domestic scene unobserved, to lean against the doorframe and smile at his good fortune. He had loved Elinor the moment he had set eyes on her and, having overcome all the difficulties that had threatened to forestall their happiness, had succeeded in claiming her as his wife. He observed the happy scene. His daughter Anna was chattering to her mother in a most endearing way, whilst George looked about him, cradled in his mother's arms.
“I expect he will be just like me before he is much older,” Edward thought, “happy to sit back and observe his surroundings, letting the conversation flow with little attempt at joining in.”
Elinor was cutting up slices of cake with her free hand and appeared rather pensive, though to all intents and purposes, was engaged in attending to her little girl. He could always tell when she was immersed in her thoughts, because her eyes darted from one place to another and her brows knitted together. Edward wondered what she could be worrying about.
“Papapapapa,” shouted Anna, who had suddenly spied her father and pointed at him with a chubby finger.
Elinor rose immediately to greet him, the ribbons fluttering on her cap in her haste to reach his side, a smile replacing her frown.
“Edward, you are just in time for tea. I will ask Susan to fetch some more tea things. Come, sit down and tell us all about your day. How are Mrs Thomas and all her family? I do hope she enjoyed your basket of vegetables and the bread and honey. I did not imagine on my marriage that I would be blessed with both a gardener and a bee charmer for a husband, but then I know I should never be surprised at your talents, my dear.”
“Mrs Thomas enjoyed her bread and honey very much, Elinor,” he replied, dropping a kiss on Anna's curly head before picking her up in his arms. “She is feeling much better and now the weather has improved she expects to be very cheerful.”
“Well, that is good news.” Elinor paused. She wanted to tell Edward about Marianne's visit, to admit her misgivings about her sibling's present state of mind. She had not seen her sister's spirits so unsettled for a while and she was concerned. She knew perfectly well what was behind it all and could only guess at what other fancies disturbed the balance of Marianne's mind. Elinor decided she would say nothing of her fears for the present. “Marianne has been to visit us today and told us that Henry Lawrence of Whitwell is coming home at last.”
Edward hardly attended. He had Anna on his knee and she was demanding the clapping game she loved so much. “I am glad you had your sister for company,” came his reply.
Chapter 2
Margaret Dashwood sat before the glass in her room, gazing pensively at her reflection, unaware of the plans that were being made on her behalf. She tugged at her gleaming locks, pulling out the pins that restrained her curls, letting her hair fall down her back.
“How shall I ever leave home or lead an independent life?” she asked as she stared at the girl in the glass. “And as for my dreams of travelling to the far corners of the world, I do not know why I torture myself with such ideas. How, indeed, could a girl like myself even manage to travel on my own from one end of the country to the other, let alone another land?”
She imagined she would always live with her mother. Marriage seemed to be the only chance she might have to fulfil her desires, but she knew without a dowry her chances for finding a suitor were slim. Not only was there the problem of having no money, but there was also the delicate matter of a suitable match. There was not a young man in Devonshire whom she found in the least attractive or who could tempt her to marry. Not that she had received any firm offers to refuse. At eighteen, she had already decided that she would end an old maid with no prospect of fortune or adventure. Besides, there was another reason. How could she leave her mother all alone?
Mrs Dashwood had made it quite clear that she required no company and would not stand in the way of Margaret's happiness. “I do not wish to be a burden to my children. I am perfectly comfortable in my cottage and here I will stay until the good Lord sees fit to do otherwise. No, thank you, Margaret, it is not my wish to become a dependent relative, interfering in my daughters’ lives and frightening away their husbands.”
“Mama, I will never leave you. I cannot bear to think of you spending your days all alone.”
“Why, I shan’t be alone, I have all the company I need in my cousin, Sir John, and his family at Barton Park. As well you know, we have often wished that our lives could be half so quiet. There will always be company enough for me in that household, I can assure you, when you are gone to make a new life for yourself.”
Despite these assurances, Margaret was inclined to worry about her future and that of her mother whom she was sure could not really relish the prospect of living out her days alone at Barton Cottage. Mrs Dashwood would be returning from the village at any moment. Margaret bit her lip and pinched the colour back into her cheeks, before she grimaced with resignation and went downstairs.
“I have a letter from Marianne,” Mrs Dashwood announced as she came through the door a minute later, putting down her basket but omitting to remove her cloak and bonnet before she sat down. She loved to hear Marianne's news and with impatient fingers undid the seal.
“Dearest Mama and Margaret,” she read out loud, “I hope this letter finds you well, as we all are here. I know you will be as excited as I am to hear William's good news. His nephew, Henry Lawrence, is coming home to Whitwell at last. William is anxious to welcome him and has suggested that we invite Henry and all the Lawrences to Delaford with a view to reacquainting him with our family. Is that not good news? I have heard that he is a very pleasant, handsome young man, Margaret.”
“Am I never to be free from Marianne's schemes for matchmaking?” groaned Margaret. “There is not a man alive in Devonshire or Dorsetshire who has not been made to stand up with me by my sister. Nor is there one who has yet lived up to my expectations from descriptions exaggerated by old friends and neighbours. How many handsome young men do we hear thus chronicled, who have nonetheless turned out to be very far from pleasing to the eye and years past their youth?”
“Come, Margaret, you are a little hard on your friends. I am sure you thought Charles Carey quite handsome enough at one time. He was very smitten with you, I know, and I daresay that is why he has gone off to sea. You have quite broken his heart.”
“Mother! Charles is a dear friend, but that is all. There never was the romance you suspect. For one thing, he is too practical, too prudent for my taste. For another, he does not like poetry, scoffing at any mention of Cowper's cool colonnades or Wordsworth's dizzy raptures.”
“I always thought Marianne the one with the most romantic sensibility, but I think I have been mistaken. And whilst I admire a lofty crag or babbling rill as much as the next person, I do not know if it is wise to cast off eligible young men simply because they do not wax lyrical on a sofa or shady dell.”
“Mama, you love to tease me but I will never compromise. Perhaps I should not say so, but there has only ever been one man who matched my idea of manly perfection. But his name is never uttered here now and I know you will be cross if I so much as mention him.”
“I cannot think to whom you refer, Margaret—James Whitaker perhaps?”
She gave a sideways glance at her mother. “No, he is not the man. It is John Willoughby.”
“John Willoughby!” her mother exclaimed. She studied Margaret's face, folding the letter and setting it down upon the table.
Margaret took a deep breath before speaking her thoughts out loud. “I know I was hardly fourteen years of age when he came to court my sister, but John Willoughby stole my heart as well as hers, though I am sure no one suspected as much. There, I have dared to say his name.”
“Well, do not speak it again, I beg you. I do not know what you can be thinking, Margaret, after the way he treated Marianne. I have forgiven him in my own way of course, and indeed have felt quite sorry for him, but I hope I shall never set eyes on him ever again, nor have cause to wonder about him in any way. I am quite ashamed of you.”
“What else does Marianne say?” Margaret asked, turning the subject back to the letter's contents as quickly as she could.
“And I am glad to say that I have never seen Mr Willoughby in these parts,” her mother replied, completely
