Chapter Twelve
Prudence Rushworth reclined in the plush wingback chair by the fire, which she had adopted as her own when she was in the drawing room at Norland.
It was a spot well situated for observing the rest of the party, and allowed her a fine prospect of the room that she viewed as nearly Margaret’s already.
The current master, the shameful bastard who must know he was on borrowed time, sat with his shrewish wife at the end of the room, and Prudence observed them with some amusement, working together like a pair of no-account grifters, pushing James and Maria together.
Despite James’ pleasure in Maria’s sudden change of demeanor, Prudence could not like it.
The little chit had apparently quarreled with Crawford, and the scoundrel defected to the suddenly transformed Fanny Price.
For now James has every reason to hope, but Prudence was sure it wouldn’t last, and she worried for her son.
She had hoped that Maria might continue to shun him—it would hurt, for a time, but he would be stronger and wiser for it. This of course would provide Prudence with the impetus for springing her plans into action for restoring Norland to her own relations, and she was eager indeed for that event.
That Maria might actually be considering the engagement again troubled Prudence.
She had no wish for that young lady to be her daughter-in-law, nor for the Bertrams to be her connections in any way.
She could only hope that John and Fanny Dashwood’s efforts to push Maria at James might inspire her to some further rebellion.
Elinor entered the room on her cousin Edmund’s arm, damp from the outdoors but in a rather fetching way, and Prudence beckoned to her great-niece at once.
Here was a fine catch for James! Elinor was sensible and kind, and she would have this estate!
Prudence intended to draw James’ attention to Elinor at once, but the girl was uncooperative.
Elinor hesitated in the doorway, tightening her grip on Edmund Bertram’s arm as she looked up at Prudence.
Elinor’s eyes met Prudence’s with a haunting sense of agony, and Prudence drew in a sharp breath.
Elinor knew the truth. And, from the looks of him, so did Edmund Bertram—likely Sir Thomas had told him, allowing for his sulking behavior, and now he had told Elinor.
What was the girl about, fretting over it, as if it were a punishment and not a gift? Prudence arched an eyebrow and made a subtle gesture with her fingers, summoning Elinor again. “You look unwell, child. Come and sit with me here, where it is quiet.”
Elinor let out a shaky breath. “I was caught out in the rain. Forgive me—I need to lie down—to put on dry clothes, and rest.”
Prudence was on her feet at once. “James, do attend your cousin at once—poor, lovely creature must surely need some assistance upstairs.” James did as he was bid, even moving away from Maria mid-sentence, and Prudence smiled with satisfaction. “I will attend you once you are settled, my dear.”
Fanny Dashwood took notice of Elinor from across the room and began to flutter with agitation.
“John, Elinor is ill. Oh dear, I beg you would not trouble yourself, Mr. Rushworth. I will see to my sister-in-law myself. Stay just where you are, I am sure I shall attend her.” She bustled across the room and began to make a great show of fretting over Elinor, who only clung tighter to Mr. Bertram.
“No,” she cried. “No, nobody need trouble themselves.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Bertram said. “I shall escort Elinor upstairs, for I too require dry clothes. Sometimes it begins to rain and those who are outdoors come indoors for dry clothes—that is all.”
“Very true,” Fanny agreed, her hand upon her chest in an exaggerated gesture of concern.
“Well, if you are sure—but you must lay down awhile, dear Elinor. And Mrs. Rushworth, I am sure you had better not attend her—a woman of your age, in a sickroom—I am sure Elinor has a fever—such carelessness must be avoided. Well, make haste upstairs, Sister.”
By now Margaret and Marianne were inching closer to Elinor, ready to intercede, and Prudence could not like the spectacle of it.
Elinor looked wild, her eyes wide with some inexplicable fright, and she glanced between Fanny Dashwood, her mother and sister, Prudence, and finally her cousin Edmund before swooning into that gentleman’s arms.
He caught her quickly enough, though his posture was awkward as he attempted to steady her.
Prudence stifled a private laugh as the sullen prude tried to lift Elinor in his arms without touching her too much in the presence of her entire family.
“Elinor,” Margaret cried. “Oh, Edward—Edmund—oh, forgive me—dear Edmund—my poor girl!”
Mr. Bertram gave Margaret a tender look before tightening his grasp on Elinor, bracing his shoulder beneath the side of her face.
Prudence began to wonder at him, for he rather seemed to have a certain look about him, with Elinor in his arms—the little prat really appeared to enjoy it.
Well, that was going to be another problem, she concluded with a grimace.
Margaret and Marianne followed Edmund out of the room, each speaking over the other as they offered him their thanks and fretted over Elinor.
Prudence watched them go, calling out to her niece before she was quite out of sight.
“I shall come up once she has settled, Margaret, and then I would speak with you.” She flashed a wide smile at Fanny Dashwood. Let that unsettle her.
With some time to occupy before conferring with her niece, Prudence decided to make the most of Marianne’s absence, for it was the only time anyone but Marianne might speak with him.
Prudence had intended for several days now to speak with the man and determine whether he would be a suitable brother to the next mistress and master of Norland.
Her interest had been even further piqued yesterday, for though less dramatic than Maria Bertram and Henry Crawford, Marianne and her young man appeared to have had a quarrel.
Prudence strongly suspected it had to do with the recently departed colonel from Devonshire, and she felt she had better apply some little pressure to Mr. Willoughby.
Perhaps this old colonel may be the better prize.
She spent a quarter of an hour attacking Mr. Willoughby, asking a great many questions about his family and his estate, as well as his intentions toward her great-niece.
Once she had discomposed the young man to her satisfaction, she left him to collect his shattered wits, and retreated to speak with her niece.
Margaret was just leaving Elinor’s chambers when Prudence made her way upstairs. Prudence came to an abrupt halt; Margaret had tears in her eyes.
“My poor girl! But how is your daughter?”
“She is well enough now—she needs rest, but Marianne and dear Edward—Edmund—oh dear—Edmund will not leave her.”
Prudence glanced suspiciously at the closed door—she could not like the notion of what the young people might be speaking of, for the great secret she wielded was less of a weapon when more widely known. “I cannot think it right for him to remain alone with them.”
Margaret shrugged. “He is their cousin, Aunt. And how heroic he has been today! I am sure Elinor would have caught a severe chill if he had not carried her indoors.”
“Pah! Surely not—it is the sort of thing that runs in families, and Elinor is from excellent stock.” Again Prudence eyed the door, wishing James had possessed the wherewithal to be of use to his cousin.
“Aunt,” Margaret said with a scowl of bemusement. “I beg you would not interfere.”
Prudence gave a roll of her eyes, but conceded. “Very well, my dear, but I cannot like it. I hope there is at least a maid within?”
“Of course there is.”
“Ah, well then. Nothing so very untoward could occur….”
“My goodness! As if my girls would ever behave in such a way—or dear Edmund.”
“Dear Edmund!” Prudence harrumphed. “He is the son of that awful man—and brother to that usurping nincompoop! And, Margaret, I think he is aware of the fact.”
Margaret’s eyes went wide. “Oh dear. And Elinor—oh. She would surely not be in such a state unless she had had a very great shock. Well.” Margaret hung her shoulders, deflated. “It is not how I would have wished for her to hear of it.”
“No indeed,” Prudence cried. “He might attempt to work on her, to convince her not to pursue her claim.”
Margaret wrung her hands. “Aunt, she would hardly need convincing. I really think some arrangement might be reached with John.”
“Is that so? An arrangement that would allow your daughters to marry as well as they might from Norland? I cannot imagine that brow-beaten booby John Dashwood would concede enough for Marianne to be a suitable candidate for this Willoughby fellow—I understand his aunt rather holds the purse strings—perhaps this is why he has not asked for her hand, despite what hopes his coming here might have raised. And where is this Edward Ferrars fellow, eh? If John cared at all for the girls he believed to be his sisters, he would at least wish them to marry well.”
Margaret shook her head again. “Marry well—oh, I wish them to marry for love, Aunt.”
“Well, and love does not put food on one’s table and clothes on one’s back! What gentleman would give up what comfort he must in order to offer for penniless girls, even if they are the very loveliest of creatures? Surely not a sensible man!”
Prudence at last felt her influence succeeding; Margaret frowned and wrung her hands in high agitation.
“You are right,” she murmured. “Only let us wait a few days yet. It is such a dreadful thing—I am not ready—what pain I must give so many! If it is true, and Edmund is aware of all the facts—why, that must account for his strange humors! But Lady Bertram is such a kind and affable woman—to learn the truth….”
“Does not such a kind and affable woman deserve the truth?”