Chapter Seventeen
Elinor did not mind being left behind while nearly all the others had gone to Worthing, and found it rather funny, in a sad sort of way, that her great aunt had thought it a punishment.
She watched the carriages depart from the upstairs gallery, and felt rather than saw Edmund come to stand beside her at the window.
He was very near, and in a moment of overwhelming feeling, she laid her head on his shoulder.
His head leaned against hers, and after a moment of comfortable silence, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder as they watched the companions disappear down the long front drive of Norland Park.
Tears filled Elinor’s eyes, and she could not account for just why, but pressed her eyes shut in a vain attempt to keep the tears from sliding down her cheeks.
She savored what comfort Edmund’s presence brought her, even before she had known she needed it, and a moment later she felt him kiss the top of her head.
“My valet heard it from your maid that you had been left behind—deliberately excluded from the scheme.” Edmund drew away, but one hand lingered on her shoulder; with the other he began to wipe at her cheek.
Her breath caught in her throat at his touch and she went instantly still.
A moment later he produced a pocket square and handed it to her.
“I did not think it could be true—it is too cruel.”
Elinor dabbed at her face with his handkerchief before tucking it into her pocket.
“I cannot repent being left behind, only that I quarreled with my great aunt Prudence this morning. I told her she must abandon her schemes—that I do not want Norland. I ought not to have done it—as you said yesterday, someday my sisters may come to resent me for it. I suppose I had little hope of really swaying her, but whatever is to be done, let it not be done in my name.”
Edmund caught her hand in his, and raised it to his lips. “It was well done of you, Elinor, to stand up for yourself, and what is right.”
She pressed his hand before he released it, and gave a little shrug.
“It has not accomplished much—indeed, I do regret I shall not be there for Marianne when she is so low.” Elinor feared her sister would be subject to some little repercussions from her conversation with their great aunt that morning, for if Marianne was to be considered the next mistress of Norland, she would become an object of interest just as Elinor had been.
She had been aware of Aunt Prudence’s efforts to press Cousin James at her—now it would be Marianne—Aunt Prudence would find Marianne’s broken heart most convenient—and at such a time when she was overcome with despair, Marianne’s vexation at being pushed toward Cousin James would only add to her suffering.
Elinor could not give voice to this, despite her openness with Edmund. Instead she asked, “But why did you not go with the others?”
Edmund laughed. “I stayed because you are here, same as I did yesterday, and shall do tomorrow and the next day, and for as long as you remain.”
“Oh.” Elinor blushed. She could no longer deny that he was prone to flirting with her—nor that she liked it very well.
It was a great contrast to what she had experienced with Edward, who in all the months of their acquaintance had never given her as much assurance of his regard as this.
“By and by, I begin to think that events may yet conspire to keep me here forever. And yet I think of your pretty watercolor of Thornton Lacey.”
“It is a fine house, I will grant you. Even Marianne allowed it to be so, and I value her genius in such matters,” he said very soberly, eliciting a gentle laugh from Elinor.
“But is it not as dear to me as—some other concerns, which I daresay I shall tell you all about, when I think you really ready to hear them. But I hear the parson at Amberley is very old, and Amberley is so near. I have been wanting to ride, if you will ride with me. Perhaps I will bring my watercolors, and paint a new picture for myself.”
Maria Bertram laid her head on Henry’s bare chest, curling her toes around the tangled bedsheets at her feet.
She let out a sigh of perfect contentment, and then laughed wickedly at the thought of all the pleasant sensations she had just experienced.
She was not at all sorry. She knew she ought to be ashamed—indeed, she ought never have done what she had, but Maria refused to let any such foolish notions stand in her way of happiness.
Beside her, Henry idly stroked her hair. “Why do you laugh, my dear? I hope you have enjoyed our little interlude here.”
She looked up at him. “I think you know I have,” she said wantonly. “Only, it is funny.”
“What is funny?” He propped himself up on his elbow and looked intently at her as the bedsheets covering his nakedness fell away—it was some time yet before she was able to make any reply.
After a second repetition of their diversion, Maria observed, “I am sure we might remain thus occupied all afternoon, Henry.”
“If you insist,” he replied, running a finger down the side of her shoulder.
“I cannot help but laugh at it all! My father, who has the greatest concern of all in this—what a dreadful chaperone he turned out to be!”
“Yes—he is most derelict in his duties,” Henry agreed, and nibbled at her ear. “But you shall find that I am not,” he whispered.
Maria kissed him eagerly and at length, as their naked limbs tangled together.
“You are utterly magnificent,” she murmured as she drew away and took in the splendid sight of him in her bed.
The curtains were open and sunlight poured in through the windows, giving everything an ethereal, dreamy quality.
To her this was a dream, for long had she desired it.
They were bound to one another now, and everything felt right again, though she knew the peril that would plague them still as soon as they left this room.
His kisses trailed down her neck, and he gave her a playful growl. “You are positively delicious.”
She nudged him. “Better than a day at the shore, I hope.”
His eyes swept over her. “Perhaps—I suppose I should like to see you take to the waters, in such a state as this.”
“And you have no wish to see Fanny looking fetching by the seaside?”
His teasing look vanished and he let out a heavy breath. “Have we not quarreled enough? You know I prefer your manner of looking fetching.”
Maria took him hand in hers. “I am sorry, my love. I suppose even at such a perfect moment, I am not past the jealousy I felt….”
“The jealousy that was at your own self-infliction,” he interrupted, an edge to his voice.
“Yes, perhaps—but not entirely so, you know that. Please tell me this means you will stop.”
He gave her a charming smile, his fingers exploring her skin. “Poor Maria, poor pretty fool. You must know this changes nothing.”
“Henry,” she cried, drawing away in alarm. “This changes everything, the passion we have shared….”
“And how passionately you spoke last week, when you convinced me that it was for the best. You thought it a fine joke that I should make love to Fanny Price, and now you would have me reverse my course, and make a fool of all three of us?”
“Yes, I would. I shall be made ridiculous by my father’s disgrace, in the end—I cannot suffer any more while I wait for the axe to fall.”
“I hope I shall keep you well enough amused behind closed doors.”
“And when we pass back through those doors, you shall go on flirting with Fanny, with not a thought for my despair? Would that we had run off when we had the chance, for at least the truth would be out already!”
“And yet you have been so keen to protect your father’s feelings—blame him for your suffering, Maria, not me.”
Maria shoved Henry away. “How could you speak to me of my father at such a time?”
Henry moved closer and wrapped an arm around her waist, turning her about until she would face him.
“This is not a game, Maria. Certainly not now, and especially not for you. Not anymore. You must decide what you want, whose feelings are of greatest importance to you—and I hope mine shall factor into your calculations this time.”
“How could you doubt it? We love each other, Henry, and I would run off with you tonight if you asked me to—I know your carriage is repaired. But you do not ask it of me—you would go back to Fanny, even after all this.” Maria’s voice cracked, and she felt her lower lip begin to tremble; she turned away so that he would not see her if she shed a tear.
He pulled her face toward him and gave her a soft kiss. “I do not doubt your feelings, my love. Only your judgement.”
The tears began to fall, and Maria scoffed in indignation. “Is that any better?”
“Please, Maria, I would not have you angry at me at such a time—after what has passed between us, I ought to make you feel safe and secure—would that I could!”
“You can,” she insisted. “Say we will go tonight.”
“You know we cannot. We ought not to have considered it then, but it is out of the question now. We have made our metaphorical bed, and we shall have to lie in it a while longer.”
She shook her head, contempt rising in her heart. He was right about one thing—after all that had occurred that afternoon, he ought to be falling at her feet. Instead, he rose from the bed, tossed her a dressing gown, and began to put his clothes back on.
“Why, Henry?”
“I will not be the man who ruins your family—that distinction belongs to your father, after all. If we run off, the scandal of our elopement will only be compounded by Mrs. Rushworth’s great explosion, and it will be on our heads forever.
Your mother, your sister, your brothers—they will not care that the the old dragon would have done it anyway, it will always be our fault.
I love you, and you will not lose your family for me.
I only wish you had the same concern for me, for it is my reputation, too. ”