by Lona Manning
* * * * * *
“Only three months more, Maria,” Julia said consolingly. “It is now April, and surely father will relent by July, if not earlier, and allow Dr. Grant to publish the banns.” And then she carelessly added, “any man who truly loved would not object to waiting only three months.”
A heavy rain having suspended all plans for an outing, the Bertram sisters were passing a dull and seemingly endless afternoon in their bedchamber. Mrs. Norris was muttering over her needlework in the parlour, their brother Edmund was in his father’s study, puzzling over some ambitious drawings from Henry Crawford concerning alterations that Mary wanted done at the parsonage at Thornton Lacey, and the servants were keeping themselves well out of sight below stairs. Something of an unhealthy east wind had made both sisters feel dissatisfied and anxious, too restless to choose some useful pursuit but too troubled by a prickly conscience to abandon themselves to doing nothing at all. Julia’s pianoforte sat untouched, Maria’s embroidery lay in a tangle, and the letters they had promised to their Mansfield friends would go unwritten another day. Maria in particular only wanted to sit at the window and watch and wait; Julia felt morose because she had no one to wait for. And yet, she acknowledged, she no longer envied Maria. What happiness had her sister’s passion for Henry Crawford brought her? Maria was impatient and cross, jealous and fearful, when she ought to be radiant, cheerful and glowing. Julia could truly pity her.
“You suppose, because he has seldom called upon us here, that he is growing indifferent to me,” Maria rejoined coldly. “You do not know the whole, so do not presume to judge of his affection.”
“And you suppose that I would rejoice to see you miserable and thwarted at last, because I once harboured a foolish little liking for him! Believe better of me than that, Maria! If he is to be my brother, I will learn to love him as a brother, but as for—as for thinking of him as I did last autumn, that is all over and done with.”
“It is not the delay which frightens me, it is the disdain our father now shows him,” Maria confessed. “Henry is a proud man—why should he not be proud? Why should he not resent our father’s unwillingness to give his blessing?”
“A sensible man would put it down to a father’s affection for his daughter. Is any man worth the name to be frightened away by this little difficulty? Why then, you are stauncher than he, for you know that Admiral Crawford despises marriage and will not even attend your wedding, when it takes place. Why should the disapprobation of his relations be less of a hindrance than the reluctance of yours?”
“Men are more proud, that is all,” Maria replied simply. She could not confess the whole—they had quarreled, she had behaved like a common fishwife—or so she supposed, for she numbered no fishwives among her acquaintance—she and Henry had parted coldly and in silence, and now he was gone.
At first she had been so angry that she thought of ending the engagement, despite the humiliations attendant on throwing over two fiancés in the space of half of a year! As she would not be the first to yield, so it followed that it was Henry’s duty to yield and to ask for her forgiveness.
But a week had passed with no word from Henry, other than through his sister, who wrote that they were off in search of Fanny again—as though Henry cared two figs where Fanny was, or what she did. And now Maria did wish to write to him, desperately, but as usual, she did not know where to send the letter, for the Crawfords had left no directions. Wherever he was, she suspected, there was a lady looking at him with admiration, laughing and smiling at his sallies, and he was being his most charming self.
* * * * * *
Henry Crawford was a little disappointed that he would not, after all, need to knock on the door of every stately home outside of Bristol, in search of Miss Frances Price, the governess. It would have suited his sense of drama, but, thanks to the information from William, he and his sister knew their destination, and with a little trouble—chiefly because he preferred to race along the lanes at top speed in his carriage and often missed the turnings—they found their way to the neighbourhood of Keynsham Hill.
“Have you considered what we will say to Miss Price when we find her?” enquired Mary. “Her family in Portsmouth—and Edmund—both expect us to produce her for them. What if she has fallen in love with the master of the house, as governesses often do, we are told, and refuses to leave him?”
“I have been pondering how we may best get her away,” Henry replied. “The simplest expedient, of course, would be to tell her that Sir Thomas is dying, and he wishes to see her before he expires. She will leap into the carriage and we can undeceive her at our leisure.”
“Lady Bertram’s imminent death would serve even better,” sighed Mary. “I believe Miss Price is quite fond of that silly woman. But, for my own ends, I would rather see her in Portsmouth, away from Mansfield Park, until after my wedding. A meeting, or even an exchange of letters, between Edmund and his little cousin before the marriage would be exceedingly awkward for me. She will attempt to dissuade him from the match and represent matters in the worst possible light, I know it. Keep her away, keep her silent, for only one month more!”
“Let us offer to convey her to Portsmouth, then, to see her beloved brother. And we shall not mention your upcoming nuptials, so she will have no alarms on the subject.”
* * * * * *
Mrs. Smallridge was feeling the weight of an empty afternoon hanging over her. With no particular talents or pursuits to occupy her mind, she was sitting in her best drawing-room, the tall windows open to the broad lawn before, her white curtains gently moving in a warm spring breeze, her needlework lying neglected in her lap. The day and the scene were tranquil and beautiful, but she was feeling restless and dissatisfied, a mood that can sometimes befall even those whose lives appear to unite the brightest blessings. Her role as chatelaine of Keynsham Hill sometimes seemed a dreary and empty one, as there was usually no husband or relative to share it with. What did it matter if she arranged the flowers in the vase with a skillful hand, and for whose benefit did she complete her daily toilette?
But then something occurred which was to furnish material for her correspondence for some time thereafter. First there was the unexpected sound of a carriage entering the sweep, and after a suspenseful pause, the butler appeared with two cards to announce the arrival of Henry Crawford, Esq. and Miss Mary Crawford. Mrs. Smallridge was surprised and gratified at the appearance of two young people of fashion who united both ease and elegance in their manner. Introductions were made and accepted, early tea was spoken for, and the Crawfords were invited to take a seat.
“Ma’am, please forgive this intrusion on your household,” Miss Crawford began, while her brother contented himself with eyeing his handsome hostess with some complacency. He recognized instantly that Mrs. Smallridge was restless, idle and bored, and most probably neglected, and had he but the time at his disposal, he would have set about curing those ills immediately.
“My brother and I are lately residents of Mansfield, in Northamptonshire, and we are—we are distantly related to your governess. That is, we believe that you employ a Miss Frances Price in your household?”
“Indeed, Miss Price has been with us since the end of October.”
“As we were travelling through to Bristol on private business, we felt it only fitting that we pay Fanny—Miss Price, that is, a brief visit, and we ask for your indulgence.”
Mrs. Smallridge was only too happy to oblige her elegant visitors, and after another moment’s consideration, invited them to dinner on the morrow, an invitation politely declined at first, but after being urged and urged again, accepted with pleasure.
“I suppose as I should summon Miss Price, and retire so that you may have your reunion.” Mrs. Smallridge pondered aloud, for it somehow did not suit her sense of propriety that a governess should have the best room in the house in which to entertain her visitors, but on the other hand, the Crawfords were the most elegant persons Keynsham Hill had ever sheltered.
Henry Crawford, sensing her hesitation, and correctly divining its cause, disclaimed any wish to inconvenience his hostess and declared himself perfectly willing to be led to the nursery, or the offices, or wherever they could greet Miss Price without disturbing the household arrangements. The elegance of his language, his graceful air, and the fact that he seemed to admire her exceedingly, combined to make the decision an easy one: she would not hear of asking them to remove to another room, Miss Price would join them and they could all take their tea together. She was happy to do this for Miss Price, who was a veritable treasure.
Mrs. Smallridge withdrew, told a footman to fetch the governess to the best sitting-room, then retired to her bedchamber where, to pass the interval, she summoned her lady’s maid to re-arrange her hair.
Fanny thought only that her mistress wished to see her, and the unexpected summons was in itself cause for some apprehension. The footman did not inform her that someone else awaited her, for he had assumed that the visitors in the sitting-room were the guests of Mrs. Smallridge, and so, when Fanny entered the room and unexpectedly encountered the two persons she could least wish to meet again, she was almost overpowered. She had not the presence of mind to avoid Mary Crawford’s outstretched arms as she exclaimed “Dear, dear Miss Price! How can this have come to be? Were you abducted? Thank heavens we’ve found you!”
Led by Miss Crawford to the settee, Fanny at the last moment resisted being pulled down beside her, and instead took a nearby chair. “How—how, how did you find me?”
Fanny could not have asked a question that Henry Crawford was more ready, nay, eager to answer. The entire escapade, the skill and address of the search, with some embellishments and omissions, was soon laid before Fanny, from the following of her trail at Oxford, his careful reading of her letter, his researches at the coffee shop; in short his dogged pursuit of every clue that could lead to her.
Fanny grew increasingly perplexed but knew not how to pose the question. At last: “But why? Mr. Crawford, why have you been to such pains on my behalf? You must have been travelling these four months!”
Fanny noted a quick glance between brother and sister, and Mr. Crawford’s slight, almost imperceptible, smile.
“Our esteem for your family, of course,” responded Miss Crawford brightly. “We have grown close…. so very close since I came to live at the Parsonage.” She coloured becomingly and looked down at her lap. “Of course your cousins are also very anxious about you. But Mr. Bertram and Mr. Edmund Bertram have responsibilities, for example, supporting your mother and father, which Henry and I do not.”
“My uncle! When did he return? Is he well?”
The Crawfords were the last people from her old life that Fanny wished to feel beholden to, not even so far as to be obliged to them for providing information she sorely wished to know. Her reluctance to appear too effusive before them prevented her from asking many little details which she longed to learn, and she had to content herself with such news as occurred to them to give. Still, much had transpired since she left the family—she was relieved to hear that everyone at Mansfield Park was well, happy to learn that her uncle had returned safely from Antigua, that he had taken a house in London for the season, and surprised to find that Maria and Rushworth were not going to be married, but no explanation for the breach was offered, apart from a sneering reference to Mr. Rushworth’s dullness. The matters which most occupied her, Edmund’s ordination and his plans for the future, were not mentioned by Mary and she could not, would not, bring herself to ask, lest her voice betray her, or she hear news about her cousin which she felt unequal to hearing.
“But, my dear Miss Price, look at you! You are wearing your hair à la Titus! How daring! And how slender you are! Have you been well?”
“I am well, thank you, Miss Crawford,” was all Fanny would allow herself to say, self-consciously touching the short curls at the back of her neck.
“You look like a little waif, a heroine in a play!” Henry laughed, and, filled with high spirits and self-congratulation at the success of his quest, he struck a dramatic pose and declaimed: “‘Having fled from her cruel family, brave little Fanny trembled to recall the wicked Sir Thomas— ‘”
“Oh, pray, no!” Fanny clasped her hands together in dismay. “Did you tell Mrs. Smallridge about Sir Thomas and the Bertrams?”
Mary raised an eyebrow. “We are as anxious to preserve Sir Thomas’ good name as you claim to be. So Mrs. Smallridge does not know whose niece you are? We may add, ‘telling falsehoods,’ to the list of your offences? But, you will say, ‘it was in a good cause, it was for the right reason,’ and therefore, excusable, that your employers, who entrusted you with their children, do not know who you really are.’”
Fanny started guiltily, and knew not how to answer the charges against her, until Mary and Henry began laughing together.
“In fact, Miss Price, we introduced ourselves to the—may I say, very charming—Mrs. Smallridge, as your distant relations, so I’d advise you to refer to us in those terms.” Henry fell to devising, extempore, an imaginary family tree, complete with elopements, missing heirs who had peculiarly-shaped birthmarks, hauntingly beautiful Spanish dancers and wicked stepmothers, and Fanny had to admire the rapidity of his powers of invention and the flow of his wit.
“But, Fanny,” admonished Mary Crawford, “you may as well know that your conduct has astonished, and I am sorry to say, raised some resentment against you among your cousins. It was my hope that in finding you, we might help to reconcile you with your family…. one day.”
Fanny trembled involuntarily and she felt the tears stinging, which she tried to control. “One day? Are they so very angry with me, Miss Crawford?”
Mary looked out the window, as though she were recalling a painful interview. “One in particular, so disapproves of your behaviour, that I would advise you not to attempt to communicate with him at this time.” She made a slight gesture to her brother, who swiftly moved away, picked up a newspaper and pretended to be absorbed in it. Lowering her voice, Maria said to Fanny, “You left Edmund—Mr. Edmund Bertram a letter, did you not?”
Fanny nodded dumbly, unable to trust her voice.
“I have never seen him so discomposed as he was then. He has said very little to me on the subject, but I believe he thought your communication to be... what was the word he used? Ah yes—presumptuous. Something about you presuming to give him advice on an important subject. I do not know to what, in particular, he referred. And of course the entire family unites in thinking you ungrateful and lacking in respect.”
Fanny turned her head for a moment, wishing to die on the spot rather than let Miss Crawford witness her humiliation and dismay. With an effort, she blinked away her tears, and moved toward the windows. She caught a glimpse of Miss Crawford’s face in the pier glass. Miss Crawford was regarding her curiously, eagerly, anxiously. While her voice proclaimed sympathy and sadness, her countenance told of machination and deceit.
Fanny remained for some moments with her back to Miss Crawford, undecided what to do or say. She is lying—exaggerating—deceiving me about Edmund. How could she think I would believe Edmund would speak of me so cruelly? What is she about? At last, Miss Crawford broke the silence.
“My dear Miss Price—Fanny. May I call you Fanny? Edmund Bertram and I are in such sympathy on so many points, we agree together so well, we have become, in short…. such….. close friends, that it pains me that we differ on this one subject. I trust that in time I may bring about a reconciliation, but for now, please be guided by me, and do not provoke him.”
“It matters not,” Fanny heard herself say. “I do not desire to return to Mansfield Park. This is the new life that I’ve chosen.” Had she not turned her back to both of them, she would have perceived the looks of astonishment on the faces of both her auditors, and the glances they quickly exchanged with each other of perplexity and dismay.
Fanny would have said more in her own defense, she could have expressed he
r belief that she would be reconciled with her family one day, but she shrank from sharing her hopes and fears with two people for whom she felt neither affection nor confidence. Let them think of her what they liked. The less they knew of her true sentiments, the less they could impose on her.
The entrance of servants with the tea-board put an end to all conversation and Fanny gratefully used the interval of preparing and serving tea to compose herself further. At last, she ventured, “Will you be returning to Northamptonshire or to Norfolk, Mr. Crawford? Or perhaps London?”
“After travelling across the breadth and almost the length of England in search of you, Miss Price, some quiet solitude at home is all I could wish for,” replied Mr. Crawford with some archness of manner.
“It was indeed very good of you to go to such an effort, sir,” cried Fanny, forcing herself to speak calmly, “but I do recall that in my last letter to the family, I explained that I was safe and well and that I would let them know where I was, in due course—I hope your journey was enjoyable for its own sake. Have you been to Bristol before, Miss Crawford?”
“Fanny, you may wish to resort to polite nothings, but believe me, we did not travel this far to debate the merits of Kings Weston versus Blaise Castle. We wish to see you reconciled with your family but we believe, my brother and I, only time—along with, I need hardly add, every show of contrition and remorse on your part—can heal the breach.” Mary Crawford hesitated over a plate of small triangles of bread and butter and chose a slice.
