Story [Sense & Sensibility] "Love Betters What is Best" | 2022 Kessel Run Challenge and More!

Title: "Love Betters What is Best"
Author: Mira_Jade
Fandom: Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility

Rating: PG
Time Frame: Everywhere!
Genre: Everything!
Characters: Everyone! (see the Index for individual entries)

Summary: A collection of stories written for the 2022 Kessel Run Challenge, and then for various other prompts.


Author's Notes: Well, my muse is still in a mood, so here I am signing up for something that may or may not be completed, depending on how my SW response goes for this same challenge. But, I'm going to try to keep up with both threads for as long as my inspiration holds out, and just have what fun I can in the meantime.

That said, while these stories may not be in chronological order, they will definitely be interconnected. As such, they are also set in the same continuum as my previous S&S stories, and I've attached links for any who may be interested underneath the spoiler tag below. (Goodness, but am I really at a point where I need a cut for this mini-'verse? I suppose I am. )

Spoiler: Related Works

• " ... and Shake the Rising Soul" | September 1797 | A missing scene from Chapter X, with Marianne and Willoughby.
  
  
• "By Their Very Nature" | October 1797 | A missing scene from Chapter XXXI, with the duel between Brandon and Willoughby.
  
  
• "All Fools in Love" | September 1798 | A duology of missing scenes from the epilogue of Chapter L.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, but for the words. The title for this collection is borrowed, with all affection, from the English romantic poet, William Wordsworth.

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An Index of Parts:​

2022 Kessel Run Entries:

Week I: "Such Sweet Sorrow" | October 2nd, 1798 | Miss Marianne Dashwood & Mrs. Elinor Ferrars

Week II: "Would That Never Storms Assailed It" | March 12th, 1799 | Mrs. Elinor Ferrars/Mr. Edward Ferrars

Week III: "I Heard a Thousand Blended Notes" | September 1798 - October 1799 | Ensemble Cast

Week III.II: "Where is it Now, the Glory and the Dream?" | February 23rd, 1798 | Miss Marianne Dashwood

Week III.III: "That Looks on Tempests" | April 1st, 1798 | Colonel Brandon & Miss Marianne Dashwood & Miss Elinor Dashwood

Week IV: "In Nature's Infinite Book of Secrecy" | Sometime Back Then | an Observer

Week V: "A Soft Place to Land" | April 20th, 1778 | Miss Eliza Williams I & Mr. John Brandon I

Week VI: "A Dram of Sweet; A Pound of Sorrow" | September 1812, AU | Mrs. Marianne Willoughby & Ensemble Cast

Week VII: "The Reflections of a Gentleman in His Glebe" | May 7th, 1799 | Mr. Edward Ferrars/Mrs. Elinor Ferrars

Week VIII: "The Mistress of Norland" | March 4th, 1797 | Mrs. Fanny Dashwood & Ensemble Cast

Week IX: "'Ode to a Brook' and Other Selections" | May 1788 - September 1798 | Miss Marianne Dashwood & Ensemble Cast

Week X: "Keep Thy Armor Bright" | August 19th, 1805 | Ensemble Cast & Miss Margaret Dashwood

Week XI (Bonus): "Cry Havoc and Let Slip" | April 1779 - November 1783 | Colonel Brandon & Sir John Middleton

Week XII.I: "We Few, We Happy Few" Part One | October 1798 - January 1799 | Ensemble Cast

Week XII.II: "We Few, We Happy Few" Part Two | October 1799 - August 1808 | Colonel Brandon/Mrs. Marianne Brandon

Week XII.III: "We Few, We Happy Few" Part Three | July 2nd, 1815 | Mrs. Marianne Brandon & Mrs. Anne Wentworth


Further Entries:

XIII: "Nor by Duty Alone" | April 1775 - February 1799 | Mrs. Emma Dashwood & Mr. John Dashwood; Colonel Brandon & Miss Eliza Williams II; Ms. Elinor Dashwood & Mr. Edward Ferrars; Miss Eliza Williams II; Mrs. Emma Dashwood & Ensemble Dashwood Ladies

XIV.I: "The Hour of Feeling" | Spring 1799 | Ensemble Cast



~ MJ

 

Author's Notes: The prompt for this week was to write a story between 100 and 1,000 words that starts with the sentence: "Saying goodbye was never easy, but she couldn't put it off any longer." To do so, this story picks up shortly after my "All Fools in Love" duology, where I filled in a few scenes from the missing year of the novel's epilogue. In short, for context: while Jane Austen had Edward and Elinor staying as Colonel Brandon's guests while renovations to their parsonage were completed, I threw Marianne into the mix for all sorts of interesting results. (And yes, someday I will tell the story of what happened over Michaelmas. We'll see if I get to that in this thread or not. ) But for now it's time for the sisters to say goodbye, and there's no one better suited to put the bittersweet sentimentality of such a parting into words than Miss Marianne Dashwood herself . . .

(Also, also, this came in just under the wire at 995 words, which I am immeasurably proud of. Look at that, but I can practice restraint in my writing! Yes, I can! )

As always, I thank any of you who may have stopped in to read, and hope that you enjoy.

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I: "Such Sweet Sorrow"​

October 2nd, 1798

Saying goodbye was never easy, but she couldn’t put it off any longer.

It felt as opening a wound upon her spirit to leave behind a place that had, in so short a time, became a seat of such joy to her heart. The day before, Marianne had taken leave of all her favorite places across Delaford, from the shady copse by the canal to the pianoforte in the library to the guest room in the newly settled parsonage that she’d already claimed as her very own. Yet those were merely places and things – beloved to her, yes, but cherished all the more so for the residents they shared. She would miss the acquaintances she had made and the friendships she had formed over the summer, and, of course, she was strangely reluctant to leave -

- but she was not thinking about him, then; she was not. So, she did not.

Instead, how could she consider anything else – feel anything else – when she was swearing such a solemn vow to her sister: “I shall write to you daily, and you must promise to do the same.”

“Only consider the expense of postage,” Elinor sensibly chided – though not so sensibly that Marianne failed to detect the faintest tremor within her voice. “I will scarce be so far away that you need resort to such measures.”

“Had I to choose between bread and a word from you, you know my sensibilities well enough to doubt my choice but little.”

“Indeed, I do,” for that, Elinor laughed outright and kissed her wet cheek. “But we'll see each other soon enough. Perhaps we may visit Barton next month? Or we may host you back here, depending on Edward’s duties.”

If scarce minutes then seemed untenable to her heart, entire weeks was an impossibility! Marianne knew she was fortunate, losing her sister only a mere twenty miles away when the distance could have been so much farther. And yet . . .

“What if I should have some reflection to share that requires the presence of the moment, but you are not there to receive it? How shall any of us go on without your wisdom, your courage, your prudence, your fortitude? I have never had to learn to live without you; I do not know where to even begin.”

“I suppose, dearest, that is where a well written letter will come into play.”

“You jest, but you must know that I intend to start writing you as soon as I am in the carriage – indeed, the very instant we depart!”

The carriage was even then waiting for her to say this last goodbye. Her mother and Margaret had already exhausted their own farewells, and Marianne knew that she should dry her eyes and join them. Yet -

- she threw her arms around her sister again and could not quickly let go.

“I refuse to say goodbye,” Marianne whispered fiercely, “nor do I take my leave in parting, for no true parting shall ever be wholly possible between us. Instead, farewell – farewell, my dearest Elinor, dearest to me in all the world! Thinking of your happiness – such well-deserved and long-awaited happiness – is the only reason I can turn from you now, and I will remain with you in spirit until we meet again.”

What Elinor did not match in such unbridled sentiment, she nevertheless held on tightly enough to return with all affection, “Until then.”

Finally – finally, Marianne pulled away. She turned to Edward next – poor Edward, who looked much too concerned for the bitter of the moment, rather than the sweet – which, no matter Marianne's grief, most certainly would not do. When Edward offered his hand, Marianne ignored him in favor of an embrace. “Continue to make my sister the most fortunate of women,” she absolved him, “and I shall forgive you this parting.”

“I shall do my best.” It took a moment – an admittedly awkward moment – before Edward submitted to her affections, yet submit he did. “However, Marianne, you must know that you will be missed by more than just Elinor.”

“I shall miss you, as well – I’ve found that I quite enjoy having a brother.” For if this was what a brother was, then she supposed she’d never truly had a brother at all.

“And I, a sister,” Edward agreed, and they shared a smile steeped in their own unique form of understanding before they parted.

With that, it was time. Bravely, Marianne turned for the carriage – where Colonel Brandon was waiting to offer her a hand up and see her family off. She thought to thank him for his courtesy, as well as for their means of conveyance – without which, she would certainly be making use of the mail coach most often in the months to come – yet her words were seemingly caught in her throat when she met his eyes. She felt a pang, then – not nearly as intense as what she felt to leave Elinor behind, but similar enough to give her pause. She’d . . . she’d grown quite used to him, and now . . .

. . . well, she only knew that she would miss him, once she returned to Barton.

Yet, for that same hesitant flush of feeling, she knew what would happen next: he would bow to her, so perfectly exact and perfectly polite, not even that teasing bow she’d come to look forward to and had even sought to inspire over the summer. (She’d lost even that with his retreat into civility following . . . well, everything that had occurred between them during Michaelmas.) So, once that dreaded bow was through, she summoned a boldness she usually never had to search for and -

- she reached out and pressed his hand before he could offer his own. Firmly, she squeezed, and even through the fabric of their gloves she fancied that she could feel the warmth of him, marking her as much as she hoped she marked him in return.

She would not say goodbye here, either. She would not.

Instead: “Until we meet again, Colonel.”

A moment passed, hushed with expectation, before he echoed her to agree, “Until then.”



fini


~ MJ

 

Thank you for the awesome feedback, everyone!

Heck yeah I am! You're right, that's a much better outlook to have.

Oh, we're gonna get there. As of right now it's part of my 5+1 fic, but if there's the right prompt . . . (Then there's even a part of me that wants to make it a separate short story all together to show what the entire cast was up to over Michaelmas, because why not? Buuut, we'll see.)

And you know I appreciate that!

Poor girl. Feelings are hard anyway, let alone new feelings after so many other disastrous feelings. Buuuuut, not only will she get there, she's also already farther along than she realizes.

They both have such distinct voices that are so much fun to portray! I'm glad they shone through so clearly for you, too.

Because that's really what S&S is all about, isn't it? It's a tale of sisters, more so than anything else, and I do so adore their bond. Beyond that, writing Marianne's flair for the dramatic is just so enjoyable from a technical standpoint! It's certainly unique, that's for sure. And Elinor deserves all of the happiness, so I'm just gonna let her be happy here, yes siree I am!

Those lines were actually added in the editing stage, would you believe it? It rather crept up on me to be one of my favorite parts, too! Because they have come so far - Marianne mocking Edward for being plain and awkward and goodness, Elinor, but how can you love a man who butchers Cowper so horrendously? Euuugh, he's so spiritless! is certainly a thing of the past. Marianne now knows what character traits to truly value, and Edward has those in abundance. Plus, he makes Elinor happy, so she can forgive him any and all deficiencies in his reading. After the likes of Fanny and Henry Dashwood, having this true bond develop - that sorta mini "found family" - is just all sorts of beautiful, and a joy to explore a little bit further in these ficlets.

WHAT KIND OF JANE AUSTEN FAN WOULD I BE IF I DIDN'T TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THE SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE HAND-HOLDING THAT COMES FROM HELPING A LADY INTO A CARRIAGE??? It's practically a requirement.

Oh, we're going to get there.

Ha, indeed! Something tells me that Edward is going to be the giddiest gentleman farmer to ever farm, and safeguarding the glebe from errant cattle is going to be a matter of Paramount Importance. Plus, you know that Elinor is going to sneak that garish green fabric sample somewhere in the parsonage - maybe not covering a window, but somewhere. I'm gonna write as many little domestic moments as I can in this collection, yes, indeed, I am!

I'm glad that you are enjoying these stories so far, that said! I can't thank you enough for your wonderful feedback, as always!

Aw, thanks! I couldn't ask for a better compliment than this.

I can definitely see what you'd have in common.

Aw, thank you! Again, that is the highest of praise! You do honor me.

Shhh, it's just a little surplus of sentimentality.

You know, I thought the very same thing when I was writing that line . . .

Well then, I just have no choice. I do look forward to writing all the domestic moments for these two, that said. All the happy couples being happy; yep, that's going to be a thing, here.

Thank you so much for reading and taking the time to leave your thoughts! I always appreciate your doing so.



Alrighty, more will be up in just a few.


~ MJ

 

Author's Notes: The prompt for Week II was to write a dialogue-only story between 400 and 800 words in which two characters have a disagreement. This time I managed to have an entire 20 words buffering my word count from the uppermost limits of the prompt. I'm doing better every time. My title for this week is borrowed from the poem The Hand That Rocks the Cradle, by William Ross Wallace.

As a final note, this ficlet does contain a topic that may be triggering for some, so I wanted to give a brief Content Warning for the discussion of infant mortality/maternal mortality in this ficlet. If that's a troubling subject for you, you may want to give this one a pass. Keep yourselves safe.

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II: “Would That Never Storms Assailed It”​

March 12th, 1799

“Edward, what are you doing?”

“What -oh? What is it? Is something the matter?”

“All is well with me, yet with you I remain uncertain – you are sleeping on the floor.”

“Ah yes . . . yes, I am.”

“And you have been, haven’t you, every night after I've fallen asleep?”

" . . . "

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, is this too about the baby?”

“I only thought that – well, if you should require more room, um, now that you are rather obviously with child - ”

" - I am pregnant, not sick with the plague!”

“Indeed, your countenance glows far too beautifully for a victim of Bubonic fever - ”

“ - pray, do not jest. I am utterly serious to declare that I have had quite enough of your coddling. I cannot abide such cosseting, nor bear being made to feel so unlike myself when everyone around me thinks me incapable of even the most inconsequential tasks - ”

“ - yet how are we to know your needs if we do not first anticipate them ourselves? You are always so strong, Elinor – too strong, at times! Anything you feel that you can bear alone, you do bear alone – especially if you believe that your doing so will benefit the ones you love. Meanwhile, your family can only guess and hope - ”

“ - so that is why you are on the floor? You made an assumption, and took it upon yourself to act without first consulting me? Why are you on the floor, that said? You could have at least taken one of the other rooms in order to spare yourself such a rough night’s sleep.”

“Yes, but what if you were to wake and have need of me? I wished to remain close at hand.”

“ . . . ”

“ . . . ”

“Sometimes, you make it exceedingly difficult to remain vexed.”

“Which is, I would say, a rather desirable trait for a husband to possess?”

“Only in moderation. Yet I do feel somewhat shamed, now. You were only trying to care for me, and I let my own personal frustrations overwhelm my better sense. For that I am sorry.”

“Fortunately, I have a wife who is easy to forgive – especially when no forgiveness is necessary. I too must apologize. I never intended for you to feel stifled, in any way. It is only . . .”

“ . . . ”

“ . . . ”

“Please, speak plainly. Tell me what is on your mind.”

“I find that I'm rather hesitant to speak my mind. To say the words aloud feels as if I'm inviting them into our lives when I’d rather banish them completely.”

“Yet they are only words; their only power is that which you give them.”

“You may have the right of it, my sensible Elinor . . . very well. It is only that I sometimes feel as if I have christened as many living babies as . . . well, those who are not. To speak their last rites in the same breath as they are named and introduced to God . . . not to mention the fates suffered by their poor mothers. To imagine our child, instead . . . to imagine you . . ."

"Oh, Edward."

"It is a cruel thing, death, and it's at its cruelest whenever new life is poised to enter into the world. I must confess that I cannot help but fear . . . well, I simply fear, and that fear is enough to overwhelm me at times.”

“. . . Edward – no, please look at me. You are not the only one fighting such fears . . . I understand, truly I do. When they come, we may take what comfort we can from the knowledge that I am strong and healthy. Everything about my pregnancy is proceeding naturally so far, as it should.”

“Yes, but what if that is not enough? You are off to wage this impossible war alone, while I . . . I can only . . .”

“. . . grant me more space in bed, as you believe I require?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, you will be no good to either the baby or myself if you sleep on the floor. Please, come back to bed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am quite certain. What I need right now is to be held.”

“Is . . . is this acceptable?”

“Perfectly acceptable, you dear, ridiculous man.”

“You would tell me - ”

“ - hush, enough of that. I . . . I cannot promise what I cannot predict with all certainty. Yet I can vow to do everything in my power to stay with you – and our child, as well. I am quite determined on this matter; I am very determined, indeed.”

“If you are . . . then perhaps I can be determined, too.”

“Good. Now, please, go to sleep. Let your worries be as best you can.”

“If that is what my wife requires of me - ”

“ - yes, she most certainly does - ”

“ - then I must comply. Goodnight, Elinor, and . . . goodnight, little one. Sweet dreams to you both.”



fini


~MJ

 

Aw, thank you! Mara and Leia definitely share Elinor's tendencies for sensible self-sufficiency, it's true! But at the end of the day that's what marriage is all about - leaning on your spouse and supporting them in your turn - and all of the great couples find their equilibrium together, you're too right.

Thank you so much for reading, as always!

I'll see what I can do.

You should have seen me par down these drabbles, then. It was a bit touch and go at times, but they somehow all ended up a hundred words in the end.

You know, neither did I until I started writing.

I tell you, Edward has a voice that's so easy for me to imagine while I'm writing - and that's in large part thanks to Hugh Grant's performance, I can't deny it. I mean, I try to write neutrally for any version and lean into the book as best I can, but sometimes the '95 depictions are just so distinct in my head that I can't resist.

You have one of the good ones, it sounds like, then! I love it when fiction can bring you back to RL like this.

Exactly. I almost quoted a few statistics from one of the history books I've been referencing on this era, and then decided it wasn't necessary. Let's just say that the numbers were ugly - terrifying so. I can only imagine how scary, albeit still joyous, a time this would have been for any couple 200+ years ago. Heck, it can be scary even now, no matter our modern advancements in medicine and technology!

It hurt writing it. As much as I can see Edward thriving in giving his very short sermons and officiating weddings and christenings and helping out with things like the parish school and aiding the community with acts of charity etc., there's definitely that darker side of his duties that I imagine would hit twice as hard because he cares so much. Then, to consider that possibility for his own family . . . yeah, I had an "oh, Edward" moment, too. And, of course, no one would understand that better than Elinor.

This made me so happy to hear. I'm not a mother, myself, so I did worry about balancing the emotions in this piece between what she was feeling and what he was feeling, but by the end it felt good to let the tension start to lift - or, at least, so I fancied while I was writing.

That was plenty eloquent for me. I'm happy to hear it!

Thank you! Again, I really appreciate hearing that as an author, and I am so, so glad that you enjoyed this piece in particular.




Alrighty, I will be back with more in just a few.



~ MJ

 

Author's Notes: The prompt for Week III was to write a set of hundred word drabbles - which is an artform I admittedly both love and loathe at the same time. My title is yet another Wordsworth nick, from a poem he wrote while in a grove reclined, which seemed a more than fitting tribute. The first drabble, Discovery, takes place at the end of the same day "All Fools in Love" encompasses. Beacon, too, references that same story and may not wholly make sense otherwise.

As always, I thank you all for reading and hope that you enjoy!

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III: "I Heard a Thousand Blended Notes"​

Discovery (September 3rd, 1798)

“I would happily never utter a word of Shakespeare again.”

“But your reading was not wholly wanting, Edward! You’ve even somewhat improved since I forced Cowper on you back at Norland.”

“Do you hear that, Elinor? My reading was not wholly wanting.”

“Indeed, you’ve even somewhat improved.”

“Yet I’d contend that it’s not fair to judge my skill alongside Brandon’s. I daresay that Shakespeare himself couldn’t have imagined a finer voice for his words, and I don’t – Marianne, are you quite well?”

Elinor looked back to see where Marianne had paused in the hall, her eyes wide in the candlelight.



Beacon (September 28th, 1798)

It was as a beacon shining at the end of a long night, their new parsonage home. Every last detail brought him joy: from the ivy and honeysuckle, trailing across the bricks; to the parlor windows overlooking the gardens; to the paper on the walls that Elinor herself had picked – Elinor, his wife. He was married, and to the choice of his own heart, after everything.

When Edward entered his study to see a cushion fixed in a dreadful pattern of pine and cone in green and gold, waiting on the chair behind his desk, he laughed aloud, delighted anew.



Arcane (October 10th, 1798)

“How can you expect me to read this? It’s positively arcane.”

“I believe you mean archaic, Margaret.”

“It’s that too, but I meant what I said. This may as well be a book of secrets. I’m not even wholly convinced it’s English.”

“Spenser is too English – glorious, inspired, rapturous - ”

“ - but not any English I recognize!”

“Only because you’re hardly trying! For shame, but you never gave Elinor such trouble with your studies . . . but of course you didn’t. Elinor is Elinor, and I am not . . . ”

“Oh, very well – hand me the book. I'll muddle through it with your help.”



Burden (September 27th, 1799)

“Isn’t this splendid, my love? Had you spoiled your sisters, not a gentleman in Sussex would have made them better matches. Or, at least, Marianne has married above her expectations – though heaven only knows how that came about. (Mama, of course, still forbids our speaking Elinor’s name.) Now Mrs. Dashwood shall be kept in all comfort by her daughters, and I expect that the colonel will even offer some gift for Margaret’s dowry – as well he should as her brother, for he has not your expenses to consider. See? Everything has transpired exactly as would have brought your father greatest joy.”



Sister (October 30th, 1799)

As Mrs. Brandon, a certain amount of austerity was expected of her as mistress of the estate and patroness of the village. As such, it may have behooved her to stay on the lane – but if Marianne cut through Mr. Tindall’s barley field to Firstcross Down, the back acre of Edward’s glebe would be right there at the bottom of the hill. That route would be most expedient, and if Elinor chided her for her muddy boots and petticoat, well . . .

. . . Elinor was her sister long before she was anything else to anyone else, and a sister she too would continue to be.



~ MJ

 

Just wait until you see these bonus "overflow" ficlets I have to share next! There's a reason I had to scrap them and start over.

I grinned such a stupid grin over this - thank you! I am still beyond words proud of AOSRS, and I will forever and always do my best to write moms as the kickass MVPs they truly deserve to be recognized as.

This was a scene that I heard so perfectly in my head, and it translated right onto the screen in an absolutely magical moment of writing.

You know, this is one of those times when the '95 version was right there for me again. In one of Marianne's first rants in the book, this was one of the superficial requirements she listed for a husband after despairing over Edward's reading. She's come a long way in many respects, but it was fun to let her hang onto at least one of her romantic sensibilities.

Spoiler: Just listen to this ridiculous romantic go -

- here in Chapter III:

"Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward’s manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!”

“He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you would give him Cowper.”

“Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!—but we must allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke my heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Edward’s virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm.”​

Poor Edward! Though, thankfully, Marianne comes to hold virtues like Edward's goodness in the highest esteem, and value sincerity over superficial charm.

Beyond that, the AFiL coda was an interesting exercise to see how many ways I could say there's something more here without saying it outright - with Marianne beginning to recognize that something more but squashing it down until the idea is a little less confusing, even terrifying, to consider. While it's still going to take them another year to settle everything, this has somehow turned into a very pivotal September in the meantime - especially following Michaelmas. I just have to tell the rest of that story now.

A ridiculous amount of fun, it's true! Especially with these two adorable dears who deserve all the happiness and every good thing. I had no idea that the fabric sample - and the carrots! - were going to be a gift that kept on giving.

I COULD NOT RESIST.

Goodness, but she and John are a piece of work together, aren't they?

Aw, thank you! While S&S is a fantastic love story, satire, and commentary on the Romantic Movement, I adore that, above all else, Jane Austen chose her first novel to be about a pair of sisters. Especially with the love between Jane and Cassandra Austen in mind, that's something so touching that I find myself personally able to relate to.

I'M READY!! (Or, at least, I think I am? )

As always, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to read and leave such lovely thoughts! And for hosting this wonderfully inspiring challenge in the first place!

Thank you! I'm so glad to hear it.

Thanks! It's always great to meet another Jane Austen fan. I can definitely imagine that Elizabeth and Darcy would indeed enjoy discussing literature together - even though I bet Darcy would be less than a fan of Spenser, too, given his views on poetry - if this were a P&P collection. In the meantime, Marianne Dashwood would certainly be the Austen heroine most likely to have her nose stuck in a book.




~MJ

 

Author's Notes: I went back and forth on whether or not I should post these, but I do have a trio of bonus "overflow" ficlets from my drabbles to share with you next. (I know, I know - hush. ) I considered saving these ideas to repurpose for a future week, but then decided that would take away from the fun of figuring out how to write for each individual prompt in the first place. Let's just call this a pit stop on my Kessel Run.

That said, this first ficlet is entirely book based, a missing scene from somewhere around Chapter 32 - after Willoughby's wedding, but before Lucy and Edward's engagement came to light. The second set of ficlets, however, is very much inspired by the 1995 film - mainly because Emma Thompson's acting was beyond top tier when it looked like Marianne was on her deathbed, and that scene was very much in mind while I wrote.

Then, as a last note, my first title is another Wordsworth nick, this time from his Intimations of Immortality. The second, I don't even have to say, is from Shakespeare's Sonnet 116.

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III.II: “Where is it Now, the Glory and the Dream?”

February 23rd, 1798​

Beacon

She always chose the seat closest to the window. There she could look out into the cheerless gloom of London and commiserate with the pallor of the winter. The sun hadn’t shone in days, as if in kinship with her own depression of spirits, and a frigid mix of snow and rain had continued to fall without letup. Her eyes traced the icy droplets for hidden patterns, only glancing beyond the tear-soaked panes to search for . . . well, she knew not precisely what. (For him; oh, but how she still yearned for her love to appear like a signal light in a harbor, guiding her heart home from its hour of storms to where it truly belonged.)

Yet he could not come and he would not come. Her Willoughby (no, not hers, not anymore, nor had he ever been) was married now (married and unfit to call any woman his wife, she'd since come to learn), while she lingered in stasis, unable to move past the impossible weight of her own disappointed hopes and shattered expectations for the future.

With kind intentions, her sister and Mrs. Jennings ensured that she had a diversion every day they remained in town, which usually consisted of calling on either the Middletons or the Palmers when the weather was too foul to allow them greater leave in exploring the city. To be sure, there was no lack of distraction between the clamor of the Middleton children and the insipid babbling of the Misses Steele, though both were pleasures that Marianne could very well do without. To protect herself, she usually chose a seat by Colonel Brandon whenever he was also in attendance. She could depend on him to be a friendly port in the storm, given her options – or at least a quiet one. Much to her relief, he did not press her to speak when she had no inclination for conversation. He even went so far as to intercept the children with a distraction whenever they came too close for her comfort – just as he shielded her from the remarks made by Sir John and Mrs. Jennings whenever they attempted, oftentimes contrarily to their aim, to lift her mood with some ribald jest or another. Elinor, for her part, was rarely left alone by Miss Steele long enough to do the same – little as Marianne desired for her to. Her sister deserved some freedom from constantly being her keeper, day in and day out – and oh, how Marianne wished that she could rouse herself, at least for Elinor’s sake. She wanted to be herself again – to be better than herself, even – for those who truly loved her and desired her happiness above all else.

Yet here she was . . . and here, she remained.

As such, it was almost a surprise when she was taken from her reverie to hear: “At the risk of sounding forward, Miss Marriane, I wish to offer you my sympathies for how difficult today must be.” That afternoon, Brandon broke their usual pattern of silence to say in a carefully measured tone. She started, frowning to make sense of his words as he added, his voice low from his chest, “You truly have my condolences.”

She did not understand his sudden burst of sympathy, not when she'd been mourning for weeks now – months, really, if she counted since Willoughby had first quit Barton back in October. Was she really so transparent in her despondency that he should attempt to comfort her? She little wanted to discuss her grief as it was (how surprising was it, then, that the words almost bubbled up anyway, and she had to fight to force them back down), and especially not when her grief would also grieve -

“Your father was a good man, to hear your sister speak of him," Brandon continued. "He was parted from your family much too soon.”

- but her eyes turned wide for the clarity those words provided. Startled, she searched out Elinor’s gaze from across the drawing room. Her sister’s own eyes were red, she finally noticed, but dry – always dry. She had her chin tilted, instead, to something Lucy was saying, and did not immediately look her way. Yet when she did . . .

The thinly veiled pain she saw there shook her to her core. It was the twenty-third of February, Marianne finally understood . . . the twenty-third of February. Her father had been gone for a year now – an entire year, and she hadn’t even the presence of mind to remember what day it was when she was so taken by her own sorrows.

Was Willoughby thinking of her? The thought rose from the depths of her innermost self like putrid bile, revolting and sour and utterly without her consent. Did he too reflect on the day and regret being unable to comfort her in her hour of need? Did he mourn their parting as she mourned and wish that things could be different between them?

But Marianne flinched for the horribly selfish nature of her thoughts. She had forgotten – she had forgotten, such a wicked creature that she was – and instead had even dared to wonder . . .

Disgusted with her own shortcomings and disappointed in all the world, Marianne could no longer hold Elinor’s gaze. Instead, she turned in on herself. “Yes,” she muttered, “my father was as good a man as ever lived. Thank you, Colonel, for your condolences.” Yet her words sounded empty to her own ears, and she returned to staring back out the window, listlessly searching the rain for a light that would never shine again.

---

III.III: “That Looks on Tempests”

April 1st, 1798​

Burden

When confronted with life's variances, he had long cultivated the outlook that not all things carried were burdens. They could be heavy, yes – near to the point of impossibility, it sometimes seemed – but that did not mean that they were burdensome. Yet, for Marianne Dashwood and the weight she carried in her own heart . . .

To put the matter plainly, battlefields held no match for the fear that struck him when he at last found her at the edge of the Palmers’ property. She was soaked through and shivering – a pale bight atop the down, nearly lost to the overwhelming grey of the surrounding storm. Christopher had seen strong, hale men taken by extremes in the weather before, and Marianne was too little herself as of late to endure such a threat to her health with all equanimity. If she was to fancy herself the Ophelia in her own tale and surrender to the metaphorically rising water, uncaring if she ever rose from its depths again . . .

. . . that thought, suddenly, was not one to be borne. Banishing his hesitation for the surety of action – under such circumstances, propriety had as little place as fear – he bent to scoop her up with as gentle a motion as he could manage before standing again. Wasting no time, he turned from the view of Combe Magna and all that should have been hers in order to start back for the Park. Marianne weighed no more than a bird to him, wounded in wing and cast down from the sky – though he distantly suspected that he wouldn’t feel as such come the end of their trek. As he better secured her in his arms, she instinctively turned into the meager warmth his body provided – a heartening sign that he clung to in defiance of his more logical sensibilities. There was, he thought, still a part of her that would not give up so easily.

Yet, when she finally blinked up at him – staring with glassy eyes that didn’t truly see, she whispered with such terrible, breathless hope: “Willoughby?”

“Shh,” he only soothed in reply, tightening his grip and lengthening his stride. “Save your strength – please, Marianne. All will soon be well again.”

Not all things carried were burdensome, he reminded himself . . . not even this.



Sister

For so long, Elinor had considered herself equal to any weight that life determined she carry. Her world had turned and turned and turned, but to no lasting effect. She’d ever been determined to meet the vicissitudes of fate with a steady gaze and a sure hand. Let it take her father, long before his time was due; she had borne her grief and supported her family through theirs in her turn. Let it take her sense of security and her steady confidence in the future; she had learned to economize and make do with less. Let it take her childhood abode; she only had need of her mother and sisters to make a new home, with new memories. Let it take her very love away, just as her heart had slipped its bounds and dared to hope; she had tempered her expectations and remained mistress of her own self. But now, if it could only spare . . .

He does not deserve you as I deserve you, Elinor thought desperately – wildly. She prayed then as she had not prayed since attending her father’s sickbed, all the while refusing to remember how futile those prayers had turned out to be. He is not worth this great price that you are poised to pay.

“Please, dearest, I need you to fight,” she begged, standing before the dark and the impossibility of her own suddenly looming fears. Her voice was choked with emotion, foreign to her own ears, yet she could not check her sensibilities then had she even the will to try. “Please,” her pleas faded to a whisper, “do not leave me alone.”

Yet still the fever tore and ravaged and raged; still Marianne did not open her eyes and press her hand to assure her that everything would be all right. God in heaven above, but what Elinor would not give for her to just open her eyes again. She could stand as the fulcrum for any weight yoked across her shoulders, but only if . . .

. . . she could bear it all, but only if her sister continued to remain by her side.



~ MJ

 

That is still the best compliment.

It's hard when you can understand both sides of an argument and no one is really right or wrong - especially about a matter like this.

Again, this makes me so happy to hear!

As do I!

Amen to that! (Funnily enough, way back in my school days, our AP lit teachers were a husband-and-wife combo, and they would randomly break into reciting lines of whatever author of the day we were studying at each other. They were a ridiculously cute couple, needless to say, and just as romantic and over the top as Marianne. Usually, it was inspiring. Other times, it made our impending homework all the more daunting when we were still struggling to make sense of the - for example - gibberish that was Chaucer when it didn't really seem like English anymore. )

Ain't Fanny a treat?

Don't we all? Some things just can't be helped!

But yeah, I'm in a pattern with my titles now and breaking free is the tricky part.

Thank you!

You and me both!

Seeing as how Marianne broke the mold despite how gloriously romantic she first considered such doomed heroines to be, I think it's safe to use the emoji. This entire ficlet seemed to write itself without any conscious input on my part, and I'm rather proud of it! Which is why I couldn't par it down to a hundred words to begin with.

Right?? She has shouldered so many burdens for so long that everything is catching up to her now. My heart just breaks for Elinor in this scene each and every time.

As soon as I have the right prompt, you better believe that's coming.

As always, I can't thank you enough for reading and for taking the time to leave such kind words!

Eugh, I know exactly what you mean! But - disregarding whether or not Willoughby is worthy of such thoughts in the first place - I did enjoy the opportunity this gave me to play around with some really beautiful imagery, especially with a prompt like beacon! I love writing from Marianne's POV for just that reason, even when she's this deep in her sorrow.

Right?? Some things about depression are sadly universal - that heavy feeling, like you said - and this is something we can all relate to as fellow human beings. It meant a lot to me that this struck you so, too.

Aw, thank you!

You know, it took me until this set of drabbles - and drabbles-turned-ficlets - to finally write from the guys' POV, isn't that funny? So I was all sorts of excited, myself.

Because it's delightful, that's why.

Welp, this made me ridiculously happy to hear - seriously, I can't even tell you how much! (It's rare when a movie wins out over the book for me - especially when Jane Austen is the author, but for this set of scenes the movie is the best, hands down. Gah, but the ambiance! The emotion! The top tier acting, all around! I love it all, just as I love that this ficlet could call that back to mind. )

You know, I rather did writing it, too. How far did he carry her for, anyway??

I promise that I just like his character a completely normal amount, and this ficlet really encapsulates why I do. I'm glad that you enjoyed reading it, as well.

Thank you! It was hard writing it, too, lemme tell you! I just wanted to give Elinor all the hugs.

(It's interesting, but I was listening to a podcast the other day that mentioned that Jane Austen's readers in the 1800s would have fully expected Marianne to succumb to her fever. Like, Dying of a Broken Heart is a trope for a reason - even if I think it's a stupid trope, personally - but I didn't realize how much of a thing it was until the podcast started listing contemporary examples. Most of the Romantic stereotypes Austen inverted in S&S are obvious, but I really appreciate that she went: my heroine is not only going to survive, but she's going to heal from her heartbreak. Even more shockingly, she's then going to form a second attachment and be just as happy as she thought she would have been with her first disappointed love. Thank you very much, Lord Byron, but women are rational creatures and I will write them as such. The sheer amount of sass pouring from Austen's pen just highly amused me, so I had to share. )

I'm so glad to hear it! I can't wait to see what the challenge inspires next.

Thank you ever so much, as always, for your kind words! I appreciate them more than I can say.



Alrighty! I will be back with more very soon.


~ MJ

 

Author's Note: I'm not going to lie. The prompt for this week - to write a story between 100 and 1,000 words from the perspective of the Force (or fandom equivalent) - rather threw me . . . for all about ten minutes. Then this idea smacked into me, and I had oodles and oodles of fun writing it. So I have to say thank you, Kessel Run, for once more inspiring something I most likely never would have written otherwise.

For fear of becoming completely predictable, my title is yet another Shakespeare nick - this time from Antony and Cleopatra.

---

IV: “In Nature’s Infinite Book of Secrecy (a little can I read)”​

I am, for my part, neither young nor old. I have not always been; I have since come to be. I may even be counted in my infancy when measured against the great pillars of the universe; however, I am ancient when compared to the myriad little sparks who wink into existence before disappearing just as quickly. They walk across my face; nascent impressions whose steps fall so quickly that I often take but a glancing notice of their passing.

For I, who may yet be deathless, have seen much of death from one epoch into the next. More so than just the natural order of things that all life must follow, I have witnessed how these sparks prey upon one another. Those greater dominate those they consider lesser, here and then even beyond my shores – beyond my bountiful eaves and succoring fields – scouring for whatever else they may glean from the wider globe and claim as their own. They build in an inferior imitation of my own perfect design, and call it industry; they deign to know the very workings of my innermost self, and call it enlightenment. They heap stones upon stones, drawing them together over the river of my heart until it is clogged at its greatest turn with steel and smog and decadence and decay. These sparks give themselves names – from scientists to philosophers to the even loftier pretensions of lords and kings – cloaking themselves in their imperfect words as if such grand claims could change the fact that they are ephemeral and tiny and dust. One moment they are here, and then they are gone the next. But oh, what scars some of them manage to heap upon even the likes of me in their time!

There are a few of these sparks, however, who burn brightly enough for my notice before they are reclaimed by the primordial ether of their birth. Some endeavor to listen to the ways I speak to those that choose to hear. To some very privileged few, I even listen in return.

There’s one such spark, even now – a child, even in the way all sparks are children – who wanders along the bank of one of my brooks. She runs her hands through the meadow grasses and greets the wildflowers who will wither and fade well before even she does. My trees, she calls by name – reciting the words of those sparks who have come before her in her merry, lilting voice as she goes. (Ah, William – but we did understand each other for a glorious moment in time, did we not?)

This little spark is now chatting to the brook as if she can understand the babbling I offer from its current in return. (Does she listen, does she hear?) She has taken off her shoes and stockings – admitting how the one she calls Mama would not be pleased with her doing so – to put her feet in the water on the warm summer’s day. “I know you don’t mind,” she says, as if sharing a secret. “For you are my friend, are you not?”

(Does she listen, does she hear?)

She then opens the book she carries and turns to a page – not one with printed text, as perhaps I first expected, but one filled with her own scrawled hand. She inhales a deep breath, summoning her courage, and then confesses, “I haven’t even shown these to Elinor. I am no poet – not yet, nor will I likely ever be – but I did write these lines for you. May I read them aloud?”

(Does she listen, does she hear?)

“Thank you.” After a heartbeat, the little spark shyly ducks her head, and then she begins: “An Ode to a Brook, by Marianne Dashwood.”

And I, for my part, hear her speak as she flares against eternity, and incline my ear to listen.



fini


~ MJ

 

Aw, thank you!

Sassy ladies do make the best authors, it's true.

Aw, thank you! This really meant a lot to me.

Thank you! This prompt rather threw me at first, but once I embraced it the words just flowed and I'm actually really proud of how it turned out! That's one of the awesome things about this challenge, again - I'm writing all sorts of new things that I definitely wouldn't have written otherwise.

Powerful and haunting is music to my ears - and love it always says it all.

What can I say? I just love this ridiculous romantic a ridiculous amount - and she certainly loves her trees.

THIS is the kind of insight I just love when art inspires. First of all: thank you for the beautiful compliment! Second: you know, there's no better author than Shakespeare when it comes to authors reflecting on the immortality of written words. Because words do have an impact; they're timeless. It's mind-boggling, in a way, thinking that our words could similarly last and wondering if authors of the past ever wondered the same. Melancholy but also weirdly uplifting really says it all.

Isn't she??

Thank you ever so much for the kind words, as always! Your review wholly made my day.

It's such a fascinating subject, isn't it?? Austen had points to make, and she certainly made them.

We are, aren't we?

First of all: thank you! Secondly, I couldn't agree more! There are certain accomplishments that I am very glad mankind has made, but they've definitely come at a cost. It's all about that balance, again.

(Also, the tiny and dust at the end of that quote was definitely inspired by Rose's speech to the Dalek emperor after she absorbed the time vortex, so I loved the Doctor Who reference you made next all the more so with that thought in mind. )

This was just such a lovely thought that had me smiling!

Our girl is singular, it's true.

Aw, thank you.

Oh, I am most definitely a Doctor Who fan! Mostly, anyway - I was an avid watcher back during Nine and Ten's runs, but I only made it about a season or two with Eleven before I couldn't handle Moffat's writing anymore. I never really fell back in love again after that. But, "Vincent and the Doctor" is one of my favorite episodes of anything ever. It's one of those episodes that I usually recommend to non-DW fans, even, because its themes are just so heavy hitting and that end scene in the gallery will never not be incredibly poignant and touching. I love that you brought it up here, because it's so very relevant!



Thank you again for the awesome feedback! I'll be back with more soon.


~MJ

 

Author's Note: The prompt for Week 5 was to write a story between 600 and 1,000 words in which your characters do not touch, that includes the following sentence: "All things considered, this was an interesting way to wind up in prison." My initial idea was all fluff before this slammed into me and I changed gears in a matter of seconds. (I'm gonna blame Vi's tendency for angst rubbing off on me - somehow this is all her fault. ) My first draft checked in at 3k words, at that, before I mercilessly applied the red pen and somehow pared this down to exactly 1,000 words. I would have kept the whole thing as a bonus ficlet, but I'm running out of days this week - especially with my SW response growing, too.

All silliness aside, this piece goes back in time to visit a new POV in the first Eliza Williams. As such, I have to give a brief Content Warning for the implication of domestic violence. There are no details, but the weight of abuse is present throughout this piece, if that's something you'd rather avoid.

Finally, to go the complete opposite direction for inspiration, my title is taken from Hadestown's "Hey, Little Songbird". What can I say? I had the musical playing last week for its Nature vs. Industry vibes, and it came on my shuffle again while I was editing this week's response. Now, here I am.

---

V: “A Soft Place to Land”​

April 20th, 1778

All things considered, this was an interesting way to end up in prison.

Or, Eliza Williams tried to master the strange state she was in – near the point of laughter rather than tears, there was nothing interesting about their circumstances in the slightest. They had come so close to Gretna Green; they were only miles from the border, where their path to freedom would have been clear. Yet, when the watchman on the road hadn't believed them when they'd insisted they were married already . . .

. . . well, here they were.

At least, here she was – she hadn’t seen Christopher since they were first apprehended as runaways. As a gentleman’s ward, she was allowed to wait for her guardian in the small parlor attached to the constables’ station in Carlisle. It was a drab space, with worn furnishings and paper peeling from the walls. The curtains were yellowed from the same tobacco stench that soaked the carpet and upholstery, while the fireplace smoked with every downward draft from the chimney. The room was as tired and bleak as everything this far north was tired and bleak – the complete opposite of the home she’d left behind, in every sense.

Yet the worst of home had followed like the devil at their heels. For, while she'd been prepared to fling her inheritance to the wind, Mr. Brandon was unwilling to accept the years it would take to claim her fortune in the Courts of Chancery. He would eschew the time – and cost – of such a legal battle if he could otherwise intercept her and see that she married . . .

But Eliza closed her eyes to the thought of him, even as Mr. Brandon broke the silence to ask, “What, exactly, was your plan?”

The elder Jack Brandon was a man seldom inclined to outbursts; his wrath was ever cool and dark. Oh, he could still be cruel – her earliest memories were of Susanna sneaking into the nursery to hold both she and Christopher close, singing to drown out the awful noises that seeped in through the walls. “Only cowards prey on the weak, do you hear? Those who are truly strong are good and kind, no matter what.”

But even Susanna’s words had trembled – and she, for all her bravery, had fled her father’s house just as soon as she could marry.

That had been their original intention, to follow Susanna to Avignon after they wed in Scotland. But then France had joined the American Colonies in their rebellion, and all reputable – and affordable – ways of crossing the Channel had closed to them. “It doesn’t matter,” Christopher had insisted against her doubts. “I’ll find another way to provide for us.”

“But how?”

“All the landed estates will be hiring laborers for the summer. If I work hard and prove myself, the right landlord may even enter a lease with us come spring.”

“Tenant farmers – us?”

“Why not? I know how a farm should work, and I’ve helped in the fields before.”

“You wouldn't view that as a demotion – an indignity?”

“What indignity could there possibly be, with you as my wife?”

Eliza had never thought him naïve, but she had wished that she could so eagerly anticipate a future that promised so little, so easily. She . . . she’d never gone hungry before, not literally; yet she'd never found life particularly kind, even when she had a surplus.

“You’ve always been a clever girl.” Mr. Brandon frowned for her silence. “I was surprised – grieved, even – when I learned that you’d agreed to such foolishness.”

“Your surprise is surprising in return,” Eliza tilted her chin to retort, "but I am not grieved." She hadn’t feared Mr. Brandon since Christopher had grown tall and strong enough to not only defend against his father, but protect. She refused to cower before him now.

“Someday, my dear, you may regret your inability to mind your manners,” Mr. Brandon remarked, almost pleasantly. “Yet, no matter your ingratitude, I am prepared to be generous.”

His generosity was of a peculiar sort. For his son, he’d purchased a commission in the Royal Army, while she was to return home and wed the eldest Brandon son as had long been planned. If she didn’t fear Mr. Brandon, Jack Brandon was another matter entirely – who was all brimstone and fire in contrast to his father’s icy cold temper. She, for her part, had no desire to burn.

“If I cannot address your better sense, allow me to appeal to your sensibilities. The commission has already been purchased; there will be no escaping his duty, not unless the boy wants to make an enemy of the Crown. Yet how will he serve His Majesty? What shall happen if, say, he’s assigned to America? The king is desperate for troops to throw against the French, and the fate of every soldier deployed there remains uncertain.”

Only cowards are cruel, she numbly recalled Susanna’s words – but there was the devil’s own might in their cruelty.

“Or I can ensure a kinder posting – the Indies, perhaps? East or West; it doesn’t matter which ocean it is, so long as there is an ocean.”

“But only,” Eliza whispered, feeling as a bird caught in a snare, “if I marry Jack?”

“You’d be mistress of the estate, with every comfort afforded by your fortune. You’d have worked yourself to an early grave trying to make it out here – and him, too. Now, you’ll remain a gentlewoman, and he will have the respectability of being counted amongst the king’s own.”

But he wouldn’t be hers, just as she would belong to . . .

“This is a far kinder fate than many are able to enjoy; be sensible, and choose wisely.”

There in that dull, smoky room, Eliza knew exactly what she was giving up – what she was risking, yes, but what she was preserving, too. It wasn’t much of a choice, her choice, and yet . . .

“I give you my word, sir.”

- she chose.



fini

Spoiler: End Notes

A Note on Eloping: According to the Clandestine Marriage Act of 1753, a parent or guardian could veto any marriage for their children/wards before they reached the age of twenty-one. Banns were required to be read in a church in the same parish where one of the engaged parties lived, and four weeks were then given in which a guardian could lodge their protest before the marriage would be conducted by a priest. This, of course, led to the trend of eloping to Scotland, where the Act was not law. Gretna Green, in particular, was a village just over the border made famous for these weddings. Scottish law didn't require banns or even a church - just so long as there were two witnesses, any marriage was official. "Anvil Priests" was a phrase used for the trend of a village blacksmith conducting the wedding ceremony - or anyone who similarly wasn't a member of the clergy. Richard Rennison, a blacksmith in Gretna, performed a staggering 5,147 ceremonies just by himself.

So, a teenage couple alone on the road in the north of England would have been veeery suspicious at this time - especially if a reward had been posted for their return. It would have taken a few days to get from Dorsetshire, a county on the south coast of England, all the way up to Scotland, at that - especially travelling inconspicuously, and Mr. Brandon would have had plenty of time to beat them to a border town like Carlilse. Jane Austen never said exactly how far Brandon and Eliza got in attempting to elope before they were caught, so this ficlet may just be me being extra dramatic, but the prompt fit and now here I am.

A Note on the Brandon Family: Susanna Géroux is the name I gave Brandon's sister in AFiL - who was mentioned in the novel but never named outright. According to Austen, she married a Frenchman and lived abroad in Avignon as much as she did in Devonshire. I figured that Susanna being eager to flee her childhood home may help explain her mixed marriage at a time when France and England did not get along, to say the least. I've also always pictured her as older by several years - and Jack Brandon older than them both. (Jack, too, is my fanon name - which is really just me being funny with how many Englishmen were named John in my own dorky way. I mean, just in S&S we have John Willoughby, John Dashwood, and Sir John. What's a few more? ) Our Brandon was only thirty when he inherited Delaford, which is rather young to have both a father and a brother dead. I mean, it's not impossible, but an age gap - and then adding in all of the younger Jack Brandon's vices - rather helps explains that, at least in my mind.

Then, speaking of 18th century law, domestic violence was not a crime at this time. A man could "discipline" his family however he saw fit, just so long as he didn't endanger their lives - and even that was hard to prove in court. Women had no option for divorce, though a man could divorce his wife for abandoning their marriage - which would later happen with Eliza and Jack. For all of the genteel manners that we find so entertaining in fiction, there was certainly a darker side to this era - and the inability to have any control over their fates in any meaningful way had to have been terrifying for Eliza and girls just like her. Aaand, on that note, I may just need to find the time to write that fluffy, flirty idea I originally had for this week, anyway - just to cleanse the emotional palate, of course.

~ MJ