by Lauren Lane
“I am sorry I do not,” said Elinor, in great astonishment, “if it could be of any use to you to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character.”
“I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present — but the time may come — how soon it will come must depend upon herself — when we may be very intimately connected.”
She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.
“Good heavens!” cried Elinor, “what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?” And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.
“No,” replied Lucy, “not to Mr. Robert Ferrars — I never saw him in my life; but,” fixing her eyes upon Elinor, “to his eldest brother.”
What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.
“You may well be surprised,” continued Lucy; “for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters.” — She paused.
Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude — “May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?”
“We have been engaged these four years.”
“Four years!”
“Yes.”
Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.
“I did not know,” said she, “that you were even acquainted till the other day.”
“Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle’s care, you know, a considerable while.”
“Your uncle!”
“Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?”
“I think I have,” replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion.
“He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him.”
“Certainly,” answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after a moment’s reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward’s honour and love, and her companion’s falsehood — “Engaged to Mr. Edward Ferrars! — I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really — I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars.”
“We can mean no other,” cried Lucy, smiling. “Mr. Edward Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends.”
Such a confirmation left no additional room for doubt, and Elinor’s whole world tilted on its axis.
So this was what he’d been trying to tell her — twice! That first day in the woods, when she’d brought up the subject of marriage, and that second day over the hill. He’d had something to tell her, and she’d silenced him, giving in instead to the demands of her body … and her heart.
And when he’d spoken of his mysterious personal situation, surely this was what he was referring to! Of course he couldn’t give Elinor specifics — not if he’d wanted her to keep giving herself to him, anyway. But, Elinor thought with an infinitesimal spark of hope, when he’d said he needed to remedy his situation, was it possible he meant to break the engagement with Lucy Steele?
Elinor shook her head to herself, the spark of hope fading more quickly than a candle snuffed out by a sharp gust of wind. No. Of course not. If he meant to end his engagement to Miss Steele, if he truly had no feelings for her, he would have told Elinor the truth. After all they’d shared, and all they’d revealed of themselves, he could have opened up to her about this. And he’d chosen not to. Which left only one logical conclusion: he did not wish to end the engagement. Which meant he’d never intended to marry Elinor at all. The “personal situation” line had just been an excuse to get away cleanly, without being forced to make a commitment to Elinor. He’d fed her with lie after lie, and she’d fallen for it every time.
Though her heart was crushed beyond all repair, Elinor somehow managed to remain relatively expressionless and keep her focus directed on Lucy.
“It is strange,” replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, “that I should never have heard him even mention your name.”
“No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister’s suspecting any thing, that was reason enough for his not mentioning it.”
She was silent. Elinor’s security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it.
“Four years you have been engaged,” said she with a firm voice.
“Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart.” Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, “To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for. I have had it above these three years.”
She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward’s face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. She knew that face — and all the other parts of him — as well as she knew the back of her own hand.
“I have never been able,” continued Lucy, “to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity.”
“You are quite in the right,” replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. The trajectory of Elinor’s thoughts had taken a sudden shift. What had their time together meant to him? No matter the multitude of other lies Edward had told her, she was quite certain he had been speaking the truth when he’d confessed he had not made love to a woman before her. But
now, learning of his engagement to Miss Steele, she could not help but wonder why. Did he find himself more physically attracted to Elinor, in spite of the love he harboured for Lucy in his heart? Was he using Elinor as a method of practise, before he unleashed his romantic efforts on his new wife? Did he respect Lucy in a way he did not respect Elinor? Or was it simply a matter of his being a man powerless to resist the bold invitation of a ravenous woman?
“I am sure,” said Lucy, “I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman.”
“I certainly did not seek your confidence,” said Elinor; “but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety.”
As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but Lucy’s countenance suffered no change.
“I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,” said she, “in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward’s mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world t’other day, when Edward’s name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You can’t think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward’s sake these last four years. Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom — we can hardly meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite broke.”
Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate.
“Sometimes,” continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, “I think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely.” As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. “But then at other times I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own account too — so dear as he is to me — I don’t think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?”
“Pardon me,” replied Elinor, startled and quite put off by the question; “but I can give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you.”
“To be sure,” continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both sides, “his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite ill.”
“Did he come from your uncle’s, then, when he visited us?”
“Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he came directly from town?”
“No,” replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance in favour of Lucy’s veracity; “I remember he told us, that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth.” She remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names.
“Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?” repeated Lucy.
“We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived.”
“I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor fellow! — I am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;” taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor. “You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as usual. He was tired, I dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible.”
Elinor saw that it was his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward’s gift; but a correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few moments, she was almost overcome — her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly stand. How she’d longed to receive such a letter from Edward and been granted with nothing. The only letter he’d ever written her — if it could even be called as such — was the note half-explaining his hasty retreat from Barton. A note which had not only revealed the unhappy news that he must leave, which had been bad enough indeed, but which, she now realized, had been filled with deceptions. She felt utterly sick, but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that her success was speedy, and for the time complete.
“Writing to each other,” said Lucy, returning the letter into her pocket, “is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even that. If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?”
Oh, dear Lord, the ring! The very symbol that had convinced Elinor to throw herself at Edward once more, that he loved her as much as she loved him. The whole time, it had not been her hair at all. The whole time — even when he hadn’t a stitch of clothes on his body — he’d been wearing a lock of hair of his fiancée! “I did,” said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.
Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the conversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty to think and be wretched.
Volume II
CHAPTER XXIII
However small Elinor’s general dependence on Lucy’s veracity might be, it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of inventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; supported as it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes and Edward’s lies. Their opportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward’s visit near Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family connections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself. Her resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations, soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally dece
iving her? Had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel? Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart?
Elinor tossed and turned in her bed, desperately wishing for a nap to carry her away from her mind filled with contradictions, but her thoughts were eating at her to the point where she could no longer sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him — his clear eyes burning into her own, his chest heaving with the breathlessness of passion, his hand entwined with hers.
No; whatever his affections for Miss Steele might once have been, Elinor could not believe it such at present. His affection was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly loved her.
As that certainly settled within her, Elinor’s restless mind began to calm and she traveled back in her memories to that last day she’d spent in his arms.
“Elinor,” he’d whispered after several long minutes of silence where they’d caught their breath and allowed their bodies to cool following their most recent bout of pleasure.
“Mmm?” she’d murmured, so content with her head on Edward’s bare chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, that she’d begun to slip away into sleep.
“You bring me pleasure and joy in every way possible and I fear I shall never get enough of you.” He’d spoken into her hair and it was as if every strand on her head had come alive with his words, the sensation of warmth and contentment and pure happiness spreading throughout her whole body, all the way down to her toes.