflict. Watching this Miss Dashwood, so composed and with too much dignified self-respect, grasp for thoughts and words. And to top all self-condemnation, Lucy recollected Edward's talk of honour. Omission was not lying, not to her eyes, but now, even that didn't matter anymore. How deeply she blushed and struggled to extricate from her mind Edward's face, privy to their conversation, and looking at her—disappointed, betrayed.

"It is strange, that I should never have heard him even mention your name."

"No," Lucy disagreed. "Considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting anything, that was reason enough for his not mentioning it." He was never afraid of them. She was the one that was afraid.

"Four years you have been engaged…"

"Yes, and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for—I have had it above these three years." Putting an end to all mistake, all possibilities—all hopes she may have entertained of him. It had been so thrilling at the time to have it as a present. "I have never been able to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."

"You are quite in the right." That statement didn't make much sense to Lucy. Seemed more natural to say: you are quite right. Was it some sort of acknowledgment? Lucy's right to Edward's picture?

"I'm sure that I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I daresay. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceedingly proud woman."

"I certainly did not seek your confidence, but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety."

"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you, in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a great while; an as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all. Indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world t'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You can't think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years. Everything in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom—we can hardly meet above twice a year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite broke."

Here she took out her handkerchief, but Elinor did not make any compassionate gesture in return, no remark of tender sympathy.

"Sometimes," continued Lucy, after wiping at the mist in her eyes, "I think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely." While speaking, she watched for any flickers in the eyes of her companion. "But then, at other times I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own account too—so dear as he is to me—I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?"

"Pardon me," startled by the question, "but I can give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you."

"To be sure… His mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite ill."

"Did he come from your uncle's then, when he visited us?"

"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he came directly from town?"

"No… I remember he told us that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth."

"Did you not think him sadly out of spirits?"

"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived."

"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected… Poor fellow! I am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter." As if Miss Dashwood needed more proof, yet hope must be crushed from all sides. Edward belonged to her, and only to her. The short letter was produced from her pocket and shown to Elinor. "Writing to each other is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even that. If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him a lock of my hair, set in a ring, when he was at Longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. Perhaps you noticed the ring when you saw him?"

"I did."

By this point, they had reached the door of Barton Cottage, with both parties desiring nothing more but solitude. No doubt, Elinor was to spend a few wretched nights awake. Ironically enough, what she had said of the communication being unnecessary, making it no less safe, had not fallen on a deaf ear. Far from putting her at ease, it only disturbed her the more. Indeed, she had suffered much in these four years, but with no one else to blame, for the secret she had enforced. And of her worst fears, not that Elinor should succeed, but that the lies told for Elinor's benefit would become true. Should the engagement be cut off, should his mother learn the truth, and Edward would not break his heart if the engagement were broken. As wretched the revelation made her rival, it did not put her to any advantage. By the end of the evening, Lucy went to bed regretting she had placed her trust in good nature and reserve.

Ironic. While I think of Lucy as a shrewd and smart character, Austen still inserted integral weaknesses. When you go back and read this chapter in S&S, I never noticed how often Lucy will repeat the phrase 'I daresay'. Reminds me of a similarity in Mr. Collins to say 'I flatter myself.' There are no doubt other examples throughout her works. But just like Collins and many others, those who make great boasts to their own advantage are hiding many insecurities. Think I'm probably about half way through now. Hope you are liking so far, and do justice to Lucy Steele, at least as much justice as she deserves.