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The wedding of Edward Ferras and Lucy Steele was an elegant, if not lavish, event. The ceremony was held at the St James, which was of course a perfectly respectable establishment. There were a few whispers amongst the more fashionable guests that a more prestigious venue could have been procured had the bride been of more distinguished family - but under the steely eye of the indomitable Mrs Ferrars, they remained only whispers. And if the groom was a little solemn, if his siblings were lacking in the proper cheer, and if Mrs Ferrars herself occasionally let a trace of disapproval cross her features - the bride was beaming enough for the whole pack of them.
Elinor had no moment to speak to the newly wed couple, and she did not seek out an audience. Her presence on this occasion must be scrutinised, she knew, and she took this time as a study in forbearance, and a practice in restraint.
(“But my dear Miss Dashwood you must attend!” Mrs Jennings had pressed, shaking the embossed invitation in her excitement. “You shall stay with me in London, and we may travel together - as a relative of your brother, and as such a dear friend to our Lucy, you simply must. I shan’t hear another word against it! I shan’t!”)
It so happened that the wedding coincided with the proposed move of the Dashwoods from Devonshire - Marianne had not recovered from her fever as she should, and the family were to relocate to Bath, for the improved medical connections and the invigorating baths. Marianne, Margaret and their mother were already there, and settled with relations of Mrs Dashwood. Save for the Ferras wedding and Mrs Jennings’ insistence, Elinor would be there too - but, she would leave for Bath tomorrow. A true bookend to this period of her life.
Retiring at last to her room in Mrs Jenning’s London house, Elinor could reflect with satisfaction on her composure during this most trying day. She knew that she had been calm, and if not lively - certainly she had given the impression of contentment. Which, in its way, was the truth. She had never allowed herself to believe that a life with Edward would be anything more than a possibility, and the final closure to this slim chance was a boon. Hope, against all her better judgement, must at last now be ceased.
Still, she cried.
–
Two years in Bath had given to Margaret a new source of history lessons, to Marianne her full health back, and to Elinor a profound weariness for the Huffington-Joneses.
“Are we to dine with them again?” Marianne moaned, flopping down on Elinor’s bed, and threatening to upset her cup of hot milk.
“Indeed,” replied Elinor, saving her cup and repositioning it on firmer ground. “They do seem quite desirous of our company.” She paused. “Some more than others.”
Marianne shook her head. “I refuse to believe you,” she refuted. “Mr Huffington-Jones is perfectly amiable to all of us - mother and Margaret included - he does not single me out in any way whatsoever.”
Elinor chose not to respond. It was true that Mr Huffington-Jones - the son of Sir Huffington-Jones, the proprietor of one of the grander houses in town - was courteous to all the Dashwoods, but the continued presence of the family made Elinor sure that there was a motive beyond casual companionship.
“I am determined to have a stomach ache,” Marianne said dramatically, “if Sir Huffington-Jones calls on us tomorrow for a walk, as promised.”
Elinor allowed herself a sigh. “Perhaps it will rain,” she said.
The following day was fine and clear, and the walk continued as promised - also as promised, Marianne plead a bad stomach, and it was a dutiful Elinor and an impatient Margaret who accompanied the son, whilst Mrs Dashwood walked with the elder gentleman. And it was at dinner that evening - mercifully a private affair of just the Dashwood woman - where Mrs Dashwood made her pronouncement.
“Sir Huffington-Jones spoke to me today,” she started portentously, at which Margaret giggled, Elinor looked significantly at Marianne, and Marianne herself stiffened in her chair.
Their mother blushed. “He asked me for my hand in marriage.” She was flushed and happy, excitement lending her face a youthful bloom and her voice a girlish tremor. Elinor could not speak for sheer amazement.
Mrs Dashwood looked beseechingly at her three daughters. “Could you bear it, my dear ones, if I should marry again?”
–
The second most unexpected feature of the Dashwood’s removal to Bath was the epistolary friendship that formed between Elinor and Lady Middleton. What began as a civil inquiry as a former neighbour turned to a lively - and in time, affectionate - discourse on matters ranging from literature to philanthropy to family to politics. On Elinor’s part, she found Lady Middleton to have a surprisingly elegant and rational mind that displayed itself more to advantage on paper, without her habitual in-person reserve to dampen her conversation. For Lady Middleton, she observed that Miss Dashwood was more disposed to ask of her children when they weren’t directly in front of her, which soothed her mother’s ego and allowed her leave to move to further topics of discussion.
And do you find any young men you admire? Lady Middleton wrote in one such missive, after conceding to Elinor’s point on the recent election, and congratulating her for news of Marianne’s recent engagement to a naval gentleman recently come to Bath. I trust that through all your labour and responsibilities, you remember that you are still a handsome young woman.
To which Elinor had thought through a number of responses, none of which were ultimately utilised, in favour of avoiding the question entirely. It would be the truth to say that not one man had impressed her as much as Edward Ferras, but no one had caught her before at such a low point. Mourning the death of her beloved father, feeling all the strains of a sensible daughter of an impractical mother and expecting a visitor with a disposition like that of his sister - was it any wonder that she was liable to fall? Elinor had long forgiven herself for the depth of her emotions at such a point, but once having dreamed - the world could not again be viewed lightly.
It was in such a state of feeling that Elinor unexpectedly saw Colonel Brandon again. It happened that she was visiting with Margaret in Bristol, where the party of friends happened to include the Colonel. He greeted her with a cordiality which she felt very happy to return, and was saved a potentially awkward reveal by Colonel Brandon immediately offering congratulations to Marianne, for he had heard of her engagement through Sir Middleton.
“I wish her every happiness,” he said formally, before moving the conversation on to the general health of her family, and then to Bath and the county of Somerset and the vast differences between this place and that of Sussex, London and Devonshire in turn. It was a pleasant enough conversation and served as a keen reminder to Elinor of Colonel Brandon’s innate goodness, and of her real affection for him. She might have left only with this positive, if vague, recollection of his qualities, if not for an interlude which occurred two days later.
The subject of Elinor’s artistry had been aired at dinner the previous week, and Elinor had been entreated by their hosts to share a portfolio of her works. As she had just that day completed a sketch portrait of their hosts’ eldest child, it was this that she brought as her share and contribution in the evening’s entertainment. It was a good sketch, she knew, and she accepted the praise and compliments with a little modesty and much gratitude. It was Colonel Brandon, however, who stood in contemplation of the drawing for the longest period of time, and who questioned her thoughtfully on the choice of composition and the use of light and shadow.
“Perhaps I will see more of your work, one day,” he said gravely, handing her back the drawing.
“Perhaps,” agreed Elinor. “I do not usually work on commission, but I could be persuaded to relent for an old friend.”
Colonel Brandon nodded thoughtfully. “I may indeed request it,” he said.
–
It was a full eight years following their wedding, that Elinor once again met with Mr and Mrs Edward Ferrars. Their meeting was accidental but not coincidental, as guests at a soiree held by Mrs Jennings, all might be expected to attend.
“How do you do, Miss Dashwood?” Edward asked politely, at which point Lucy clutched his arm and chided him for his question, for of all things didn’t he know that Miss Dashwood was doing famously well? Living with her mother and sisters in the happy town of Bath, what more could a woman wish for - not at all like married women and mothers as herself, who danced day and night at the commands of her family! Surely Edward should know that Miss Dashwood was deeply blessed to be so unencumbered, for all these years together? He really needn’t ask how she was doing at all.
Elinor listened with a little pique and little more amusement, and finally extricated herself from Lucy’s exuberance by heralding Lady Middleton, and excusing herself for a far more enjoyable conversation on the relative merits of Keats verses Byron.
Later, on her own in her single room, Elinor gave herself leave for reflection. Edward had gained no beauty in the time apart, but had lost none of his quiet gravity, his subtle warmth. She could not look at him as she once did, and know herself to be loved. But - the fact of that did not grieve her. Lucy could not have dropped in her estimation, and so her feelings towards this woman were unchanged, but for Edward? It was another Elinor who loved him, and this present Elinor was saddened more for the loss of this more romantic, reckless part of her self, than the man who had inspired it.
Such heady thoughts! Elinor arranged her nightgown for sleep, and took a last sip of water - determining that tomorrow she should spend her time in eminent practicality. She was an aunt twice over, now, and the demands of a growing family were always in need of her particular brand of common sense. Her life was full, and she knew herself lucky for it.
She blew the candle out firmly.
–
Margaret’s new husband was young, handsome, and deeply in awe of his bride. No walk was to be considered without her arm through his; no card game complete without Margaret as a partner, and every conversation was lacking without the thoughts and reflections of his true love to guide him. Though charmed by his manners and generally approving of his character, Elinor found his company tiresome, and therefore spent much of her visit at Delaford turned away from their bliss-filled company. In this, Elinor found an unlikely companion in that of Eliza Williams.
“We cannot often spare the time to visit,” Eliza explained shyly, as they walked through the west garden, following the spritely footsteps in front of them, “but Henry loves it here.” She watched fondly as her son ran ahead, shouting excitedly about a new bird’s nest in the old willow.
Elinor did not look for signs of the father’s likeness in little Henry Williams, and in doing this, avoided seeing anything in the child’s looks and manners but his mother’s influence.
“And how do you find Colonel Brandon?” Elinor asked. “He seems in good humour.”
“The best!” agreed Eliza. “I do not think I’ve seen him so engaged in a conversation as we were at dinner last night.”
The previous evening, Elinor and Colonel Brandon had driven a discussion on the most recent parliamentary victory.
“Indeed,” replied Elinor, as Henry ran back to them, astonished and amazed at the veritable cornucopia of wildlife in the old tree.
It wasn’t until she started sketching later that evening - in that absent, nebulous way that signified more of an unwinding than purposeful activity - that she realised that she was drawing Eliza’s face. There was something about her expression that - aside from being a beautiful woman - intrigued her. It wasn’t until she’d finished the sketch that she realised it was the expression that Eliza wore when she looked on her child.
“You remember once you said that you may request a portrait of my making?” Elinor asked Colonel Brandon a few days later, as they perused the library on a hunt for a particularly elusive copy of The Faerie Queene.
“I do,” replied Colonel Brandon. “I have only to decide upon the subject.”
“I believe I have anticipated your request, and have completed your picture.”
“Indeed?” he replied, turning to her curiously.
“It may be a liberty,” acknowledged Elinor, “and it’s certainly immodest of me to mention it, but as you made a point to admire my artwork -”
“I would love to see it,” cut in Colonel Brandon. He glanced around at his guests, enjoying a lively game of whist. “Could you bring it now?”
Elinor had some experience with appreciation of her artwork. In lieu of husband or children, visitors to her home were apt to praise her drawing - often with a double-take of surprise that they actually meant their words of commendations. Perhaps spinsters were supposed to be poor and meek at everything, and that any form of talent was a true shock. The expression that crossed Colonel Brandon’s face, however, was something different. And yet - familiar, too. The way that his eyes drew together slightly, the tightening of the jaw, and yet the softening around the mouth and lips. If Elinor was not much mistaken - and she was a good enough study in expression to believe herself correct - it was the same look that she had seen on him once before. In Barton Park, on their first evening of acquaintance - when he had first heard Marianne play the piano.
“Thank you,” Colonel Brandon said finally, relinquishing the drawing, and returning his eyes to Elinor’s face. “Thank you for this.”
Elinor, to her deep surprise, attempted to control a blush.
–
Not long after, Elinor’s visit at Delaford came to an end, and she was returned to her regular life. In Bath, she lived in Marianne’s house, to thus be on hand at all times for her niece and nephews. There were times, however, when she sought solitude by visiting at her mother’s house, just two streets over - and it was here that Elinor sat down for a moment of planned consideration.
Elinor was unused to struggling with her feelings, which had hitherto always been clear to her. It was highly unlike her to allow someone to come in and affect her unannounced - and she took a moment to reflect on this, with a little resentment. She had thought herself too old, now, for desire.
Elinor liked her life. It was busy and purposeful and settled, and it gave her moments of deep joy and great satisfaction. Had she married Edward - had he had been free, had he managed to unentangle himself from Lucy - the entirety of her life for the past ten years would be substantially changed. She would have been a wife (and mother?) first, and in so doing would be less a sister, daughter, cherished aunt. If she had married young - how fanciful her thoughts were, she scolded herself lightly - there were a thousand moments of delight with her own immediate family that she would have missed. Perhaps they would have been equaled or exceeded in that of marital bliss, but, perhaps not. Either way, Elinor resolved, taking a sip of tea as she looked at the window at her mother’s garden - she would not have traded that now.
A month later, Colonel Brandon paid a visit to Bath. On a proposed visit to Widcombe parks, it was perfectly natural that Elinor’s mother should walk with her husband, and therefore that Elinor herself would walk with the Colonel.
For the first time in their acquaintance, both suffered for words with each other.
“I mean to call on your sister tomorrow,” Colonel Brandon said eventually. “Marianne,” he clarified.
“I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you,” Elinor replied calmly, and then struggled to find her next line.
“I was sorry to miss your youngest sister, Margaret,” the colonel valiantly continued.
“Yes,” Elinor nodded. “I believe they’re enjoying the lakes,” she continued, then stopped. She couldn’t think of a single supplementary thing to say about the lakes.
“Miss Dashwood -”
“Yes?”
Colonel Brandon paused, stopping in the middle of the path. “Your shawl is slipping,” he said softly, and picked up the edge of the material, and looped it gently back around her arm. Elinor caught her breath, and turned her head a little to hide her break in composure. He had never been so close to her before.
“Miss Dashwood,” Colonel Brandon began again, stood still on the path. Looking her full in the face, his expression was calm but intent. “I trust I have your permission to speak openly.”
Elinor nodded, heart in throat. “Always.”
Colonel Brandon took her gloved hand in his. “I came to Bath to ask you to marry me,” he said simply. “Do you accept?”
His hand around hers was warm. She felt comforted by it, secured. It was a wonderful feeling, but - Elinor realised that it was not at all necessary. Her life as it was, spinsterhood and all, was full of comfort, full of love. Elinor searched herself, and found that she had no need to change her situation at all. Anything she chose now, any choice she made regarding her future - she knew it to be free from any form of requirement. Whether or not she accepted Colonel Brandon, Elinor knew that she would be happy. She allowed herself to feel pride in this. This was her life. She had built it herself.
Colonel Brandon inclined his head. “I have no poetry,” he said quietly. “But I trust you know my feelings for you.”
Elinor smiled at him, and gently resumed their walk, her mother and step-father still just visible in the distant path before them. She understood him perfectly.
–
Excerpt from The Times, 14th June 1805
It is with great pleasure that we announce the wedding of Colonel Brandon of Delaford, Dorsetshire to Miss Elinor Dashwood, daughter of Sir Dashwood of Norland Park, Sussex. Married this past month at the Delaford estate, in witness of close friends and family.