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Edward Ferrars
Edward Ferrars, seven years old, was a quiet child, and an odd one. He did not run and yell and play like the other boys his age. He liked being by himself, alone with his thoughts, going over the things he had seen that day or pondering something his father had said or lost in a daydream of his own imagining.
When he was alone, his voice didn’t falter, his gaze never wavered, he never felt put on the spot; he didn’t have to compete with the more forceful personalities of his brother and sister; he was not subject to his mother’s stern rule.
So he kept to himself and his solitary pursuits, not bothered by his parents’ worried murmurings.
***
Edward Ferrars, nineteen years old, was a shy young man, and a lonely one. He found it difficult to converse with people and nearly impossible to form close acquaintances. He was awkward; he did not know how to make himself agreeable. His manners were neither easy nor pleasing; he felt foolish and uncomfortable in company. It was not that he did not want to talk. It was just that he so often found himself with nothing to say.
He could not understand, then, why Miss Lucy Steele seemed to find him so charming.
Not that he questioned it too closely. She was pretty, she was amiable, she was amusing, and she was interested in him. What could possibly be more irresistible?
He soon became attached to her, hungry for her attention, desperate for her love. He had never felt this way before; he wanted to keep feeling this way forever.
***
Edward Ferrars, twenty-three years old, was a smitten man, and a regretful one. What a fool he had been, four years ago, to rush into an engagement with Miss Lucy Steele. How ready he’d been, to imagine himself in love. What had he known of true affection before meeting Miss Dashwood? How could he have thrown himself into an attachment at nineteen, before he knew what a worthy woman really was?
He was trapped in a misery of his own making.
At least his suffering was his alone. Miss Dashwood’s company was blissful anguish, but he couldn’t hope to make such a woman love him in return; he would enjoy his time with her, growing more enamored with every passing minute, and be grateful that the self-inflicted wound was injurious only to himself.
He would marry Lucy Steele. There was no question of that. But no matter how wrong and reprehensible it was, he would love Elinor Dashwood.
***
Edward Ferrars, twenty-five years old, was a happy man, and a lucky one. He had no illusions about his current felicity: he did not deserve any of it. Still, he wasn’t about to punish himself too severely. He was much too cheerful to engage in any self-flagellation, no matter how warranted. To have been freed so suddenly from Lucy Steele’s grasp, to have escaped from a marriage that would have made him wretched, to have been given the chance to win Elinor Dashwood’s hand… he had never expected such a blessed twist of fate. It would have been madness if he had!
Elinor was more than he could have ever dreamed of; a virtuous woman, her price far above rubies. Their life together was a quiet one, but so contented, so satisfying. He would not trade it for anything.
Henry Tilney
Henry Tilney, eight years old, had already learned the power of being amusing; of making his mother smile, Frederick laugh, Eleanor giggle giddily. A joke, a quip, a clever remark - they could lighten moods, ease tensions, brighten spirits. This ability of his had even gotten him out of trouble, now and then.
Though never with his father. General Tilney alone seemed immune to Henry’s particular charms. Indeed, he seemed offended that any son of his should be so flighty and fanciful; seemed to take it as a personal affront that Henry was not more staid and serious.
“He is but a boy,” Mrs. Tilney reasoned. “He will grow out of his little japes before long.”
But the general still did not like it, and when the general did not like something, he always tried to squelch it.
***
Henry Tilney, eighteen years old, was quite aware that he preferred the society of ladies to that of gentlemen. Likely it was Northanger Abbey itself that had done the mischief - he had always favored his mother over his father, Eleanor over Frederick. With such an early and thorough education, his bias was fixed.
And, of course, ladies in general - and young ladies in particular - just seemed drawn to his high spirits and easy manners, and Henry’s thirst for admiration was unslakable. He liked to be liked, to be thought of as witty and interesting and delightful.
Truth be told, Henry also rather enjoyed a pretty face. He was not the rake his older brother was, but he was human, after all. He appreciated liveliness and interesting conversation and a good nature, but he could not be insensible of the attractions of personal beauty and a pleasing form.
Yes, given the choice, Henry would always gravitate toward the company of women.
***
Henry Tilney, twenty-five years old, was having an unexpectedly dramatic time in Bath. He was having an unforeseen emotional response to a young lady, too.
He had never been in love before. He was not in love now. But he couldn’t hide the truth from himself, that every dance Miss Catherine Morland danced with another man, every excursion she took with someone else, gave him a twinge of pain, a stab of jealousy that he had never felt before.
He was drawn to her simplicity, her fresh-faced genuineness; he was not accustomed to her utter lack of pretension. It was new, and rather delightful, and he had no idea how to handle it. He was used to young ladies who knew well the game they were playing, who were aware of their attractions and charms, who were prepared to flirt outrageously and flippantly in a ballroom. He knew how to walk the thin line of agreeability without tipping over into attachment with them.
It was a line that was harder to walk just now. Miss Morland was all earnest, unsophisticated naivete, and, aided considerably by her barely-concealed admiration for Henry, she was becoming increasingly impossible to resist.
***
Henry Tilney, twenty-seven years old, had settled into married life quite well, he thought. He had never been a truly incorrigible flirt; he had never been addicted to making young ladies fall in love with him. He had had no fears that, should he choose a wife, he would have eyes only for her.
But there had always been that secret, nagging dread, hidden in the back of his mind and covered up with witticisms and denials and shame, that the shadow of Northanger would prove too long, that the grip his father had held on the family would ruin the thought of family life for Henry forever.
He had calmed some of those fears upon taking orders and relocating to Woodston, but still, they remained; gathering dust, perhaps, but never burned to ashes. What did he know of being a husband and father? Only what the general had taught him. What if the lessons were ingrained too deeply, the sins of the father given new life in the son?
They were foolish thoughts and he knew better than to indulge them. He was not like the general, had never been like the general, and he had proven himself to be his own man the moment he’d stormed out of Northanger Abbey, proclaiming his love and devotion for Catherine Morland.
Catherine Tilney now, for of course she had agreed to become his wife. And though they’d had to wait for his father’s nominal consent to marry (a fact that irked Henry, who had rather relished being freed from the paternal shackles), it had all ended well.
His current happiness was a form of rebellion, he thought with a smile; a repudiation of the environment he’d grown up in. In this instance, Henry was firmly on the side of filial disobedience.
Edmund Bertram
Edmund Bertram, two years old, had been born into a life of privilege. To be sure, second sons did not usually end up as the most fortunate in their families, but it was still far better to be a baronet’s spare than a poor man’s heir.
All of this, of course, was far beyond young Edmund’s understanding. It would be some time before the flukes of primogeniture had any bearing on his life and happiness, before decisions had to be made and paths had to be decided on.
For now, he was the pampered son of Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram, cared for and cosseted and wanting for nothing, more blessed by providence than the vast majority of the country, with years of wealth and education and comfort before him.
***
Edmund Bertram, nineteen years old, did not enjoy the level of popularity that his elder brother Tom did; or, at least, he did not enjoy it among the young people their age. Edmund was infinitely more approved of by the older set.
A comforting thought, in some ways, but not very helpful when it came to young ladies. They all seemed drawn to Tom. Tom was more handsome, more fashionable; his manners were more engaging, his conversation more interesting; he was dashing and debonair, a stark contrast to his respectable and plainspoken younger brother.
Of course, Tom was also the heir of Mansfield Park, and that only added to his charm.
Edmund stood in Tom’s shadow - watching him as he was showered with attention - with only the more diffident girls for company.
***
Edmund Bertram, twenty-four years old, was experiencing something very odd indeed. Though Miss Crawford had initially shown interest in his elder brother, it really did seem as though… perhaps… just maybe… she had redirected her attention toward him.
He quickly tried to temper his expectations. It was more likely that her behavior towards him was the natural consequence of her high spirits and playful manners. It probably did not indicate any particular fondness for him at all. She was pretty and clever and wealthy; she had a decided bias against clergymen; she could aim her sights so much higher.
And yet… and yet, he could not shake his hopes entirely off. They clung to him, refusing to be moderated, disregarding all of his attempts to reason them away.
With a little time and a bit of effort - and possibly with some unfaltering persistence - he thought he could make Mary Crawford love him.
***
Edmund Bertram, twenty-nine years old, looked back on that time with the Crawfords - that time of madness, as it now seemed - with very little less than revulsion.
The consequences of that time had been more disastrous for Maria than they had been for himself. He would never try to claim otherwise. In comparison with his sister, the damage he had sustained was light indeed. He had escaped disillusioned and brokenhearted, perhaps, but not ruined forever. He had been lucky.
But he had learned things about himself that had filled him with disgust; disgust that, even now, he could not entirely rid himself of. He could not understand how he had been so taken in, so willing to overlook all that was offensive in Mary Crawford’s behavior, so quick to imagine her all that was amiable and lovely. Had he been so enamored by her beauty that he had not cared about her deficiencies? Too pleased by her attentions that he had dismissed his own principles? Wanted her so badly that he had created an idea of her that had no relation to reality?
What absolute weakness of character. How he had fallen and failed.
Fanny told him to forgive himself; to learn from his mistakes and move on. And truth be told, he was usually able to do so with an almost shameful alacrity.
But in quiet moments, he looked around at all he had - a worthy wife, two beautiful children, a loving home - and wondered why he had been blessed with any of it; marveled that none of it would have been his at all, had he gotten what he had thought he’d wanted only several years ago.
Frederick Wentworth
Frederick Wentworth, ten years old, was a charming, spirited boy, the favorite of both his father and mother. The Wentworths were a close-knit family, their house a loud and warm and affectionate one, and though Frederick adored his parents and his siblings, he loved his eldest sister, Sophy, best of all.
Sophy was a good listener, full of both advice and jokes. She took all of his cares and worries seriously, never denigrating them as the silly concerns of childhood, and she was always willing to put aside her work to play with him: tug of war and hoop-trundling and games of her own devising. A boy could ask for no better sister or friend.
But Sophy would be coming out soon, and Frederick, aspiring to be a sailor, would be off to sea in the next year or two. They would be seeing less of each other. He didn’t want to think of how lonely it would be, without her as a constant presence in his life.
***
Frederick Wentworth, twenty-three years old, had dreamt of Miss Anne Elliot that night. He wished he would stop doing that.
It had been three months, two weeks, and four days since Anne Elliot had broken their engagement; he didn’t want to think of her or dream of her or see her in any way - real or imagined - ever again.
He should probably stop maintaining a record of the days that had passed, too.
He kept busy. He had his work; he had the Asp. He was at sea once more, and the sea always calmed him, methodically washing away every disagreeable memory and dashed hope that clung stubbornly to his soul. It wasn’t long before the dreams came less frequently.
But they did not stop altogether.
***
Frederick Wentworth, thirty-one years old, desperately wanted to talk to Sophy, to seek both her counsel and her comfort. But for only the second time in his life, he found consulting her to be impossible. He hadn’t been able to tell his sister about Anne Elliot in the year six, and he simply could not bring himself to tell her about Anne Elliot now.
Certainly not when he had made such a mess of things, foolishly entangling himself with Miss Louisa Musgrove and finding himself honor-bound to her.
Sophy was a caring and sympathetic woman, but she was sensible, too. She would give him the scolding he so richly deserved, and he could not face it, not when he finally understood his own heart and Anne Elliot’s place in it; not when he might have lost her again and for good.
***
Frederick Wentworth, thirty-five years old, was happier than he deserved. He knew it and admitted it freely; he was sincere when he said it, every single time. Anne would only shake her head and smile; she would tell him not to be silly, that neither she nor anyone else needed to hear such a thing declared.
Frederick disagreed. He had been proud and petty, and then desperate and humbled. He thought it quite necessary that everyone, both in heaven and on earth, knew how perfectly aware he was of his own unwarranted good fortune.
It was equally necessary that Anne know how treasured she was, especially after the way he had treated her.
So he continued to say it and Anne continued to shake her head, and it never became less true. He had been granted mercy and a second chance; he would not belittle his own joy with ingratitude.
George Knightley
George Knightley, nine years old, suddenly found himself a half-orphan upon the unexpected death of his father. The fever had come on swiftly, carrying Mr. Knightley away before three days had passed. George had scarcely had time to recognize the severity of his father’s illness before he was gone forever.
The Knightleys were comfortably situated, and from a pecuniary standpoint, at least, the death of the patriarch did very little to alter their style of living. But it was a sad loss for a boy who idolized his father, as George had done. The late Mr. Knightley had loomed large in his eldest son’s life, and his passing left a hole that not even a very affectionate and loving mother could fill.
And so at only nine years old, George decided that he would grow up to be just like his father, as sensible and practical and humane; someone would need to assume the late Mr. Knightley’s place, to step into the shoes of a very good man taken too soon.
***
George Knightley, twenty-three years old, began the year by losing his mother. He grieved for her, but her death did not trigger the same emotional earthquake that had accompanied his father’s. George was a man now, the master of Donwell Abbey; he had responsibilities and cares that kept him busy. And despite being orphaned, he still had his younger brother; he still had a second family of sorts, in Mr. Woodhouse and the two Woodhouse girls. With good friends and neighbors and his own steady temper, he weathered this loss with relative calm.
But it was odd, the way a house lost some of its warmth and comfort when it no longer had a mistress to care for it.
***
George Knightley, thirty-seven years old, had to be more composed about Frank Churchill, less obvious about his dislike of the man. He owed that much, at least, to the Westons, and it was beneath his own dignity to display feelings anything less than cordial.
It was just that Frank Churchill embodied so many of the things George found frustrating in a man: recklessness, thoughtlessness, carelessness, selfishness; easy, lively manners that hid all of one’s moral weaknesses; shallow pleasantness without a solid character behind it; an irresponsibility that should have been long outgrown by now. He did not understand how the man had so thoroughly charmed those around him that they could not see what was so clear to George.
And he wondered whether he would dislike Frank Churchill to this degree if Emma Woodhouse were not quite so interested in him. He hoped not; the very idea was mortifying, and he was too old to be acting like a jealous lover.
***
George Knightley, forty-two years old, had seen his life upended in many ways over the last several years. Emma Woodhouse, of course, was at the heart of it.
He was, perhaps, more qualified than any other man in the world to handle everything that followed after falling in love with and marrying Emma. Very few would know how to cope with her peculiar little ways; even fewer would have been able to cope with Mr. Woodhouse. He flattered himself that he alone could have managed married life under the same roof as his particular father-in-law, and to behave with such patience and generosity.
Mr. Woodhouse had died two years after the Knightleys’ marriage; for all his exasperating habits, he had been a good-hearted creature, and George felt the loss of the man who had been both family and friend.
But he couldn’t deny that it had been a relief to finally settle back at Donwell Abbey, his own family in tow. His sons were rambunctious and thriving, and he was eager to show them all of his favorite boyhood haunts, to see them growing up in his old, familiar home. He was glad to be the master of his own domain once more, no longer humoring the quirks of an eccentric old man.
He was especially happy to have Emma to himself for once.
He hadn’t expected, at his time of life, to be experiencing so many new beginnings, but he was grateful for every single one.
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Fitzwilliam Darcy, four years old, was a child lavished with both attention and adoration. After many attempts and many tragedies, Fitzwilliam was the first of the Darcy children to live past infancy, and was thus the most precious figure in his parents’ lives. It had taken a while for the heir of Pemberley to flourish - he had been a sickly baby, and his parents had spent many an anguished hour hovering over him, expecting the worst - but he grew stronger with every year, and he was a perfectly stout and healthy boy now, coddled and indulged by mother and father alike. The family of three grew insular, enveloped in their own circle and caring very little about the outside world.
Fitzwilliam was not harmed by any of it, much to the relief of the servants at Pemberley; some of them had firsthand knowledge of children groomed into little terrors by their overly-fond parents, and all of the rest had heard the whispered stories. There were no tiny tyrants here. Little Master Fitzwilliam was a sweet, good-natured boy; the Darcys were not blinded by their own parental pride as they delighted in their son.
Everyone was quite sure that the child would grow into an exemplary man.
***
Fitzwilliam Darcy, seventeen years old, was concerned about his father. Mr. Darcy had been altered by his wife’s death. Though their marriage had been a complicated one, he had been shaken by his loss, and Fitzwilliam was more worried than ever that, in this confused and unsettled time, his father’s generous nature was being taken advantage of.
He had never understood Mr. Darcy’s fondness for George Wickham. Fitzwilliam himself had never been able to warm to his father’s godson, no matter how Mr. Darcy tried to encourage the friendship. Wickham was flattering and amiable, but there was something false in it; Fitzwilliam did not trust him. If only his father felt the same way. Mr. Darcy was spending more and more time with Wickham, guiding and counseling him, furthering his education, providing for his future career in the church. Fitzwilliam, who observed in Wickham everything that was so carefully concealed from Mr. Darcy - his behavior at school, his choice of friends, his burgeoning bad habits - could only watch with wariness and apprehension.
Nor was this his only source of anxiety. He had a young sister to look after. Georgiana was recovering from their mother’s death, but she was quieter than Fitzwilliam liked, more subdued than she used to be. He had always considered himself his sister’s particular protector; it was a role he had taken on even more devotedly after Lady Anne passed away. Georgiana was his greatest responsibility.
He may not be able to save his father from Wickham’s influence, but he could certainly make it his mission to keep his sister safe and happy.
***
Fitzwilliam Darcy, twenty-eight years old, was having a difficult year. True, he had rescued Georgiana from all of Wickham’s schemes, but he had still felt like a failure, aghast that she had ever been in that man’s clutches at all.
And then there was this entire business with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
It had been hard enough, falling in love with her. It was harder still to be rejected by her; galling that Wickham had wormed his way into the situation, filling Elizabeth Bennet’s head with lies and half-truths. But the worst thing of all had been Darcy’s own behavior. He had been rude and presumptuous and patronizing. He had been haughty and superior. He had become too proud and overbearing; he had grown up too separated from anyone outside of his own set; he had become too used to his own power and influence and it had made him conceited. Despite his good breeding, despite his liberality and kindness towards all of those in his particular world, he had ceased striving for anything beyond cold civility towards those who lived beyond it.
He was humbled; he was ashamed of himself. He saw everything in his behavior and his thinking that needed to be remedied and he was determined to correct every last bit of it.
He had ruined his chances with a woman both fascinating and worthy. He doubted he would ever meet another who could compare with her. But he would learn from this experience and never repeat it; Elizabeth Bennet would not be his wife, but she would still inspire him to be a better man.
***
Fitzwilliam Darcy, thirty years old, had spent these early years of his married life in a more lighthearted state than he’d known in a very long time; more content and cheerful than he had been since his father’s death. Burdens were lightened and joys were magnified with Elizabeth by his side; Pemberley had a mistress to be proud of and he had a wife who made him happier than he’d ever imagined he could be. They were a contented and loving family of three - he and Elizabeth and Georgiana - and his life was a good one.
There was satisfaction, too, in knowing his course had been corrected; that what had grown faulty in his ideas and manner had been mended; that he had learned from his past mistakes and become wiser.
It was an improvement that touched every role that he played, every relationship that he cherished - he was a better brother, master, friend, and husband because of it. He was more of the man he wanted to be, and that was worth every painful moment that had gotten him here.