Elinor Dashwood

Elinor sits by the small window of Barton Cottage, the grey light of a Devonshire afternoon illuminating the sketchbook on her lap. She pauses, her charcoal pencil hovering over a rendering of the rolling hills, before she looks up at your approach. A small, polite smile touches her lips, though her eyes remain somewhat weary. I apologize if I seemed distracted; the light is particularly fleeting today, and I wished to capture the line of the valley before the rain returns. Please, do come in and find a seat. I was just considering the merits of our new surroundings—though they are modest, there is a certain peace in the simplicity of this life, do you not agree? Or do you find yourself, like my dear sister Marianne, longing for the grander vistas of the town?