Elinor smiled in spite of herself. Colonel Fitzwilliam had warned her that his sister would likely have such an influence on Marianne, who was already on a tear of vengeance after confronting Mr. Bingley. “I comprehend your feelings perfectly, dear sister; I only wish you would try to understand my own. What I feel about Edward can have nothing to do with the colonel, or any other man. I am wounded, and I hesitate to even attempt to correct our cousins’ misapprehension; my regard for Edward has suffered, and my faith in my own judgement is shaken – let us not add anybody else into the equation, if you please.”
Mary clutched Marianne’s hand. “I think she is right – you did not like it when I told you that Kitty flirted with Mr. Bingley, and you would hardly receive Colonel Brandon’s attentions merely because Willoughby disappointed you.”
“Certainly not,” Marianne huffed. “But if the brother of a friend like Lady Rebecca took an interest in me, I am sure I should see that he is a far superior man.”
Elinor pursed her lips, feeling some distress as she wondered if she had indeed enjoyed the colonel’s easy company more than she ought to have. But this was impossible; her shattered heart still belonged to Edward. She began to feel some rising resentment toward Marianne, who had loudly lamented her own heartbreak, and yet managed to grow fond enough of Wickham to be shaken by his punishment.
“Marianne, I believe you have indeed received the attentions of Lady Rebecca’s brother – her brother by marriage.You seemed to enjoy his company at the ball, before he was unmasked.”
Marianne gasped and staggered backwards into Mary. “Elinor, what a horrid thing to say! You know I hate him, even if Lizzy says that Jane does not wish us to. He must be heartless indeed if he could flirt with me while thinking to return to Jane!”
“He did not appear especially interested in Kitty, nor myself,” Mary mused. “He spoke of nothing but Jane, and his wish to impress her by improving himself at Netherfield.”
“Idiotic,” Marianne said with a shake of her head and a sneer.
Mary sat down on the bed and tugged Marianne down beside her. “You think Mr. Bingley ought to suffer the loss of my sister, but not that he ought to attempt to win her back, because she no longer thinks of him – is that not so?”
“Absolutely!”
“Then by the same logic, do you believe that Elinor ought to suffer the loss of Mr. Ferrars, but that she ought not attempt a reconciliation?”
“Well – I – it is hardly the same thing,” Marianne sputtered.
“But they are both grieving,” Mary said with rising frustration. “You cannot expect Elinor to think of the colonel or any other man, when you would murder Mr. Bingley in the street if he showed any interest in Kitty. Surely Elinor’s feelings were deeper than his.”
Tears welled in Elinor’s eyes. “Yes, exactly. Your hypocrisy is not comforting, Marianne.”
“My hypocrisy! Because I wish ill upon a feckless blockhead, and want my sister’s heart mended by a better man than the one who wounded it?” Marianne stood and tidied herrumpled appearance. “Send Lizzy and Jane my love – if I do not go and vent my spleen to Mamma, I may have to throttle Kitty!”
As Marianne stormed out of the room, Mary came to lay a hand on Elinor’s shoulder. “Do you wish to speak of it?”
“No, I have not the words. I will finish my letter. Perhaps you could prevent Marianne from distressing your mother and sisters?”
“Mamma believes the gentlemen are both our rightful property,” Mary said, furrowing her brow. “Jane shall have Longbourn, and we need not marry. But you… you say it is not so simple – I would hardly know – but I wish for your sake that it could be – that you might find happiness. You deserve it.”
Elinor gave her cousin a tearful smile. “You are vastly under-appreciated, Mary.”
When her cousin left her in solitude, Elinor paced the room for a quarter hour before she was fit to resume her letter. She did not like to quarrel with Marianne, but she could not suppress a sense of bitterness at all that had happened since the autumn. Marianne had been so open with her feelings, first in her happiness, and then in her sorrow at Willoughby’s abandonment.
Elinor never had the luxury of such candor, and it was not in her nature, anyhow. She had been obliged to greater discretion at Norland, for Fanny had not concealed that she thought Elinor was beneath Edward. And then Elinor had been bound to secrecy when Lucy Steele confided; Marianne soon discovered the truth for herself and commiserated with her, but Elinor was still not at liberty to disclose the truth to any other soul. Her feelings had been private, and Marianne had impetuously presumed this to mean that her grief was not as great, but when Elinor finally endeavored to express what she felt, Marianne had utterly failed to comprehend her.
Elinor could not bear such sentiments as these for long, and she soon applied herself to finishing the letter. She said nothing of Edward, for she could not bring herself to write anything of him, not even that she had no wish to hear further of him.
But there was one matter she felt she must address, for she knew that Elizabeth’s dislike of Mr. Darcy was founded on the same false account Mr. Wickham had given Marianne. Since Mr. Darcy had been so gallant toward Jane, Elinor felt it a right thing that her cousin be given all the facts, as the colonel had imparted to her at the ball; she disclosed everything he had told her, except for the identity of the lady Mr. Wickham had prevailed upon.
Before closing her letter, Elinor once more considered what to say about Edward. Had he mistaken her meaning on Christmas Eve, or had he willfully misrepresented himself to Jane? Could he indeed wish to pursue an heiress? Or perhaps her cousins had misunderstood somehow….
She could express none of these fears, and folded the letter as tears poured down her face. Beyond all these questions was a far greater doubt; perhaps Marianne was right in believing that she deserved a better man, for Elinor had known every sort of punishment for her attachment to Edward, and not a single advantage.
Chapter Twelve
London
A few days later, the ladies from Berkeley Square were invited to what the Countess of Matlock deemed afamily dinner. She was livelier than Elizabeth expected her to be, and a few years younger than the earl’s children. Lady Matilda Fitzwilliam greeted her guests warmly, with none of the formality they anticipated.
“My poor husband is not feeling well this evening, but I am determined to be hospitable enough for the both us – especially when I have heard such praise of you all! Miss Bennet, the very image of Aphrodite! Miss Elizabeth, you indeed have a look of playful cheer about you, and quite as lovely as your sister! And the charming Mrs. Gardiner, I hear you are a perfect blend of your nieces’ grace and wit – or rather, they have learned such gifts from you. Mrs. Jennings, the benevolent hostess of such a charming feminine party – I am sure I should envy you that joy, if Phillip’s daughters were not in residence to delight me – seven years married, and no children of my own! Well, you shall meet them another time, for they are upstairs with Lacey. But we have some other friends to be met with here – I believe you areacquainted with Darcy's friends, and connected to them through family, after a fashion.”
Mr. Darcy looked rather mortified as his aunt rambled effusively, admired all the Bennet sisters’ finery, and finally led them into the drawing room. The viscount seemed not to notice anything that was passing, and had eyes only for Jane; he offered one arm to her, and the other to Mrs. Gardiner, and escorted them after the countess, who latched onto Mrs. Jennings with alacrity.
