Page 79 of Threads that Remain

“You have another daughter.”

“I am aware of it.”

“She may reasonably expect the same treatment.”

“No. She may marry if she insists upon it, but I shall not be required to stand in front of a room full of people and discover that I am not ready to have her go. I had not anticipated it.”

“You have had nearly twenty years to anticipate it.”

“I was optimistic.”

“I thought you conducted yourself extremely well.”

“Extremely well?” Edward repeated. “My dear Elinor, I believe I have a gift for bringing women to tears. I saw Mrs. Jennings crying. And your mother. And even Marianne.”

“Yes.”

Edward shook his head. “Do you know, I believe that was the hardest thing I have ever done in my whole life?” He paused. “I should say,” he added, quietly, “with the exception of very nearly losing you. That was harder. I have not forgotten it, whatever else the years have been kind enough to soften.”

Elinor was about to answer when Edward’s voice changed, as though another recollection had suddenly occurred to him.

“Oh,” said he. “That reminds me.”

Elinor immediately became suspicious.

“Of what?”

“Lucy.”

The single word was enough.

Edward continued, with an innocence which Elinor had learned, over many years, to distrust.

“She came to me afterwards. Quite unexpectedly. She too had tears in her eyes.”

“How very Lucy of her.”

“Yes. She said my heartfelt emotions had quite brought back memories of the past.”

When Elinor made no reply, Edward asked with amusement, “Mrs. Ferrars, you are not jealous? Just a little?”

Elinor’s hand was already resting on his chest, making it convenient to reach across and pinch his arm.

Edward looked at her in astonishment.

“Did you just pinch me?”

“Barely.”

There was a brief silence.

“I see.”

“There will be no mention of a past with Lucy again.”

Then Edward said, very quietly, “Still, it is interesting that—”

Elinor gently got her fingers in position. “Would you like to be pinched again?”