by Lona Manning
“Gentlemen must pay their due tribute to beauty, Julia, but I would be sorry to see you take Yates seriously. I was at Eton with him and……” he coughed. “Your estimable governess never taught you much classical literature, did she? Any Latin? Hadrian and Antinous? Zeus and Ganymede?”
Julia shook her head, bewildered.
“No matter. The point is, these pleasantries between ladies and gentlemen are all part of the game, don’t you know, you mustn’t believe Yates is falling in love with you.”
“I pay no attention to Mr. Yates at all, Tom, except that he is your friend and our guest. Now go along and practise your rhyming Butler. Ask Baddeley to help you,” Julia returned scornfully.
* * * * * *
Fanny retrieved Miss Lee’s reply a few days later at the post office. Although Miss Lee was surprised to receive Fanny’s enquiry, she did not attempt to dissuade her former pupil. The old governess was a well-judging and discerning woman, and she reckoned that growing up in Mansfield Park had rendered Fanny too genteel to resume the rough-and-tumble life she had left behind in Portsmouth. Going out as a governess would allow Fanny to continue to live among the same set of people, and in the same style, to which she was accustomed.
Miss Lee refrained from counselling Fanny as to the wisdom or imprudence of her proposed course but did inform her that Mrs. Smallridge, a cousin by marriage of Miss Lee’s own employers, was looking for a young lady of unexceptionable character to undertake the charge of their daughter, who was not quite six years of age, and their son, who was old enough to start learning his letters and sums. Miss Lee offered to forward Fanny’s application to Mrs. Smallridge, with her own testimony as to Fanny’s good character.
To be the tutoress of very young children appeared to Fanny to be the most probable circumstance to suit her talents—which she rated as very low—as well as her inclinations. She composed a careful letter to Mrs. Smallridge, describing herself as a gentlewoman, the daughter of a lieutenant of Marines, but raised principally by an aunt, the widow of a country parson—this last a reference to Mrs. Norris, who, it could truthfully be said, had more to do with raising her than any other adult at Mansfield Park, for it was the admonitions and scowls of the aunt that had rendered a timid and awkward young woman from a shy and retiring little girl. Fanny felt it was best to sink Sir Thomas and his family into oblivion, as she reasoned that Mrs. Smallridge might wonder why the niece of a baronet sought employment as a governess. Fanny had never dissembled so much in her life before but had observed from Maria and Julia the art of withholding information without actually stooping to deceit.
The letter was composed, folded, and sealed, but Fanny trembled at the thought of making a private visit to the post office. The bare fact of engaging in secret correspondence filled her with shame and guilt, and to act secretly, to plan to depart Mansfield struck her like a species of treason, particularly when Lady Bertram was kind to her, or when Edmund had time to talk with her.
Although Fanny had disclaimed any talent for acting, her relations would surely have been astonished at the secret she kept to herself whilst preparations went forward for the production of Lovers' Vows. Fanny found, before many days were past, that it was not all uninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and each having their own concern, were frequently blind to the concerns of others. Everybody began to have their vexation. Edmund had many. Entirely against his judgment, a scene-painter arrived from town, and was at work, much to the increase of the expenses, and, what was worse, of the éclat of their proceedings; and his brother Tom, instead of being really guided by him as to the privacy of the representation, was giving an invitation to every family who came in his way.
Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only listener at hand, came in for the complaints and the distresses of most of them. She knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant dreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that Tom Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible; that Mrs. Grant spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behindhand with his part, and that it was misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth, who was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: his complaint came before her as well as the rest; and so decided to her eye was her cousin Maria's avoidance of him, and so needlessly often the rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she had soon all the terror of other complaints from him. So far from being all satisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody requiring something they had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the others.
Mrs. Norris was, in her own way, as happy as she had ever been, for she was busy from morning ‘til night, living entirely at Mansfield Park, directing the servants, ordering the dinners, and supervising the sewing of the costumes and curtains. She also felt it was necessary for her to stay at Lady Bertram’s side in the event that doleful news arrived concerning Sir Thomas—perhaps he would perish at sea, or be stricken by the fevers and distempers which carried away so many of his countrymen in tropical climes—and in such case, she, Lady Bertram’s elder sister, would naturally be the rod and staff of the stricken family. She was confiding some of her gloomier prognostications to Mrs. Grant, who was sitting with Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris after the conclusion of a rehearsal of the first act of the play, while Fanny, quite forgotten, was stitching on Anhalt’s costume by candlelight at her own little worktable.
For a young girl, every trifling thing connected with one’s beloved transmits pleasure, so the thought that she held in her hands a garment to be worn by Edmund gave her a sweet sensation, mixed with sorrow, that she would not have exchanged for the world. So abstracted was she in her thoughts, it was in fact a wonder that some portion of the conversation of the ladies attracted her notice.
“Dr. Grant tells me the price of sugar has now fallen so low, that it is now considerably below what would repay the grower for his cost to make the sugar and bring it to market. What a shame for Sir Thomas! He has laboured so hard, away from home, yet these events conspire against him, do they not?”
“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Grant,” answered Mrs. Norris, leaning forward and speaking in a loud whisper, with a nod of her head toward Lady Bertram, who lay, half asleep, on her settee, “I heard the same. There is a glut on the market—that is what they call it—too much sugar; and in addition, with the recent prohibition on importing new labourers from Africa, the future prosperity of the West Indies plantations is very much in doubt.”
“Dear me! But I’m sure that Sir Thomas—”
“If he should return alive, he must come down with the marriage portion for Maria, of course, and fit up Edmund for his ordination—his new home at Thornton Lacey must be got into readiness—you will see now, my dear Mrs. Grant, why I am so particular about making what little economies we can at Mansfield and have done everything in my power to curb any waste or unnecessary expense.”
“No doubt they are all very obliged to you, ma’am.”
“I do not consider that, of course, for who else should I assist but my own sister and her family? I have told Lady Bertram that, as I have no children of my own, whatever I have been able to put away every year is for her dear children, but little did I imagine that the time might come when my paltry widow’s mite would be so needful!”
“Matters are not so bad as all that, surely? The price of sugar may rise again? And the family is in general well provided for, I trust. There would be his income from the rents?”
“But, with his prolonged absence,” countered Mrs. Norris, unable to give way to any ray of hope, “you may be sure his tenants are behindhand and dear Tom and Edmund are too good-natured— the returns will not be enough to meet the expenses of maintaining the estate.”
“Pray, sister, do not distress yourself,” said Lady Bertram drowsily, having half-awakened and hearing the word ‘rent.’ “Sir Thomas will never require you to pay any rent on the Whit
e house, not so long as you have need of it.”
“No doubt, Lady Bertram, the family of Sir Thomas Bertram can rely on his generosity and his prudence—you are all in the best of hands,” Mrs. Grant suggested, as Mrs. Norris was for a moment discomposed.
She rallied, however, and leaning forward again, said in a forceful, sibilant whisper, which carried to every corner of the room, “Of course, Sir Thomas is very capable, but what can even he do in the face of such calamities! Naturally Sir Thomas would not confide all the details of his financial burdens to me, and I am sure I am not one to pry, but there was the matter of poor Tom’s youthful follies, which amounted to a not inconsiderable debt, so that Sir Thomas was unable to do everything for Edmund that he intended—ahem—” and here Mrs. Norris recollected that it was this very circumstance which led to the living at Mansfield Park being settled on Dr. Grant, instead of being held for Edmund, something Sir Thomas, out of delicacy, would not have wished her to allude to before Mrs. Grant.
Mrs. Grant betrayed no consciousness, however, and Mrs. Norris resumed her catalogue of the family’s financial woes: “—and some years ago, he declared his intention to settle some funds on Fanny when she came of age, to enable her to live as a gentlewoman, so that promise must hang about his neck like a millstone, and, I have no doubt, contributes greatly to his cares. Of course, if Fanny continued to live here, and endeavoured to make herself as useful as possible, I dare say he would think his generosity in bringing her up under his roof would be at least partly requited, and he would be spared the great expense of a separate maintenance for her.”
Fanny gave no indication she could hear what had been said but continued sewing placidly until summoned to the little theatre to act as prompter for a scene between the ranting Mr. Yates and the befuddled Mr. Rushworth. She was surprised to discover she was not crying—her eyes were perfectly dry, but there was a strange feeling in her stomach, as though a cold little stone had taken up residence there. Perhaps she should bless her Aunt Norris for helping her to reach a resolution, for although she suspected her aunt of exaggerating the financial peril in which the family stood, she would not stay to be resented.
The next morning, Fanny asked her Aunt Norris if she needed anything taken to her home in the village, or fetched from it. As it happened, the lady wanted her good pair of scissors, so Fanny was dispatched, with the warning, “but pray, don’t make this your excuse, Fanny, to dawdle along the way—you are needed here to help finish these costumes, for I cannot do everything by myself. Don’t suppose that by staying out of sight you can shirk your share of the work to be done.”
Fanny called at the post office and sent her application to Mrs. Smallridge, care of Miss Lee, and then forgot Aunt Norris’s scissors, so stupefied was she at the enormity of what she had done, and was halfway home when she remembered and had to hurry back for them. She endeavoured to be in good time to avoid her aunt’s condemnation by running up the hill and arrived breathless, holding her side.
Edmund met her near the rose garden and gently remonstrated with her— “You have been running, Fanny, you are out of breath! Whatever are you about? You look knocked up.”
“Oh, it doesn’t signify,” Fanny panted. “I have not been out on horseback as often as I should lately, we have been so busy with the theatricals.”
“Bother the play,” laughed Edmund. “I have a tonic for you, Fanny—can you guess what it is?”
Fanny brightened and wondered if there had been a letter from her brother William.
“No, no, not that, but this did come with the post this morning—The British Critic,” and Edmund happily flourished his and Fanny’s favourite gazette, a magazine that listed all the new publications, with reviews and extracts. “Shall we look it over and decide upon those books whose acquisition is essential to the preservation of our happiness?”
No invitation was necessary, and Fanny almost danced beside Edmund as they re-entered the house. With joy did she anticipate that much-loved activity—looking over descriptions of books along with Edmund, discussing them, and making a list of the most desired titles to be ordered, and that followed by the pleasure of receiving the books in the post, and reading and comparing views with her cousin! It was the most complete happiness she knew.
“Stay, Fanny,” called Edmund as Fanny hurried ahead of him to the library, “we are in the breakfast-room. I thought we should be more comfortable there.”
We? Bewildered, Fanny spun about and followed Edmund into the breakfast-room, where sat Mary Crawford, looking particularly lovely, preparing her ink and quill for the list of chosen titles. She looked up and smiled expectantly as Edmund entered.
“Yes, I invited Miss Crawford to join us,” Edmund explained cheerfully as Fanny faltered at the doorway.
“Oh, come in Miss Price,” cried Miss Crawford. “We had despaired of you before Mr. Bertram saw you dashing up the hill.” Turning to Mr. Bertram, she added, “I hope we shall have some travel books! Wouldn’t you love to visit Paris, Mr. Bertram? The Bonaparte has stolen the birthright of every patriotic Englishman and woman—the right to return from Paris to disparage the place of our birth and to compare our food, fashions, and manners unfavorably with the French! It is monstrously unjust! This war seems never-ending!”
The sight of Miss Crawford preparing to perform the office she had always performed, hit Fanny like a blow.
“Why, Miss Price, are you well?” asked Miss Crawford, eyeing her with concern. “You look pale. It is true what your cousin says—any kind of exercise but horse-riding tires you too quickly—pray, sit down, sit down.”
Fanny managed to stammer— “The scissors—Aunt Norris—I must give—” and, backing out of the room, she turned and fled up the back stairs to her own little bedroom, where she gave way to her anguish, muffling her sobs with her quilt.
Sometime later, with reddened eyes and pale cheeks, she found Aunt Norris in the drawing-room and resumed her sewing work, reasoning that Edmund by now had assumed she had been kept behind by her aunt and so could not return to the breakfast-room.
“At last! My scissors!” exclaimed her aunt. “Fanny, I have been looking for you these two hours! And after I particularly asked you to hurry! You are too provoking! You are worse than thoughtless, you must have kept away out of spite and willfulness! I have no patience with you!” And so on, until the two housemaids, bent over the green baize curtain being prepared for the theatre, furtively exchanged looks full of pity for the young lady between their furious stitches.
* * * * * *
Fanny could not know how probable or improbable it might be that a young lady of only eighteen summers would be accepted as a governess, but two circumstances smiled upon her. One was that Mrs. Smallridge, the daughter of a prosperous linen-draper who had been elevated into a much higher sphere through her marriage, had the greatest admiration of excellent handwriting and propriety of composition, and Fanny’s letter was very pleasing on that score. Secondly, Miss Lee was able to assure her that Fanny was a genteel young lady, but was not one to give herself airs, and after further enquiry was kind enough to particularize Miss Price’s appearance: ‘She could by no means be called a beauty, nor was she plain, but was not the sort of young lady whom gentlemen noticed or remarked upon, being retiring and modest to a degree.’ Miss Lee’s commendation soothed Mrs. Smallridge’s apprehension about engaging a servant who might conceive herself to be superior in point of birth or breeding to the lady of the house, and a further, if unspoken, reservation which any woman no longer in the first bloom of youth must feel when introducing a young person into her family circle. Thus satisfied, she wrote out a note for Miss Lee to enclose in her own letter to Fanny:
Dear Fanny: (wrote Miss Lee), I will honour your request for secrecy at this time because of my understanding of Lady Bertram’s character. It is not to be doubted that should she learn you are contemplating accepting a post as a governess it would be a source of great uneasiness for her, and the kinder course i
s to inform her only if you have positively decided upon taking this position.
My acquaintance with Mr. and Mrs. Smallridge is slight, but I have observed nothing which could suggest that living under their roof would be objectionable or ill-advised, and their children are still too young to have formed any habits that you yourself could not counteract.
Should you decide to accept the post, you and I may meet in the course of the spring, but not before, as Mrs. Smallridge is expecting to be confined later this year and will not be travelling.
Yours, etc.
p.s. Mrs. Smallridge’s letter does not name a salary. I suggest you condition for not less than 20 pounds per annum, with an allowance for clothing. Your youth and inexperience do not justify a greater sum than this.
Fanny was in her favourite retreat, the East Room, wondering whether she had gone mad or was she truly contemplating leaving Mansfield Park, when a gentle tap on the door revealed Mary Crawford seeking admittance.
“Am I right? Yes; this is the East Room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help.”
Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to show herself mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with concern.
“Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be so obliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund—by ourselves—against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he were, I do not think I could go through it with him, till I have hardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will be so good, won't you?”
