by Lona Manning
She could only toss her head in vexation, more angry than wise. “It is a profession for those who cannot succeed in any other.”
“Believe me,” he went on, taking her hand. “Believe me, you have left me in no doubt as to your opinion of men of the cloth. If you cannot bring yourself to respect the majority of my fellows, I deeply regret that you cannot make an exception for one clergyman. With all my heart, I wish you could acknowledge me to be sincere in my commitment to this life—and I can only add that my sorrow over this essential difference between us, is just as sincere, and will be just as everlasting.”
“Oh! Mr. Bertram!”
“I think you know my sentiments, Miss Crawford, though I have not had the courage to voice them. But it is better, perhaps, for us to remove all doubt, all suspense, and in my case, all hope, than to continue as we are?” he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it solemnly, while looking directly at her—his gaze, beseeching, threatened to overpower her, but she could not yield.
“My dear Miss Crawford,” he added, still holding her hand, “pray, allow me to escort you to your friends.” He led her to Mrs. Fraser’s table, and there left her. She could not, would not, say ‘farewell’ to him.
Edmund could contain himself no longer, and left Lord Delingpole’s residence without bidding farewell to his hosts. He walked for several hours through the streets, attempting to regain his composure. He found himself wishing he could talk to Fanny, and realized that he was speaking to her in his mind as though she were there, and in his imagination, he heard Fanny agreeing with him, and sympathizing. He stopped in the middle of the pavement, startled with a sudden thought—did he miss Fanny so much because of genuine regard for his cousin, or, because Fanny could always be relied upon to agree with him completely, on every point? Was that the reason he missed talking with her? Was he so spoiled and indulged, from having Fanny as the perfect confidante, always ready to listen, never inclined to disagree, that he could brook no opposition from any other woman? Did Fanny, in her innocence, feed his vanity to such an extent?
It was a troubling thought, and the conviction rushed suddenly upon him that he had been too inclined to take his cousin’s approbation for granted. But, perhaps it did not necessarily follow that his vanity alone prevented him from reaching an accord with the woman he loved. The essential point of difference between Mary and himself was no minor matter, not a disagreement over whether Italian or German opera was to be preferred, or even the pleasures of country over city life, but, the utility and even sanctity of the clergyman’s role. She wished him to abandon his planned career; she had made it, though unspoken, a condition of winning her hand; he knew it as well as she.
Therefore, his dream of marrying the only woman he had ever loved, was over.
Chapter Thirteen
Fanny delighted in all the first signs of spring, even when she was not amongst the beloved and fondly remembered gardens and groves of Mansfield Park. When she took the children outdoors for a walk to search for snowdrops, or to cut some switches of forsythia to bring indoors, she was sharing what she had used to do when a young girl, when Edmund was home from school for the Easter holidays. These moments, therefore, were suffused with precious memories and the tenderest feelings. Sometimes Fanny’s eyes were swimming when Caroline brought her a little crocus or an early primrose and she explained that many people were affected this way by the flowers of spring, but they loved them nevertheless.
On a warm day in early March, when the promise of spring and freshness and sunshine was a tonic for the spirit and heart, the children were to have a day’s holiday because Mr. Smallridge had decided to take them to St. Nicholas’ Market in Bristol, for a special treat. Mrs. Smallridge was expecting a visit from Mrs. Bragge, and as their two governesses were acquainted, Mrs. Bragge kindly brought Miss Lee with her.
Being reunited with Miss Lee after an interval of three years brought many agreeable sensations to Fanny—her old governess was the first person she had seen who knew of Mansfield Park, its occupants, its ways, since she left it more than four months ago, and furthermore she was indebted to Miss Lee for finding her current situation. She found herself able to converse with her old governess with a freedom and ease which she had not expected. Now that they were no longer tutoress and pupil, Miss Lee—in the past so reserved, so formal—was decidedly more open, commiserating with Fanny over the loneliness and tedium of their shared occupation, and not averse to sharing something of her own history. This last was a revelation to Fanny who, if she had ever thought on the matter before, tended to imagine Miss Lee as springing forth fully formed, like Athena from the brow of Zeus. As a child, she had not even asked herself how old Miss Lee was, or whether she had birthdays, or brothers and sisters, but now perceived her to be a woman of between forty and fifty. Now, gathering assurance from Miss Lee’s encouraging friendliness, she dared to enquire, ‘how did she come to be a governess’?
“I grew up in Hertfordshire, the only surviving child of a poor clergyman,” Miss Lee related. “There was a young gentleman with whom our family was acquainted, unlike any other I have met before or since. He was not a man easy to come to know or to understand, but of all the gentlemen of my acquaintance, he was the one I could most wish to have married. He was not handsome, but he was well-educated, with a most singular wit. If you will read Tristram Shandy (a book I could not have recommended to you when you were still in the schoolroom), you might receive some idea of his whimsical nature. In this, indeed, he was very different from myself, but I am one of those who believe that sympathetic natures, not identical ones, are best paired in marriage. We often spoke, when we met, of poetry and literature and I flattered myself that he desired a companion for life who could engage him on these points.
“But, in our little circle there was another young lady more practiced in the arts of flirtation than I. She was very pretty and lively, and younger than I (I was in fact several years’ the gentleman’s senior) but, without malice may I say I thought her too ill-informed to be the wife of such a man. The disparity between them was too great for understanding on her side, or respect and confidence on his. However, he made his choice of her, for better or for worse, and so my hopes were ruined. I understand that they have five daughters now and, my village correspondents tell me, have nothing put aside to settle on them. Perhaps there will be five more governesses in time! I cannot help but feel that had I been his wife, I would have managed his affairs more carefully. But (resuming her usual brisk tone) that was many years ago.”
“Please tell me what pleasures have most consoled you, Miss Lee?” Fanny asked with interest, for she had never suspected that Miss Lee, like herself, was divided from the man that she loved.
“Oh…… playing the piano, reading, and walking out on a lovely morning such as this. I have maintained a large correspondence with my girlhood friends.”
“May I hope that you took some pleasure in enlightening young minds?” Fanny asked with a little smile.
“Oh, perhaps, when I had a student who was truly interested in learning,” Miss Lee nodded at Fanny significantly. “But I would caution you, especially as your pupils are at such an endearing age, not to become over-fond of them. You must always part with them in the end, and although you live together on terms of the greatest familiarity, you are not a member of the family; yours is a mercantile relationship. You must not lose sight of that essential point. Furthermore, overpartiality is an enemy to good discipline.”
Fanny said nothing to this, as she could not find it within herself to agree entirely. She asked, instead, “Miss Lee, I trust you were happy at Mansfield Park?”
“I was not unhappy, and Mansfield Park is a beautiful home. Could anyone, knowing of the misery and poverty we see all around us, pity someone who lives in such a place as Mansfield Park? When thousands are fainting for bread shall I ask for pity, while I was dining on roast beef and fish?” And here Fanny looked down, and blushed. Seeing this, Miss Lee added, “Nor wa
s I ill-treated by anyone there. But I shall not speak familiarly of your relations before you.”
“And may I ask, when did you enter into the occupation of governess?”
“Not long after my hopes were disappointed. My father died, I was left with almost no income. My destiny, my fate, was clear and I resolved to face it. That was some five-and-twenty years ago, and I have served in three households, which is tolerably few, but—you cannot have failed to observe I wear a false fringe on the front of my cap. Under it, my hair is all grey. Once my duties end here, no doubt I will be cast once again on my own resources.
“Now for you, Fanny. You do know that Lady Bertram still corresponds with me, occasionally. She seldom mentions you, to own the truth, though it is not to be wondered at that she would have more to say about her own sons and daughters. But if I were to write to her, and enquired after you, what would she say?”
Fanny blushed and hung her head. “I have told them that I am a governess but have not given them any particulars. I did not wish them to have the power, or should I say the means, to compel me to return. Although this decision has, I own, caused me great pain and remorse, I feel it has been for the best. But the inevitable consequence is, that I have no idea what Sir Thomas and—and all the family think and feel about my quitting them so suddenly. Sometimes I feel that they must be worried about me; at others, I fear they must have forgotten me already. So, in truth, I do not know what Lady Bertram would say to you.”
“Before you ask me, I will assure you—I will not betray your confidence. Not because I think it advisable or courteous for you to deceive your own family in this fashion, but because I respect and honour that desire for independence and self-sufficiency which you have demonstrated.”
Her interview with Miss Lee was instructive to Fanny. Despite Miss Lee’s formality of manner, she recognized that her old governess wished her well, and she was sensible as never before that even the most resolutely composed persons of our acquaintance, while presenting a placid face to world, may, unbeknownst to us, have secret trials, regrets and sorrows. She thought of her uncle Sir Thomas, likewise so reserved in his manner, and felt that she had little understood him or done him justice.
Mr. Smallridge was so late in coming home with the children from the Market that Mrs. Smallridge met the carriage in front of the house and, to Fanny’s discomfiture, scolded him immoderately in front of the servants. The two sleepy children were bundled from the carriage and prepared for bed, half-asleep, while telling their governess, between yawns, of Punch and Judy and jugglers and gypsies and a wheel of cheese as large as a carriage wheel and other wondrous sights.
Fanny bade the nursery maid let the children sleep as late as they wished the next morning.
* * * * * *
Miss Crawford was, to all the world, as gay and light-hearted, as lovely and delightful, as she had ever been. She adorned the best drawing-rooms of London, her hand was sought for the dance, she received, as always, the gallantries brought by her admirers with wit and charm, her conversation sparkled at the card table. But twenty-four hours had not passed since Edmund had bid her farewell before she began to blame herself for having thrown away the one man she could love, out of stubbornness and pride. Underneath her sparkling façade of merriment, she was anxious and unhappy.
Ever since the death of her father, coming at an early age, followed soon thereafter by the loss of her mother, Mary had longed for the feeling of security she had once known as a child, before her removal to the unhappy house of her uncle, the Admiral. Mary could scarcely remember her father, but reverenced her few memories of his kindness, his calm temperament, and how his presence had made her feel that no evil in the world could touch her. Her growing affection for Edmund Bertram had rekindled those long-lost feelings—here was a man who would protect her, esteem her, here was a man of substance, intelligence and character. His announcement that he was to take orders had taken her by surprise, and she had not been able to check her temper. She wished she had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.
But she was not helpless; she could act, and she could make amends.
She was fortunate in having a means of coming at Edmund, through his sisters. She did not leave off her regular morning visits at Wimpole Street just because Edmund, the real object of her solicitude, was gone from London; she appeared to be as sincere a friend and well-wisher of the two Bertram girls as she had ever been. Miss Crawford could speak of Henry, and the Misses Bertram could speak of Edmund, and even this was some comfort. But, she discovered, upon guileless enquiry, they did not write to Edmund, nor he to them, in the ordinary course of events. There was no way to send him a hint through his sisters to let him know that she was a penitent.
She consoled herself by doubling her flirtatious attentions to Sir Thomas, who was staying with the household particularly while Edmund was away. She feared that the son had shared his disappointment with the father, and had told him of their quarrel; but so far as she could judge, Sir Thomas greeted her with the same old-fashioned courtesy, and escorted her into the parlour and to her carriage as she came and went, as he had ever done. He was in fact more animated in her presence than with his own daughters, whom he habitually addressed in the most formal terms, while they, with their lowered voices and downcast eyes, were quite different creatures when he was in the parlour than when he was not! No doubt, Mary reflected, his formal manner toward his own children inhibited them from taking him into their confidence, Edmund not excepted.
Mary was also more than typically gracious and attentive to Mrs. Norris, and had the happy thought of asking that worthy lady about her methods of managing the parsonage in the bygone days when she was its mistress, asking for her advice as to management of servants, poultry, pantry, and etc., and this line of questioning, while it brought forth some uncomplimentary reflections on Miss Crawford’s sister, Mrs. Grant, which Mary affected not to understand or hear, was well calculated to win Mrs. Norris’ very good opinion of her. She was certain as well that Mrs. Norris would repeat some portion of their conversation to Edmund upon his return.
Every passing day strengthened her conviction that life was somehow dull and meaningless without Edmund Bertram. She missed the sound of his voice, she missed his hand holding hers in the ballroom, she longed for him to look at her in the way that he had used to do, before her sharp tongue had driven him away. All other young men of her acquaintance were fops or fools, drunkards or gamesters, danglers or liars; she was intelligent enough to recognize the solid worth, the manly virtues and the sensible principles of an Edmund Bertram, and she longed to secure them to her side for the rest of her life, even if it meant doing something she would have thought impossible only a few weeks ago—she would become the wife of a clergyman.
She still did not despair of making something of Edmund Bertram—perhaps he would become another Blair or Fordyce for eloquence and fame—or perhaps she could hire a scribbler to write something to be published under his name—it hardly mattered, so long as the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Bertram were not condemned to wear out their lives in obscurity in the country. She told herself that with her determination and ingenuity, she could shape him into the man he deserved to be.
* * * * * *
Two days after his visit to the St. Nicholas’ Market, young Edward complained of a sore throat, and soon grew feverish. By nightfall, Caroline was in the same condition. Anna, the nursery maid, and Fanny sat up with them, watching in the greatest dismay as a tiny red rash appeared all over their bodies. Before daybreak Mrs. Smallridge and her two infant daughters were packed off to stay with their neighbours, the Sucklings.
The apothecary came, examined their rashes and looked at their tongues, and declared it to be scarlatina and not smallpox, which brought some slight consolation t
o the family, yet, how many little ones had been carried away by scarlatina? Mr. Forrest, the noted physician, was called to bleed the children, which he did most thoroughly, until their little eyes rolled back in their heads. Then he ordered all their hair to be cut off, and Anna and Fanny wept. Day and night, they sat beside the children, sponging their heads with cool water, fanning them, talking and singing to them softly. They could sometimes hear Mr. Smallridge pacing up and down in the hallway outside the nursery, and sometimes sense his presence in the doorway but Fanny, at any rate, could not take her eyes away from the two little forms in their beds.
The physician returned and bled them some more—Fanny doubted the efficacy of this treatment, but could not oppose herself against his authority—and little Edward grew fretful, at which the women rejoiced, for it was a sign that the spark of life was in him, while Caroline lay still, her eyelids twitching, with only her slow breathing giving proof that she was still alive, while a fire raged in her little body.
Fanny lingered in silent prayer over Caroline, begging that the family be spared a tragedy that seemed inevitable, that would likely end with husband and wife permanently estranged; she, hating him for exposing their children to the crowded throngs at the Market, and he, seeking what consolation he could in ardent spirits, which, as Fanny had already observed, transformed him from an English gentleman into a snarling tyrant.
Nor was Edward considered out of danger as yet, for his throat was seriously inflamed and very painful, and Fanny and Anna suffered to watch him suffer, and defied the physician in his absence, because he had forbidden that the children be given chips of ice to suck on, nor even much water to drink!
