Written for: ChronicBookworm for Yuletide 2019

Betaed by: Aurilly

AN: I tried to make it OT3, because you are right, Edward/Elinor/Brandon would be a delightful pairing, but it would have had to be MUCH too long a fic to be done in time to be a Yuletide treat. I hope someone else takes the idea and runs with it.

With their mother now at Cleveland and available to nurse Marianne back to health, Elinor's presence was not in so much demand. And though her sisterly feelings and desire to be useful were no less than they had heretofore been, still she was glad in the respite of turning the primary duty of care over to her mother.

Finding herself tired after the tumultuous few days, Mrs. Jennings' speculation was more wearying than usual, and so Elinor spent her free time largely out-of-doors, enjoying the spring sunshine. It was there that she came across Colonel Brandon four days later, sunning himself on a bench in the shrubbery.

"Miss Dashwood," he said, rising courteously as she came in to view. They exchanged pleasantries and he invited her to join him, which offer she accepted with content. Although reserved, Elinor was not a solitary person by nature, and the Colonel's company was always agreeable.

"Your sister looked very well," Brandon said. "Or at least, she looked as if she will soon be very well, which is almost as good."

"Yes, we are all very cheered by her progress," Elinor said, "and I know that our mother's presence is a great comfort to her."

"Your mother is a good woman with a warm and generous heart," Brandon said. "You are very lucky to have such a mother."

"Yes," Elinor said. "We were fortunate in both our parents. Our father was of a different temperament, but just as kind and loving. Not all are so fortunate." With a pang, she considered what Edward's life must have been, with such a mother and such siblings as he had had. Little though Elinor cared for Lucy Steele, she must at least admit that Lucy was kinder and warmer than Edward's own blood. Last she had seen of them, Lucy had been doing much to ingratiate herself into her future relations' good graces. Though Elinor still believed that when the Ferrars family learnt of Edward's engagement the charms of the Miss Steeles would drop considerably in their estimation, it was possible that Lucy's brazen flattery would do much to heal the breach; and in that, at least, if no other way, Lucy would be a more capable wife for Edward than Elinor would have been.

"I confess that although I have spent time in your mother's company, I had never given enough thought to her to realize how much she is like an older version of Eliza," Brandon went on. "In my mind, she is always the young girl I knew as a boy, or the broken woman I found on my return. But on the way from Barton Cottage to Cleveland, I found myself thinking that in your mother I could see what Eliza would have been like in such a situation, had her life been happier. Had she lived to become a mature woman of strength and grace."

"I hope the realization gave you some comfort," Elinor said in some confusion. Did that mean he found her mother attractive? Considered objectively, Mrs. Dashwood was still a handsome woman, and closer to Colonel Brandon's age than her daughters were, but Elinor had never considered that her mother might be an object of attraction to anyone but her father. He could not seriously consider anything, Elinor reassured herself, for he had no heir and her mother was surely past childbearing.

"I do not know that it was a comfort, precisely," Colonel Brandon said, "but it did give me a new perspective on … several things. If there is one thing I have learned in the past few weeks, it is how my thoughts and perspectives have been largely trapped in the past, like an insect in amber."

"How so?" Elinor asked.

"You have no doubt noted the similarities—and the differences—between Marianne's experiences and those of my poor dear Eliza. Marianne is not ruined and Marianne will not die, but …"

"The outlines of the situations are very much alike," Elinor said. "Like silhouettes made of sisters. In full light they may not look very much alike, but in relief the profiles are strikingly similar."

"Yes, exactly," Brandon said, nodding. "A perfect metaphor, thank you. When I met Marianne, and as her relationship with Willoughby progressed and reached its unhappy end, all I could see was how like Eliza she was. It was as if I was seventeen myself again, watching the whole tragedy unfold for the first time. But I am not that boy any longer, and Marianne is not Eliza, and it gives me no credit, nor Eliza any honor, to pretend otherwise. As for Marianne, she should be valued for who she is, not as a reflection of someone I once loved deeply."

"I think you always saw Marianne for who she is, even as you saw the similarities to Eliza," Elinor said.

"I am not sure but what you give me too much credit," Brandon said with a sigh. He shook his head. "Still, that is my own lesson in all of this, and you have had the greater burden, as Marianne's sister and confidant through all of this, and as her nurse. I should not be so selfish as to burden you with my own concerns."

"It can be a relief and a distraction, to consider another's cares, when one has many of one's own," Elinor said.

"True," Brandon replied, "yet surely the greater relief is in sharing one's own cares, so that the burden may also be shared? You love your sisters deeply, and your mother, but given the differences in temperament between you I cannot imagine you wish to bear all the secrets of your heart to them, even if Marianne were not so consumed with her own tragedy of late."

"In that you are quite correct," Elinor said. "Marianne would never tell a secret I wished her to keep in confidence, but I learned long ago that she is seldom able to govern her emotions enough to prevent her countenance and actions from betraying it anyway. And if my feelings—or my expression of them—do not match what she thinks I should feel, she will either declare me heartless or assume me to be lying because of propriety." She sighed. "I should not say such things, because I make her sound quite selfish and heartless, and she is neither. Please do not repeat my complaints."

"It is only that she is young and cannot quite understand that not everyone is the same as she is," Brandon said. "Many young people are like that, and most learn better as they grow. But have no fear, I will not share your secrets. I have kept worse ones."

"Thank you," Elinor said. She wondered what had come over her; it was true, she liked and trusted the Colonel as she did few others, but she was not in the habit of giving such confidences to anyone.

"Have you ever had a true confidant?" Brandon asked. "Someone you could trust with your deepest thoughts and feelings? A friend in your old neighborhood, perhaps?"

"No," Elinor said. "I had friends, of course, but … none that I was terribly close to." Elinor had never been lonely, but she was the one others took their secrets to, not the reverse. She had shared with Edward thoughts and feelings which she had shared with few others; yet there had still been a reserve of propriety between them.

"I am trying to think of men I know who might have sisters or wives or daughters with whom you might form a connection," Brandon said, "but unfortunately, my circle of acquaintances is small now, and you already know most of them. If there was a bosom companion for you in that set, you would already have found them."

"Thank you for your consideration," Elinor said, touched. "But I am not lonely."

"It is possible to feel alone in a crowded room, if no one in it truly knows you," Brandon said. "I would spare you that, if I could."

Elinor could not speak, for she had never known that others could understand that sentiment. No dramatics, just a quiet loneliness that no one else could see. She touched his arm, a tangible example of the connection she felt with him in that moment. "Thank you," she said again.

They sat quietly together for some time. No further words passed between them, but none were necessary, for they were in perfect harmony.

Elinor found herself strangely reluctant to leave Cleveland, after all her yearning these last months to be back home in Barton Cottage. She and Colonel Brandon had spoken many times throughout Marianne's recovery, and though on no occasion was their conversation as deep as it had been that day in the shrubbery, still there was a closeness between them now that Elinor had only but rarely experienced in her life. And however often he visited them at Barton Cottage or saw them at Barton Park, they could not see one another as often as while they resided in the same house. And a greater proportion of their time would, of necessity, be spent within earshot of other people.

Upon realizing the source of her reluctance, Elinor felt quite shocked; for so great a desire for a man's company could only be the symptom of an attachment, and she had not been conscious of forming one.

The long ride from Cleveland to Barton provided ample time for self-examination, for Marianne was too tired to speak and their mother was mostly occupied in caring for her.

Her first thought, that she had finally learned to stop caring for Edward, was not true; her thoughts of him were tinged with as great an affection as they had been when she arrived at Cleveland, and the pain of his being engaged to another woman (but especially one unworthy of him) had not lessened. She still loved him, yearned for him.

Yet Colonel Brandon had, without her knowing it, become as dear to her as ever Edward had been; and although he had never indicated an interest in her beyond that of friendship, she found herself considering with interest the idea that he might. She hesitated to call so new an attachment 'love,' yet knew not any better word for it.

For one wild moment she thought that she would gladly have married both, if she could, and resented that she had to choose. But, no, she did not have the right of choosing; Edward was promised to another, and Brandon might think of her as nothing more than a friend.

Had she been alone she would have buried her face in her hands at this thought, and perhaps laughed at herself—or cried—but any such reaction would surely have drawn the attention of her mother and sisters, and they would not be satisfied without an answer, and their reaction she did not wish even to imagine.

Such a wild desire was more Marianne's style than her own, and Elinor's normal equilibrium soon reasserted itself.

It occurred to her, once at home, that while she had grown out of the habit of confiding in Marianne, her newly-realized affection for the Colonel was one thing she could share, and although impressing on Marianne her change in feelings might be difficult, it would at least prevent her sister from further dwelling on Edward's love for her. Their mother could not be told while she held such a firm belief in Brandon's love for Marianne, but if Elinor could get Marianne on her side, things would be much easier.

It was a difficult conversation, though, for Marianne still believed that a woman could only ever truly have one great passionate love, and that any second relationship must only be for material considerations.

"You must not give up hope," said she. "Edward loves you, I know he does, and he will come and ask you to marry him soon. You are still young, and we are comfortable enough here at Barton Cottage. You do not need to settle for—"

"I am not settling!" cried Elinor in some exasperation. She had known that Marianne would take some time to adjust her opinions, for she always did, and had planned on being as calm and even-tempered as always, but the strain of the secrets she had been keeping for so long had taken its toll, and now that she finally had something of importance that she could share with her sister, what she wished more than anything was to have Marianne return even a fraction of the understanding and support Elinor had given her since Willoughby's loss.

But though Marianne might respect a passionate declaration of love such as she herself might make, that was not Elinor's manner, and besides, in her present mood she might be led to say things more hurtful than she meant. Elinor thought back to Brandon's words in the shrubbery at Cleveland. "I wish," Elinor said, with an iron grip on her composure, "that you would learn that I am not you, and that my thoughts and feelings are different than yours."

"Elinor, of course I understand that we are different!" Marianne said.

"Then why do you dismiss every word of mine that does not fit with what you think I should be feeling?" Elinor said. "When I first came to care for Mister Ferrars, you scoffed. Then you became so great a partisan of our affections that when I did not wish to think of it any longer, you would not listen, to my very great mortification on more than one instance. Now I have a new attachment, but you would rather build castles in the air for me and Mister Ferrars than listen. At no time have you ever respected or cared for my actual feelings. I am sorry to be so severe." There was something she had long wished to say, and it had come out far more critically than she had wished. But she could not take the words back, and found that she did not wish to.

"No," Marianne said. Her voice was even but she had gone pale with shock. "If that was how you truly feel, I am glad you said it. I am sorry to have been such a poor sister."

"Marianne, no," Elinor said. "I dearly love you, and I know you love me—"

"It's only that you don't think I respect or know you," Marianne said.

"I would not say that," Elinor said.

"No, for you are far too kind and gentle to say such things even when it is the truth," Marianne said. "But can you truly deny that you feel it?"

Elinor could not.

Marianne nodded at her silence. "So," she said. "You have formed an attachment to Colonel Brandon. When did you first know?"

"When I regretted leaving Cleveland, because it meant leaving him," Elinor said.

It was by no means as passionate a declaration as Marianne was hoping for, but it was enough for her to imagine a more ardent feeling than Elinor was willing to share with her.

Colonel Brandon did indeed visit them at Barton Cottage soon thereafter, and Marianne proved a great ally in dis-arranging their mother's plans. Elinor could wish that she would be more discreet, but then she would not have been Marianne.

"May I inquire as to what that was all about?" Brandon asked, after a debate on the afternoon's entertainment started a battle of wills between Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood that led to Marianne and Margaret and their mother playing a game of croquet while Brandon and Elinor sat together on the other side of the lawn.

"Our mother believes that your journey to retrieve her when Marianne was sick is indicative of a deep affection on your part, and wishes to encourage such a match," Elinor said.

"And Marianne does not?" Brandon said.

"Oh!" Elinor said, embarrassed that she had implied what she did not mean to. "I do not know what Marianne's current feelings on the subject may be, but … I have missed our conversations, and Marianne knows this."

"She is a very affectionate sister," Brandon said.

"She is." Did that mean he did love her, still? Elinor wondered.

"I have missed our conversations, too," Brandon said.

Elinor smiled at him.

Colonel Brandon came to visit Barton Park so often that summer that he might almost have been living there. On more than one occasion, Elinor had cause to be thankful for her sister's wild and captivating ways, for with the eyes of all fixed on the beautiful Miss Marianne, there were few to notice when her quiet elder sister and the somber colonel sat on the sidelines and talked quietly. Mrs. Jennings could not be prevented from noticing and speculating on how often they kept company with one another, but Mrs. Jennings was always speculating about somebody or other, and Elinor and Colonel Brandon were not unduly troubled by it.

As always, Barton Park was a hub of entertainments and delights, for both Sir John and his mother-in-law delighted in company and good humor, and Mrs. Jennings in particular was fond of matchmaking.

"Marianne seems to like this one," Brandon said as they watched a rowdy game of cricket on the lawn. Marianne was not flirting with the young man in question as she had with Willoughby, but neither was she avoiding him as rudely as she had the first few young men Mrs. Jennings had dangled in front of her.

"I do not know if there is any particular fondness for him," Eleanor said, "but he plays well and she is fond of cricket. Still, we have not yet heard his opinion of any poet or composer, and those are far more important to Marianne than his skill with a bat."

"Your sister will excuse many things of a man who can read with skill and passion," Brandon said. "Though in this case, I have heard nothing against the young man."

"I think it will take more, now, for her to form an attachment than just similar tastes," Eleanor said, "for she learnt from Willoughby that it is not proof of a similar character. That said, however, I think taste will always be an important factor."

"And what of you?" Brandon asked.

"What did I learn from the last year's excitement?" Eleanor pondered the question. "I have had no great revelation or comeuppance like the heroine of a novel," she said at last. "My beliefs have been confirmed, that a good and honorable character is more important than any other factor. It is not that nothing else matters, only that it is the foundation upon which all else rests."

"I concede the point," Brandon said with a laugh, "although my question was not meant to be quite so profound. I was merely asking if there was a young gentleman on the playing field who had caught your attention."

"No," Eleanor said, for she had been looking for an opportunity to hint of her affections, "not a gentleman on the playing field." She caught his eye and held it.

Brandon blinked, and then a smile crept over his face. "Ah," was all he said.

When they turned their attention back to the game, they were sitting closer to one another than they had been before.

It was rapidly apparent that there was a growing attachment between Colonel Brandon and the eldest Miss Dashwood, which was followed soon thereafter by a marriage. Mrs. Dashwood learned to support the match, for her greatest desire was to see her daughters happy, and it was evident to all that Elinor was very happy. Mrs. Jennings and Sir John took great pride in their role in arranging it, and said so often and with great enthusiasm to any who would listen. Marianne's heart healed from Willoughby's treatment of her, and she had a number of less imprudent flirtations with the young men of the area, before finally accepting a man who was rather less exciting than Willoughby had been, but far more trustworthy.

Lucy Steele did her best to win over the affections of the Ferrars family, but though they all (except Edward) appreciated her flattery, their scheme of marrying Edward to one rich heiress or another (after Miss Morton's marriage to another man) never wavered, and even the most delicate hinting of an affection between Lucy and Edward met with such immediate disapproval that Lucy never dared broach the subject. At last, tired of waiting for either Mrs. Ferrars' approval or her death, Lucy broke her engagement to Edward to marry a gentleman of the Ferrars' acquaintance who had less money than Edward, but whose fortune was under his own control.

Edward eventually married a woman of less fortune than his relations hoped for, but who had enough wealth and connections to be acceptable to them. She was a woman of good sense and character, and they were well suited to one another.

Mr. and Mrs. Brandon were so naturally well-suited to one another in temperament and taste that their marriage was often held up by all who knew them as a model of domestic harmony and felicity.