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

Goodness, but in my unintentional hiatus over the summer I became terribly remiss with my replies. Let's see if I can fix that now, because I appreciate each and every one of you more than words can say!


@Tarsier

Aw, thanks! I do love writing these characters and exploring the bonds between them.





@WarmNyota_SweetAyesha

That is indeed the trick - and especially here! This story is set just a few months after Persuasion, and the characters are much the same as we left them on the last pages of Austen's novel. On the other hand, we're a whole sixteen years out from the end of S&S! So it was interesting for me to imagine all the ways Marianne could have matured in that time, while still remaining the same at the core. Then, this is such a stressful and unusual situation for Marianne as it is, so taking that into consideration, too . . . Altogether, it was a fair bit to juggle, but I am beyond happy with the result and hope that both Anne and Marianne's characterizations read true to you, too.

I did not expect to have as much fun writing Fanny's snootiness as I did.

Exactly!

Aw, thanks! When you think about it, Brandon is just as much of a romantic as Marianne is, only in an introverted sense compared to her more extraverted personality. That's one of the things I love best about their relationship; they really do perfectly align with both their core values and how they perceive the world, while still being "opposites attract" in other ways! When also considering that ten years together, at this point, would only have contributed to the ease of their intimacy, it was easy for me to imagine that Brandon would be able to write quite the heartfelt and honest letter. From there, the words just flowed.

Marianne Dashwood ever has been and always will be, immovable for those she loves.

Now that is a compliment I'm going to cherish for a long time! Thank you so much for your kind words, my friend, and for taking the time to read and comment, as always!



@WellTemperedClavier

Goodness, but this is just such a wonderful compliment. Thank you!

(I absolutely love your username, too! What a fun throwback. )

Thank you! I do love this cast, and I am glad that I was able to capture enough of their personalities that they read as distinct characters to you, too, even being unfamiliar with the source material.

I'm going to sound like a broken record with my constantly saying thank you and then thank you again, but really: thank you.

It's funny imagining that what is a classic now may not have been at the time it was released! Some things never change, don't they?

Again, I thank you ever so much for reading and taking the time to leave your thoughts!



@ViariSkywalker

I feel like we are perpetually behind on feedback, but it's half because we want to leave the best feedback possible, and there just aren't enough hours in the day!

Heck, I'm still behind on my reviews, and these replies, too. Gosh, but everything is so overdue!

That's Fanny in a nutshell, yep. (And also, rereading this piece with your spot-on insight about Fanny and John being an inverted mirror of Elinor and Edward in mind - yeah, that hurt! Fanny really could have put her abilities to much better use, but instead she is who she is, and there's something terribly tragic about that. )

Elinor could have gone toe to toe with the Queen of England, herself.

Right?? So, so frustrating.

Passive aggressive games like this are just the worst - especially when I bet we all know someone like this in RL who makes these instances all the more annoying to reflect on for the characters we do like.

That rather sums up my outlook entirely while writing this piece - it was very disconcerting.

No one can write a horrifying breach of manners and common decency like Jane Austen.

Right?? Especially after knowing that Henry Dashwood took such good care of Norland, to imagine how John is going to fare in his stead, when it's the tenants and villagers who will suffer because of any selfish or poor choices made on his part . . . In some ways, the symbiotic circle between the gentry and the working class in the English countryside wasn't terribly far off from the Feudal system at this time. The idea that you had to trust your landlord to be fair and honorable and at least passably business minded, because if he wasn't . . . yeah. Jane Austen had a lot to say on this subject, too.

Such a saint.

You get to meet Mrs. Ferrars in the book, and, spoiler: she's an absolute piece of work. Fanny definitely takes after her mother, just as the Dashwood ladies take after their own parents for the best. Inversely, though, you have characters like Edward and Brandon, who turned out well despite their upbringing, and Willoughby, who took his own privileged circumstances for granted with the entitled choices he made. Something tells me that Jane Austen was making yet another point there.

It really is heartbreaking, the transactional way that Fanny views her relationships. Love and sentimentality have no place in her world, but she does love her child, dearly so. She thus thinks that the best way she can express that love is by securing as vast an inheritance for him as possible, not realizing that these moments - these indulgences - are so much more important than any wealth she can amass on his behalf, otherwise.

I honestly felt like I was writing a scene from Downton Abbey here, and it was the best!

Exactly! She's been raised to be one thing and one thing only: a wife. (I know: eugh. But on a side note, I did have fun inverting this with Marianne's what else is a wife for? in Week 12 ) Fanny holds herself to such unnaturally rigid standards and takes great pride in meeting them, but, my gosh, what an exhausting, empty way to live - you're right.

Isn't it? Fanny is so, so perceptive, but she rationalizes away any naturally human thoughts and feelings she has and never allows herself to fully realize them in any healthy, beneficial way.

I am still so proud of that line.

THIS. Because Fanny is awful, but she's still a person. That's really what the entire vignette boils down to!

A depressing sort of sense really says it all, as does appalling but understandable. I mean, between the double whammy of the very real health concerns surrounding childbearing at this time and the tragedy of maybe not being all that attracted to your husband in a romantic sense in the first place, due to your marriage of convenience rather than love - not to mention how adultery was viewed as typical and even expected as men being men, in a sense . . . I can see where Fanny and women like her would have reached this conclusion in RL.

Eugh. Now that's an awful thought, isn't it? There was a reason why Eliza chose to risk everything and run away with the first man who showed her a way out.

But, at a time when absolute subjection to your husband's authority was the norm, that John even respects Fanny's choices about her own body in the first place goes back to him having the potential to be so much better than he is! Gah!

This broke my brain, because you're right - you're so right!! I don't have much to add here except that your A+ insight is an A+ insight!!

I felt like I was drawing from my own notebook, too! I love that Marianne's struggles here are universal for all us writers, because we've all been here! It's trite, all of it!

I LOVE THIS MORE THAN WORDS CAN SAY. Especially as this was directly inspired from a page from my notebook, too. Mad geniuses, all we writers are!

Indeed she is.

Honestly, this little section could have been the story all by itself. I had so much fun writing this part and love how it ultimately came together!

Mission accomplished.

!

Doesn't it?

*passes tissue*

What can you do but insert an eyeroll there, though? (Besides, we've already established that smileys are the best way to respond to poetry week - and my replies are pretty much all emojis, too! )

Poor girl's joining all our faves on that good ol' river in Egypt.

Right?? I too love how far Marianne has come in her opinion on Edward, loving him for himself and for just how much of a perfect match he is for Elinor.

I can say that I just maybe may have started working on your mega-prompt for this, again.

!!

This was yet another universally relatable thought for us authors.

Most of this last section was so flow of thought for me, mostly because I was trying to make it read as Marianne's stream of consciousness, too! As such, that was one of those lines that I typed and then shook my head at, going: wow, that's perfect, but I have no idea how I came up with it.

Its applications are endless.

Back when I was brainstorming AFiL, I remember asking myself what would have drawn Marianne to Brandon in the first place, especially after she so thoroughly renounced him as a potential suitor earlier in the plot. Besides the qualities and values they hold in common - which were obvious to us as the audience from the first - it hit me that Marianne would have a hard time trusting any subsequent partner after Willoughby. Yet Brandon has already proven himself to be steadfast and reliable; his character is well established, and she knows that he is an honorable man. She doesn't have to worry about being safe with him, which is such a necessary foundation for true feelings to grow in any relationship, but especially here.

Thank you! These were yet more lines that just flowed, much beyond my conscious control!

Soon.

Isn't it?? At first, I was worried about this entire plotline stretching believability for the time period, but then I decided that I love it and it's awesome, and since my readers love it too that's all that matters.

Jane Austen herself couldn't tell me differently at this point.

It's true!

Success!

I had so much fun doing all of the research to bring these settings to life!

This was quite possibly my favorite sentence of the set. I could see it so perfectly in my mind's eye, and somehow it translated clearly into words!

Agreed! I feel like I still struggle with mastering English at times, let alone something like this.

That it does.

Yep.

Yay! Indigo was the prompt that started these sentences! From there, I knew what I had to write.

Like, I know that Austen was satirizing just how over-the-top heartbreaking Romantic literature could be at the time with Brandon and Eliza, but, my gosh, their story is still over-the-top heartbreaking.

I couldn't resist the foreshadowing. And heck, Brandon was young for a colonel in the Royal Army - he achieved that rank somewhere between 25 and 30. That's an impressive accomplishment, so I had to comment on that!

What can I say? I had the perfect prompts to utilize.

Story time: I had a similar experience in France that I drew on for this sentence! I tried something that was offered to me by a proprietor in a market, and I had no idea that it was cow's tongue until I was already chewing. I had no desire to be rude, so I finished it, thanked him, and then found water as quickly as I could. It was actually pretty good, truth be told, but I couldn't turn my brain off to eat more!

Here, it was fascinating to remember that international cuisine was definitely not a thing yet, and spices like chili peppers would have certainly been unique for an Englishman. (For another side point: the dish I described is actually a Thai recipe that caught on in Indian cuisine. Calcutta was a very diverse center of commerce, with a notable Cantonese and Siamese population in the late 1700s, as well as traders from all over Europe and Asia, too! I can only imagine that the food was awesome, as a result.)

Now that is a fascinating question that I may have to revisit in the future.

It enjoyed exploring the boys-being-boys side of fencing just as much as I did the more serious duel in BTVN! Plus, with this in mind, it makes Sir John laughing at Willoughby's arrogant assumption that he had the duel in BTVN in the bag even better. Willoughby really had no idea what he was walking into, did he? But, at the same time, it makes Brandon's decision to fight even more morally questionable, knowing that he is skilled with a sword as a career soldier, while his opponent most decidedly was not.

I had this sentence mostly written before scrolling through Wikipedia to find for a suitable native flower to use. When I read that shiuli flowers are a symbol of national pride and hold meaning for the cycle of life/death/rebirth, my decision was made for me. The juxtaposition all but wrote itself!

I gleaned the mud crabs from another Wikipedia list of native wildlife in the Sunderbans, and I was like: you know, they harvest clams the same way in southern England, right where Brandon is from. Lightbulb! You gotta love it when your research does half of your writing for you!

Yep. (And someday I need to write the rest of this story, too - this is the ugly(est) side of Imperialism and small-minded bigoted thinking. Plus, there's all that good characterization with Brandon's temper and willingness to resort to violence, along with John's propensity to sensibly defuse situations with words, first. Oh yeah; there's a story with nuance to dive into there. )

You know, for all that Jane Austen provided us with a plethora of amazing female characters, she did give us a couple of epic bromances, too. Brandon and Sir John, and Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy are two of my all-time faves.

It's crazy when you think about it - just how novel the idea of a nation by the people, for the people was at the time! Democracy had to have seemed downright strange to an English soldier, but, at the same time, I can also imagine that there was a wistful sense of what-if, too.

That was the last sentence I wrote for this set! String stumped me for the longest time, but I love how it came out in the end.

Isn't it? (Gosh, but I love just how messy the emotions were in this sentence. )

Thank you!

Indeed.

It hurts even more when you consider the few discussions we've had about the importance of names during this time period. Even Jane Austen didn't give Brandon a first name. He is Colonel Brandon, and, no matter what pride he may feel for his service to the Crown, I have to imagine that a character like Brandon would also think something like this, too.

Me too.

!

As always, take your time! Your feedback is invaluable whenever and however it comes, and I can't thank you enough for your awesome encouragement and support!



@Gabri_Jade

Amen to that! And that's what I have to say to all of the feedback I owe you, too! I have been the absolute worst correspondent this summer, which I truly do apologize for!

Because it's the absolute best, and I'm so happy that you think it is, too!

Mission accomplished.

Aw, thanks!

It's interesting, that when I was doing my research, I found quite a few letters and journal entries from Englishmen at the time that shared Brandon's opinion. Don't get me wrong, there was still plenty of the "dreadful climate filled with heathens" garbage you'd typically expect, especially the further up the food chain you went. But, especially amongst the younger ranks of soldiers for both the Royal Army and the EIC, there was an honest amount of awe and appreciation, too. So I enjoyed including a bit of that here as I could.

I honestly laughed out loud for "beats up other languages in dark alleys and rummages through their pockets for spare vocabulary"! And I completely agree.

That was just the best anecdote, thank you for sharing! I agree, I have all of the respect and appreciation for anyone who knows more than one language. That truly is a feat!

I've seen the rains in Texas just after the dry season - which you can technically call a monsoon - and, holy moly, but that's not anything I would ever want to be outside in, let alone march through. I imagine the monsoons in Arizona - and India, too! - are even more impressive.

And universal, too.

So, so much.

Right?

Heartbreaking, indeed! I am so, so grateful for the modern convenience of international cuisine!

Imagining this scene brought me a ridiculous amount of joy, I have to say.

AMEN TO THAT!!

I completely agree with this, too! (How much does choreographing mock battles with toy lightsabers count, though? )

Writing Margaret's relationship with both Brandon and Edward brings me so much joy, for just that reason.

Right?? The complicated stuff is where all the fun is!

Indeed!

This was one of those scenes that I could hear so perfectly in my head as I typed it.

Downright scandalous behavior, even! (But then, how did any couple manage to have those serious conversation that need to be had if they weren't somewhat improper every now and again? )

Men.

She might be onto something, there.

Isn't it?

These two are a match for each other in more ways than one.

I do love me my bold and rough around the edges Captain Wentworth.

There are few things that are more so!

That does seem to be a universal marina experience!

She's truly found her home here, in more ways than one!

The absolute best, I agree!

Sixteen years later, and somewhere Elinor is still rolling her eyes in a most long-suffering manner.

Indeed, she would have!

I loved imagining how they would interact more than I can say, especially under these particular circumstances!

!!

It's heartbreaking, isn't it? For the most part, you can feel how much Jane Austen loved her own siblings in her work, but Anne is the odd one out amongst her heroines.

I completely agree! It was like this flying, too - I could feel when we reached 10k feet, and it was safe to get out of my jumpseat, just as I could feel when we started to descend for our approach. I got to a point where I could pour coffee through any turbulence (within reason, of course!), and I was a pretty good judge of when that turbulence was going to come and go - it's all much the same as getting your sea legs under you, I imagine!

(Gah, and Ronan! I absolutely adored Fractured, and I'm going to be there with feedback ASAP. I have some hardcore reviewing time slated for this weekend, so standby. )

That poem makes my heart twist in the very best way - and it did so again, there!

Exactly like!

I couldn't resist adding that line.

As always, I can't thank you enough for your kind words and awesome feedback! Thank you so much for reading!



And with that, I am pleased to announce that I have since had the cooperation of my muse, and I plan on adding more to this thread. So, here we go!





~ MJ

 

Author's Notes: This time around, I decided against doing a second NSW response for the UDC X in order to preserve my own sanity. Even so, if any of the prompts snag my interest, I certainly won't hesitate to use them! That's how this set came about, from Week One's prompts - although I quickly abandoned writing perfect drabbles in favor of ficlets, as you can see.

With that said, I thank you all for reading and hope that you enjoy!

---

XIII: “Nor by Duty Alone”​

Prelude (April 17th, 1775)

Emma Kingsley – soon to be Dashwood – had always prided herself on her ease with children. She was an aunt to almost a dozen nieces and nephews through her sisters, and she was one of a vast array of cousins through her mother's Middleton connections. Motherhood was as much an assumed state for her future as matrimony, yet in all of her girlish daydreams she had never once considered that she would enter into the marital state with a child already dependent on her to care for and guide.

How should they even begin together? John was only eight; he hardly remembered his own mother, yet she still felt as if she was an intruder, stealing where she had no right to tread, to meet the little boy’s eyes with a confidence she hoped masked the uncertainty she more truly felt inside.

“Are you to be my new mother?” John asked in a small voice once Henry backed away to give them a moment alone together.

“I would like to start,” Emma met his eyes with a growing smile, “by being your friend.”



Bygone (August 25th, 1787)

The small watercolor portrait, affixed to its pocket chain, with its scratched bronze frame and the gilt rubbed dull after accompanying him from one battlefield to the next over the course of so many years, was the last tangible connection he had to Eliza.

Yet Christopher couldn’t help but notice how her daughter’s eyes widened to fix on the painting’s likeness. She traced the glass casing as if mesmerized, her small hands gentle with reverence, as if she held something precious – which, to them alone in all the world, the memory the artist immortalized held a value unmatched by any sum of gold. For, he reminded himself, the painting was not all he had left of Eliza – and it certainly wasn’t the most important link he had binding him to her, at that.

So, ignoring the pang he felt to surrender what had, for so long, been his most cherished possession, he gently closed the child’s hand over the portrait and said, “It’s yours, now.”



Impend (March 11th, 1791)

“It looks like a bird expired on her head,” Margaret whispered, scrunching her nose to voice her opinion for Fanny’s bridal dress with all the distaste a girl of seven could muster.

Mortified, Elinor could hardly chastise her youngest sister to speak kindlier of their newest sister before Marianne too giggled to agree, “Somewhere, some poor ostrich is very bald, and very cold.”

She leveled Marianne with an exasperated look – after all, she was an elder sister, and as such she should have been setting an example – but knew that any word summoned in chastisement would hardly be heard. Instead, she looked ahead as the wedding guests slowly filed out of the church. Thankfully, Mrs. Ferrars hadn’t seemed to hear her sisters’ less than kind remarks – she was not the sort of woman who had much notice for children, Elinor suspected – and Fanny’s youngest brother, Robert, was just as unaware. However -

- she did not miss the twinkle in Edward Ferrars’ eyes as he turned to hide his grin.



Descend (July 9th, 1797)

Eliza had not spent a summer in London since her mother was still alive. After so many years, she could still remember the sponging house where they passed their final days together, the sickness that had swept through the inmates, along with the heat and the smell . . .

No one remained in London through the summer when they otherwise had a choice to depart – but that certainly wasn’t why her Willoughby had yet to return. No, John was merely delayed. Perhaps his cousin required convincing to consent to their marriage, and he only tarried to persuade her. He would return now, any day – perhaps even that very day! It was not in vain that she waited; she was not so faithless so as to doubt him, so she would not.

Between the funds John provided her and the remainder of her allowance from the colonel, she could afford her room here at the lodging-house through the end of September – little as she was concerned for the future, of course. John would surely return before she was in such desperate need, especially once her letter reached him (any one of her many letters) and he learned why it was now most imperative that they marry, and marry without delay. After all, they were going to have – she was going to have . . .

Scuttling her fears before they could spiral into another bout of panic, she furiously wiped her eyes. Ignoring every instinct that instead wanted to write her guardian and beg for understanding and forgiveness and a way home (for what home did she truly have, anyway?), Eliza began penning another letter that was much the same as the dozen she’d already sent before.

My love, her ink blotted – but paper had become a precious commodity, so much so that she could scarce afford to start anew – I have the most joyous news, and I must beg you to return in all haste so that I may share with you this blessing in full . . .



Arise (February 2nd, 1799)

Emma Dashwood had worn black for nigh on two years, now.

Wearing anything else felt . . . permanent, in a sense. Lightening any one of her widow’s weeds seemed tantamount to surrendering to the finality of her husband’s loss in a way that she’d refused to do since the moment Henry breathed his last. She still carried him with her; she yet refused to let him go.

The majority of her wardrobe had been dyed black for her mourning, rather than purchasing anything new. Yet this particular gown, with its deep blue and steel grey stripes, she’d hesitated to dye – no matter that the silk was already dark enough that it would have been easy to convert. This dress had once been Henry’s favorite for how he said it matched her eyes – and their daughters’ eyes, too, who'd all inherited her color. As such, she couldn’t bear to have it altered, and now . . .

Emma had already resolved to see new, happy memories made this Candlemas – as Henry too would have undoubtedly preferred. She’d spent time enough with her grief.

When she came down to depart for the church, Marianne was the first to notice her change of dress, and Emma caught the shine of tears in her eyes before she wordlessly stepped forward to meet her in an embrace. Hardly a moment later, she opened her arms to welcome both Margaret and Elinor, as well, and held on tightly to all of her dear girls – and Edward, too, after Marianne gave a theatrical sigh and pulled him in to join them.

She had no need to wear black in order to remember her husband, after all – not when she had their family there with her instead.



~ MJ

 

These replies are horribly belated, I know, but I just wanted to take a moment to thank you both for your kind feedback before I share my next update. (*gasp* I know - yes, you read that right! )

Thank you! One of the great things about writing drabbles - or, um, ficlets, in this case - is being able to explore multiple moods at once, and letting them tell a larger story when read together. I am so happy that you enjoyed these too, as always!

Thank you so much for your kind words! Your comment quite made my day when I first read it, and it still makes me smile now. "We Few" was a labor of love, in particular, and it still holds such a special place in my heart as one of my favorite stories I have ever written. So I have to tell you that I was pleased beyond words to hear that you enjoyed it so much, too.


Alrighty! I will be back with more soon.

 

Author's Notes: Hello, dear readers! So, for the 2023 Spring Bingo Challenge, I knew that I wanted to write a S&S story. My first instinct was to write twenty-five drabbles for all of the prompts, but - and this will come as a surprise to all who know me - my muse quickly decided that drabbles were not enough. Instead, I now have twenty-five ficlets to share, and to do so, I'm going to have to break this up into four parts.

These ficlets are all interconnected, that said, and cover the spring of 1799 in the epilogue of the novel. For reference - or simply to refresh your memory about earlier events in this thread, if you so desire - I jotted down a brief time line under the spoiler tag below. The dates in green are those that Jane Austen indicated (broadly so, at least - I tacked on many of the exact dates), and those in purple are my own fanon.

My title, once again, is a nick from yet another poem that Wordsworth wrote on the subject of spring.

And now, I thank you all for reading and hope that you enjoy!

Spoiler: Chronology of Events

• February 23rd, 1797: Henry Dashwood Sr. passes away
• March 5th, 1797: John and Fanny Dashwood take possession of Norland
• June 12th, 1797: Edward Ferrars arrives at Norland
• August 10th, 1797: The Dashwoods relocate to Barton Cottage in Devonshire
• September 19th, 1797: Marianne and Willoughby's fateful encounter in the rain
• October 8th, 1797: Colonel Brandon receives Eliza Williams' letter, and departs for London
• October 13th, 1797: Willoughby leaves Devonshire upon his aunt's discovery of his affair with Eliza
• October 25th, 1797: David Williams is born
• October 27th, 1797: The duel between Brandon and Willoughby
• December 14th, 1797: Elinor learns of Edward and Lucy Steele's secret engagement
• January 4th, 1798: Mrs. Jennings takes the Misses Dashwood and Steele to London
• January 21st, 1798: Marianne learns of Willoughby's engagement following Lady Chatterley's ball
• February 16th, 1798: Willoughby and Sophia Grey are married
• March 3rd, 1798: Edward's engagement to Lucy is discovered
• March 4th, 1798: Mrs. Ferrars disinherits Edward; his fortune is settled on his younger brother
• March 6th, 1798: Brandon offers Edward the living at Delaford to allow him to marry Lucy
• April 1st, 1798: The Dashwoods leave London, overnighting at Cleveland Park, where Marianne takes ill
• April 10th, 1798: Lucy breaks her engagement to Edward in favor of Robert Ferrars
• May 17th, 1798: After Lucy and Robert's wedding, Edward travels to Barton and proposes to Elinor
• August 3rd, 1798: Edward and Elinor are married; they accept Brandon's invitation to stay at Delaford House while repairs to the parsonage are completed, and Marianne stays with them
• September 7th, 1798: Edward's first sermon, and the events of "All Fools in Love"
• September 21st, 1798: Eliza moves from Whitwell to Delaford with her son
• September 29th, 1798: The Michaelmas; Elinor and Edward take up residence at the parsonage
• November 5th, 1798: At Sir John's Guy Fawkes bonfire, Marianne confronts Brandon about the possibility of their relationship evolving into something more, with disappointing results
• December 27th, 1798: Marianne visits Elinor and Edward at Delaford, and a series of events chip away at Brandon's resolve
• January 15th, 1799: Brandon asks Mrs. Dashwood's permission to court Marianne; Elinor tells her mother about her pregnancy during the same visit
• January 28th, 1799: The Dashwood ladies come to stay at the parsonage until Elinor's birth
• January 30th, 1799: Margaret takes up fencing lessons
• June 8th, 1799: Brandon and Marianne are officially engaged
• August 26th, 1799: Jacob Ferrars is born
• September 27th, 1799: Brandon and Marianne are married

---

XIV.I: “The Hour of Feeling”

"Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
It is the hour of feeling."
~ William Woodsworth​

Spring, 1799

Awakening

Marianne Dashwood departed early for a walk, as was her habit, when the sunrise was just gilding the downs in gold. The morning air was brisk, even through the thick player of her pelisse, and a stubborn layer of snow clung to the fields in the last of winter’s thrall. But there – sheltered underneath a kindly grove of beech trees, in the crook of a bend where her favorite brook turned to join the River Stour – was a deceiving patch of white. It was not snow between the trees, however – oh no; instead, before her stood an indomitable sign that spring had at last returned.

Here, porcelain-petaled snowdrops carpeted the woodland floor as far as she could see. There were dozens upon dozens of the sprightly blooms, all lifting their delicate heads to sing a promise of renewal within the sanctuary of the copse. She kept to the bank of the brook in order properly admire the flowers without treading upon them, and breathed in deep of their sweet, fresh scent. Though her breath misted when she exhaled, no cold could touch her when she turned her face to the dawning sunlight, melting the night's frost from the barren branches above.

That sense of warmth only grew when Marianne realized that she was not alone. There, standing by the river, just ahead . . .

“You are brave, sir,” she called to tease in favor of any more proper a greeting. “You are respected as an honorable man by all who know you, yet here you are, risking your reputation to be seen alone with an unwed lady at a most inappropriate hour.”

“The danger you describe is great indeed,” Colonel Brandon replied with an intrinsic gravitas. Yet he did not move to approach her; instead, she took it upon herself to close the distance between them. “However, I have deemed the risk acceptable for its reward – to see you here, framed by the sunrise, greeting the snowdrops this season anew.”

The answering flush that spread across her cheeks was not wholly from the cold.

“There is a hint of a rogue in my suitor, to have purposefully connived such a meeting,” Marianne happily accused. The title of suitor was yet new to her lips – with a proper courtship having only been offered and accepted only days prior – and she felt her flush deepen to give it a voice.

“What you would dub a scheme, I prefer to call tactics,” he accepted her accusation with a bow of his head – joy making his eyes bright to hear her refer to him as such. “An instinct, even - and one I could scarce ignore.”

Such a statement, she felt, had to be rewarded. “If you can be brave, Colonel, then so can I,” Marianne declared. “We shall dare the disapproval of all the world together, without any fear of reprisal.”

His mouth may have smiled, but she saw how his eyes shadowed. “Miss Dashwood, please, forgive me. I must ask your pardon and assure you that I have no desire to ever put you in a situation where you feel uncomfortable. I should not have come here with an aim of meeting you this morning, perhaps – that was badly done on my part. Regardless of my error, I can promise you that your honor is safe with me – I never want you to feel otherwise.”

The difference, Marianne felt whisper with the winter, between what she had once known and what she better knew now was stark indeed.

“I know,” she assured in her own turn. No matter his words, it then felt necessary to reach for his hands and gently press. “I . . . I always feel safe with you. I trust you.”

For that was the truth as she best knew it, was it not? She felt no uncertainty now as she had before in love – always balanced on the edge of more and confusing the exaltation for a want of falling with any more true and lasting a romance. Her heart warmed for the look he turned on her then – settling into her chest with all contentment rather than twisting and leaping about – and she felt a sudden kinship with the snowdrops, blossoming in defiance of the cold beneath the constant eaves above.

Besides, they were hardly alone, she thought with a renewed awareness of their surroundings – and she almost said as much before Brandon unwittingly anticipated her to comment, “And yet, we are not truly alone, are we? The spring is with us.”

Delighted, Marianne took his arm, content to share the happy peace of the morning with him as, together, they followed the brook back to the parsonage.



Migration

The swifts had at last returned to England.

In want of a proper tree house – which Edward promised to help her build on the parsonage grounds once the weather permitted – Margaret stood out on the glebe’s fishing dock, a spyglass – which the colonel had given her early in their acquaintance – held up to her eye in order to better observe the flock of birds roosting across the river. She watched them carefully, and was at last rewarded to find the marks that separated the swifts from their swallow cousins.

With a broad grin, she make a note in her book before gesturing at Edward – who’d been using the dock for its intended purpose whilst she kept her vigil – to direct his attention to the birds.

“Do you know that English swifts fly to the very south of Africa for the winter?” She bade Edward closer still, and indicated the marks that her father had once made in her atlas, detailing the path of their migration. She traced a finger across the page, over the Iberian peninsula and then down the western coast of Africa. “They go out of their way to follow the ocean; they know not to cross the Sahara by instinct. Isn’t that fascinating?”

“I wish I could fly and follow them,” she’d once held her arms out as if she had wings to match, her eyes closed to better feel the breeze rustling through the tree house.

“Are you to be my little swift then, Meg?” her father – who’d climbed up to watch the birds with her, and seemed even taller and broader than usual for how he filled the small space of her sanctuary – had rumbled with a laugh. “I must confess that I have a fear of losing you to the winds – you’ll be so taken by exploring that you’ll fly too far and forget to come back home entirely.”

“No, no, Papa!” she’d cried as he tickled her sides. “Swifts always come back home – and I shall too!”

Her father had paused to consider the prospect with an exaggeratedly serious mien. “That is an agreeable compromise, I suppose – but only if you promise to return every spring.”

“Every spring!”

“Each and every spring?”

“Each and every spring, Papa – I shan’t miss a single one!

And now . . . she wasn’t the one who’d flown too far to come back home, wasn't she?

But Margaret consciously breathed through the sorrow that yet filled her heart whenever she thought of her father. Henry Dashwood had been gone these two years now, and she knew – she knew – that he’d rather her look on the swifts and remember him with joy.

Edward, she thought, was not blind to her grief. Rather, his gaze was soft – he’d lost his father when he was about her age, they’d discussed before, and as such, he understood her pain, if in his own way – and he kept his voice purposefully bright to ask, “And how about that fellow there with the red throat, feasting on the catkins?” He pointed to a stand of adler trees on their side of the river. “Does he fly south, or has he braved the winter alongside his wingless countrymen?”

Margaret flashed her brother a grateful smile. “That is a chaffinch,” she managed to reply, feeling her good cheer return even as she wiped at her eyes, “and he does indeed endure the winter alongside us.”



Butterfly

Her David was old enough now to run down the path leading to the pastures, his arms held wide open and an expression of childish joy radiating from his features.

“Horsey, Mama, horsey!” He looked back as if to urge her onward, and Eliza Williams could not help but smile as her son’s delighted laughter filled the air for the answering whinnies that sounded ahead.

“Patience, David,” she yet counseled, and David gave her a considering look before he obediently slowed and took the hand she held out to him – for she did not quite trusting his toddling steps on the far side of the steep down alone. Even so, he tugged her forward, and she obliged his wishes to hasten her stride. When had he grown so steady on his feet? she couldn’t help but wonder. And so fast, too? Soon, he wouldn’t need her aid in the slightest.

“Horsey!” David beckoned again. “Horsey, horsey, horsey!”

They soon reached the pastures that sprawled in a verdant cradle between the hills. Here, the first purple orchids rose above the untrimmed banks of tall grass, and cheerful white pansies and golden buttercups carpeted the fields that were resting for use later in the season. Eliza looked, and saw that the mares had been turned out in the east paddock, with three of the fillies from last year’s crop of foals galloping along the far side of the enclosure after months of confinement to their stalls and the barren winter lots. They raced the colts on the opposite side of the fence, tossing their manes and whinnying with glee all the while. The older mares, for their part, were mostly content to graze on the fresh shoots of new grass and paid the antics of the younger horses but little attention.

The fillies, however, knew David and knew him well. Since returning to Delaford, Eliza preferred to spend as much time away from the house as she could, and she took David to the stables most often for the easy trust and simple acceptance the horses offered. Now, they lined up against the newly painted white fence with expectant nickers and flicking ears, eager to greet their arrival.

David, in his turn, equally knew what to do, and Eliza unwrapped the sliced apples and carrots that Delaford’s housekeeper, Mrs. Rowe, had prepared for them to give to the horses.

“Pa’tience, pa’tience,” David repeated – parroting a word his mother most frequently used with him – and held out the treats one at a time. “Slow, horsey, slow.”

That drew the attention of the mature horses, and soon the mares arrived – snorting to take precedence over their younger kinswomen. The fillies grudgingly made way, and Eliza smiled to pet the velvety muzzle of Nike – her own preferred mount – when she stretched her neck over the fence, looking for caresses. The beautiful bay filly had only just achieved the status of mare herself that spring, and she seemed to preen for her new standing in the herd. Eliza rubbed the white star on her forehead, the motion as soothing to her as it was to Nike, and she slipped the mare the sugar cubes she had brought along specially for her as a surprise.

“You deserve to be spoiled, my dear friend,” Eliza praised as the mare happily chuffed against her hands, looking for the last granules of sugar she may have missed. For so long, Nike had been the sole companion she took solace in, but, now . . .

. . . now, Eliza took in a deep breath, and looked out beyond the fields to the dense wood of hornbeam trees that served as a boundary between the last of the home-farm and the first of the tenant plots. She couldn’t see the manor-house from here, but she could see the stables and the coach-house, and to the south the crest of the church was visible from atop its knoll. Instead of shying away from the faces of anyone passing by on the busy lane that led down to the village, she held her head up high – indeed, there were even those she hoped she would meet while she was out, whose company she now sought and enjoyed in her own turn.

And, of course, there was her son – her son, whose existence had once filled her with despair during the long months she’d spent abandoned in London, but now . . .

David was yet her blessing, and she thanked God for the gift of him.

The horses eventually wandered off in favor of grazing, and David too became distracted with all there was to explore. He toddled along the fence line, but soon stopped before a gorse hedge, his eyes wide to watch a trio of holly blue butterflies who fluttered to sip on the nectar of the tiny yellow flowers.

“Mama, bird?” he inquired of her, clearly puzzled.

“No, my love – that is a butterfly.”

David considered the new word, his small brow furrowing with the utmost seriousness. “B’fly?”

“Yes,” Eliza confirmed. “Butterfly.”

“B’fly,” he repeated with growing confidence, and then clapped his hands when one of the delicate creatures flew just out of reach for him to touch. “B’fly, b’fly, b’fly!”

Eliza smiled, feeling his joy as her own, and realized that, for the first time in far too long, she was well and truly content.



Thaw

Thomas Bradford took his time walking to the east paddock, whistling as he enjoyed the burgeoning warmth he could feel from the sunlight on the crisp spring breeze.

His charges didn’t mind the delay, he knew – to the contrary, the mares saw him coming, and Telephe, the dappled grey matriarch, pointedly walked to the far side of the pasture and showed him her tail in as clear a message as any spoken word. After the winter, the horses were hardly keen on these short outings as they transitioned from hay to grazing, but neither could the newly thawed pastures tolerate the heavy tread and hungry jaws of the horses when their grasses still had such tender young roots.

Yet, thankfully, Thomas had been working with the horses for nigh on eight years. As apprentice to Mr. Chapple, Delaford’s stable-master, he’d built up more than enough of a relationship with the mare to trust that he wouldn’t have to chase Telephe around the pasture like many of the green stable-hands still did. Instead, he whistled. Telephe’s ears twitched, but she made the mistake of glancing back at him when she tossed her head. He whistled again, and held her gaze. Then, he pointedly took a step back in a signal she understood as plain as day.

Telephe gave a great equine sigh, yet she obediently turned to cross the field. Once the matriarch started, the others followed suit.

From there, Thomas took his time walking the mares back to the stables in pairs. It wasn’t until he was halfway through his task that he became aware of the sound of a child’s laughter, sounding from the far side of the paddock fence.

It was a happy vision that met his eyes - that of little David Williams happily chasing butterflies without a care in the world. The boy was an indomitably cheerful lad, and a frequent visitor to the stables. He already had a way with the horses, Thomas couldn’t help but think with a fond sort of pride – just as his mother did.

Following that thought, his gaze was drawn to Miss Williams herself - with the new spring sun glinting off the white ribbon of her bonnet and gilding the soft yellow of her pelisse as if to mark her as its very own.

Thomas lingered, quite taken by the sight – so much so that Merope, his admitted favorite of the mares, nickered for the pause in their routine. He distractedly patted her roan neck, but found that he couldn't quickly return to his task as his thoughts traveled down a now familiar path.

He’d first been hired as a groom back when Mr. Jack Brandon was still master of the estate. For an unhappy two years, he'd witnessed firsthand how that boor treated his animals – let alone his tenants and servants. Any man who was so quick to raise a whip to a horse that was already frightened into eager obedience could hardly have been kind to a wife. As such, Thomas well believed the whispers that circulated from the great-house about the late Mrs. Eliza Brandon. How much of a tribulation must her marriage have been, he’d wondered, to prefer the fate she suffered rather than endure such a husband as so many women in her sphere endured? And now, as for her daughter . . .

Well, Thomas had two younger sisters of his own, whom he worked hard to support and held close to his heart. To imagine quiet Nancy or plucky little Ally used so wickedly by any man . . . the thought alone was enough to make his blood pump faster in his veins. Colonel Brandon had rightly called the cad out, Thomas had approved when he first heard, only to stay his hand in mercy rather than spilling the blood rightly owed to Miss Williams in reparation. Their master had been honorable, perhaps, yet Thomas couldn't help but think that he wouldn’t have been quite so kind in his stead. As such, he’d pitied Miss Eliza from the beginning, and couldn't bring himself to think an unkind thought of her.

Pity, however, was an emotion short lived – instead, he’d soon come to respect and even greatly esteem her. She always stood with her head held proudly high, no matter the whispers that followed her even as far as the stables, where she often sought out refuge. She was stubborn in the best of ways; she had a fighting spirit about her, and she wasn’t afraid to do the hard work of starting over anew in order to provide the best life she possibly could for her son. That she was still so kind was what amazed Thomas the most – even to those same gossiping busy-bodies who looked down their noses at her, as if they were sinless enough to cast the first stone.

. . . how could he not admire her for her courage and her fortitude?

Now, however, he was drawn up short to see Miss Williams smile as her son chased the butterflies. He’d never seen her smile before, not truly, and her joy touched something deep inside of him with a matching sense of contentment. She was already a pretty lass, he’d long since thought – with her fair hair and the spattering of freckles beneath her fine brown eyes – but when she smiled like that . . .

Thomas started as Merope nickered in his ear, huffing as if in chastisement.

Right then . . . right.

“I know – I’m a fool,” he sighed – for, even as the natural daughter of a fallen woman and the Lord only knew what father, Eliza Williams was still far and above the likes of him as the ward of a gentleman.

And yet . . .

“A right fool,” he reminded himself, and turned to lead Merope back to the stables.



Egg

Elinor Ferrars was sitting at her secretaire in the study she shared with Edward, looking over the accounts and making notes to discuss with Mrs. Hallett, when she spied her husband out the window, coming up through the gardens. Margaret was happily skipping by his side, a smile quite nearly splitting her face in two – one that Edward matched with an equally eager expression of his own. The both of them were carrying makeshift slings of flannel, though for what purpose, Elinor could hardly presuppose.

They soon noticed her attention, and lifted their flannels high as if to seek her approval. Margaret even went so far as to gesture for her, and, made curious by their high spirits, she made her way tither.

“Elinor, look!” Edward was quick to enlighten her when she met them by the back entrance to the kitchens. “Our hens have laid their first clutch!”

Elinor looked and saw that, sure enough, Edward and Margaret carried perhaps a dozen brown eggs between them, with they each grinning like foxes for their prize.

“So I see.” Elinor raised a brow. “And you took it upon yourselves to gather them?”

“Indeed we did!” Edward confirmed. “We could have sent for Abby, perhaps, but as this is such a momentous occasion, it felt only right to glean such a bounty with our own hands.”

“It is very exciting, is it not, Elinor? Do you think that we can have egg pudding after supper tonight?” Margaret asked. “Oh, how I long for a good egg pudding!”

“If it is egg pudding my captain so desires, then it is egg pudding that she shall have!”

“Ooh, and baked eggs with Mrs. Hallett’s special sauce, to break our fast upon the morrow?”

“Every morning, if you so desire – with only the specialist of sauces!”

“And a custard trifle,” Margaret soared on the wings of his enthusiasm, “one as tall as I am!”

“You are not thinking grand enough, my dear Meg – one as tall as the colonel, at the very least!”

“I suspect,” Elinor couldn’t help but interject, “that a great many more eggs shall be required to achieve such a culinary feat.”

“Do you think so? Well, that is hardly a deterrent; our hens shall be more than equal to any task required of them,” Edward declared with all confidence. “Did I not tell you that they were the finest chickens in all of Dorsetshire?”

“The most impressive, you may have mentioned once or twice,” Elinor attempted to state with all seriousness, but even she couldn’t help her answering smile, contagious as her husband’s mirth ever was.

“The most impressive, indeed!” Edward declared anew before turning to Margaret with a wink. “Come now – at your command, we shall seek out Mrs. Hallett, and see what a reward we may claim.”

“Let us go, then!” Margaret made him wait not a moment longer. "Onwards!" And, together, they turned for the kitchens.

Elinor followed them inside, and couldn’t help but linger in the corridor leading back to the main rooms of the house. She listened as their cook's initial bemusement gave way to true amusement as Edward and Margaret repeated their grand plans for the eggs – and then quite encouraged their exuberance in her turn when she listed all the various possibilities for layering the trifle with the ingredients she had at hand.

“What is all the commotion about?” Elinor heard her mother’s voice, approaching from further down the hall. She turned, and offered a wry smile in welcome.

“You will soon hear the whole of it from Edward and Margaret, but I shall spoil their surprise somewhat to reveal that the hens have laid their first eggs.”

“Oh, is that all?” Mrs. Dashwood’s brow dipped, her expression equal parts fond and perplexed.

“Apparently,” Elinor elaborated, “it is a momentous occasion that requires all due celebration.”

“I see.”

“There has been some discussion about building a trifle taller than Margaret, but I must confess that may be a feat beyond our hens, no matter Edward's faith in their abilities.”

For that, Mrs. Dashwood chuckled outright. “It is a good thing your Mrs. Hallett is good-natured; they may try her nerves otherwise.”

“She loves humoring Edward – and spoiling Margaret; perhaps too much so, at times,” Elinor agreed. “I will not be surprised if we have quite the trifle to enjoy from her efforts, if not of quite such Goliath proportions.”

“I look forward to it," Mrs. Dashwood said, and Elinor turned with her mother towards the parlor, happily content with her place in the world and all whom she shared it with.



Equinox

Hannah Rowe couldn't remember Delaford ever being so merry an estate as it was now. Even when the great-house was full of children in years prior, there'd been a sense of stillness in the air – a careful sort of hush, like a forest when hunters were afoot and all within refused to exhale lest they disturb the tenuous peace. She'd been but a house maid herself when their current master was born, yet, even then, there’d been but little joy to be found.

After all, there was a symbiotic circle that existed between any master and those who depended upon his estate for their living. A good master made for a prosperous village and thriving tenants, while a bad one . . .

. . . well, suffice to say, Delaford had not prospered in so very long.

Now, however, not only were old scars finally healing amongst the tenants – six years of properly rotating the fields had finally seen good returns on their yields, and this season was already promising a healthy harvest, so much so that even the poorest fishing cottage had finally been updated with such modern conveniences as was promised in their lease – but there was a sense of joy amongst the household staff for the simple joy of serving in return. They’d been idle for far too long – a forced state of idleness, with few to wait upon and fewer still that they found it an honor to serve. Jack Brandon's debts had forced him to trim his staff until there were only a ghostly few hands left to keep the great-house running. As the years went on, he entertained less and less until he stopped completely. Near the end, he hardly even took regular meals for himself except to demand port and brandy at hours that were ever early and earlier still.

He'd been the foulest of souls when the devil finally took him for his own, and few mourned his loss.

Hannah had only found herself promoted to housekeeper when Colonel Brandon took possession of his unexpected inheritance – even though she no longer employed at Delaford, even as a maid, at the time. She'd once been training with their former housekeeper, Mrs. Burbage, too take over her duties, but the elderly woman had been let go just prior to her retirement, and Hannah too had been part of the sweeping cuts that so drastically culled their numbers. Yet she was still married to her Henry, who was promoted to butler following dear Mr. Cobbs' dismissal, and earned what a living she could as a seamstress in the neighboring village of East Heath during those lean years at the end of Jack Brandon's failed stewardship.

She'd almost given up on the idea that there were good men in the world who cared about the likes of she and hers when the colonel inquired of Mrs. Burbage – and then, quite horrified by Henry's report, both made reparations to the woman and promoted Hannah as she'd once been promised and denied.

It was a good living, serving their new Master Brandon, if a quiet one - the colonel did not entertain at all in those early days, when every single shilling was carefully watched and counted and then poured back into the suffering estate. There were past servants to compensate, unfair rents to forgive, and debts long-owed to far too many to be settled; slowly but surely, their new master saw to them all. Since then, the colonel entertained only as often as propriety demanded – inviting the neighboring families amongst the gentry to dine and hosting yearly fox hunts and the annual tenant balls as was tradition – and preferred a simple table for himself whenever he was alone in residence.

Hannah would even go so far as to say that it had been frustrating, in its own way, for those who wanted to do more for the master who had done so much for them, but now . . .

What a breath of fresh air it had been, to have the newly wed Ferrarses stay with them last summer! The recently installed rector and his wife were good folk, and, as for Mrs. Ferrars' younger sister . . .

“It’s awfully romantic, isn’t it,” Hannah had overheard Bess and Jane, two of the maids, chatting just that morning in the kitchens, “the both of them having suffered from lost love, and finding it in each other again?”

“If you can call escaping a rake lost love, perhaps,” their cook, Mrs. Trevett, had snorted to comment on the maids' gossip. “Let that be a lesson to both of you, and watch that you don’t go casting your pearls before swine. Miss Dashwood was a fortunate girl, but her story is an exception rather than the norm, I'll have you know.”

Two "yes, ma’ams" meekly chorused in answer, even if Jane, after a moment’s pause, asked, “Do you think that my Charlie is . . .” but she faltered as a blush stained her cheeks.

“The Taylor boy?" Mrs. Trevett cocked a brow. "I'd say that he's a respectful lad with a good head on his shoulders – and if he's ever not, be quick to let me know. His mother was employed here at the great-house before she married Mr. Taylor, and I’ll have words with her if need be."

“Charlie is nice enough,” Bess shrugged, “but I think I’d prefer a man in uniform for myself. There’s nothing more dashing than a soldier’s regimentals, wouldn't you agree?”

“Elizabeth Bishop,” Mrs. Trevett took her attention from the pie crust she was shaping to shake her rolling pin in a stern gesture at the girl, “the only men in uniform who’d deign to marry a scullery maid are militia soldiers who are poor as church mice – and I know that Elsie didn’t raise you to be a fool. But now, you have work to see to, do you not? You two have loitered over your tea for long enough, and it's time to get back to it.”

“I’m going to wait for my prince," even so, Bess declared on her way out. "I don't care what Mrs. Trevett says – I know he's out there somewhere."

“You just have to keep your eyes open. Charlie might not be a prince to most," Jane returned with small, besotted smile, "but he is to me."

That, Hannah thought as she walked up to stand by her own husband, she quite understood. She joined Henry on the top of the hill that swept down to the riverside, where a picnic had been prepared for all of their guests – the Ferrars and the Dashwood ladies and the Middletons and wily old Mrs. Jennings, too. Henry solemnly presided over the footmen who served the party, as sharp-eyed as any butler Buckingham House could boast and twice as proud. For her part, she knew that things were well in hand, and instead favored watching as Miss Margaret led the brood of Middleton children to fly their kites as the wind picked up. She took little Master Williams by the hand, and announced that she would show him how to fly her very own kite higher than the clouds themselves – a prospect Mr. Ferrars and Sir John only encouraged as they attended the young ones in their turn.

The colonel, she saw, was slower to follow them, yet follow he did with Miss Dashwood on his arm – and that lady smiling brighter than even the sunshine to be attended as thus.

It was, the housekeeper thought, exactly how it should be: that good people were rewarded for the good they did, especially after such seasons of hardship.

“You know, Henry," Hannah stood very close to his side to whisper, "I do think that the winter is finally done with us.”

Even after thirty years of marriage, a smile from him could still make her heart flutter, and it yet did so then as his hand brush hers in a discreet gesture.

“Aye," he agreed, "I believe it is.”



~ MJ

 

I know that I am beyond terribly late with these replies, but, before I share anything new, I want to take a moment to sincerely thank you both for your wonderful feedback!

Aw, thank you! That's exactly what I was going for with this collection, and I am so, so happy to hear that they resonated with you as such.

The great thing about a collection like this is that it can be read in any order you so choose! I'm still just tickled pink that you enjoyed these stories, and can't thank you enough for all of your lovely comments, here and in my other S&S threads.

I wholly agree! (And so does Marianne. )

It's really in the title with sense and sensibility, isn't it? But, for all that these two sisters are so very different, their bond really is deep and strong, and I love exploring it as such.

ALL OF THE FAMILY FEELS

I agree times a thousand. That's just a cardinal rule of shipping.

Thank you so much again for your kind feedback! I can't thank you enough for every word!



And now, without further ado, I will be right back with the next update . . . just a year or so later than I originally intended.

 

Author's Notes: What was that about my intention to write for the entire Spring Bingo board last year? Well, that didn't entirely work out, as you can see - but I do want to write a few more ficlets in order to bring this arc to a satisfying conclusion, especially so that I can go about adding more stories to this thread in the future!

Towards that end, I've written for a handful of prompts from both last year's Spring Bingo and this year's. In this update, Labor, Pink, Orange, Dragon, Carnival, and Fasting are from the 2024 board while Bunny and Sowing are left over from the 2023 board. I'll have one more update to share along this vein - maybe even two - but, to start, here we are with . . .

---

XIV.II. "The Hour of Feeling"​

Labor

It had become her habit to take David down to the stables daily. Yet, that afternoon, she was alone.

Eliza fiddled with her basket as she walked down the aisle, glancing at the grooms who went about their tasks and searching for one face in particular. Mrs. Rowe had looked at her in a most curious manner when she'd bade a lunch for two, but Eliza had held fast to her purpose and met the housekeeper’s eye as if there was nothing noteworthy about her request in the slightest. Now, if she could only crest that wave of bravery and see her intentions through to their conclusion . . .

However, this time, it was not Thomas who came upon her when she approached Nike’s stall, but, rather -

“Good day, Miss Williams,” Mr. Chapple bowed in greeting. Usually, she held a place of fondness in her heart for the kindly old stable-master – truly she did – but, this day . . .

. . . well, it was hardly Mr. Chapple’s fault that he was not Thomas. Eliza fixed a smile to her face, even as she felt something deep inside wilt like a sapling plant who’d been denied the promise of the sun.

“Would you like me to have Nike saddled for you, ma’am?” Mr. Chapple asked.

It was on the tip of her tongue to inquire if Mr. Bradford was working that day, but she swallowed, and felt her bravery wither to match.

(After all, it was not upon a woman to seek – especially a woman such as the likes of her – even for something as innocent as sharing bread and apples together underneath the oak tree by the east paddock, in full view of anyone and everyone who’d like to look in all propriety.)

Instead, she merely nodded, and let out a sigh when the stable-master turned on her behalf.

It seemed that she would be riding alone again.



Bunny

“Margaret, you must know that you cannot keep the bunny.”

Perhaps somewhat predictably, Elinor's statement was met with the fiercest of glowers from her youngest sister.

“That is not at all my intention, Elinor!” Margaret returned with no small amount of feeling. “I only mean to aid in its recovery – look at it! It’s injured . . . I don't think it will survive on its own.”

Elinor fought the urge to point out that there was a very real chance that the unfortunate creature wouldn’t survive inside the parsonage, either, no matter their best efforts. Such was simply the way of nature, and yet . . .

“I know that it might not . . .” but Margaret swallowed, and continued in a strong voice, “I know that it might not survive, but at least this way there’s a chance that it might – a chance that would surely dwindle if we were to leave her to the mercy of the wilds.”

Seeing the way that her sister held fast to the swaddled bunny – as if afraid that she’d reach out and pluck the quivering bundle from her arms – Elinor found herself relenting. She nodded, against her misgivings, and stepped aside. “Let's start with some warm water and a wash, and see where the damage is done,” she advised. "Then, we may go from there."

Much later, Elinor awakened near to dawn – not to check on the bunny, mind, but her sister – only to find Edward sitting vigil in Margaret’s stead.

“I offered to take a watch for my captain,” he whispered, his voice raspy from a want of sleep. He nodded towards where Margaret had fallen into an exhausted slumber of her own in the armchair closest to the hearth. “I have strict orders to wake her if there is even the slightest change.”

With the fondest of sighs, Elinor sat on the divan beside her husband. She leaned her head against his shoulder, and, together, they watched as the brave little soul continued to breathe.



Sowing

It was impossible for her to fix her stitches with her full attention when the countryside was so exquisitely in bloom.

Yet Elinor had a list of families within the parish whom she wished to aid with such practical gifts as she could, and Marianne was determined to be of any and all assistance possible. For the most part, she embarked upon the more general tasks in a variety of projects, thus leaving Elinor’s patient hand and shrewd eyes for the smaller touches and more delicate details – like the tiny marigolds she was currently embroidering on the crowned brim of a bonnet for young Miss Dyer from Three Crest Farm.

She was thus surprised when Brandon joined them in the parlor and – instead of picking up a book to share their company, much as Edward did – instead took a seat on the opposite end of the settee. Once there, he reached down to take a checked apron from atop the waiting basket. All without comment, he studied the fabric with a careful eye, and saw where the unfinished hem awaited completion. With that, he picked up a needle and thread, and set himself to work.

Marianne, for her part, only dumbly gaped.

“Colonel,” she could bear no more – not when Brandon seemed content to ignore her bemusement entirely, much as Elinor did, rather than indulging the questions that so clearly leapt from her expression in silence – and finally exclaimed, “whatever are you doing?”

“I would think it rather obvious.”

“You are . . . you are sewing!”

“Indeed,” Brandon’s voice was more a rumble of sound than any word spoken aloud – yet Marianne was left in little doubt that her powers of observation had just been most thoroughly and eloquently teased.

“But . . .” she – though rarely at such a loss for expression – struggled to give her thoughts a further voice.

“There’s not a soldier on this earth who doesn’t know how to stitch a seam or mend a hem,” yet Brandon at last pointed out mildly. She stared, transfixed by the easy way he guided the needle through the delicate fabric. The sight was at first dichotomous with his large hands and callused fingers, but his progress was straight and even. “No army would survive otherwise.”

“Oh . . . but of course,” she said, feeling as her cheeks flushed with color – for that did indeed make sense, so much so that she wondered how she had not reached the same conclusion from the first. (It was easy to forget, at times, that this man had lived an entire life before knowing her – and one so varied and remarkable compared to what she herself had known during her brief time on England’s shores, at that.)

“Even more importantly,” he added, “these are my tenants as much as they are your sister’s parishioners; I am glad to do my part.”

It was most certainly pride she felt then – pride and affection and something more enticingly rich and encompassing than she could yet put a name to – that this dear, honorable man wished to call her his own. (She had sworn love far too quickly before to name the quickening of her heart in that moment, no matter how its pulse whispered.) Instead, she merely knew for a certainty that she was just as happy to call him her very own in her turn.

In her distraction, her own stitches were hardly so even; she would have to begin anew.

Brandon was far too much of a gentleman to remark upon her error as she picked the thread loose with a noisy sigh – yet Elinor was far too much her sister to let her own observation pass without comment.

“Besides,” Elinor pointed out wryly, “you are far too distracted, dearest – and Mrs. Dyer deserves to have a new apron with a straight hem.”

Marianne leveled her sister with a most pointed look – for, surely, Edward was influencing Elinor for the worst for her to voice such a jape aloud – before she allowed herself to answer with a smile, “And so it seems that Mrs. Dyer shall have the straightest hem in all of Dorsetshire.” She could not keep the proud note of delight from her voice if she tried – nor did she wish to. “Pass me that bit of darning, Elinor, and I shall happily leave the more visible details to hands far more skilled than my own.”



Pink

(Of course, it only took Edward a mere quarter hour of glancing over from his book – the Royal Agricultural Society's Reports on the County of Dorset for the year '98 – and decide that he too wouldn't be left behind in his companions' endeavors. After all, how hard could a bit of sewing be? The concept seemed simple enough, and he was confident of his imminent success. Yet, after attempting to affix a bit of pink gimp trim to a matching bonnet for the youngest Dyer girl – with varying degrees of success, no matter how earnest his determination – he sighed quite loudly and declared that he too would join Marianne in her darning, and be thanked by his parishioners quite heartily for understanding the limitations of his admittedly notably novice skills.)



Dragon

If it was only for her own sake, she wouldn’t have attended at all.

Yet Eliza Williams refused to have her son raised in the shadows – distantly conscious that he was guilty of some unfathomable sin, even when he was instead in his own age of innocence. She was determined that her own errors would never be her child’s own – and she would see that pattern start here and now.

Even so, she could admit that her intentions were hardly those that all of society shared – not even this country society with her nearest neighbors and closest relations – and she most keenly felt their eyes and judgements as she walked with David through the village's Easter fair.

There was a great part of her that wanted to shrink back, to turn on her heel and retreat to the safety of the mansion-house – where she was at least tolerated by the colonel’s staff and treated cordially enough, if not accepted outright. Yet a growing and ever stronger part of her turned up her chin and endeavored to boldly meet every disapproving gaze that dared to settle on her as such. She stood her ground and wanted to challenge the most strident opinions outright and demand an accounting – for who amongst all mankind had never required God’s grace in their own lives? She would dare any would-be accuser to prove their own fidelity, and then dub them a liar for daring to presume upon such misplaced self-righteousness – for, ultimately, did they not all sin and fall short of the glory of God?

Let the man who is not sinning cast the first stone, Mr. Ferrars had read just that last Sunday, and Eliza had felt as if he’d given his quietly stern – but indeed most profoundly pointed – sermon for her sake alone.

. . . yet the difference was that she had a lasting reminder of her sin, where others could content themselves with their own transgressions in silence and secrecy. For the foolishly trusting, naive girl she had once been, she would never be able to wholly return – just as she had no desire to. Oh, never would she again believe the honeyed lies of one such as John Willoughby – nor did she wish that blackguard anywhere near her son – and never again would she conduct herself in such a careless manner with any man . . . but she could not consider David as one of her regrets, even if the rest of the world looked on and dubbed him as her millstone. Nay, he was her greatest blessing – her saving grace and most illimitable joy when all else about her life had seemed pointless and entirely impossible for the living. As such, she utterly refused to hide him away in the dark as she had so often been cast to the side, no matter how kindly.

So, she strode down the high road of the village, and took her place alongside her neighbors as if she had every right to walk amongst them.

. . . for she did, she insisted to herself – and David had even more of a right than she, most of all.

As such, when she stopped before the mummer’s play in the village square – depicting England's own St. George as he faced down a great green dragon, bellowing fire in streams of flame-colored ribbons – she drew in a breath, and delighted in the way her son turned wide eyes to observe the spectacle. She even managed to smile outright as she picked him up for a better view amongst the crowd of eager spectators. Yet her own height was so very slight, and she could hardly offer him as clear a view as she'd prefer. She could only do her best, much as she ever did, all before -

“Perhaps, you would allow me?”

Eliza looked over, yet found herself hesitating. “I thank you, Colonel, but it is no great difficulty,” she responded quietly, “for me to carry my son.”

“Indeed not,” Brandon agreed – in that quiet way of his that nonetheless betrayed a moment’s hurt for her rejection, no matter how gently it had been intended. (Why, oh why was she always finding new ways to wound this man – to whom she owed so much, and was indebting herself even further to with each passing day that she presumed upon his charity?) “Yet neither is it any difficulty for me – in fact, it would please me greatly to hold him, and ensure that he has an unobscured vantage from which to observe the play.”

She was hardly deaf to the words waiting within his words – and she so dearly wanted to accept and believe them in her own turn. And yet . . .

It felt as if she moved through a very great mire to nod her head in assent – but nod she finally did.

“There we go,” Brandon smiled at her son, muttering in that same soft, rumbling tone that unexpectedly resonated within Eliza as a thunderclap – drawing on some deep, matching memory from her own youth. For a moment, she closed her eyes, and had to breathe in deep to steady herself.

Suddenly, she thought, the whispers surrounding her did not seem quite so close – perhaps they even ceased entirely, with such an honorable man standing there in solidarity by her side.

For once, that thought was not a bitter one – instead, she’d almost call the emotion she felt closer to gratitude.

“In no time at all," Brandon whispered as the play progressed, better watching David as he, in turn, watched the knight on the stage, "he’ll be slaying dragons of his own.”

“All too soon, I fear,” Eliza agreed, feeling a pang for the truth of his words – for that, indeed, was the greatest of her regrets.

As if he could hear every thought she left unspoken, the colonel looked over David's small shoulder, and quite pointedly met her eyes to say: “He will have quite the example to guide him in his mama.”

It was strange, then, how she hardly felt worthy of the grace that she wished that others would extend her when it came – or, perhaps, she merely felt so with him. “You honor me, sir,” she looked down to mutter.

“You are," yet Brandon refused to allow her retreat, "an example of fortitude for us all.”

It must have been, she thought, as easy for him to utter those words as it was for her to hear them – and maybe, as such, there were dragons waiting to be slain for them both. So, instead of demurring as she may have more instinctively preferred, Eliza allowed herself to smile what a smile she could in answer.

And then, for the first time that day, she looked back on the mummer’s play to enjoy the spring's festivities for her own sake, as much as her son's.



Carnival

Margaret had not attended an Easter fair since her father's passing. As such, her memories were rather hazy impressions, all abstracted by the simply sought joys of youth – from hobby-horses and mummer’s plays to sweetmeats and candied fruits and nuts by the handfuls, eating until her stomach ached and her mother tutted, even as Father winked to sneak her yet more delicacies whenever Mama's back was turned.

Now, she was old enough to help her mother and sisters in the church’s bazaar – where over a dozen women from Delaford and the neighboring parish of East Heath had gathered together to sell a variety of items, ranging from flowers to soaps to preserves to hand-made items of all and sundry intended for the poor – as the proceeds from the entire bazaar were established to benefit. Margaret was entirely conscious of the honor afforded to her, that she was allowed to take sales on the candles she’d crafted with her mother for the fair – even if there was still a small part of her that was infinitely more interested in the game stalls (she had espied archery and fencing) than the charitable market itself.

Better did she remember her father, even, and his own fondness for archery – but that memory, too, she carefully tucked away for later. She could hardly dwell on such thoughts when everything around her was so bright and cheerful, and her mother was, too. Her mother deserved everything that was bright and joyful in the world – and that did not include a daughter who was inclined to wallowing in the megrims.

As such, Margaret ignored the sights and sounds that came from the village square, and attended her duties with all proper diligence.

Until, finally, well after the noon hour came and went, her mother said: “This, I believe, is a good moment for us to take a reprieve.”

“Mama?” Margaret did not at first understand.

“Elinor has things quite well in hand. I fancy some candied almonds for myself, and then, perhaps, we may take a turn at archery together?”

Margaret looked at her mother as if she had never seen her before – but the elder Dashwood lady was in all earnestness. “Archery?” still, she inquired. "Surely you jest."

"Why should I?" a smile pulled at her mouth in answer. “Did you not know that Miss Emma Kingsley was once Chichester's crowned young archer three May Fairs running, when I was just about your age?"

“Truly?" yet Margaret could only continue to gape.

“Most truly," Mrs. Dashwood confirmed with a wink. "Although it has been some time – I have every reason to doubt my skills now – I must confess myself eager to try my luck again."

With that, what could Margaret do but agree? "That sounds," she enthused, "a most splendid idea."

Then – distanced from her own memories of old, perhaps, yet drawn by the promise of the new – Margaret happily fell into step by her mother's side to explore the fair together.



Orange

Was it just his imagination, or could he see a bit of orange peeking through the dark crest of the earth?

It was indeed his imagination, Edward could at last admit – if after squinting, just to be sure. The leafy green tops of the carrots were only visible, rich and verdant against the damp soil, and he knew it would be some time before the nascent vegetables would reach any greater maturity in promise of a more imminent yield.

And yet . . .

“Edward,” he heard his wife’s voice from where he’d settled himself on the edge of the vegetable patch, “are you singing to the carrots?”

Well, when stated as the obvious in that tone of voice . . .

He managed an abashed smile as he looked up, finding Elinor silhouetted by the sunlight. “Perhaps?” he confessed wryly. “You see that I am guilty as accused.”

Though she raised a brow, there was something fond about her expression – if not certainly amused – as she crossed the path through the garden beds to join him at his side.

“The carrots will not grow any faster or slower, no matter your encouragement. Such things are done entirely on nature’s time, not our own.”

Yet Edward did not know if he could agree with such supposed good sense, no matter its superior logic, when it belied the insistence of his own heart. And so: “I would venture to place a wager,” he acknowledged her words, even if he could not agree outright. “Yet,” he admitted his own lapse in knowledge – no matter his recent endeavors to amend that lapse, “I have no idea how fast a carrot should grow, singing or no singing.”

Elinor made a noncommittal sound, looking down at the tidy rows of fledgling plants with a considering eye.

Then, to Edward’s surprise, without a further word or fuss, Elinor made to kneel on the grass beside him. She was perfunctory in smoothing out her skirts, but did not fiddle with them overmuch before . . .

Before his wife too began to hum the same Irish air he'd been singing, just moments before.

“Elinor,” he found that he had to ask aloud for how he very much doubted his senses then, “what are you doing?”

“Can you not tell?” yes, his wife was most certainly amused – and rather enjoying the opportunity she had to tease him, at that. “I am encouraging the carrots to grow.”

Edward could not help his answering smile, and he fairly beamed in abject delight.

“It seems that my wife has been harboring the heart of a romantic,” he made to peer most seriously into her eyes. “Where has my most sensible Elinor gone, and who is this entirely fey creature in her place?”

Yet Elinor merely raised a brow, and returned, “Hardly that. Indeed, I would call this a very serious study, based entirely in earthly facts – we may make our tally, and then compare our progress with Mr. Thrupp’s expectations for the rate of growth of carrots, and then have a definitive answer on the subject.”

For her words, his smile only widened – so much so that he could not help but say: “Have I told you recently, how very happy I am to have you in my life?”

“I have yet to be in doubt of the warmth or sincerity of your sentiments,” Elinor returned, her own expression softening, “yet it is always good to be reminded.”

With that, she turned her attention to the carrots once more, and softly began to sing.



Fasting

It was somewhat startling, just how many times he'd been taken by the desire to kiss his new suitress, now that he had the privilege to call her in even the smallest way his.

Yet, besides that one imprudent (if not impossibly necessary) kiss that Michaelmas past, and another affirming (and thus entirely essential) affection shared the eve he’d asked leave to pay court for her hand, he’d behaved with all propriety as far as Marianne Dashwood was concerned, and he intended to proceed as thus. (If actions alone could be counted in place of thoughts, of course – which he was determined that God alone would ever find cause to judge.) Keeping to that state of affairs, however, was proving to be a rather . . . trying endeavor, so much so that he was entirely surprised by the insistent immediacy of his own impulses in the wake of their growing affinity.

After all, he was no hotblooded youth (better was he familiar with the constant presence of an aching burn) with no control (but rather a lifetime’s practice at such crucial self-abnegations) over his baser instincts, but rather a man more than old enough to know better – and one who strove to be a gentleman, at that. He was determined to be nothing like him (nor indeed him) – and so, for her sake, he never would.

That thought, more so than any other, helped him hold fast against his every weaker impetus to the contrary; Miss Dashwood deserved to be honored, in every way, and so, honor her he would.

Perhaps, his initial error was in failing to realize just how starved for even the smallest of affections he'd become over the years. He drank in every glancing touch and thoughtless contact – for she was, after all, an entirely expressive creature – noticing any time she brushed his arm when she gestured or reached out to take his hand when they walked together on the lane as if she touched his heart instead. Even more so than such physical affirmations, he took every glance and smile and spoken word – for him, he still could not quite understand – and held them close with an answering devotion that was just as startling to him in its growing intensity.

Had he truly held himself so far apart from his fellow man over the years to feel these natural moments of human contact so acutely – or was it the woman herself that he was so irrevocably drawn to? He only knew that he felt as if he was awakening after years of sleep, and, as such, he found himself ravenous.

It would have been far easier, of course, if it was only his own desires he grappled with – and not the lady's own.

(God, but how that was just as baffling in its own right – if hardly unappreciated, he could admit, if, once again, only in the privacy of his own mind.)

She – who never had a thought she didn't voice aloud (never mind that her sensibilities were now tempered with a hard-won maturity of heart and mind that was just as enticing in its own right), nor an emotion she didn't feel to its every height and depth (there'd been a reason he'd faltered back at Michaelmas, after all) – was entirely comfortable with her every state of being, even as he found himself entirely uncertain in his own. What was more than that, he rather suspected (he knew) that she enjoyed pushing him (or perhaps she merely hungered as he did) when his control had so spectacularly failed him once before.

. . . though that memory was one that he knew better than to dwell on when the lady in question was so near at hand, standing entirely too close to him as if to study the same bookshelf that he had long been perusing – never mind that he wouldn't have been able to name a single title aloud if pressed. He knew that he should perhaps place a more respectable distance between them – and he'd almost convinced his reluctant limbs to move and do just that before Marianne turned and put her back to the shelf. She was then so close – entirely too close and yet not nearly close enough – as she quite boldly proclaimed: "Colonel, I would like it very much if you were to kiss me.”

Her words caused a hot bolt of entirely untoward feeling to pierce through him – so much so that, for a moment, he found himself unconsciously answering her. Instead of moving away, he whispered closer, bracketing her body with his own and leaning down as if to close the distance between them. Moving beyond himself, he reached out to turn up her chin, his thumb softly caressing the skin just beneath the inviting fullness of her mouth.

“Would you?” he whispered, his voice deep and thoughtful, and he felt as much as he saw her draw in a shaking breath.

Oh, but it would be entirely too easy to press her back against the bookshelf and claim that which was so freely being offered to him – to take and take and take, but also to give -

. . . and yet.

And yet.

He exhaled, and was close enough that, for a moment, he was uncertain if he unwittingly felt the heat of her lips, regardless of his intentions. He raised his opposite hand, drawn by the urge to cup her face and erase any uncertainty about it, before he recalled himself with an entirely Herculean effort and instead reached for a book at random.

It was a poor substitute for the entirely enchanting woman before him as he pulled the spine free, yet he soldiered on to adhere to the strictures of honor as best he could.

“Ah,” he said as he drew away from her (and instantly felt bereft for doing so), “here is the volume I sought.”

No matter his own screaming instincts, it was gratifying, in its own way, to watch her take a step on visibly unsteady legs, and sink down on the nearest settee – and not a moment too soon before Margaret came back into the library in a clamor of bright exuberance, pulling Eliza behind her as she extolled the virtues of Delaford's collection of atlases. It was a distraction, Christopher felt, that was then of the utmost necessity – even if hardly welcome in its entirety.

Yet Marianne’s eyes still continued to burn as she watched him – immediately unable to pay their company any heed – and for the promise in their depths he felt his own gnawing need turn to anticipation, instead.

For this woman, he told himself, was worth every waiting moment – and so, wait for her he would.



~ MJ