Every now and then, Mr. Palmer wished he had married someone like Miss Dashwood.

The elder, that is, though any of the sisters would do. They all possessed a common beauty and strength of character that very much appealed to him. Even their mother, well beyond the bloom of youth, retained a fine expression, sharp wit, and worldly prettiness that few women could boast at her age. It was Elinor, though, who would have suited him best. Yes, he held a strong admiration for her. But love? No. Merely respect, and perhaps a twinge of regret.

He imagined life as it could have been, had he been more frugal in his youth: Miss Dashwood, or Mrs. Palmer, as she would be called, would suit his disposition. They would live together quietly, uneventfully, content to share their lives togehter. Money would neither be a worry nor an extravagance. Humility and a simple, comfortable family.

Mr. Palmer could never wish ill on his wife. But he began, upon the increase of outings with the Dashwood family, to wish his youthful decision-making had involved a great deal more thought.

Something of the elder Miss Dashwood's reserve – that she never needed a conversation to see a pair of people occupied – evoked a strange nostalgia in the man. He got on well enough with his wife to keep their mutual banter civil for the public ear but, as he looked back on the foggy past, they were rarely truly happy together. Their initial sentiment of happiness had merely been the exhilaration of whirlwind romance.

He doubted he would produce an heir. They were both growing too old for such affairs. What would become of his name?

Miss Dashwood symbolized everything that could have been. He knew he could not change the past, but every now and then, he wished he had married her.