by Lona Manning
Mrs. Price gave her a civil welcome when she introduced herself as a friend of the Bertrams, and urged Susan, for such was the name of Fanny's younger sister, to quickly move the mending and the cat so Miss Crawford could have a place to sit, and halloo’d to the kitchen for someone to bring tea. In answer to Miss Crawford’s enquiry, Mrs. Price confirmed that, unfortunately, Fanny had sent them no further word. Her sister Bertram had written her several times concerning the efforts made to recover her, and Mr. Edmund Bertram had left them only yesterday, so the Prices had already heard the Crawfords spoken of most highly—how Mr. Crawford was sparing no efforts on their behalf, and how Miss Crawford had left the comforts of her own home to assist him.
“We were not quite certain why it was that Fanny told no one where she was going. Pray, Miss Crawford, did they part on bad terms? If Fanny has behaved poorly, I hope that Sir Thomas will still be inclined to assist my youngest boys, as he has been so obliging with William, John, and Richard! It was owing to his influence that John works as a clerk in London, you know, and Richard is with the East India Company, thanks to Sir Thomas.”
“I could not tell you why your daughter left Mansfield as she did, Mrs. Price, but from all I understand of Sir Thomas, I think you have nothing to fear from that quarter.” Miss Crawford then civilly wished good fortune to all of Mrs. Price’s children, and received in reply an enumeration of all six sons, their ages, states of health, habits and pursuits, as could tire the patience of the most doating relative and was stupefying to one who was, in fact, entirely indifferent to the entire Price tribe. The youngest girl, Betsey, then made her appearance and stood and stared fixedly at Mary, without intermission, despite Susan’s efforts to draw her away.
“Pray, Mrs. Price,” Miss Crawford asked, as Mrs. Price finally reached the end of her recitation with the doings of young Charles, “as we will doubtless locate your eldest daughter without any further loss of time, may we convey her letters to her? Did Mr. Bertram collect her letters while he was here? I know he and Lady Bertram sent letters to your home for Fanny, and as it happens, I myself—”
“Oh yes,” answered her hostess, half-listening as she pushed the workbasket across the floor with one foot so that it covered the worst worn spot on the carpet, “we did receive some letters for Fanny, but Mr. Bertram did not enquire for them and I never thought of it. Let me see….” she pulled at the top drawer of a battered sideboard, which refused to open. A firmer tug and the drawer yielded, nearly spilling all of its contents on the floor. Mrs. Price pawed and rummaged, pulling out bits of ribbon, parts of a broken mantelpiece clock, and stubs of candles, more than once exclaiming to herself, ‘THERE it is!;’ but Miss Crawford came to realize it was not Fanny’s correspondence she was referring to but some other long-lost object. After a few moments, Mrs. Price abandoned the effort and apologized but, she was sure, she had placed the letters there in the drawer. The careless servant might have started a fire with them, or Betsey may have taken them to draw upon, or they might turn up again at some point, and if they did, she would be certain to keep them for poor Fanny. She then excused herself to discover what was delaying Rebekah in bringing their tea and Susan followed her to the kitchen, from whence a loud and somewhat rancorous conversation could be heard.
Mary was left alone with little Betsey who continued to regard her with fascination. Mary smiled prettily and whispered to her, “Now be a good girl. Here is a shilling for you if you can give me any letters that came for your sister Fanny.” Betsey understood her only imperfectly, and eagerly ran in and out of the parlour, bringing Miss Crawford every piece of paper in the household, including letters from their midshipman son, a laundry list, and the demands of the greengrocer that his account be paid, but despite Miss Crawford’s fervent hopes, no letter from herself to Miss Fanny Price was ever produced by the willing child.
After an interval of some minutes, Mrs. Price returned from the kitchen, followed by a trollopy-looking servant with a tea tray, just as Mary heard her brother’s carriage pulling up without. With polite reluctance, Miss Crawford made her farewells, barely stifling a shudder.
She was just stepping into the carriage, and consoling herself that in such a household, the letter would in all probability never find its way to anyone, when the maid came running out, begging her pardon, but here was a letter for Miss Price that the mistress had just found on the mantelpiece.
Miss Crawford took the letter, and recognized Edmund’s strong, elegant hand. “No other letters, then?” she enquired, endeavouring to appear disinterested, but there was no one to hear or reply, for the servant had gone in, slamming the door behind her.
In the privacy of her hotel bedchamber, Mary read over the following, composed shortly after Fanny’s disappearance.
My very dear Fanny,
You cannot conceive of the anxiety your departure has caused me and all the family. Had you told me you wished to visit your family in Portsmouth, I would have conveyed you there myself. Your leaving in this manner, and your letter to my father, can only suggest that you were very unhappy living among us. Had I known of your sorrows, I would have done everything in my power to assist you. Can you doubt it? Do you not know of my regard for you? I have told you that you are one of the two dearest creatures I love upon this earth, and Fanny, I must own myself hurt and surprised that you did not confide in me on this occasion.
Please write to me, if only a line, to assure me of your well-being. But Fanny, please, in remembrance of the many happy hours we have spent together, open your heart to me. If you have been offended by something or someone, please explain the cause and I will work to remove it. If you bear some secret sorrow, please share it with,
Your affectionate cousin,
Edmund Bertram
Then Mary held the letter over a candle and watched it burn to ashes, not without some regret, because it contained an avowal of Edmund’s love for her.
Having intercepted first her letter to him, and his to her, and knowing that a meeting between the two cousins would bring her actions immediately to light, Mary was haunted by the necessity, the absolute necessity, of marrying Edmund Bertram before Fanny returned to their midst. Although she felt assured of his regard for her, she could not deceive herself about his reaction to any hint of escobarderie on her part. He would not be complacent about being thus practised upon—he would condemn her actions and she might well lose him forever. All because she had not the time to enclose Fanny’s letter to her uncle within the letter to Edmund, and re-seal the whole, and place it back on the school-room table, before Edmund entered the room! And now it was far too late for excuses and apologies. A half-minute would have made all the difference, and she would not be forced upon the path she now trod!
Mary resolved to return to Mansfield, to finally make the acquaintance of the redoubtable Sir Thomas and try her charms upon the man whose word and will had such sway with all of his children. If she had the love of both the father and the son, perhaps a way forward to marriage could be contrived.
* * * * * *
The regularity of her new life, her assured place in the household, as well as the encouragement of Mrs. Butters, all did much to help Fanny overcome the timidity and shyness which had always afflicted her. Her employer, Mrs. Smallridge, though tending to be aloof, or so Fanny thought, was not unkind to her, and in fact, Fanny was as free from slights, snubs, neglect and insults, as she had ever been in her short life.
With the Smallridges, Fanny was not expected to fetch or to carry, or to drop one task, such as untangling needlework, to take up another at the whims of her aunts. She had the dignity of a title, and in fact was in a position of authority, in charge of the welfare and education of children. When she looked at her reflection in the little mirror in her bedroom every morning, as she smoothed her hair and prepared for a new day, she thought she saw a new composure and assurance dawning there.
Fanny had also worried that her strength would not be equal to her responsibilities,
but her health appeared to be unimpaired. At Mansfield Park, she had taken regular exercise on horseback and it was believed that nothing was so efficacious for her. But for the time being, her exercise consisted of chasing after little Edward. Being placed in charge of her own small sphere, though only fifteen paces from door to door, animated Fanny to a degree which surprised her.
After the birth of her twin daughters, Mrs. Smallridge had briefly, very briefly, basked in the sunshine of her husband’s praise and affection, but that was now forgotten and he had resumed his usual habits—careless and indifferent when at home, and more frequently absent than not. Further, she had been slow to regain her health since the birth of her infant daughters—there was thankfully no specific malady, but her spirits were low, and although Mrs. Butters made light of it, saying that many new mothers experienced the same, the kindly widow determined to extend her visit for at least another month. Through the banter of the nursemaids and upper housemaids, Fanny knew that the mistress of Keynsham Hill was more than usually captious and fretful and even spent one morning in angry tears upon being informed that her husband had invited his cousins, the Bragges, for dinner.
Fanny was invited to the table with the Bragges, and was secretly amused to note how perfectly their names accorded with their natures, for the Bragges were inclined to speak only of their own affairs. Whatever new topic was introduced, it was sure to be quickly turned back into an anecdote concerning themselves, with both husband and wife vying to be the foremost speaker, and sometimes both speaking together, he to his end of the table and she to hers. Having only to listen and observe, Fanny also came to see that Mrs. Smallridge was almost silent in their company, and not merely because the only way to join a conversation with the Bragges was to interrupt them emphatically, but because Mrs. Smallridge’s sullen countenance hinted that she interpreted the praise the Bragges bestowed on themselves as condescension toward their hostess.
Fanny was astonished when she understood that her mistress was anxious and self-conscious when in company. That anyone but herself, let alone a handsome, well-married woman of eight-and-twenty, could feel unease among others, was a revelation. With the self-centredness of youth, Fanny had thought only she felt awkward when called upon to converse with people of fashion. Unlike Fanny, however, whose timidity took the form of self-abasement, Mrs. Smallridge assumed a false air of hauteur when in company, which had at first deceived her governess into thinking her chilly and proud.
Upon further reflection, Fanny concluded that the source of Mrs. Smallridge’s unease arose from the fact that she was the daughter of a tradesman, and in marrying Mr. Smallridge she felt herself to be at a disadvantage in education and manners.
This better understanding inclined Fanny’s heart sympathetically toward her mistress, and while she took no liberties, she was better able to bear with and understand Mrs. Smallridge’s habitual reserve.
One evening, only a few days after their trip to Bristol, Mrs. Butters entered the nursery where Fanny was sitting and stitching on her new grey dress. “Here is a little something for you, Miss Price, from my friend Mr. Gibson. He has collected some of his poetry and his writings on the slave trade and asked me to submit them to you for your comment.” Fanny, blushing, began to anxiously disclaim all abilities as a critic, at the same time reaching eagerly for the proffered parcel.
“Of course you are no literary expert, Miss Price, and I am tolerably certain that Mr. William Gibson, a man who has been to Cambridge and who can speak Latin and Greek, does not wait anxiously upon the judgements of an eighteen-year-old girl. When a man asks you to comment on his writing, you can be pretty sure he means, that your admiration would not come amiss. He doesn’t want you to write up a review for the London Gazette.”
Fanny began to apologize for being so apologetic, then checked herself as Mrs. Butters laughed and left the room. She felt chastened indeed but perceived that Mrs. Butters’ intentions were kindly meant, as always. Fanny meditated on whether she tended to be excessive in her self-abasement, and whether her frequent disclaimers and professions of humility were always necessary. She had enough self-knowledge to understand she had acquired the habit because of the disapproving scrutiny of her Aunt Norris, who so frequently accused her of trying to put herself forward, who reminded her that “wherever she was, she must be the lowest and the last.” From the time of her arrival at Mansfield Park at the age of ten, she had imbibed the notion that she was only residing there on sufferance, and if she displeased anyone, she would be sent packing back to Portsmouth in disgrace. Given her sensitive nature, it was not to be wondered at that she had lived in perpetual fear of causing offence. But among new acquaintance, perhaps she appeared as someone who exaggerated her own humility, and therefore was set down as one who, far from being truly humble, was actually full of self-consequence! Being among a new set of people enabled her to perceive herself through different eyes.
She thought again—how was it that she thought? —of Mr. Gibson’s twinkling dark blue eyes, alight with intelligence and humour, and wondered if she would meet him again soon. Propriety forbid their establishing a direct correspondence with one another. But she felt, very sensibly, all the compliment of his sending her a package of his writings, and his promptness in so doing told her that she had remained in his thoughts after their brief meeting. When she read his poems and articles carefully, she imagined hearing them read aloud to her, and she could with pleasure recollect the sound of his voice.
Her budding friendship with Mr. Gibson could only be named as friendship, as her heart was, and would always be, entirely Edmund’s. Nevertheless, it was pleasant to form such a friendship and very gratifying indeed that he thought well enough of her, to desire her acquaintance!
* * * * * *
The family at Mansfield Park at last received Fanny’s letter from Bristol. All of the apologies and protestations contained therein, however, did her no service in the eyes of Mrs. Norris, who condemned her for ingratitude and want of respect in terms so severe that even Lady Bertram was moved to remonstrate with her sister—as Fanny was always so very biddable and even-tempered, Lady Bertram could not recognize her in the monster delineated by Mrs. Norris and added, “I am sure we would never have kept her all these years, sister, if she was as wicked as you now say you always knew her to be, but, you know, it was you who suggested that we take one of our sister Price’s children—I must own the thought would never have entered my head, but for you.”
Sir Thomas had last seen Fanny as an unformed, exceedingly timid girl of sixteen, and so could not reconcile his image of her as she was two years ago with the portrait of a young woman so independent of spirit as to leave home without the sanction and protection of her guardian. He was very much affronted, but as Fanny had left him with no means of replying, he could only look his displeasure, and said little. She was well, and in a genteel profession, and off his hands, and if he regretted the entire experiment of taking her under his roof, he confided to no one.
The receipt of Fanny’s letter did away with all the suspense and nearly all the interest that Maria and Julia felt in the matter, and from that time they only mentioned Fanny to complain between themselves that, in her absence, it fell to their lot to wait upon their mother—to untangle her fringe, prepare her tea and play cribbage with her in the evening.
However, Henry Crawford was unwilling to abandon the search, declaring that he would look from John O’Groats to Lands’ End before he gave up the hunt for Miss Price. He had stopped in Mansfield only long enough to return his sister to the parsonage and he was gone again, no one knew where.
Edmund, upon returning from his penitential visit to the Price household to apologize for mislaying their daughter, recollected that his mother had mentioned that Miss Lee, their former governess, was in service near Bristol. But when applied to, his mother could not locate the few letters she had received from Miss Lee, and could not recall the name of her new employers or their direction. “How strange
! For Fanny always put my letters away in my little desk here.”
Edmund looked in at the East Room, to search among the belongings Fanny had left behind, and was saddened to see that Fanny’s geraniums on the windowsill were all brown and withered, as no one had thought to water them.
Chapter Ten
As November turned to December, Fanny could reflect with satisfaction on the progress and industry of her pupils, and even congratulate herself on her management of them. Fanny noted that Caroline could not keep away from the pianoforte when allowed into the parlour. Fanny had lately regretted that she could not play an instrument, and reasoned that she was not too old to learn, so with the consent of Mrs. Smallridge, the governess and the little girl sat side-by-side every day, practicing scales, after her mistress had gone upstairs to dress for dinner.
Fanny’s brother William had become a frequent topic of conversation between Fanny and little Edward, who was entranced by everything to do with the Navy, so Fanny soon learned to reward his diligence at his lessons with tales of ‘William the gallant midshipman.’
Shortly before the holidays, she had the joy of a reply from her brother William in Gibraltar, giving his warm-hearted approbation for her decision to become a governess:
You were afraid, I think, he wrote, that I would scold you for leaving the Bertrams—but I know you would not have taken such a step without good reason! And I know who has been ill-treating you there. I am sorry that Sir Thomas has been away from home for so long; I think that, had he been there, matters might have been different. From your earlier letters, I had the idea that he is the only one who can keep Aunt Norris in order.
