by Lona Manning
In those early days, Mrs. Butters often breakfasted with Fanny and the children, explaining that Mrs. Smallridge was feeling particularly indisposed and tired, and while the old widow could be blunt to the point of incivility in her remarks—she did not scruple to tease Fanny for her formality of speech—her reproofs did not sting like the condemnations of her Aunt Norris. Perhaps this was because Fanny knew herself to be sincerely liked by Mrs. Butters and the older lady was in a fair way to becoming a most important guide and friend. Mrs. Butters had favourable reports to give to her niece concerning the new governess, who appeared to be naturally adept at commanding the obedience of her charges without resorting to scolding or punishment, could make their lessons tolerably interesting to them and best of all, awaken in them enough affection for her so that they desired to please her.
Fanny was in the schoolroom with her young charges when an unfamiliar tread in the hallway announced the arrival of the master of Keynsham Hill. Caroline’s pencil and Edward’s alphabet cards were abandoned—they swiftly ran to meet him at the door, and Edward was scooped up with one strong hand while Caroline’s curls were affectionately caressed by the other.
Mr. Smallridge was well above the middle height, with a large forehead, small penetrating eyes set rather close together, an aquiline nose, and thin lips. His dark, hard, satirical gaze made Fanny wish to look down at the floor, the table, the fireplace tools, anywhere rather than look her new employer in the face. Fanny felt herself to be an imposter, rather than a real governess, and she feared that here was the person who could instantly discern her inexperience, her ignorance, her lack of accomplishments—and proclaim her unfit for her post.
Fortunately for Fanny, Mr. Smallridge, while genuinely fond of his children, never spent any time in the nursery or the school-room, and having just returned home after several weeks’ recreation that had left him more in need of rest than when he left, had little to say to the new governess except that ‘he supposed she had settled in comfortably,’ and that ‘she was not to allow this one’—and he tossed Edward up on his shoulder, to the child’s screams of delight—‘to give her any trouble.’
Fanny nodded and curtsied, and was just trying to formulate an intelligent reply when Mr. Smallridge deposited Edward back on his chair, and unwrapped Caroline’s little arms from around his leg, adding, “Capital—capital. Well, then. Good day,” and left as abruptly as he had come.
Lest the reader’s imagination give rise to a supposition in which this first meeting was the precursor to other, longer, more interesting interviews, in which two lonely souls discovered an irrepressible and mutual sympathy, allow me to state that not then, nor subsequently, did Fanny ever injure the peace of the household or betray her own principles by fancying herself in love with the master of the house. This happy escape was by conviction as well as by inclination, and despite the traditions prevailing for young governesses so situated. Mr. Smallridge, while a gentleman in appearance as well as air, had nothing to say to Fanny, in the ensuing weeks, that softened her first impression of him, and she could barely be said to have made an impression on him at all.
Fanny was accustomed to the solitude of her own thoughts, so a day spent with no other companions but the children and the nursemaids, and an evening passed alone, did not distress her. She dined with the family twice, when Mrs. Smallridge was entertaining company and was in need of another lady to balance her table, but since her employers and their guests spoke only of trivial matters and local gossip, there was little that could interest or engage her, and naturally she never volunteered any information or opinions beyond the most commonplace. She was grateful for the self-absorption of the others in that no one ever felt themselves under any compunction, out of ordinary politeness, to see that she was included in the conversation, or to seek for topics of general interest. She was therefore spared the necessity of ever answering questions about herself, her background, or her family in front of them all, questions which would have forced her to evade the details of her life as a baronet’s niece, and perhaps drawn the keen eye of Mrs. Butters upon her, for she felt that she would have dissembled but poorly.
Fanny had fully intended to write to Mansfield Park and explain herself within a week of arriving at Keynsham Hill, to reassure the family of her safety, but she intended to withhold the knowledge of her whereabouts. She wanted to post the letter from Bristol, without giving particulars of her new address, or having her correspondence pass through the hands of the Smallridge’s servants. Her letters to Mansfield and Portsmouth were prepared and sealed—they consisted mostly of apologies and a reiteration of her determination to live independently—but she omitted the details of her situation, stating only that she had taken the post of governess. She thought it best to let some months elapse before revealing her location, in the hope that Sir Thomas and her parents would be reconciled to her choice in time. She was surprised by her own fortitude in foregoing any possibility of hearing a word from Edmund. She yearned for news of him, to know whether he had taken his orders as a clergyman, and if so had he given up Mary Crawford, or she him, or was he still torn between his affection for her and his stated purpose?
Almost a fortnight passed, and Fanny was growing anxious for the opportunity to mail her letters, when Mrs. Butters announced she was travelling into Bristol on the morrow, and that she would take Fanny along, the better to select some fabric and trim for a dress suitable for a governess. Fanny happily retired that evening in anticipation of new sights in a city she had never seen, but awoke to the news that Mrs. Smallridge had been brought to bed some weeks earlier than expected. The midwife was summoned, urgent messages were sent to Mr. Smallridge, who was visiting friends in Bath, and Mrs. Butters of course would not stir from her niece’s side.
All day the household moved about in hushed suspense. Madame Orly was all agitation and tears, and as the hours went by, Fanny found herself growing truly concerned for her mistress, and many a silent prayer on her behalf was made as she looked down at the little heads of Caroline and Edward while they played, insensible of the hazards their mother was facing. Finally, in the late afternoon, as the pale setting sun was tangled in the branches of the bare hazelnut trees, came tidings of twin daughters, small but healthy, and Mrs. Smallridge was as well as could be expected.
* * * * * *
The expected letter from Fanny, or from her mother, to announce her safe arrival in Portsmouth had not arrived. Lady Bertram and Edmund had each written to Mrs. Price, and Mary Crawford had also written, as promised, but their enquiries were met with silence. Every day Lady Bertram enquired of Baddeley, “Any word from Portsmouth, Baddeley? Has my sister Price written to me?” and every day the butler answered, regretfully, in the negative.
Almost a fortnight had passed since Fanny’s departure, and Edmund was about to propose that he ride to Portsmouth to assure the family of Fanny’s safe arrival, when Julia burst into the drawing-room and exclaimed, “Our father is come! He is in the hall at this moment.”
The arrival of the master of the house was met with expressions of joy and satisfaction on all sides. For Maria, indeed, it meant that the arbiter of her future happiness had arrived. Tom and Edmund were truly pleased to see the man to whom they could resign the mantle of paterfamilias, yet they were not a little uncomfortable at the prospect of having to impart uncomfortable tidings to him.
Sir Thomas greeted every family member with smiles and embraces, overcoming his habitual reserve to a degree that surprised his household. He was older, his face thinner and somewhat drawn, he was browned from the tropical heat, and he had lost some flesh, but he declared himself, and appeared to be, well. His joy in seeing his family was indeed heartfelt, and he rejoiced to have survived his lengthy sojourn in the West Indies, whose climate had proved so fatal to so many of his countrymen—and, more than that, to have left behind scenes which had affected his peace of mind to no small degree.
He had inherited the sugar plantations in Antigua from
his father, and had visited them once before, as a young man, and for many years they had enriched the family, enabling them to live with comfort and consequence and to build their spacious and airy home at Mansfield Park. But his prolonged sojourn on the island, during which time he had managed the plantation himself, had left him without the power of denying what it meant to rely on the labour of slaves. For it was one thing to contemplate these circumstances from half a world away, to regard them as regretful necessities, and another to see, before his eyes, the high cost in human lives, and the use of fear, threat, and punishment to keep the slaves at their miserable toil. Not only were the slaves themselves made brutal and coarse through their treatment, but their English overseers were also degraded thereby.
Sir Thomas had privately resolved to find a buyer for his plantation, which would, he acknowledge, not ameliorate the evil, and could, in all likelihood, increase the suffering of his slaves, for while his plantations were acknowledged to be free of some of the worst excesses, he could not speak for the good conduct of any new owners. He believed that sugar plantations and the evils they engendered would exist so long as Englishmen wanted sugar; but he desired to wash his hands of the business. However, the recent precipitous fall of the price of sugar, and the banning of the slave trade, had rendered his holdings less valuable than heretofore, and he would not realize one-half of what he might have done a few years ago. But these reflections he kept to himself during his homecoming; he might later speak with Tom and Edmund about them, but for now his thoughts were all for his family.
Sir Thomas took his place by Lady Bertram, and looked with heartfelt satisfaction at his wife, sons, and daughters all collected together exactly as he could have wished. But, he added, after a pause, looking around him, “Where is Fanny? Why do not I see my little niece?”
“Indeed, sir,” exclaimed Tom. “She will be very sorry to have missed this happy reunion. She desired to see her family and so she is gone to Portsmouth.” The reply satisfied Sir Thomas and his sons forestalled any others by asking him for particulars of his voyage, with Sir Thomas ready to give every information, and answer every question of his two sons almost before it was put. He had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private vessel, instead of waiting for the packet but his return to Liverpool had been delayed about two weeks by a contrary wind across the North Atlantic, and all the little particulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures, were most promptly delivered.
At length there was a pause. His immediate communications were exhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully around him, now at one, now at another of the beloved circle; but the pause was not long: in the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and what were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, “Sir Thomas, Maria’s intended husband is not at Mansfield at present, but Maria assures me he will come back and wait upon you promptly, now you are returned.”
“My dear, in my satisfaction at being home again, I could desire no addition to our family circle, with but one exception—the welcoming of a new son-in-law, an exception I may, I think, approve without reservation. I look forward to making Mr. Rushworth’s acquaintance at the first convenient opportunity, and in no short time thereafter, I trust we may be able to determine the date for that happy occasion which, if our best poets and authors are any guide, will be not less welcome for having been delayed by my extended absence.”
An awkward pause followed Sir Thomas’ speech, as conscious looks were exchanged amongst some of his children. Maria hoped, perhaps unreasonably, for one of her brothers to make the necessary communication, and when Tom remained mute she turned to Edmund with an imploring glance. She dared not, of course, meet Julia’s eye, but Julia had regained sufficient mastery over herself since the hour she had discovered her sister in the arms of the man she loved, or once loved, that only the twisting of her handkerchief in her hands betrayed the inner agitation of her spirit.
“Sir, Maria did have an understanding with Mr. Rushworth,” Edmund finally ventured, “but upon discovering that she had been mistaken in her regard for him, she judged it best to end the engagement.”
Sir Thomas’ brow contracted, and looking from face to face in the little family circle, he fancied he beheld an unease, a holding back. “Your mother spoke, just now, of a husband-to-be. My dear,” he said, turning to his wife, “you cannot be in error on a point as material as this. There is something in this which my comprehension does not reach.”
“I am now engaged to Henry Crawford, father,” Maria finally ventured. “He is the brother of Mrs. Grant, the wife of Dr. Grant.”
The parental brow contracted further, and awful was the suspense of his daughter. “Maria, the choice of the gentleman on whom you choose to bestow your hand is, as it ought to be, a matter of no small significance to me and to everyone associated with you. You will understand that I have many enquiries to make as to how it came to be that you severed a connection so eligible, so suitable, so promising in every respect. Further, I doubt not that this dissolution has been canvassed in every household from here to Sotherton, attaching a degree of notoriety to your name—to our name, which is highly regrettable. And, without paying me the compliment of consultation, you have promised yourself to a man of inferior birth and consequence. But in deference to the delicacy of your situation, we will continue this interview after tea, in my study.”
He turned then, to questions about the Park, and the village and the tenants, which his sons were able to answer to his satisfaction and to give him, at least for that hour, the sensation that nothing else had gone seriously amiss in his absence. Poor Sir Thomas! How brief was this interval of peace to be!
Mrs. Norris was the first visitor to the house to congratulate Sir Thomas on his safe return, having hurried up from the White house when news of his arrival by post chaise had spread through the village. She was vexed that she had not been in the entry hall to greet him first, where her imagination had always placed her. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded of an office on which she had always depended, whether his arrival or his death were to be the thing unfolded. She endeavoured to compensate, however, for being robbed of that which was her due, by now trying to be in a bustle without having anything to bustle about, and labouring to be important where nothing was wanted but tranquility and silence. Would Sir Thomas have consented to eat, she might have gone to the housekeeper with troublesome directions, and insulted the footmen with injunctions of despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all dinner: he would take nothing, nothing till tea came—he would rather wait for tea. Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something different; and in the most interesting moment of his detailed recitation of his passage to England, when the alarm of a French privateer was at the height, she burst through his narrative with the proposal of soup. “Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea. Do have a basin of soup.”
Sir Thomas could not be provoked. “Still the same anxiety for everybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,” was his answer. “But indeed I would rather have nothing but tea.”
“Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night.” Baddeley appeared almost instantly, but instead of bearing a tea-board, he brought a letter, addressed to Edmund Bertram, to whom he delivered it, with the apologetic remark: “Pardon me, sir, but I judged it best, to interrupt you now with this letter, rather than reserve it with the other letters of business.”
Edmund saw the direction and excusing himself, opened the letter, expecting to read a note from his aunt Price with another letter from Fanny enclosed within. Instead he held a single sheet of paper, with what appeared to be a smear of butter and jam on one corner and a small sketch of a cat, drawn by a childish hand, on another. He read:
Dear Mr. Bertram:
My Apologies for not replying sooner to yours of the past week, but since your Letters
informed me that Fanny was coming to stay with us, I have been Waiting for her these four days. And I have been too occupied with the cares of my Household to have the Leisure to enquire why my daughter did not Write to me herself, while you have Written repeatedly, for I expected that Fanny would Explain all when she finally did Arrive.
But I have got yet another Letter from you, telling me positively that Fanny is with me in Portsmouth, and several Letters from Mansfield addressed to Fanny besides, and rather than continuing to Pay for all of these Letters, I send you this note to Inform you that Fanny is not here, at least not at as I Write this.
I don’t know what to make of this Affair. I was going to enquire of Fanny if you had cast her off, and I feared that she has Disobliged you in some particular, but I cannot satisfy my curiosity for she is not here. However, Sir, if you and my sister Bertram both believe Fanny to be here, then she most assuredly is not there at Mansfield Park. And if she is not with you, nor with us, then where is she? Please Advise,
Your much-obliged aunt,
Frances Price
p.s.—I instructed our Servant to bear this letter to the Post Office three days ago, and Discovered it this Morning in the entry hall. My daughter Susan is taking it to the Post directly. We still have no Word of Fanny, and yet another Letter from Mr. Edmund Bertram!
A brief cry escaped Edmund’s lips—his countenance told of utter calamity—there could be no withholding this shocking intelligence. His father held out his hand, Edmund surrendered the note, which Sir Thomas read silently, once, twice and three times.
“What is it, sir?” “What’s the matter, Sir Thomas?” came the anxious enquiries. Finally, Sir Thomas looked up, and his response was all the more startling because of the uncustomary brevity with which it was delivered.
