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The first meeting between Elinor and the erstwhile Lucy Steele after their marriages was every degree as ridiculous as the former had supposed it would be; and yet, much less awkward than she had at times feared. The circumstances were so exactly formed to support the volubility of each, as to ensure a free flow of conversational topics for the duration of the evening, and the moment of danger – the risk that they might be slain in the eyes of Mrs Ferrars, once more disrupting their husbands' reconciliations with their mother – passed before their initial frostiness could rise to that proud lady's attention.
Having been once more admitted to the house on Park Street, Edward had judged it prudent to join the family party there whenever an invitation should chance to arrive, however lacklustre; and as it did not seem likely to occur above once or twice a year, Elinor had resigned herself to the necessity. She was not yet so advanced in the production of Mrs Ferrars's second grandchild as to make travel more than usually inconvenient, and as it would also bring her into company with her own brother, would be a convenient means by which to bring news of their mutual relatives back to her mother and younger sisters without requiring an invitation those ladies could not but regard with disgust.
Elinor, despite all that had occurred since their departure from Norland, remained the only one of the Dashwood ladies skilled in the art of telling lies when politeness required it. It was only that talent that had made her former acquaintance with Lucy Ferrars at all tolerable, throughout the varied manoeuvres of sensibility and advantage in which they had all been engaged prior to their marriages; and though it promised to be a much less stressful exercise with the main cause of their initial antagonism removed, the evening did not bid fair to break the precedent. She envisioned before them nothing more than a minimally respectable amount of time spent mouthing busy nothings, before escaping back to the bosom of those for whom family-feeling was a reality rather than a byword.
Fortunately, as in every thing else associated with her husband, Elinor found the difference between the expectation of an event to be far different from the experience itself. Once the initial stiff embraces and coldly correct greetings were behind them, conversation moved to the recent unseasonal weather, the distance between their respective homes, the dirtiness of the roads, and the indignities of travel; but every phrase weighted with such a layer of additional meaning, that no amount of curlicues, capitalised letters, or italics could have sufficiently captured them if committed to ink and paper for Marianne's delectation.
A complaint about the joltings of the Robert Ferrarses' carriage seemed to have writ beneath it a smug comparison between what they could afford, and what the Edward Ferrarses could afford; a comment on the excellence of their lodgings became a statement on the degree to which the two couples' social circles diverged; a casual mention of the house party they had previously come from, a dig at the responsibilities required of a curate and his wife; in short, every possible way in which a topic might elevate the elder bride at the expense of the younger was worked into the conversation before the next was allowed to succeed it. Such Elinor had come to expect of Lucy. And yet ... the self-exaltations so gloatingly produced, once given and received in an expectation of stifled pain, now evoked only an unexpected, contented amusement in the former Miss Dashwood's breast.
The buoyancy of her own emotions and the grasping want of security revealed by Lucy's questions reminded Elinor of the true disparity in their current situations, and she kept that in mind as she conveyed in return the gratifying news that their coachman must be a superior article, for they had hardly noted any jostling at all in their conveyance; celebrated the easy intimacy of terms between the residents of the parsonage and the Master of Delaford – who, it was not necessary to mention, had twice the income of Robert Ferrars even after the latter's inheritance; and how she and Edward had been so welcomed by the rest of their community that ministering among them was hardly work at all. To all this she added the assurance of their doctor that she was likely carrying a girl; and fact that even should the child prove not to be the eldest male heir to the Ferrars name among the next generation of relations for young Harry Dashwood to preside over, she would be the first granddaughter of both their mothers, a great source of contentment to them both.
Lucy's tight-lipped smile faltered visibly at that assurance, and at the slight thawing of manner with which Mrs Ferrars greeted it. She made some slight remark in return about not having yet been blessed; but the glance she then darted toward her fashionable fribble of a husband confirmed every ungracious suspicion Elinor had formed about that marriage: all flattery and form, with no genuine affection to support its domestic moments. Sympathy surged within her breast; and she let go the last lingering resentment to extend a hand to her erstwhile rival.
"But come, shake hands with me, Lucy," she said, pitching her voice low. John and Fanny had laid claim to Mrs Ferrars' attentions again with reminders of that lady's first grandchild, and Edward was listening, with long-suffering patience but just such a small smile as Elinor felt on her own mouth, to an extended dialogue of his brother's; their conversation was now as private as it could be in a crowded room. "After we have been such great friends, and each achieved exactly what we wanted! I have no cause to repine or to resent where there is now no injury."
Lucy, always too perceptive to continue with a tactic that had proven to fail, or to neglect one that had brought her advantage in the past, summoned up an answering, though more brittle smile, and took her up on the offer. "I said once," she replied in a light tone, "did I not, that I knew of nobody of whose judgment I thought so highly of as I did yours? Clearly we were always destined to be sisters."
On that conciliatory note, they rejoined the wider conversation; and when at last the evening was ended and Elinor retired with her husband, she related the incident as she curled against him in her nightrail.
"Every day I grow more thankful that I had the fortune to visit Norland while you and your family were in residence," Edward replied, lifting her fingertips to press them with a kiss. "I have never deserved your kindness, compassion, or affection; I shudder to think of the waste land my life would have been without you."
She could, of course, offer no reply but an assurance of her own love and appreciation for him by the strongest means at her disposal; and afterward, when they drifted off to a satisfied slumber, Elinor closed the day – contrary to all prior expectations – with buoyant spirits and a contented smile.