Chapter Fifteen #2
“Breathtaking,” he said. He paused, then looked at her for a long moment. “It is yours by right. Do you not wish….”
“No,” Elinor said quickly. “No, I really do not. That is—in some ways, a sense of duty to my family would compel me to desire their security—my mother and sisters would be happier, but I have no wish to be the mistress of a large manor. I have grown up here, and I shall always love Norland, but I do not wish to lead the life I should have to do, were it to pass to me.”
Edmund cocked his head to one side. “There are not many women, I think, who would say such a thing.”
Elinor shrugged. “What would you have me say? That I covet what is still John’s property?
Oh, no. I am sure my life would not be my own as mistress of Norland.
My great aunt would have me wed in a moment to Cousin James, which I should like even less than being lady of the manor.
It all frightens me, that perhaps I must make a very difficult decision. ”
“And what life would you prefer?”
“Something quieter and simpler. Perhaps not as quiet and simple as we have been at Barton, but peaceful enough. I had—I had thought to be the wife of a parson,” Elinor blurted out, to her instant chagrin.
Edmund smirked. “Ah yes, the famous Mr. F.”
“Oh, no—please….”
“I will not tease you, Elinor. I only… I have been curious, but have had little opportunity—or right—to inquire. I thought it odd that a gentleman so highly spoken of by his friends—and one of these friends so very lovely—should miss such an opportunity to be amongst them, and with his own relations besides.”
Elinor blushed and looked away. “Edward—Mr. Ferrars—is well regarded by all my family. Of course we are disappointed that he could not come to Norland, but I am sure he must have his reasons.”
“He must have visited you lately in Devonshire, for I believe you were all there for three months at least.”
“No, but three months is not so very long,” Elinor said, but she could not stop herself from letting out another wistful sigh.
It had pained her that Edward had not visited, when he had promised them all so faithfully.
She felt unaccountably obliged to defend him, and yet she could not really feel as generously as she spoke.
Beyond this, Elinor was conscious of what Marianne had subtly hinted at the night before; Edmund’s behavior seemed at times to support what Marianne had likely supposed.
His questioning was not so direct, but he betrayed such interest that Elinor was sure he wished to know to what degree her heart was engaged elsewhere.
This she could not answer, not even if she possessed Marianne’s aversion to concealing her feelings; Elinor simply did not know.
She had ceased to repent Edward’s absence since Edmund had taken her into his confidence, but she knew not whether this was the result of her feelings about the discovery, or the frequent company of Edmund these last several days.
Surely he could not have such an effect on her so quickly—even Edward had not made such an immediate impression on her heart.
And yet, she had become self-conscious around Edmund now; Marianne’s implications caused her to feel a sudden new awareness when Edmund was near—he was handsome and kind, and when he had held her in his arms… .
Elinor attempted to shake herself from this reverie, and looked over at her cousin; he too appeared lost in thought as he gazed out at the distant lake. “Edmund?”
He shook his head and turned round to face her. “Forgive me—I was lost in thought. I have been low this morning myself—I have quarreled with my father—broken with him entirely, I fear. To own the truth, Elinor, I came into the stables this morning with the intention of riding away from Norland.”
“Good Heavens! It must have been very bad, whatever transpired between you—but you need not tell me, if it is too painful.”
“I need to tell you because it is so painful—that is, if I might confide in you.”
“I will always hear whatever you should wish to say, Edmund,” Elinor replied. “I should hope I am just as concerned for you as you have been for me.”
“I believe you are, and it cheers me,” he said warmly.
“Indeed, I might have fled days ago were it not for—but it shall be difficult to remain. Our quarrel was such that I have lost all regard and respect for my father, and it is a heavy blow. He is entirely to blame for what has befallen us, and what may yet come. I cannot condone his handling of the situation, not in any aspect at all.”
“How I wish I could spare you all,” Elinor cried in some dismay at seeing Edmund so agitated. “If I were to talk to my great aunt, perhaps I might persuade her to leave it….”
“And yet, would it not perturb your conscience, if not now, at some time distant, to think what you had denied your mother and sisters? No, do not answer me—there is no answer, Elinor. Nor is any of the blame yours. You have been one of the greatest victims in all this; it is for you, as much as for myself, my mother and sisters, that I am so disappointed in my father. His actions had disobliged you more than anybody already. But he has sunk to a new low today. We argued this morning—he was in his cups, and he took a swing at me after several exceedingly untoward suggestions that I cannot bear repeating—such insinuations that make me wonder if he knows me at all, or I him.”
“I am so sorry, Edmund. But I am proud of you for sticking to your principles, for trying to hold him accountable. It cannot be an easy thing to endure. And yet, I am glad you have not left Norland.”
“I would likely have repented such a rash decision, had I really left in such a state. I had thought to brood over it all alone at Thornton Lacey, and begin my ordination early—I had planned it for next month—and yet it is so near Mansfield, and perhaps I will not desire such a situation if… well, I shall leave it for December. Indeed, I am glad I am not gone away.”
“But what made you stay?”
“Something your sister said to me yesterday.”
“Oh?” Elinor felt a heaviness in her chest—he certainly spoke of Marianne a great deal.
“She said that time alone does not determine intimacy, that seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others. Perhaps my father has never known me, not really—but I have come to know some other members of my family so well, in such a short space of time, that I realized what a great fool I would be to leave in the middle of what I had begun.”
Elinor hardly dared infer that he meant her—he must only mean that it would be wrong to leave before the great matter was all settled.
And yet all his looks were convincing enough that he had developed some attachment; certainly they had begun to grow acquainted in the most peculiar way, and she had felt nothing but delight in all his attempts to be pleasing.
At present, his look was ardent indeed, and her doubt was waylaid by a strange fluttering.
“I do not mean to make you blush, Elinor,” he said.
“I have come to enjoy our conversations, and I esteem your family so highly—to know what you have all suffered, and so needlessly, only heightens what I might have felt if we had been brought together under happier circumstances, had I....” He sighed and broke off, but still he held her eye.
“What I mean to say is that I would suffer every reason I might wish to be away, in order to shield you and your family from the worst of it, and because I am glad of our growing degree of intimacy. Though a dreadful thing has brought us together, I hope some good may come of it—and forgive me for saying so, but I hope Edward Ferrars does not accept John’s invitation to Norland. ”
“Oh.” Elinor felt her color heighten more still, and she looked away as she attempted to contrive some response to such a bold statement.
She could not deny some attraction, and certainly she valued her cousin’s company—she might even agree with Marianne’s estimation of time mattering little, for they had progressed to a degree of intimacy that she would not have thought possible.
And yet, as he said, it was all because of the secret they shared.
Elinor really knew not what to think; she began to wish to speak of something utterly commonplace, but she could not deny him some response.
“I am resolved not to think upon it at all,” she said.
“Whether Edward will come to Norland or not, that is. As to the rest, we are in perfect agreement, and my mind remains more agreeably engaged. But let us ride on—there is a ruined bridge over the stream that I should like to show you.”
Willoughby sat alone at an inn, not ten miles from Norland, and at the appointed hour Colonel Brandon entered and joined him at the back of the common room.
It was natural, Willoughby supposed, to feel some trepidation at their meeting, and yet it must be done.
Still summoning the nerve to broach the matter directly, he ordered them each a pint of ale; Colonel Brandon declined to drink with him, but Willoughby needed some little measure of liquid courage.
When the mug was placed before him, he took a long draught and wiped at his mouth before beginning.
“I received a summons to Allenham three nights ago, and the day before yesterday I attended my aunt there. She had a visitor—Eliza had turned up there. You supposed her to be searching for me, and it seems she was. I thought you might make use of this new knowledge of her recent whereabouts.”
Colonel Brandon scowled. “Where is she now?”
“She fled the house in the night—the next morning, yesterday, she had disappeared.”
“Why? How could you let her get away—and what, I must ask—what might have driven her to flee from you?”