by Lona Manning
To her increasing distress, Mr. Crawford did not come to visit. A week went by, and there was no word from him. Tom Bertram, who had come up to London before heading to Suffolk for the Newmarket races, was not very sanguine as to Maria’s chances of leading him to the altar.
“This is like last winter, Edmund. He was, as we supposed, riding all over England, looking for Fanny, so no one could write to him, or bring him to the point. Now he has left his hotel, with no forwarding address. Unless his sister knows his direction.”
“It’s not fair to Mary to expect her to hold his chain, as though he were a tame bear,” Edmund snapped, uncharacteristically ill-tempered.
“I beg your pardon.”
“No, I beg yours, Tom, I’m sorry. Mary says she has no idea where he is, but that it is not unusual for him to fly about, particularly in the spring—rather like yourself.”
“But I am not an engaged man—and I’m looking for proof that Crawford considers himself to be one.”
“I wager he’ll appear on our doorstep once my father has deposited Maria’s marriage settlement in the bank for him,” said Edmund bitterly. “Ten thousand pounds is a fair inducement.”
“Well….. about that….”
“What, the rumours are true?”
“I don’t know about any rumours, Edmund, but our father has been arranging the sale of a controlling interest in the Antigua properties to some new partners, to have the ready cash for both of our sisters and… for other projects that are coming along, rather than draw down the principal on the invested funds.”
Julia, who had been practicing a new piece on the piano as her brothers spoke, looked up, startled.
“What? Is father in difficulty for money? How can this be? Why did he permit us to spend so much on our presentation dresses—and—rent this house, and rent a pianoforte, and let us buy so many new dresses, if he had not enough money?”
“Please do not worry yourself, Julia,” Tom assured her. “Father told me that when he sells a majority share of the plantation, he will have enough ready funds for dowries for both you and Maria. Mother’s jointure will remain untouched, the harvest at home should be plentiful this year, and our affairs are going well at Mansfield.”
“But, surely,” Edmund persisted, as Julia, satisfied, went back to her music, “with matters as they are now in Antigua, he will not realize a good price? The passage of the anti-slave trading bill has caused great uncertainty, has it not? I have heard that many smaller plantations have sold out to larger landowners.”
“He has told me he wants to wash his hands of the entire business, but it’s d-mned difficult to sell at a good price at this time, so yes, he has taken an offer from a company of investors,” Tom affirmed, “he will be a minority partner—no need for him to return to Antigua, we trust—his partners will invest in other prospects, which should yield better returns in the future. Cotton in the Georgia colony looks more promising, for example. There’s rice in the Carolinas, and I have my eye on horses in Virginia.”
“Do you really? Tell me about it.”
Edmund poured some wine and served his brother. The plantations in Antigua, like the lies that Mary had told him, were something he preferred not to think about, and he would be happy if they were sold out of the family, even if they fetched a disappointing price.
* * * * * *
Fanny felt someone sponging cool water on her face, and murmured, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” until someone said, “ssshhhh.” She sank back into a deep sleep and dreamt she was at Sotherton, the estate of Maria’s former fiancé, standing in the little chapel with her cousins and the Crawfords. She heard the soft, insinuating voice of Mr. Crawford saying to Maria, ‘I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar.’ She saw Mary Crawford looking truly aghast as she first understood that Edmund was to be a clergyman. Then she saw herself walking with Edmund and Miss Crawford in the woods at Sotherton. They tied her down, laughing, to a bench, and they ran away. She frowned, trying to remember the actual day. It was true that Edmund and Mary left her behind on the bench, but had she in fact been tied down? If not, why hadn’t she got up? Why had she sat there, a helpless spectator, as everyone else came and went? Then along came the surgeon to force more of his emetic down her throat, and the torture began again.
Later, she dreamt again, and found herself back on the ramparts in Portsmouth with her brother William. It was a sunny day, the kind of day when you almost had to squint to watch the white foam on the waves billowing beyond the harbour. He told her that if she ran and jumped, she could fly over the walls, over the water, over the sails of the ships. She tried. She ran and jumped, and for a time she floated upward, and looked down over the Portsmouth harbour, and the bobbing ships, and the twinkling waves in the Spithead, and then felt herself sinking through the air, and gently falling, and the cold sea came rushing up to meet her, but she wasn’t frightened, and she gently plunged into the water and began to sink, down, down through the murky currents, feeling relaxed and weightless. She watched herself sinking, arms and legs spread out, and saw that she had a little smile on her face and her eyes were closed, and her brown hair bobbed about her like seaweed, and she felt free and contented, and nothing mattered anymore.
* * * * * *
Mary Crawford seldom read the shipping news, but one morning not long after her engagement to Edmund, she happened to be sipping her hot chocolate and saw a notice saying that HMS Antwerp, after many adventures, hazards and prizes won, had triumphantly returned to Portsmouth, to the accolades of the townsfolk. “Henry, is not the Antwerp the ship on which Miss Price’s brother was serving?”
Henry Crawford, a guest who was welcome at Mrs. Fraser’s at any hour, looked up from his sausage and eggs. “Yes, I believe so.”
She handed the paper to him. “I believe that Midshipman Price is now returned to England. Undoubtedly the Bertrams will see this information as well.”
“And the significance of that is……?”
“William, you may recall, was the only topic that Miss Price would prattle on about. Her older brother, the dashing midshipman. And—I recollect this point in particular, for that humourless girl never could understand when I was speaking in jest—although he was her brother, he would write long letters—unlike you.”
“Ah, yes, I recollect now! The faithful correspondent! He may know precisely where Miss Price is to be found.”
“Exactly. And I should far rather you were the one to locate Miss Price, before anyone else.”
“Of course. I’ve no objection to playing the hero. But would not he refuse to reveal her true whereabouts to us?”
Mary Crawford shrugged her lovely shoulders. “I can try, if you will take me to see him.”
Henry laughed. “To Portsmouth again, then—and the elegant home of Mr. and Mrs. Price, no doubt, where a certain letter is still mislaid somewhere.”
“You will not be sorry to leave London?” she teased.
“As a matter of fact, you are asking a great deal of me. Tom Bertram may be helping his father, and Edmund Bertram may be—” he coughed discreetly “—keeping his sisters away from unscrupulous cads here in town, but I have weightier matters on my mind. I have been nominated for membership in Mr. Buxton’s society of gentlemen coachmen, the Four-in-hand Club. I am waiting to learn if that exclusive body will enroll me among its members. As for you—will it not destroy you to be torn apart from your beloved Edmund?”
Mary rolled her eyes coquettishly. “I had better avoid temptation until my wedding night.”
“Good. At least one of you should behave like a timid virgin.”
She wanted to fling the tea pot at him. “Never say anything like that again, Henry. Why must you be so unguarded!”
* * * * * *
On the fifth day of Fanny’s illness, Mr. Forrest was called away to a serious carriage accident and it was the misfortunes of others which perhaps saved Fanny’s life. Spared of his ministrations for a few days, allowed to
simply rest, without purging or bleeding, able to drink cool boiled water and to kick off her heavy blankets, Fanny came to herself.
“What day is it, Martha?” She whispered to the housemaid who came to change her wrappings.
“Why, ‘tis Sunday, Miss. Can’t you hear them church bells?”
“I mean, what is the date?”
“Oh, I don’t rightly know. It is the fourth Sunday of Lent. Easter has come so late this year! There, the rash is all gone and the crusts are falling off. I think we can have these wrappings off you now, if you promise not to scratch yourself!”
Fanny tried to calculate…. when did she last write to her brother William? She wrote to him faithfully every month, but her time for writing had coincided with the children’s falling ill. She hoped he was not worried about her. She was still far too weak to hold a pen.
The next day, the children were allowed to visit Miss Price for a few moments, and Fanny rejoiced in seeing them looking so well. She had recovered enough of her own strength to refuse to be bled any more—indeed, she turned Mr. Forrest away with a firmness and calmness which would have surprised anyone who knew the shrinking Miss Price of Mansfield Park. Mrs. Smallridge herself, once assured that Miss Price was no longer a source of contagion, visited her and tearfully thanked her for helping to preserve her two children. All of her former reserve and hauteur was gone as she pressed Fanny’s hand gratefully.
“I was in such agonies, Miss Price, and when they told me that you never left my children’s bedside, I dared to hope, and I cannot thank you enough. My husband and I are so extremely grateful…” and truly she did repeat herself, for truly she could not thank Fanny Price enough, and Fanny for once in her life was able to accept some words of praise—if only because she was too tired to summon the energy to refuse them. Mrs. Smallridge’s remarks about her “dear husband” also gave Fanny hope that the misery of the past month had knit the couple more closely together, rather than the opposite, and so it proved to be, at least for a time.
Fanny was cared for with tender solicitude by the housekeeper and the nursery maids, and was promised she should have her own chaise, made of basket-work, to rest in the garden when the days were warm enough, and she was plied with beef tea and calves’-foot jelly and even oranges, fetched by Mr. Smallridge from Bristol. A friendly letter of enquiry came from Mrs. Butters, although she was still too weak to respond, followed by another note, slipped into her hand by a giggling housemaid, and Fanny opened it and saw for the first time the loose scrawl of William Gibson, writing to her directly—
Miss Price:
I have learned from Mrs. Butters that you have been very ill and that for a time your life was despaired of. Mrs. Butters was very concerned about you. Naturally she has heard some details from the Smallridges, but—between you and me and Mrs. Butters—they are not the most eloquent, or should I say, coherent, of correspondents. We did learn that while in delirium, you frequently apologized to everyone for having fallen ill, and Mrs. Butters says, that much she can well believe. But you do not mind a little badinage from that kind lady, I trust.
I accordingly volunteered to call upon you and to write up your own account of your recovery. May I visit you tomorrow afternoon and bring you some reading material (no Paine, I promise!) to entertain you while you recover your strength?
Your servant,
Wm. Gibson
She paused, affectionately, over his sprawling signature, tracing it with her finger. Then she thought about letting him see her, as she then appeared. Alas for female vanity! She pulled the little mirror from the drawer in her bedside table, and looked at her butchered hair, the dark shadows under her eyes, the hollow cheeks, the pale, chapped lips, and the dozens of small scabs on her face, neck and limbs.
Mr. Gibson would have to wait.
* * * * * *
Mary Crawford made a show of unhappiness when her brother climbed into the box seat and took the reins from the coachman for the first stage of their journey to Portsmouth, but in truth she did not object to having the barouche to herself because she wanted time to think.
First, she was better reconciled to her exile to Thornton Lacey after her marriage because of what Henry had told her of the parsonage there: I never saw a house of the kind which had in itself so much the air of a gentleman's residence, so much the look of a something above a mere parsonage-house. With some simple improvements, you may give it a higher character. You may raise it into a place. The residence of a family of education, taste, modern manners, good connexions. All this may be stamped on it; and that house receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the great landholder of the parish by every creature travelling the road.
Her brother had sketched for her some ideas for alterations to the house and changes to the surrounding plantations, to which she had happily assented before consulting her husband-to-be.
Then, her parting from Edmund had been so tender, so delicious. There was something glorious in feeling her power over such a strong, upright man, to feel the way he struggled to control himself when she slipped into his arms and turned up her face for a farewell kiss. Their wedding day—and night—was less than a month distant.
The one aspect of their farewell which displeased her not a little was the fact that his thoughts seemed to dwell upon his cousin Fanny too much for her liking. She carried with her a little parcel from Edmund for Fanny—and Edmund’s parting words had been to remind her to tell his cousin, could she be found, of his love for her and how he missed her.
But both she and Henry were in snares of their own making—Fanny had been Henry’s excuse for delaying any talk of a wedding with Maria, and he had promised to find her. And unless Mary could keep Fanny and Edmund apart until after she married him, the fact that she intercepted her farewell letter to him would come to light. She intended to call on Mrs. Price while in Portsmouth again, and enquire if any letters had been found, but surely to do so would raise even Mrs. Price’s curiosity—why was it so important to retrieve letters when the writer and the recipient would soon be reunited in any event?
Perhaps she would be unable to persuade William to reveal where his sister was to be found. However, she doubted that he would disoblige his own parents, and surely they would demand to know, and faced with betraying a sister’s confidence or obeying his parents, what would any young man do?
“I wonder if young Mr. Price resembles his sister?,” she called out to Henry.
Henry turned and smiled over his shoulder. “I have yet to meet a modest, retiring sailor, I believe.”
Mary laughed. “Imagine, if his temperament were the same as his sister’s, and his captain were to ask him to climb the rigging—I’m so sorry, you must excuse me, indeed I cannot!” They laughed together.
Well pleased with herself and the world, Mary wondered if the time had come to set matters aright between Edmund and his cousin Fanny. Could she bring herself to confess that curiosity led her to open the note from Fanny, that only the lack of time then and jealousy of Fanny subsequently, had prevented her from doing what she now regretted? What man, Edmund being no exception, would fail to be flattered by knowing that his lover was jealous of everyone who held a place in his affections? Would it not be better to confess all now, and enter upon marriage with a clear conscience, than to take her vows with this secret—this secret which must, after all, come to light—weighing upon her? She pictured what she would say to Edmund, how she would explain herself—this would definitely be an occasion for some tears—and how she would lay to rest her guilty secret once and for all!
How lovely Mary looked now, as her soft rosy lips parted with a little smile and her dark eyes sparkled at the thought of dropping the veil of deceit which stood between her and the man she truly esteemed and loved! All of blooming nature around her seemed to be in harmony with her thoughts, the very daffodils in the meadow nodded their heads in approval, the rustling leaves of the trees were like a thousand little pairs of hands clapping in ge
ntle acclamation of her greatness of spirit. She clasped her hands together as the warmth of her feelings animated her heart, and discovered she was still holding on to the little parcel entrusted to her, by Edmund, the present he had chosen for Fanny.
It was to the credit of her willpower, she thought, that she resisted opening the parcel for at least an hour. She untied the ribbons, pulled off the paper, opened a neat little box and pulled out a simple gold necklace, a suitable gift for a young cousin entering upon womanhood. Mary congratulated herself on her future husband’s good taste, but Fanny was not to expect such extravagant gifts in the future, not after she became mistress at Thornton Lacey.
There was of course a letter with the necklace, in which Edmund told Fanny of his engagement to Mary, expressed again his sorrow that Fanny had never written him, and spoke of his wish that she might return to attend his wedding. He then dilated on the charms and perfections of his bride-to-be, and Mary, enchanted, read that passage again and again, in a perfect warm glow of contentment, before finally turning the page, whereupon she came to a passage which destroyed her good humour:
…. for, Fanny, as I have so frequently confided my misgivings to you in the past, you are entitled to know my thoughts, now that Mary has consented to be my wife. While I now repose every confidence in Mary’s essential goodness and benevolence, I confess that her warm and passionate spirits led her to commit a wrongdoing, one which shook me, however briefly, from the conviction I had long held that she is the only woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife. The particulars need not be related, but in short, she was led to dissemble at the request of a friend. The greater fault lies with the friend who asked her to stoop to falsehoods, for I believe this friend was as deceitful to Mary as she had been to her own family. But, further reflection convinced me, that although Mary was careless as a woman and a friend, she gained nothing personally by this falsehood—her intention was only to oblige.
