Chapter Text
Mrs. Cole had no reason, really, to pity Miss Woodhouse. After all, Miss Woodhouse was very nearly the queen of Highbury; what was there to feel sorry for?
But Mrs. Cole's heart ached, just a little bit, as she looked at the young woman's face. Miss Woodhouse seemed happy and triumphant - she had made the match, after all - but every now and then, she would look down at her folded hands and betray a little flicker of something more bittersweet and sorrowful.
Well, you had never seen one without the other, Miss Woodhouse and Miss Taylor. That would no longer be the case, with the creation of a new Mrs. Weston.
Mrs. Cole was not a woman blinded by names or fortune. She knew what Miss Woodhouse was. She knew that the girl had a snobbish streak a mile long, that she looked down on the Coles from her privileged and lofty perch. But Mrs. Cole also knew that, underneath it all, the spoiled child had a good heart; she very often meant well; she was a victim as well as a beneficiary of her circumstances. She was still very young and there was every chance that she would improve.
And she was losing the constant companionship of her dearest friend today.
Well, Mrs. Cole did pity Miss Woodhouse for that. She remembered her own girlhood, the absolute necessity of having her own companions. She remembered the grief that had come with her eldest sister's marriage. A friend in your own home could not replaced; even a distance of less than a mile was felt keenly. The loss of Miss Taylor would be a particular blow to Miss Woodhouse, with so few in the neighborhood for her to associate with.
Mrs. Cole smiled at her and receive a bright, cheerful grin in return. Miss Woodhouse always could put a brave face on things. She would recover in time; this sorrow was a very gentle one. But Mrs. Cole felt for her anyway– small personal sorrows stung them all, whether they were common or great.