Chapter Fifteen
Edmund Bertram was on his way down to breakfast when movement in the library caught his eye. He stepped into the doorway to see his father crossing from the desk to the window, and though Sir Thomas’ back was turned, Edmund suspected his father of shedding a tear. “Sir?”
Sir Thomas dabbed at his face with a handkerchief and made a display of blowing his nose after, and then turned to face his son. He looked grave indeed. “Ah, Edmund. Come in, come in—bit of a chill in here, eh?”
“Are you well, Father?” Edmund stood with his hands clasped behind his back, still at some remove.
Sir Thomas sighed and shook his head. “I suppose there is little use in concealing my dismay from you, Edmund. You know what I am suffering, though you hold me in contempt for it.”
“I merely wish to do what is right.”
“And you think I do not?”
“I think your greatest care is your own conscience—often that is right, but I would beg you to think of others—let nobody’s sacrifice be greater than yours.”
Sir Thomas grumbled and turned back to the window. “I spoke with Colonel Brandon this morning. He sought to advise me with his own cautionary wisdom.”
“How so? What can Colonel Brandon have to do with our matter?”
“I cannot think he knows too much, but he is a perceptive man—he has perceived Maria’s unhappiness, at least.”
“And what was his advice?”
“He told me a sad story, in some ways not much different from my own history, and yet so much worse. His tale of woe—of a love lost to another—it seems to span generations, and I believe he would have me think of the next generation—of Maria. I am quite undone from the hearing of it, of what mischief and despair might befall a young lady in Maria’s position, if she were forced…
ah, but I had such hope she might get there on her own. ”
Edmund approached his father near the window. “Have you resolved, then, to relent? It is not too late for Maria—I really believe Crawford cares for her.”
“Surely not—his attentions to Fanny have been so marked.”
His lips set in a thin line, Edmund tersely muttered, “Did you not pay marked attentions to my mother, after John’s mother was wed?”
Sir Thomas exhaled sharply. “You censure me unfairly.”
“Do I? But I thought I dealt only in truths.”
“Here is a truth you must consider,” Sir Thomas quipped, gesturing at the window.
Edmund peered down at the manicured garden before the stables—near the back, Colonel Brandon was holding the reins of his horse—and Mary Crawford’s hand. They spoke in this attitude for a moment, and then she threw her arms around the colonel and kissed him, right in plain view.
Edmund was scandalized, but it did not pain him as much as it once would have done. The growing attachment between Mary and the colonel had been plain enough on Colonel Brandon’s last visit, and Edmund began to feel very well pleased with his own efforts to let her go.
“You have let twenty thousand pounds slip through your fingers, and at such a time when our fate is precarious.”
Edmund gaped at his father in disbelief.
“I beg your pardon, sir? Your first concern, as ever, I have come to believe, is so far from what is seemly, what is appropriate and compassionate—you think entirely without feeling, sir, whatever you say otherwise. Mary Crawford is a person, not a sum. As to my letting her go, can you not think why?”
“Indeed I cannot! Come, my boy, I know you had affection for her, and I was heartily pleased by the chance of a connection, not only for fortune, but your happiness—I only wonder that you have thrown it all away, sulking over this dreadful business.”
“And you think—what? That I ought to have secured her—secured her fortune—before the secret could come out? Bind her to any future shame that befalls our family! No, I could not do it, and see the day she comes to despise me for it. You, sir, you have cost me Mary Crawford, for either she shall want nothing to do with our family’s disgrace, or she will spurn us for whatever mischief befalls her brother on our account.
You see, you are not the only one dismayed by either outcome of your great problem. ”
Sir Thomas began to turn red with anger.
“Damn your insolence, boy! You think I do not understand what you are really about? I have seen you hanging on the heels of your cousin Elinor! You think to poach from John, to have this estate, to sow your own fortune from his disgrace. You would profit from the downfall of all of us.” His fists began to clench, and Sir Thomas reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a flask; he took a long draught from it.
“Sir, it is nine in the morning,” Edmund cried with enough alarm to momentarily forget his offense.
“And what of it? I will not be moralized and sermonized at—would that I had put you in the army and not the church! You seek to lecture me, and usurp your half-brother, and you would question my motives? Damn you, I say!” It became apparent that this was not Sir Thomas’s first drink that morning, for he lurched at Edmund, raising his arm as if to strike out.
Edmund took several hasty steps backward and easily evaded his father, yet the blow to his heart was severe—he endeavored to still his own trembling at such a wretched thing. “You go too far, sir,” he said coldly. “I will speak to you no longer, I have done with you.”
Sir Thomas’ face crumpled in despair, and he reached for his flask again. “Edmund, wait….”
Edmund steeled himself, and quit the room without another word. He strode down the hall with great purpose, resolving to be gone from the house directly. He ordered his things to be packed and sent along behind him, and made for the stables at once.
He stopped abruptly as he entered the stables, stilled by the sound of humming.
At the end of the stalls, Elinor was gently brushing her mare, quite unaware of him.
He watched her for a moment, his breath slowly calming, and then cleared his throat, stepping forward as if he had just come upon her, and bowed. “Good morning.”
Elinor smiled brightly at him. “You catch me taking our Aunt Norris’ advice, after all. I mean to enjoy as much exercise and sunshine as I can today. But are you come to take me up on Marianne’s offer—a tour of the park?”
How stupid he felt—to be storming about, really thinking of leaving Norland!
“I hope you do not ride because you are out of spirits,” Edmund said.
He felt entirely responsible for Elinor—he had burdened her with the secret to ease his own suffering, and he had really been enough of a dunderhead to think of riding away from the damage he had done—he was no better than his father!
“A little, yes. That is, I have much to consider—but as we are in one another’s confidence, your company would be lovely.”
Edmund agreed at once. Beyond feeling bound to her through the secret they shared—the anguish that had been of his infliction—he acquiesced, and really dismissed all notions of leaving Norland, the moment she spoke so sweetly to him. He wanted to stay—for her.
Elinor cantered alongside Edmund; from the stables they proceeded to an open meadow south of the manor, beyond which lay a high hill that overlooked a distant lake.
Edmund was especially sullen this morning; he had not spoken since they set out.
She was surprised he did not speak to her, after such hints she had made that she had much to confide—he had been so solicitous lately.
She could only suppose that he was troubled himself.
“Are you well, Edmund? I know you to be quiet, but….”
“I am not always thus, I would have you know,” he replied with a weak smile. “In happier times I am as cheerful as anybody. Not so animated as the Willoughbys and Crawfords of this world, but I hope I am capable of better than my present state.”
Elinor laughed in spite of herself. “I think I can say in all honesty that I am glad you are not so animated as that.”
Edmund gasped with feigned indignation. “Whatever would Marianne say?”
“Oh, she would be very cross, and think me insipid,” Elinor laughed.
“I must do something to fascinate her—to amuse you both. I believe she must have her watercolor of Thornton Lacey, and I will attempt it this afternoon.”
“That would delight her—both of us,” Elinor said.
She thought of how Marianne had been prone to find Edward wanting—it had never bothered Elinor, for she had thought Edward quite amiable enough.
And yet, he was not here; but here was Edmund, making every effort to be agreeable, despite the terrible thing that weighed on them both.
And how it had touched her heart that he was so thoughtful to herself and her sister. She let out a heavy sigh.
“I fear I am remiss, Cousin,” Edmund said. “I believe you desired my company out of a wish to speak about what troubles you—what troubles us both.”
She smiled; it was as if he had read her mind. “I desired your company because it is pleasant, but yes, it is a relief to have somebody to speak of it with.”
“You said last night that you need more time to think on everything—that you will not speak of it to anyone,” he prompted her.
“Of my secrecy you may be assured,” she hastened to reply.
“I should never have told you the truth if I had any doubt of that,” Edmund said. “What I meant is, I understand you mean to give the whole matter considerable thought.”
“I must. It is such an enormous discovery—it is life-altering. And yet, what pain it could bring so many!”
“That has been my greatest concern as well.”
Elinor smiled feebly. “It cannot end well, can it? Either my family will suffer or yours shall.”
“A little bit of both, either way.”
Elinor had not yet given the matter enough thought to speak any further with equanimity.
She urged her horse on as they approached the hill, and continued on at such a pace until she had reached the top; Edmund flicked his reins to follow her, and brought his horse around beside her; for a moment they took in the view together.