by Lauren Lane
“At Longstaple!” he replied, with an air of surprise. “No, my mother is in town.”
“I meant,” said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, “to inquire for Mrs. Edward Ferrars.”
She dared not look up; — but her mother and Marianne both turned their eyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said, —
“Perhaps you mean — my brother — you mean Mrs. — Mrs. Robert Ferrars.”
“Mrs. Robert Ferrars!” — was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement; — and though Elinor could not speak, even her eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice —
“Perhaps you do not know — you may not have heard that my brother is lately married to — to the youngest — to Miss Lucy Steele.”
His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know where she was.
“Yes,” said he, “they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish.”
Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw, or even heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the village, leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden, — a perplexity which they had no means of lessening but by their own conjectures.
CHAPTER XLIX
Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined by all; — for after experiencing the blessings of one imprudent engagement, contracted without his mother’s consent, as he had already done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in the failure of that, than the immediate contraction of another.
His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask Elinor to marry him; — and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, and just how much they’d shared together, it might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air.
How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told. This only need be said: when Edward knelt down on his knee before Elinor, the joy and relief and love that flowed between them was so bounteous that he could barely get the words out before she leapt on top of him.
Their lips joined simultaneously, and they eagerly fed from one another, as if finally being presented with food after an endless fast. Elinor could scarcely believe she was in Edward’s arms once more, and she savoured every second of this moment, appreciating it for the true miracle it was.
Marianne had hustled Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret from the room at Edward’s appearance, aware that his plan was to propose to her sister, and knowing full well what would take place between the couple once the engagement was official; it was, after all, exactly how she would wish to commemorate such an event, and she felt obliged to provide Elinor and Edward with the utmost privacy.
Elinor knew her sister’s agenda in escorting the family out of the room, and therefore felt confident that, though in a somewhat public drawing room, she and Edward would not be disturbed.
She broke away from his lips, and worked her way down his body, kissing him everywhere as she removed his clothing piece by piece. When she reached his trousers, she unbuttoned him and watched with delight as his rock hard manhood sprang forth from its confinement. Elinor licked her lips and took him in her mouth, reveling in his moans of pleasure as she pumped him up and down with her lips and hand.
“Oh, Elinor,” Edward groaned, rocking his hips along with her movements. “You are the only woman for me. You must know how … how sorry I am for — ”
“Shhhh,” she whispered. “I know.”
Edward reached under her skirts and found Elinor was wet and ready for him. He almost burst in her mouth right then, but he managed to control himself just in time — now that Elinor was finally his, he wanted this moment to last as long as possible. He slid a finger inside her and teased her from the inside as she continued to suck his hardness. Then, using the moisture she produced, he slipped his thumb across her swollen bud, sliding back and forth rhythmically, and he felt her centre tighten around his hand. She began to produce enticing moans of her own, and he sped up his tempo. Elinor could not hold off any longer — she spasmed and trembled into a million pieces, her mouth sucking harder on him as she reached her completion.
Edward waited until her tremors faded away, and then took action. He flipped Elinor onto her back, raised her skirts, pulled her bodice down to reveal her glowing, radiant breasts, and entered her. They both moaned with relief at the exact same time, and their eyes locked, passion firing between them, as their hips rocked together frantically.
As Edward neared his release, Elinor pinned him with her gaze and whispered, “Don’t stop.”
Edward was confused at first as to her meaning, but then understanding dawned on him. He slowed his rhythm. “But my dear — ”
Elinor would not hear his protests, and thrust her hips up to meet him, encouraging him to keep going. “Please, Edward. I need you. All of you.”
“But … are you sure? We could wait until after the wedding … ”
Elinor shook her head. “No. Now.”
Her tone was so certain, so demanding, and Edward loved her so much, that he knew he would not deny her anything she asked for — now, or as long as they lived. He picked up the pace again, even more urgent this time, becoming excited by the idea of what she proposed, his own need suddenly matching hers.
“Oh, yes,” Elinor moaned. “Yes, Edward. Don’t stop!”
And this time, for the first time, they reached their release together, Edward filling Elinor with everything he had to offer, and Elinor exploding around him, the two of them in perfect harmony. As they had always been. As they would always be.
• • •
When they all sat down to table at four o’clock, about three hours after Edward’s arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother’s consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love; and elevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire. He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness; and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before.
His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the philosophic dignity of twenty-four.
“It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,” said he, “the consequence of ignorance of the world and want of employment. Had my brother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think, nay, I am
sure, it would never have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I must have done. But instead of having any thing to do, instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to choose any myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too — at least I thought so then; and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no comparisons, and see no defects. Considering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly.”
The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness of the Dashwoods, was such — so great — as promised them all, the satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both.
Marianne could speak her happiness only by tears. Comparisons would occur — regrets would arise; — and her joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.
But Elinor — how are her feelings to be described? From the moment of learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared her situation with what so lately it had been, — saw him honourably released from his former engagement, — saw him instantly profiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be, — she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity; and happily disposed as is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart.
Elinor knew it was indeed possible that she would become with child as a result of her union with Edward earlier in the afternoon, but she could not regret a single instant of what had passed between them. The moment when they had reached their bliss together, wrapped around one another, connected in every possible way, was the best moment of her life. She knew they would marry soon, so in the end it would not matter if she had conceived before the wedding, for no one would suspect a thing. And if she were carrying Edward’s child, nothing could make her happier. If she weren’t … then she would enjoy every second they worked to make it so.
Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week; — for whatever other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor’s company, or suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and the future; — for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of incessant talking will dispatch more subjects than can really be in common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is different. Between them no subject is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.
Lucy’s marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all, formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers; — and Elinor’s particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together, and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration, — a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that brother had been thrown off by his family — it was beyond her comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.
Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest. Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother’s affairs might have done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.
“That was exactly like Robert,” was his immediate observation. “And that,” he presently added, “might perhaps be in his head when the acquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs might afterward arise.”
How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for what followed; — and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put the letter into Elinor’s hands.
Dear Sir,
Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another’s. Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain —
Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,
Lucy Ferrars
I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls — but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep.
Elinor read and returned it without any comment.
“I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,” said Edward. “For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by you in former days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have blushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style.”
“However it may have come about,” said Elinor, after a pause, — “they are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert�
�s marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her.”
“She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite. She will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much sooner.”
In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy’s letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood and secured for himself, once and for all, a future of spending the rest of his days in her embrace; and by his rapidity in seeking that fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, after all their words and feelings exchanged both in the midst of, and outside, the throes of passion, expect a very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he did, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives.
That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened, even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions, they had been equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother’s anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him.