Chapter Seventeen #3
Mr. Ambrose guffawed with laughter. “I know, I know, Hattie—you have not exactly been discreet, lass, and I never said anything because I had not imagined you should find much interest! Well, Mr. Bertram, is it? Hmmm.”
“Yes, sir.” Edmund arched an eyebrow, giving Elinor a sly look. “I hope I do not offend you.”
“Well, it is just a joke, son!” Mr. Ambrose clapped Edmund on the shoulder.
“No, I have been digging my heels into it, but it ought to be thought of soon. Do you live around here? I cannot think I have ever heard of any Bertrams—must be visiting the Dashwoods—I know your people, and a fine man your father was, Miss Dashwood. So you are a cousin of theirs, eh? What a pity the living is in Lord Lathan’s gift, and not your kinsman’s. ”
“I could not say. But yes, I am a relation. I am to take orders, next month or in the new year, and my visiting the area has put me in mind to seek a position nearby.”
“Has it really?” Mr. Ambrose chortled, glancing Elinor’s way.
“Well, I heard there was a big to-do up at the house, but it is good to hear the ladies have come back to Norland. I shall tell you what—Miss Dashwood, if you can assure me this cousin of yours is a finer man than your brother, I shall invite you both to tea tomorrow, to talk more about it.”
Elinor flinched at Mr. Ambrose’s sardonic look, and might have begun to wring her hands had Edmund not caught one of hers in his own; he gave her a reassuring look, but Elinor scarcely knew how to reply to the eccentric parson. “Forgive me, sir—is my—is John Dashwood not well-liked in the area?”
He was on the point of making a rather impassioned reply when his sister swatted at him.
“Enough of that, Archie! Mr. Bertram, Miss Dashwood, we should be happy to receive you both at the parsonage for tea tomorrow, or any day you like,” she said placidly.
“My old goat of a brother has Lord Lathan’s ear, and might put in a good word for you. ”
“Tomorrow sounds lovely,” Edmund said at once. He glanced over at Elinor, and Mr. Ambrose did the same.
“You must come, too, Miss Dashwood,” he boomed. “I should like to speak to you about your brother's new fences—I am a man of God, and ought not say whether I think him greedy or just misguided in his placement, but he has encroached on several of the neighbors and….”
Mrs. Mathison clapped her hands. “Well then,” she cried cheerfully. “Shall we say two o’clock? We had better finish our walk—happy to have met you. Come along then, Archie, it is all downhill this way and you shall be less crabby.”
When the parson and his sister had gone away, Elinor and Edmund shared a silent look of private mirth, and then burst into unrestrained laughter together.
“Well,” Edmund chortled, “I shall have some big shoes to fill.”
Elinor giggled. “They remind me of Marianne and Margaret in about a hundred and fifty years.”
“Ha! I think you are right. But I nearly forgot—I must see this infamous drawing of your beau.”
Elinor’s eyes went wide, and she looked about for her sketchbook.
Edmund saw it first and dove for it, just as Elinor bent to grab it.
He tugged at her ankle and she tumbled down on the grass beside him as he wrested the sketchbook from her grasp.
She let out a squeal of laughter and made one more scrambling effort to reclaim it, but he held it at an arm’s length from her as he leafed through the pages until he found the sketch.
“Well! But you have been too generous! Ah, but it is just here in the caption you have made: ‘A Parson at Play—by a Partial and Prejudiced Observer.’ Partial and prejudiced?” He swiveled back around, still seated in an indecorous posture, and met her eye. “Elinor?”
“Oh stop,” she laughed.
“No, listen—I want to ask you something.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “What?”
He looked down at the drawing with a wistful smile before closing the sketchbook and handing it back to her. “Do you ever think—after our conversations, do you ever think of them? Of me?”
“Oh—yes. Of course I do. We have spoken of a great deal….”
“I do not mean that—that might have been the start of it, but I should think there is more—that if it were not for that, we might still have a great deal to say to one another.”
“I think so, too, Edmund.”
“Yesterday, when I told you I almost left—I was not so forward as to say that I had stayed at Norland all for you, but I hoped you took my meaning.”
“I did. Or rather, I had thought so—I was afraid to presume—but what you said about Edward….”
“Yes, Mr. F,” he said ruefully. “Perhaps I ought to be sorry for saying it, but I am not, Elinor. I like you very much, as I think you like me. I should hate to see any interruption of what is so newly growing between us. It had been so natural and easy, and yet I trust John so little, I fear it will all come crashing down.”
Elinor felt herself inadvertently leaning toward him as she held Edmund’s gaze.
She felt all the import of the moment, for a clear choice was laid before her.
“I meant what I said to you yesterday—what I felt at once when John told me he had written to Edward. I am already so perfectly content—I desire no alteration to the present situation.”
“No alteration? Not of any kind?”
Elinor did not take his meaning at first, but Edmund moved very slowly toward her, and planted a gentle kiss on her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed as she clung to the moment. When they reopened, Edmund was looking at her with an unspoken question.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“You need not answer me if you do not like it—only think upon it.”
Elinor smiled at him, astonished the choice was such an easy one to make. “I always reflect upon our conversations, Edmund. It is an easy thing when we are always in such perfect agreement.”
Elinor and Edmund took a longer route back to the house, riding hard and fast, if only to keep the tension between them at bay. Their energy spent, they returned to the house just as the contingent from Worthing was returning. They all looked to be in good cheer, even—no, especially Marianne.
“Oh, Elinor,” Marianne called out, and ran to her sister directly as the others moved through the large front hall.
Elinor smiled at her sister, but reflexively looked around for Edmund. He had been waylaid by her mother and youngest sister, but he caught her eye and waved as he followed the ladies into the house.
“Elinor!”
She returned her attention to Marianne. “What is it, dearest?”
“Willoughby! He came to me in Worthing—I shall have so much to tell you tonight, when we might speak privately, but we are engaged!”
“Oh, how wonderful! I knew I should be wishing you joy in the end.”
“It is to be a secret thing for now, for he has gone to assist Colonel Brandon with a certain matter—but when he returns we shall wed at once. Oh, from perfect misery to perfect happiness! Can you believe it Elinor?”
Elinor assured her sister that she could indeed, but Marianne broke off as Mary Crawford walked past them through the hall. “Oh, Mary!” Marianne ran to her.
“Are you well, Marianne? I think the seaside cheered you.”
“Anybody might know how it did,” Marianne laughed. “I only wanted to say that I am very sorry I have shied from your company these past few days. I was only sorry to see your partiality for—but, anyway, I think it a fine thing now, and I feel dreadful boorish about it. I hope you can forgive me.”
Mary smiled, but her eyes betrayed some surprise. “I am sure we shall be friends after all, Marianne. I am glad to see you in better spirits—but we must play a cheerful duet after dinner.”
“I would like that very much—a tune for dancing, too.”
“I had better go and find Fanny—but thank you for your sentiments, Marianne, truly. Daniel will be so pleased we are to be friends.” Mary nodded to Elinor before moving away, and Marianne returned to her sisters mouthing Daniel with no little private hilarity.
“Well done, Marianne,” Elinor cried warmly. “I have never seen you make such a pretty apology before.”
“Oh!” Marianne blushed and laughed at herself. “I know, Elinor, I have been rather rotten lately, for I was so distressed at parting with Willoughby—but now that we are to be married, I am sure I shall do nothing but good, as much as I can, for the rest of my life. I swear it!”
“Well, I am very proud of you,” Elinor replied, and embraced her sister. “I see no reason why Mary’s admiring Colonel Brandon should prevent your being friends.”
“No indeed! He has been so severe on Willoughby, but now they are working toward making some amends, I am sure I shall wish the colonel joy when the time comes. But what of you, Sister?” Marianne caught Elinor by the hand and pulled her into a little alcove off the front hall.
“I still quite long to wish you joy. You have suffered so very much, I know you have, and you deserve happiness as much as any of us—more than me, I daresay.”
Elinor was so astonished by her sister’s generous declarations that she had not the capacity to complete herself, and unbidden tears began to stream down her face.
She had suffered, more than her sister knew.
Marianne must only mean Edward’s absence, which had so thoroughly ceased to distress Elinor that she would now call it a blessing.
She could not know the truth, that Elinor was feeling fairly crushed under the weight of a terrible family secret, a moral dilemma she could not make out at all.
“Oh, no,” Marianne cried at seeing Elinor’s tears. “Please do not be sad, Elinor!”
Elinor wiped away her tears and laughed ruefully. “I would not have you think I still pine for Edward.”