Page 105 of Threads that Remain

Anne had begun without interruption, relaying how her regard for Matthew had been steadily progressing. She spoke of his admirable qualities, including his honesty. She continued with how she had begun to have her doubts as to his feelings in return, especially when she compared his attentions to Henry’s for Sarah. Finally, she came to his words during their walk in the park.

There she stopped.

Marianne, who had listened with increasing concern, leaned forward in her chair.

“And what, precisely, did he say to you?”

Anne repeated his words as nearly as she could remember them, describing his wish that she should consider carefully what she would be giving up. He had no intention, he told her, of asking her to leave her family and everything familiar to her unless she was certain she wished to do so. “He said his intentions were serious, and if they were to begin a courtship, I should know beforehand what I would be getting myself into.”

“Oh, Anne.”

“I know, Mamma. And I worry that he speaks so seriously of the future and yet leaves me entirely free to refuse it. I had expected, I believe, that if his feelings were strong enough, he would try to persuade me.”

Elinor, sitting quietly beside Margaret, now spoke. “He has placed the decision in your hands, though it may cost him the very thing he wishes for. It speaks to his goodness. Many, even most, men would use their own feelings to influence yours.”

Marianne looked troubled. “I cannot fault him for that. Indeed, I am grateful he has not attempted to hurry her. But I cannot help wishing the choice before her were a different one.”

“So do I,” Anne said softly.

Her mother squeezed her hand.

“Then tell us, my dear, what would you choose if he were not part of the question? If you could arrange your life entirely as you pleased, what would it look like?”

Anne smiled faintly.

“I have always imagined a home not far from you. A husband who might ride over to visit my father or accompany me to see you whenever we pleased. I should like to have children who would know their grandparents well. I should like the familiar comforts of home, and to grow older among people whose affection I have never had reason to doubt.”

“And there is nothing wrong with wishing for any of those things,” Marianne said.

“No. But I have begun to understand that the life I imagined was never a promise made to me. It was merely what I expected.”

Elinor nodded. “And what would your life with Matthew look like, if you allowed yourself to imagine it?”

Anne’s expression softened.

“I do not know where we should live, or what our house would be like. I cannot picture the country he is to be sent to. I know there would be difficulties, and that his duties would sometimes keep him from me. But I can imagine the ordinary things. Sitting with him in the evening. Hearing about his day. Reading beside him. Learning what pleases him and what troubles him. Making a home together.”

She paused, a little embarrassed by the frankness of her own words. “And I think I should like to discover what I might become beside him.”

Margaret smiled. “That is an interesting answer.”

“Why?”

“Because you have spoken of everything you must surrender in leaving here, but you have scarcely spoken of what you might gain. You might have a life with a man whose company you value.”

“I do value it,” Anne admitted. “More than I had intended to.”

“Then perhaps that is worth considering alongside the difficulties,” Margaret said.

“He did not ask me to promise that I should never regret it,” Anne said.

“Perhaps he knows better than to ask for a promise no one can make,” Elinor replied.

“It is true I cannot promise that I shall never regret going. But I cannot promise that I shall never regret staying, either. I think I have been waiting for one choice to make me certain, and now I understand that neither can.”

Margaret rose and crossed to the little table near the window, where a collection of letters lay tied with a faded ribbon. She touched them absently before turning back.

“When I first went travelling, I thought constantly of everything I had left behind. I missed the people, the familiar ways of doing things, even the smallest inconveniences of home. For a while, I measured every new experience against what I had lost.”