by Lona Manning
“Oh, L-rd bless us no, no, no—no wife of mine is going to become an anti-Saccharite!” Crawford laughed. “My dear Mrs. Crawford, the first thing I plan to do when we arrive at Everingham is to instruct my cook to stuff you full of good things, like puddings, and cakes and trifles and syllabubs, in the hopes of getting some flesh on you, for er…. for the sake of your health, so please don’t tell me you will refuse to eat sugar!”
“My resolution is weak, Mr. Crawford, I own, nor would I want to be a hypocrite and pretend, as I said, that the home comforts we enjoyed at Mansfield Park were not as a result of sugar. I simply wish to study and understand this question better.”
“Pray consider this, Mrs. Crawford,” Henry leaned forward and took her hand. “If your uncle, in a fit of benevolence, were to release all of his slaves, what do you suppose would be the result? In all likelihood, none of them would know how to take care of themselves, and would be reduced to worser straits than they were on his plantation. The more brutish amongst them would threaten the lives of the Englishmen and women, and yes, even the children. Our own peoples would be overthrown and massacred, as happened to the Frenchmen in Saint Domingue. It is easy to say, ‘free the slaves’ but responsible men must consider the consequences.”
Fanny nodded, not intending to agree but simply to show that she was attending to what he had to say, and acknowledged it was a difficult question, and privately wished that her friend William Gibson was there, so that she could simply sit quietly and say nothing, and listen to a debate betwixt them.
“And one other thing,” her companion added, as he settled comfortably back in his seat. “Who d’you suppose provides those slaves in the first place. Their own rulers, back in Africa. They round up their own people—or whoever is in a different tribe from their own tribe—and sell them off for trinkets. I dare say they are better off under English management than under their own kings. And of course,” he added complacently, composing himself for a nap. “The Negroes are brought to a knowledge of our Christian religion—they are brought out of the darkness of their heathen ways.” He yawned.
Fanny smiled politely, and resumed reading her pamphlets. The thought occurred to her that a few months ago, she would have maintained her silence because she felt too abashed to interpose her own judgment against anyone else’s. Now, she forbore only because she felt that it was futile to debate the issue with Mr. Crawford; had she felt inclined to want to try to change his views, or at least oppose them, she might have said more. The ability to hold one’s peace was no bad thing, and Fanny rejoiced to feel that she had grown in confidence in the past half-year.
* * * * * *
My dearest Fanny,
For dear you will always be to me, although we are, unaccountably to my mind, estranged. Fanny, I miss you more than I can express.
We have been friends for ten years now, by my count, since that day I found you weeping on the staircase, for homesickness and love of your brother William. Little did I expect that in befriending my little cousin, I would be doing such good for myself, for as you grew, you became my most loyal friend and confidante. How often have we sat over the same books together, or admired the same stars in the night sky! Can you have forgotten, cousin, what simple pleasures we enjoyed together as we grew up? Is it nothing to you now? I know your tender heart too well—you have not forgotten me, and although some misunderstanding or resentment has arisen between us, I swear before Heaven that I have the warmest affection for you, my little cousin, and would consciously do nothing to cause you pain. Please, break this cold silence and speak to me!
I have also to express to you my best wishes on your marriage to Mr. Crawford. May he always cherish you as he ought, may he always listen to your counsel and become the man he could become, with Fanny by his side to guide and support him! May he always understand that he is the most fortunate of men in having Fanny for his wife!
As a married woman now yourself, you perhaps have reflected that as we all have our own faults, we ought to choose our partners in consideration of which faults we can tolerate and which faults we cannot. It seems that I can tolerate those little faults which I still see in Mary because I love her—I must love her, she is the only woman I could love. She has a tendency to speak lightly of serious matters, but of her essential kindness and sympathy, I have no doubt—as you yourself can attest, for she travelled across the country to find you! How happy you must have been to see your good friend! I wish that I could have witnessed that reunion!
Now, when I consider my many, many shortcomings—notice I do not nominate my own faults as ‘faults,’ but shortcomings—my shortcomings, as I said, which Mary must tolerate in me! I do not know how to flatter or court her, I am not ambitious, nor witty, nor lively, and can only sit and admire her as she brings grace, joy, and life to everything she touches. My father, in particular, delights in his new daughter-in-law. In one week—but one week more—I will escort my new bride to Thornton Lacey, there to begin our lives together as man and wife. You know how I barely allowed myself a hope of making her my own. I cannot find words sufficient to express my felicity.
Only one thing would complete my happiness—to repair my friendship with you, Fanny. Pray, let me know how you are. I think of you daily. With love, I am always,
Your,
Cousin Edmund
“Edmund, I am sending a parcel to Fanny—the last of her trousseau which has now been finished. I can send your letter with it.”
“Thank you, my dear Mary.”
* * * * * *
Tom Bertram still harboured the guilty secret of Crawford’s seduction of Maria on the night of the dress rehearsal of Lovers' Vows. He hoped that Julia had remained discreet, and that Maria could escape from the debacle with some credit. The event, at least, had revealed the truth of his own sentiments to him—he dreaded the day when he must assume headship of the Bertram family, and be responsible for the happiness and prosperity of all its members, the honour of its daughters, the credit of its sons. Although he tried to reason himself into acceptance of his responsibilities as the first born, in truth, he wanted no part of such burdens.
Tom arrived at Wimpole Street to a house in virtual mourning. The Bertram girls, so lately the ornaments of London society, were now ‘at home’ to no one. There was no question in Mrs. Norris’ mind as who was to be charged as the daemon of the piece—it was Fanny, Fanny Price, who had somehow tricked Maria’s intended husband into marriage. This idea she seized on with tenacity, while admittedly at a loss to understand how it could have come about, for Fanny was no rival for the beautiful Maria.
Tom thought firstly, that if his aunt truly cared for Maria and her sufferings, she would refrain from canvassing the subject, again and again, before her niece, and secondly, exercise his imagination though he might, he could no more picture Fanny as a seductress than he could picture his own mother riding to hounds. He gave a hurried glance at Maria, who sat huddled in a shawl in a corner of the sofa, apparently insensible to all that was being said on the subject, before replying to his aunt.
“It is astonishing. Crawford has taken Fanny for her hand alone—not a word about wanting any monies settled on her. When he might have had Maria and ten thousand pounds.”
“Well then,” his aunt retorted, “she must have more of her mother in her than we knew, more imprudence and less self-command, for how else could she have beguiled Mr. Crawford?”
“At least, my father is now relieved of her support, which must have been a prodigious sum, considering how often you lamented the cost she represented to our household.”
His aunt looked at him sharply, but he only looked back at her with the blandest of expressions on his face.
“Beware yourself, Tom! You cannot be too guarded with these types of designing females, as handsome and as eligible as you are. Our dear Maria has such a strict sense of propriety, so much of that true delicacy which one seldom meets with nowadays—but how readily a young man can be brought to forget
himself when a young lady behaves in a shameless fashion!” She fetched breath and continued, “Depend upon it, Tom, Fanny Price will rue the day she ever aspired to become Mrs. Henry Crawford, for people are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere. The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves—how ridiculous she will be, and how the servants at Everingham will laugh at her behind her back, when she tries to make herself its mistress!”
* * * * * *
“What shall you do once we arrive in Everingham, Mr. Crawford? That is, will you return to London?”
“Indeed I shall, Mrs. Crawford. You will not have heard of the Four-in-Hand club, but I have had the honour to be proposed for membership. They meet during these spring months, twice a month, and we ride with our teams in procession.”
“Ah, it is a society for gentlemen who enjoy driving coaches, I apprehend.”
“Yes. We even have our own clothing,” Henry laughed self-consciously. “Something similar to the coachmen who drive the mail.”
“Should I need to communicate with you, shall I write to your hotel?”
“You may,” he said carelessly, “but I shall be everywhere, you know.”
Fanny surmised they must be approaching Everingham, when Mr. Crawford suddenly called the coach driver to stop. Fanny waited quietly for an explanation, as she knew him well enough by now to understand he loved to cloak his doings with mystery and drama. She had not long to wait. He pulled from his pocket a little box, lined with velvet, containing a simple but pretty gold ring, small enough to fit the third finger of her left hand.
“We will be in Everingham in about half an hour,” he explained quietly. “All the servants will be lined up along the sweep to meet you. I forgot about this, and thought I had better give it to you now, to give you time to recover from weeping before we arrived. And here—I ordered you two dozen extra handkerchiefs. You see, I have thought of every detail.”
Fanny was deeply abashed, but his mockery, though almost affectionate, was not enough to stop her from crying, just a little, at the shame of wearing what should only be worn by those who have taken the most solemn oaths before their Creator. The ring burnt her finger like fire.
Chapter Twenty
Henry Crawford stayed barely a week, only long enough to see Fanny settled in her new home, to assure himself that she was able to carry off the imposture, and long enough to see the response from Sir Thomas, to the news of the supposed marriage.
Dear Mrs. Crawford:
I thought it not inappropriate, on the occasion of your marriage, to convey to you my sentiments. It is the usual custom, I believe, to proffer “best wishes” to a bride. However, I think it is my duty to mark my opinion of your conduct. I am in no small doubt as to how you shall receive this letter as you have recently shown, by every means possible, that you disdain the deference that youth and inexperience owes to wisdom and authority. You have disappointed every expectation I had formed, and proved yourself of a character the very reverse of what I had supposed.
Firstly—and if the fact had not been confirmed by Miss Crawford herself I could scarcely credit it—you assumed the role of governess in a household near Bristol. That a niece of Sir Thomas Bertram, raised under his roof, would stoop to this expedient, and would flee from home, from family, from safety, honour, comfort and ease, to repay our generosity with resentment and scorn, is past all my powers to comprehend.
Secondly—you have flouted the laws of England respecting the marriage of underage persons, and entered into the state of matrimony, with a man who was in honour pledged to my daughter Maria. Time alone will reveal who will be the greater sufferer as a result of this rash action—the daughter who lost Mr. Crawford as a husband or the niece who gained him as one.
You do not owe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if your heart can acquit you of ingratitude on this occasion, then your heart must not be as tender as I once supposed.
While my judgment in this matter has been severe, depend upon it, I remain your well-wisher and friend. May you never know the pain of being so grievously disappointed by those to whom you are bound by the tenderest ties of affection.
Your sorrowful uncle, Thomas Bertram
Fanny had been making some progress in training herself not to cry every time her feelings were wounded, but a letter such as this from her uncle, a man whom she had always feared and respected, caused her to retire to her bedchamber to weep until slumber brought her some relief. It appeared that Miss Crawford had told her nothing less than the truth—she was rejected by her family—she was cast out of Mansfield Park—she was nothing to them now!
Henry Crawford, partially out of resentment at being thus insulted by Sir Thomas, and partially out of pity and good feeling for Fanny, instructed the steward that any letters from her Bertram cousins be kept away from Mrs. Crawford and locked up in his study until his return, so that he could peruse them first.
The following morning, he told Fanny he was off again, adding that the lady’s maid would accompany him, as she had decided she did not wish to live in so remote a place as Everingham. Fanny did not regret this in the least as the maid was a singularly clumsy and vulgar woman, and in answer to Fanny’s enquiry about engaging a new lady’s maid, Mr. Crawford had cheerfully told her she was the entire mistress of the place and could hire and dismiss as many servants as she wished!
During their brief stay together in Everingham, he had been as good as his word in every respect—he treated her with the liberality and good-breeding of a gentleman, she retired to her own bedchamber at night unmolested, he made no overtures or insinuations, he left her with generous funds and, as though she were truly his wife, instructed the steward, housekeeper and butler to obey her every command. The fact was that Everingham sorely needed a mistress, as was apparent to Fanny from her first night, when she could not help comparing the quiet and smooth order of Mansfield Park with the bustle and confusion of Everingham, and the ensuing days did nothing to win her approbation.
She noted the cobwebs that festooned the chandeliers, she saw the unpolished furniture, the sooty fireplaces, she lightly partook of the greasy meals laid before her, but, unaccustomed to command, and moreover, intimidated by the housekeeper, who clearly resented her presence, Fanny kept to her room in those first days and ate her fatty pork and syllabubs in solitude, sighing for some plain biscuits and cheese and apples. She was exhausted by her recent illness, the abrupt change in her fortunes and her rapid travels, and she trembled at the rashness of the step she had taken. At least her bedchamber was comfortable and, after several nights’ good sleep, she resolved within herself to think only of the benefit to her brother William, and the ancillary good she might do to her family and the tenants of Everingham, instead of tormenting herself over having succumbed to perpetrating a falsehood. But no matter how she tried to put such pictures out of her mind, she was tortured with anxiety about Edmund’s reaction to the news of her marriage. He would undoubtedly be surprised and curious, but would he be censorious like his father? But greetings from Edmund, alas, never came, and Fanny was too timid to write without having first received a letter from him. She interpreted his continued silence to mean that he disapproved, probably for Maria’s sake.
Fanny spent much of her time walking alone through the beautiful parks and gardens of the estate, which were reasonably well maintained, and she admired, despite herself, Mr. Crawford’s taste in designing them. She wondered that a man of such intelligence, talent and ability should be so abandoned in character.
She felt very alone at Everingham, if being surrounded by three dozen curious, gossiping servants can be called being alone.
After nearly a fortnight spent in this manner, the mild weather and the peace and solitude restored something of Fanny’s health and spirits. She had not been called upon, as she had feared, to entertain neighbours, as the estate was truly secluded, with few in the surrounding villages claiming the rank of gentle
man.
With some temerity, she decided to occupy her time by trying to learn if she, at not quite nineteen, could manage a country home. Fanny thought too lowly of herself to resent any lack of attention and deference on the part of the servants, but she did disapprove of idleness and waste, as she regarded it as a species of theft, and so gradually and then more pointedly, she began to question the housekeeper, visit the offices, inspect the stores, ask for inventories of the plate, linen and etc. Her talents of observation served her well, as did her memories of the smooth, orderly harmony of Mansfield Park. She saw many shoddy practices in her new home, and many wasteful doings to be investigated and corrected, and sometimes laughed aloud to think that what she had observed of her Aunt Norris over the years, would aid her more effectually than any example set by her Aunt Bertram, who seldom troubled herself over any part of the management of Mansfield Park.
Her memory being excellent and her manner gentle, she soon learned the names of everyone who attended her, their duties and their histories, which endeared her to many, if not all, of her servitors. Those among her servants who would rather serve in a well-run house rejoiced at the advent of a mistress, and those who preferred to skulk in corners and cadge what they could, showed their resentment more pointedly. It was these last that she daringly thought she might dismiss when their year of service was up.
She learned from the steward, Mr. Maddison, who was all smiles and complaisance, about the neediest of Mr. Crawford’s tenants, and directed that those in want of food and fuel be supplied from Everingham. She also finally steeled herself to go abroad, making her first appearance on Sunday morning at the village church. The townspeople marveled that for the first time in twelve years, a Crawford was in attendance in the family pew, and Fanny was, as she feared she would be, of more interest to the congregation than the sermon!
