Chapter Eleven #4
“Thank you,” she murmured, and hastened away. Edmund stared again at the doorway, willing his heart to let her go. He could remain in the house no longer, and resolved on a walk to clear his head.
An hour of solitary reflection did little for him, despite his best efforts.
He wished to find some good in everything that was happening, but he could not.
He might have attempted some clarity at greater length, but the rain forestalled him.
He made back for the house, regretting that he must return before he could achieve any success in sorting through his troubles, and when the rain began to fall heavily enough to make him uncomfortable, he took shelter in a little folly that offered some cover.
Here, at least, he might prolong his own wretched solitude.
But this was not to be. Over the pattering of rain on the stone above him, Edmund could just make out another sound—it was weeping.
Curiosity was at odds with decorum for a minute or two, but finally Edmund walked around the side of the folly.
There sat his cousin Elinor, tears pouring down her face as she fidgeted with her handkerchief rather than making use of it.
She looked up in alarm. “Oh! Cousin Edmund! I—I was walking, and it began to rain….”
“Yes. Myself as well.”
“Oh. I did not expect anybody else to undertake such a risk, for even Marianne admitted it must surely rain.”
“I decided I had better take my chances, for I found it a pleasanter alternative than being in the house.”
Elinor offered a wan smile. “Yes. Yes, exactly. That is—forgive me, I do not mean to be ungenerous. It is only that we were confined to the house yesterday, and….”
“And we both had rather unpleasant conversations over breakfast,” Edmund said sourly.
He could well imagine Elinor wishing to avoid John Dashwood—the man she thought was her brother, but was actually his.
Suddenly his heart swelled with empathy for his poor cousin.
John was apparently desperate enough to retain his hold on Norland to stoop to pushing Elinor at any man he could, in an effort to prevent her family from pressing for all that Elinor truly had a claim to.
Well—any man, Edmund supposed, except the Ferrars brothers.
Edmund had heard an Edward Ferrars spoken of, as a relation to Fanny Dashwood; he was held in high regard by all of Elinor’s family, and even Mrs. Jennings had made allusions to a ‘Mr. F.’ The very handkerchief Elinor clutched in her hand was embroidered with the initials ECF.
Suddenly understanding, Edmund moved closer. “May I sit with you?”
“I must be miserable company, but I can hardly wish you out into this heavy rain.”
“I have feared since coming to Norland that mine was the miserable company, as you say.”
Elinor looked up at him with interest, though hesitant to confirm her observations. “I suppose we are little enough acquainted despite our relation. We might not know one another’s odd humors, from what is normal.”
Edmund laughed bitterly as he took a seat on the cold, damp stone bench. “Yes, you might have guessed me to always be such a dour sort of fellow, though I hope I am not. I am more serious than my siblings, but as capable as any of them of good cheer, most often.”
Elinor matched him with a rueful chortle of her own. “Yes, exactly. Compared with my sisters, I am far from lively, though at present I find not the delight I expected at Norland.”
As Edmund looked over at his cousin, he felt the sudden twisting of a knife in his heart.
All his lamentations had been for Fanny and Maria, and even for his poor betrayed mother.
But here was another woman wounded by Sir Thomas, perhaps most of all.
She ought to be mistress of the house, and not a mistreated and undervalued guest. He could bear the burden of the secret no longer.
“Cousin Elinor, I must tell you something. That is, I suspect I can guess what troubles you.” He stopped himself. But no, I cannot do this.
Elinor sighed, and tucked the handkerchief into her pocket. “Sir, I know that Mrs. Jennings, and even my mother and sisters have made certain remarks—and my brother was very indiscreet this morning, but I beg you would not take the wrong idea from it.”
“My only conclusion is that you have been treated very unfairly, and I am heartfelt sorry for it.”
“I cannot say such a thing. No, I may feel unhappy, at times, as we all do, but I think it would be ingratitude to say I have been ill-used.”
How she sounded like Fanny Price! Edmund could not like it, not when she had been robbed of so much.
His conscience was heavily conflicted. To bestow upon her the truth and justice she deserved, and ease her evident suffering, would mean to betray his father, his own family, and expose them all to misery of the acutest kind.
And yet to keep silent at such a moment… .
“Elinor, I must speak.” In the end, the great release of unburdening himself was too great a temptation.
Elinor could see that something dreadful was eating at her cousin Edmund. He had hardly spoken to anybody these five days, and though it had been many years since their last visit, she had never known him to be of such a sullen disposition.
“I can see that you wish to confide something very serious, Cousin. Though I am troubled, I can assure you that I would be happy to hear you—if I can offer any comfort….”
Edmund seized her hand in his. “Indeed, it is I who must offer you comfort—though in exchange I must have your promise of secrecy.”
“You shall have it. Please, say what you would.”
With his free hand, Edmund ran his fingers through his hair; his other hand still held hers, and he gave it a squeeze. “Forgive me—it is difficult—I scarcely know where to begin.” She could see his struggle, for it seemed there were tears in his eyes.
She tightened her grip on his hand, relieved they could not be observed from the house in such an attitude. She knew not what to say, but waited for him to begin.
“About a fortnight ago, I made a startling discovery. Life-changing, I might say. My entire perception now feels shaken by it.”
“Oh! I am very sorry.”
“I have been sorry for myself, ever since then. It is a dreadful thing—and my father, the bearer of this terrible secret, seems also rendered to be the villain of the story, as much as a victim.”
“That must be difficult.”
“It has been. I have always looked up to him—until this information was thrust upon me, I had no reason to do otherwise. I have always believed him to be a man of sense and principles, and modeled myself such a man. In many ways that view has been entirely up-ended, exposing such weakness and folly… inspiring anger, resentment, and a sense of something lost that cannot ever be regained.”
“I see,” Elinor said, knitting her brows at his cryptic confession. She knew little of her uncle, and wondered if it would be entirely right to hear her cousin speaking ill of him, and yet her compassion had been aroused and she dearly wished to be useful to the broken man beside her.
He held her hand still, and she laced her fingers through his.
How silly her own troubles felt in the face of such tremendous and palpable pain.
“Cousin Edmund, I cannot imagine the heartbreak of losing respect for a parent, or anyone so entirely beloved. Is there no chance of reconciliation between you?”
“At present I have little hope of it—my disagreement with him is of such a nature—others may be harmed, some have been harmed already by his actions. In truth, I can see no way forward that will not cause more pain. There may be something very dreadful yet—and my knowing of it makes me complicit, to some extent—yet whatever I do, I cannot entirely prevent the worst from occurring. My sister Maria, my mother, our cousin Fanny—even you and I—and others besides.”
Elinor was shocked that her cousin’s mysterious problem might affect her. “Surely not!”
Edmund looked intensely at her, and the agony in his eyes made her own begin to mist with tears. He was privy to information he would rather not know, and it was torture for him. “Will you not ask me, Elinor? Have you no wish to know?”
She hesitated. His knowing what he knew had brought him no joy.
If there were anything that could truly cause her suffering—or rather, heighten the misery she was already experiencing…
. and yet what a comfort she could give him by halving the burden.
“I will hear it, Edmund—anything you wish to tell me. You have my word I shall tell nobody.”
“You cannot know what you are agreeing to,” he sighed. He took a slow, deliberate breath, and then exhaled again. “John Dashwood is not your half-brother. He is mine.”