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Elinor Dashwood
Elinor Dashwood, five years old, sat beside her sister in the nursery. Marianne was crying and would not be comforted, but Elinor stayed with her anyway, unhappy to see her upset. Elinor herself was not a tearful child and never had been, but she was soft-hearted and a natural sympathizer, and thus was never able to see Marianne’s tears without wanting to wipe them away.
Their nurse, Dorothy, watched quietly from the corner. Young Miss Dashwood had a knack with her sister; her soothing words were childish but generally effective. She could calm Miss Marianne when no one else could. Dorothy left her to it.
***
Elinor Dashwood, thirteen years old, was beginning to realize how different she was from her mother. She loved her dear mama, of course - a more tender and amiable mother would be hard to find - but it was becoming clear that their temperaments were very unlike.
Elinor feared it was disrespectful, even ungrateful, to wish that Mrs. Dashwood were a little more moderate in her emotions, more able to govern herself, more willing to resign herself to life’s little troubles and be reasonable. It was surely arrogance on Elinor’s part to prefer her own cool, rational steadiness.
And yet, she still thought her way must be more comfortable than forever giving into flights of fancy or fits of despair.
***
Elinor Dashwood, nineteen years old, felt both her nerves and her sense tried for the first time in any significant way. The first blow was the death of her father: the ache of grief, the pain of losing Norland, the hopelessness of keeping her mother and sisters in tolerable spirits. But Elinor rallied; she was equal to her circumstances; her sense of calm returned.
The greater trial was falling in love with Mr. Edward Ferrars. She was not comfortable with these strange new sensations, fluttery and silly and frightening, that affection produced. She felt off-kilter and unsteady, and it unnerved her; she wanted to feel in control of herself, especially now, when her entire world had changed.
And then came the greatest test of all: the arrival of Miss Lucy Steele and the knowledge of that lady’s engagement to Mr. Ferrars.
Elinor suffered, but she suffered in silence.
***
Elinor Ferrars, twenty-one years old, was satisfied with the world. She had faced hardship and had endured it. She had struggled and she had persevered. She had carried herself with dignity through it all and had never given herself a reason for shame.
And look at all she now had to show for it! She had married the man she loved, and Edward was forever her best comfort and companion. She had a home of her own and a situation in life that suited her. Her mother was cheerful, Margaret was thriving, and Marianne, she hoped, was soon to secure her own happiness. Elinor was calm and content, and grateful to be so.
Her joy was quiet, but it was profound.
Catherine Morland
Catherine Morland, four years old, had already learned to love a story. Her father had a great talent for relating tales and he had an eager audience in his young children. The older boys were fond of all the most exciting stories from the Bible - always clamoring for Goliath and Jonah and Samson - but Catherine adored it all. She sat on her father’s lap, eyes riveted and mouth open in wonder, desperate to hear more long after her brothers’ attentions had wandered.
Mr. and Mrs. Morland saw no harm in indulging their daughter in this way. One’s religious education could not begin too early. Moreover, it foretold a love of reading in the future, and that was beneficial for any child.
***
Catherine Morland, fifteen years old, studied her reflection critically. It was so easy to picture herself as a heroine from a novel when she was lost in her imagination; it was far more difficult when she sat in front of her looking-glass. She had neither a rosy complexion nor glossy, golden ringlets. She was not elegant or stately or refined. She was sallow and gawky, with straggly brown hair that would not hold a curl.
But things started to change as the year went on. She began to show some of that feminine softness that she had so longed for, her face and figure fuller, her hair bullied into tidiness. She was more careful in her toilette and her efforts showed.
Perhaps she would be a heroine yet.
***
Catherine Morland, seventeen years old, found herself positively swimming in adventures. The thought of going to Bath had been more than enough to delight her, but after a lifetime of having mostly her family for company, it was thrilling to have also made so many new acquaintances there.
Especially thrilling to have made the acquaintance of Mr. Henry Tilney.
And now, to be invited to stay at his family home - an actual abbey! Well, Catherine had scarcely believed herself destined for such pleasures. How could all of this be real? It felt like a dream. It felt like something she might read about - only better, because she was going to experience it for herself and not through the pages of a book!
***
Catherine Tilney, nineteen years old, was not a grand, tragic heroine. She was neither glamorous nor sophisticated. She was a little older and a little wiser than she had been in those innocent days in Bath; she was slowly becoming a competent housekeeper; she had won over her husband’s parishioners with the same artless charm that had won over her husband; she was soon to be a mother. It had been astonishing, at first, to realize how satisfied she was with a mundane but happy life.
Oh, she still loved to read about bandits and murderers and secret rooms, and was still fond of all things fictionally horrible. But she preferred her personal adventures to be of the quieter kind these days - chasing the puppies and visiting her neighbors and spending pleasant evenings telling stories with Henry.
Fanny Price
Fanny Price, three years old, toddled hand in hand with her elder brother, William. William was her favorite person in the world. He played with her and made her laugh. He was her constant companion.
Fanny was not yet old enough to understand her surroundings; and, at any rate, her surroundings were not yet as dire as they would soon become. She was not yet old enough to understand the shame of having a coarse and ignorant father, the pangs of having an indifferent and negligent mother.
All she knew was that she adored her brother, and every day was a good one when she was by his side.
***
Fanny Price, twelve years old, felt foolish and simple. It was not a new sensation, but that did not make it any less painful; it rather increased her humiliation. Maria and Julia had been teasing her again, and her aunt Norris had joined in, and not even Edmund could cheer her today. Nothing he said made any difference.
It had been three years and she still felt like an unwelcome outsider at Mansfield Park. She was awkward and ignorant and inferior. She was not good enough to live with her rich, important relatives, and she could not return to live with her parents. She was a burden and she didn’t belong anywhere.
She went up to her room to cry.
***
Fanny Price, nineteen years old, found herself more alone than ever. She had thought her situation was improving. Her aunt Norris, of course, would never be fond of her, and Sir Thomas was still so very intimidating, but she had made herself valuable to her aunt Bertram; and though she would never, perhaps, be friends with Tom, Maria, or Julia, they were all largely civil to one another.
And she had grown even closer to Edmund.
She knew he would never think of her the way she thought of him, but it had been enough to have him as a protector and guide and confidante. She was dear to him, as his cousin, and she treasured that dearness; her love for him was pure and unrequited, and she dared not dream of anything more.
But the Crawfords had arrived and thrown everything into disarray. Their influence could be felt throughout Mansfield Park; their ways, so dishonorable and brazen, had snaked into the house and coiled around every member of the family. Fanny wondered how she alone could see it; how she alone noticed everything reprehensible in Henry Crawford’s behavior; how she alone saw through Mary Crawford’s charm. She wondered, too, if her jealousy of Miss Crawford was making her unjust.
For Mary Crawford had Edmund under her spell; he had compromised and wavered because of her; he was blind to most of her faults, seeing only what he wanted to see.
It was bad enough, watching Edmund fall in love with someone so unworthy. It was even worse to lose the attention of her one sure champion at Mansfield, right when she needed him most.
Fanny would have to be her own champion now, in the face of Sir Thomas’s displeasure and Henry Crawford’s unwanted attentions. She had no one else to rely on.
****
Fanny Bertram, twenty-two years old, was the beloved wife of her dear Edmund, the mistress of Mansfield Parsonage, the mother of a beautiful baby boy. She, who had long been the lowest at Mansfield Park, was now cherished by all in that house. Her fortunes had entirely reversed.
And the most gratifying thing of all was that Fanny had not had to change to bring about that reversal. She was who she had ever been: gentle, loving, steadfast, and true. It was the Bertram family who had changed, brought to such depths that they saw clearly their own failings; that they acknowledged all that had always been good in Fanny.
She had learned that she possessed an inner fortitude that prevailed against every hardship. She had learned that she was quietly courageous, unwilling to bend when she knew she was right. She had learned that she mattered, that she had worth, that she deserved to be loved.
They were lessons that should not have been so difficult and painful to learn, but Fanny came through them stronger than ever.
Anne Elliot
Anne Elliot, eight years old, was a sweet, serious child. She had neither her elder sister Elizabeth’s assuredness nor her younger sister Mary’s powerful lungs. She was quiet and gentle and calm; never calling attention to herself and never causing any mischief. She was deeply attached to her mother and spent as much of her time as was allowed with Lady Elliot, learning from her and loving her.
Anne was her mama in miniature, said Lady Elliot’s dear friend, Lady Russell, and even at eight years old, Anne felt the praise in this assessment. There was not a woman in the world as beautiful or as elegant or as sophisticated as Anne’s mother. Anne wanted to be just like her.
***
Anne Elliot, thirteen years old, sat weeping in the family pew. Her mother was dead and her life would never be the same. Her father did not care for her and would be no comfort; indeed, it would never occur to Sir Walter to offer consolation to his second daughter. She had never been close to Elizabeth; Elizabeth was not interested in Anne and never had time for her. Anne could be helpful to Mary, providing her with aid and companionship, but her younger sister could not be the friend Anne wished for.
All she had left was Lady Russell; Lady Russell was her last, best connection with Lady Elliot, the closest thing she had now to a mother. Anne clung to her with all her might.
***
Anne Elliot, nineteen years old, had not anticipated Frederick Wentworth. From the first, Anne had been drawn to him: his strong, tall stature, his handsome, expressive face, his lively, animated spirits. He had the bluest eyes Anne had ever seen, and the widest, brightest smile; he did everything with an energy and vigor that she was unaccustomed to. He was unlike anyone else she knew, and Anne tumbled into love with him, headlong and heedless. It mattered not that their acquaintance was but a short one and that his future was far from certain. All that mattered was that Frederick Wentworth listened to her, took an interest in her, cared about her thoughts and opinions. Frederick Wentworth made her laugh, made her feel bold and fearless. Frederick Wentworth looked at her with eyes shining with care and devotion, and the intensity of that gaze made her shiver.
Frederick Wentworth asked her to marry him, and it never entered into Anne’s mind to refuse.
Her father was not pleased by the match, and though that made Anne uncomfortable, she could withstand his disapprobation. But Lady Russell also considered the engagement to be an unfortunate one, and that made Anne pause. Lady Russell knew her better than anyone else. Lady Russell wanted what was best for her. If Lady Russell had objections to Frederick Wentworth, Anne had to take that seriously.
She slowly became convinced of the imprudence of the match. Lady Russell described the evils that could arise from such a marriage - ranging from impropriety to poverty - and though Anne thought that she herself could bear all of them, she loved Frederick too much to condemn him to such a life. She ended their engagement.
Her heart had been broken when her mother died, but now it was shattered into a million tiny pieces.
***
Anne Wentworth, twenty-eight years old, knew the power that came with making one’s own choice. She knew the power of knowing one’s own mind and trusting one’s own instincts.
She had allowed herself, as a girl of nineteen, to be persuaded against marrying the man she loved. She could not say now whether that advice had been wholly bad: it had led her to years of misery, of course, but she had seen too many troubled marriages to understand that Lady Russell had had a point, when she’d argued that a young couple with nothing to live on could end up deeply unhappy, at best.
And truthfully, as content as she and Frederick were now, Anne could see how things could have gone wrong for them, had Frederick’s fortune gone south in the year six. They could easily have had cause to regret their youthful attachment and to wish that they had not been so hasty in marrying.
They had each suffered for the better part of a decade, and they could not get that time back. But they could cherish what they had now; every twist and turn they had taken to arrive here. Their sweet and innocent young love had been set free, only to return to them later, richer and fuller than they could ever have imagined.
Emma Woodhouse
Emma Woodhouse, two years old, was forever worming into places where she didn’t belong. She was curious and clever, poking and prodding and playing with everything she could get her hands on, creating an extraordinary amount of mischief for such a sweet-looking little creature.
But her parents were indulgent ones, and as long as little Emma was never put in any personal danger, she was allowed to explore and examine their world at Hartfield. She peeked behind furniture and tugged at sashes and tangled with Isabella’s dolls; she toddled around at an alarming speed, giggling all the while, and generally gave her nurse a headache.
Emma was rarely ever denied anything she wished, and thus was the foundation of her character built.
***
Emma Woodhouse, fourteen years old, knew the power of her own influence. She was beloved by her father and sister and Miss Taylor, esteemed by all of her acquaintance, and admired by Highbury at large.
To her credit, Emma did not use this power for evil. She was benignly selfish, but that was by no means out of the ordinary; many others, both more and less fortunate, are benignly selfish at fourteen. Emma was a well-mannered girl and a caring sister and a doting daughter. She was already well on her way towards becoming an accomplished mistress of Hartfield, more competent than some women twice her age. She was intelligent, and she enjoyed using her intelligence to help people.
And thus was her love of matchmaking foretold.
***
Emma Woodhouse, twenty-one years old, was bored. There were so few people she could even associate with in Highbury; there were even fewer that she could be friends with. Matchmaking was an interesting diversion, but it didn’t entirely satisfy, and now it came with some unfortunate consequences.
Miss Taylor had become Mrs. Weston, and though Emma considered this alteration her greatest triumph, it was also a source of personal regret. She had not lost her dearest and most intimate friend, but she had lost the benefit of her constant society and companionship, and that was a sorrow indeed. Emma could rely on her father and Mr. Knightley for company, but they couldn’t fill her dull, tiresome days.
It was fortunate, then, to meet Harriet Smith when she did. Harriet was not clever, was not Emma’s equal, but she was a sweet girl; and, perhaps more importantly, she provided Emma with employment. Emma could help Harriet; shape her, guide her, improve her; pry her free from an unfortunate suitor and push her into the path of a far more eligible one.
And thus a series of terrible blunders was set into motion.
***
Emma Knightley, twenty-three years old, had largely learned to mind her own business. She no longer meddled shamelessly in other people’s affairs, and while she enjoyed speculating over which of her neighbors might make a good match, and imagined ways in which she might nudge them together, she kept all of her ideas to herself. She was not actually very good at making matches, after all, and she had other things to think about now.
It wasn’t that she was too busy. Being a wife had come very naturally to Emma; or perhaps her relationship with George Knightley had been so long established that matrimony had done little to change it. She had been mistress at Hartfield for so long that managing a household was as easy to her as breathing. She was happier, but she still did not have much in the way of true employment.
Of course, that was before her condition became significantly more interesting.
Being a mother would be unlike being an aunt or a daughter or a sister a friend. Emma was going to have to learn new skills, experience new sensations, grow in a way she never had before. It was all a bit frightening, but Emma thought she was going to enjoy playing this new role, and by the time little George was born, she was certain of it.
And thus her next great project began.
Elizabeth Bennet
Elizabeth Bennet, seven years old, was easily the most mischievous of the Bennet girls, including little Lydia. Indeed, Elizabeth often involved her sisters in her mischief, and Lydia was her most willing accomplice. It did not matter that Lydia was so young. She was happy to be dragged into schemes she couldn’t understand; she was as lively and cheerful as Elizabeth was, in that way that their other sisters weren’t.
Jane, already so responsible, tried to check Elizabeth’s worst impulses; Mary was not interested in their silly games; Kitty was too delicate for most of their plans. And so Elizabeth and Lydia joined together to amuse themselves (and occasionally their father), making themselves a sore trial for their mother’s nerves.
They made quite a pair.
***
Elizabeth Bennet, sixteen years old, was still lively and playful and spirited, but she had lost all of her wildness as she grew into a young lady. She was witty and clever; fond enough of music to practice the pianoforte on occasion, a lover of novels (or, at least the most diverting ones), and an enthusiastic walker. She was not particularly accomplished, but she had too many other interests to waste time trying to improve herself; and besides, she was so naturally good with people that it hardly signified. Elizabeth was charming and likable, and that made up for her other deficiencies.
Her latest passion was dancing. Mrs. Bennet had allowed her second daughter to come out a little early, and though Elizabeth knew that this was because her mother saw her as no competition for Jane, she did not mind. She loved attending assemblies and was never in want of a partner; she did not envy Jane all of her lovesick young admirers, nor did she worry about never having any of her own. She was content enough to be young and pretty and at a ball. The rest of it would come soon enough.
***
Elizabeth Bennet, twenty years old, was forced to sit back and take a good look at herself. She had acted ridiculously for over half a year and, as humiliating as it was, it was time to acknowledge it. She had become so excessively pleased with herself that it had clouded her judgment. She had allowed herself to be swayed by flattery, and her own self-satisfaction had blinded her to the realities of the people around her.
How vain she’d been! What easy prey for a man such as George Wickham! She’d always prided herself on her judgment and her discernment, thinking herself so much wiser than the people around her, and yet she had blithely followed wherever Wickham led, never questioning, never observing any inconsistencies in his tales. He had hardly even needed to exert himself. What a little fool she had been.
Well, she would not stay that way. She had done damage this year, and the only remedy was to change herself for the better. She would start today. She would never be able to think as well of people as Jane could, but she could make more allowances, be less credulous about rumors she heard. She could use the sense she had and not disgrace herself further.
There was nothing to be done about Mr. Darcy but to repent the worst of her behavior towards him and to quietly recant all of her malicious gossip. She doubted she and her family would ever see him again, which made her penitence slightly less painful.
Thank heaven it had not been worse.
***
Elizabeth Darcy, twenty-two years old, marveled at where life had taken her. Never had she imagined herself here - indeed, it would have been madness if she had - but it was a situation that so perfectly suited her that she could no longer picture herself anywhere else.
She had a wonderful and devoted husband, clever and intelligent and matching her wit for wit. She was the mistress of a grand estate, the outlet for an active and lively mind. She shone in the society she would have been denied entrance to before, and she was just as beloved at home, helping to soften her husband’s forbidding image and aiding him in all his good work among the poor. On top of her personal felicity, she had been given scope and importance. Her days were happy and full, more satisfactory than any she had known before at Longbourn.
She was exactly where she was meant to be.