by Lona Manning
“We did have your letter to my father, on the morning you left. But, Fanny,” he added, speaking with obvious reluctance, “only recently did I learn of the existence of your letter to me, and that it was kept from me by….. by she who is now my wife.”
A long silence ensued. Edmund sat gravely, looking down at his hands, and Fanny studied him carefully, while her feelings of tenderness and compassion for him threatened to overpower her. He looked older, somehow a little harder, and there were lines about his mouth and on his brow which had not been there before. She now saw the sorrow and disillusionment which had placed those lines there. She was not surprised, and certainly not triumphant, in knowing that she had been correct as to the hidden venality of Mary Crawford’s character, while Edmund, once deceived, was now……
Tears arose to her eyes. Though she remained perfectly silent and still, he nevertheless felt the full force of her sympathy, though he could barely endure to glance at her during the next part of his confession.
After a time, Edmund sighed and continued. “Fanny, I want so much to hear your voice again, but allow me to explain a little of what happened. When we discovered that you were not—not amongst us, my wife—then Miss Crawford—went to the East Room, in search of you. It cannot be denied that she found your letter to me and removed it; she gave me only the letter for my father. I believed that you had left without leaving a word for me, she allowed me to continue in that error. And worse—but no, pray continue—let us retrace our steps, both of us, since that day. What a relief it will be to talk with you, whatever the outcome of this conversation!”
And so, in halting fashion, step by step, Fanny unfolded her story, and Edmund his, and as well, he recounted the progress and destruction of Maria’s engagement to Henry Crawford.
Edmund’s courtship of Mary Crawford in London, their quarrel and reconciliation, and the final abandonment of his scruples in the face of his strong attachment, were but briefly touched upon by him. He wished not to cause Fanny any pain; she wished likewise to spare him the agony of describing a union which began with every expectation of felicity and which now, even if she had only his altered features as her authority, was clearly a cause of disillusionment and regret.
Fanny described her winter and spring with the Smallridges, the kindness she had received from Mrs. Butters, her serious illness and recovery, but when, in her recitation, she came to the time when the Crawfords surprised her by appearing at Keynsham Hill, she paused in embarrassment. She felt that, even under these circumstances, she could not betray Henry Crawford’s confidence and the agreement she had made with him. But Edmund took up the narrative and did not ask her about her supposed trip to Gretna Green.
“Once again, Fanny, I must ask—when Mary and her brother departed to seek you out, I gave Mary a letter to give to you. And I gave her a present for you, a gold chain. Did you receive them?”
Fanny shook her head in the negative. Then, recollecting, added, “Wait, cousin, she did bring to me a parcel containing some half-a-dozen gold chains, which she said all belonged to her. She said she wished to make a gift to me, and asked me to make a selection of one of them, but she made no mention of a gift from you. I am wearing the chain she gave me,” and she held it out for Edmund’s inspection.
He looked at it briefly, smiled sadly, and said, “that is a necklace I have seen around her neck before. It is not the chain I bought for you. She told me that you had refused to accept my gift.”
“I? No, cousin, never.”
“But wait, Fanny, you did write me a short note from London in response to mine—it was in your hand, and it said, “Dear Sir… Many thanks for your kind remembrances….”—and Edmund began to recite from memory the brief letter that Mary had dictated.
Fanny’s face was suffused with blushes. Her lips started to form the words, ‘Mary.”
Edmund looked, nodded, then stood up and began to pace around the room. “Pray continue.”
In a soft but steady voice, Fanny explained that she had supposed she was writing to Mr. Yates.
“What happened next?” asked Edmund.
“Well—Mr. Crawford and I, that is—Mr. Crawford and I went on to Everingham.” Edmund turned and looked at her enquiringly. Now, surely was the time for Fanny to unfold her reasons for entering into matrimony with a man she had hitherto disliked, and for him to extend his best wishes in response. But she remained silent. At last, Edmund ventured, “And you have lived with him there since that time?”
“I have lived there, but I have seen very little of Mr. Crawford since—he did write to inform me of your marriage.” Fanny looked down. She knew that she should, in her turn, be wishing Edmund great joy in his marriage. But they both knew the words would be worse than hollow, they would be actually cruel. A sudden inspiration allowed her to change the subject. “Edmund, I am so happy and proud that you are now ordained! I have wanted so much to hear a little news about you—I have thought of you very often, you may be sure. I was assured that you were very angry with me, which I sometimes doubted, but I had some hope of receiving a line from you, and did not.”
“I did write to you Fanny—I wrote you, at Everingham, several times, including this past month.”
“You did? You did?” Fanny also stood and clasped her hand to her mouth. “Oh! cousin, we have been completely imposed upon! Those letters never reached me!”
Another round of questions and wonderings. The agitated pair stood, sat, paced, held hands, embraced, exclaimed, then paced the room again, questioning, wondering, and in Fanny’s case, shedding a few tears of relief mixed with remorse for all the lost times when she might have had Edmund’s counsel and had denied it to herself. Edmund was thunderstruck at the confirmation of deceit more complete, more thorough, than even his darkest suspicions. As a clergyman, it was his calling to encourage and guide the families in his parish, to warn them from the paths of sin and danger. Now he felt as helpless as a babe in the woods, wholly unaware of where duplicity resided, unable to conceive that such malevolence could occur outside of a gothic novel, and incapable of recognizing the evils had been brooding by his own fireside.
There followed reassurances of their mutual good feeling, and exclamations over the revival of that sorely missed, that best comfort, which if known, might have been claimed at any time this past half year. Edmund wondered to himself if Fanny could possibly have loved Henry Crawford when she entered into marriage with him—she appeared to be learning here, for the first time, of his cruelty in intercepting her letters. And had she any inkling of the worst of her husband’s conduct?
Finally, Fanny also thought of her cousins and asked about Maria. Edmund’s countenance fell again and out of an overflow of grief, he murmured, without any preamble, “Maria is lost to us, Fanny. She is ruined.”
Fanny looked searchingly into his eyes. He could not tell her, in so many words, that the man who seduced Maria was the man whose name she now bore, but she knew Edmund too well—she saw it written plainly on his countenance.
“Mr. Crawford,” she whispered, and turned ashen white. Edmund stepped forward to catch her as she began to faint away. He gently led her back to the sofa. Concealment was impossible, but how he despised himself for being the one to bring the news to Crawford’s wife.
“Is it so?” asked Fanny in a faltering voice, sick with horror, “my cousin? Where is she?”
“Truly, Fanny, I think only my brother Tom and my father know where she resides, but I believe it must be north of London. They both visit her on their way between London and Northamptonshire. There is a conspiracy within the family to shield my mother from all knowledge and, so far as possible, to spare each other the grief of canvassing this matter. I believe she will have her child in October.”
Fanny closed her eyes and thought, Maria, I only meant to help. I only meant to protect you. What have I done? And she burst into tears. She had succumbed to the temptation of telling a falsehood—and not only had it nearly brought the death of he
r brother, she had brought disaster upon Maria. How bitterly did she regret acting in concert with the likes of Henry Crawford! She recalled Julia’s contemptuous words from last winter— ‘Have you never succumbed and done what you knew to be wrong? No? I tell you why. It is not because you are more virtuous than the rest of us—though I know you think you are. It is because nothing tempts you.’
She had denied it at the time, but she had thought herself better than the others, until tempted to do something she knew was wrong, to help her brother. Never, never, could she think herself better than others!
It was some moments before she was coherent and rational again. She raised a tear-streaked face to Edmund and said, “There is only one thing to be done. Henry Crawford must marry her. Don’t you agree? He must marry Maria so that the child may have a name.”
“But Fanny,” Edmund gently took her hand. “How can this be? It cannot be done expeditiously, and you would destroy your own reputation to save hers. Crawford must accuse you of adultery and then obtain an Act of Parliament before he can marry again—”
Fanny shook her head desperately. “It was all false. All falsehoods!”
Now it was Edmund’s turn to grow pale. “What do you mean, Fanny? In the name of heaven, what are you saying?”
Fanny could not hold back her tears, her face a picture of contrition. “Oh, cousin, how can I bear to tell you? I am not married to Henry Crawford. We were never married. It was a deception. He—he told me...” She could not speak more, she was overcome with sobs of remorse and she buried her face in her hands. With what arrogance did I propose to arrange the destinies of others! She thought to herself. I allowed myself to believe Mr. Crawford when he said that Maria would forget him and marry another. I have destroyed Maria’s life—she has been in agonies these—how many months? Thinking me married to the man she loved, while she carried his child! I am abominable!
She remained for a moment, almost insensible, when the sound of a door being slammed shut, caught her attention. She stood up and ran to the window and beheld Edmund running down the front steps while putting on his jacket and jamming his hat upon his head. And he was gone, pacing briskly down the street.
Fanny stood at the window, unable to move. She knew not how much time elapsed until the door creaked and a gentle cough caused her to turn around. The butler, not meeting her eyes, said apologetically, “Is there anything I can do for you, madam?”
“Where has Mr. Bertram gone?”
“He enquired of me about the Four-in-Hand club, madam. That is all I know.” Fanny resumed looking out the window.
Another gentle cough.
“Pardon, how may I assist you, madam?”
“Is Mr. Bertram here? Tom Bertram? I fear something terrible is about to happen.”
“He is at his private club, I believe, madam. We could send our footman to him with a message.”
“Please, please ask Mr. Bertram to come immediately!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
In only a few minutes’ brisk walking, Edmund reached Cavendish Square, where a row of a dozen brilliantly decorated open carriages, all painted yellow, and each harnessed to a handsome team of four horses, were lined up in the street. The pavement was crowded with admirers, with more watching from the windows of the houses overlooking the Square—some spectators were there to admire the teams and the equipage, and others to admire the young men preparing to drive them, and still others to admire the fashionable society beauties in attendance, for this was a special meeting of the Four-in-hand Club, preparing to set out for their procession to Salt Hill, twenty-four miles away. Edmund quickly scanned the young drivers, lounging, laughing and chatting with each other and with the throngs of spectators. He soon spotted the man he was searching for. Henry Crawford was at his gayest, standing proudly next to his barouche, while the groomsmen held the reins of a splendid team of four matched bays. The horses and the equipage were the best that money could buy, and Crawford himself was proudly sporting the blue and yellow striped waistcoat that only members of Mr. Buxton’s driving club were permitted to wear.
“When will you start for Salt Hill, Mr. Crawford?” one of the young ladies asked coquettishly. “It will be frightful if we must be the last in the procession.”
“As the newest member, my dear Miss Campbell, I shall take my place at the rear, or wherever Mr. Buxton is pleased to place me, but, depend upon it, whether we are first or last, all eyes will be upon you,” Crawford replied cheerfully, then broke off when he saw Edmund Bertram’s approaching form and more than that, the expression on his brother-in-law’s countenance.
“Crawford, I must speak with you privately, sir, on an urgent matter.”
With feelings most unwilling, Crawford led Edmund through the crowd and found a secluded spot in the park, under some plane trees.
“Crawford!” Edmund spat out in contempt as soon as they were out of hearing of the others. “Crawford, I call you out to defend your infamous conduct.”
An observer might have thought Henry Crawford turned a little pale, but his bearing remained as graceful as ever, his voice languid and unperturbed.
“Sir? Do I understand you correctly, are you issuing me a challenge?”
“For your destruction of my sister Maria—and my cousin Fanny—”
Crawford’s eyebrow shot up. “Fanny?”
“Did you not enter into a sham marriage with her?”
“Yes, but I only requested her services for a short period of time — “
With a cry, Edmund launched himself on Crawford and would have borne him to the ground had not Crawford’s friends, watching the pair with interest, intervened. Edmund struggled to regain his composure, then, through clenched teeth, said only, “My brother Tom will be my second. Do not fail to meet me tomorrow morning.” He left the Square and regained the street, to commence walking, he knew not where.
Crawford brushed himself off and attempted to make light of the matter, but Charles Buxton, the president of the Four-in-hand Club, hastening into the park in response to the commotion, would not be satisfied without some explanation. Understanding that the challenge concerned the honour of a young lady—nay, two young ladies, for the affair proved to be twice as scandalous as the first report—Buxton exclaimed, “and some of my friends did warn me about you, Crawford! I will appoint one of our members as your second, to whom you will confide every detail of the events leading up to Mr. Bertram’s challenge, and by every means in your power, you will seek an honourable resolution without resorting to the folly of settling your dispute with a duel. In the meantime, you will not accompany us today, nor ever will, until this matter is satisfactorily resolved. This is a club for gentlemen, Crawford, and I will not have us become notorious for being rakehells and seducers.”
“Sir, I understand you perfectly….” Crawford began, but Buxton brushed him off contemptuously and stalked away.
The humiliation of having to leave Cavendish Square with all eyes upon him enraged Henry Crawford, and it was some time before he could command himself to explain and attempt to defend his conduct to Mr. Stanhope, whom Mr. Buxton had appointed as his second. He soon discovered that what he had regarded as a light-hearted escapade—pretending to be married to thwart the designs of a young lady who had herself broken through her prior engagement—was viewed more seriously by Mr. Stanhope. Stanhope saw an offer of marriage to Miss Bertram, along with a handsome settlement on Miss Price for the injury to her reputation, as the only solution likely to satisfy the Bertrams.
In vain had been the precepts of his religion, as taught by his late mother, in awakening Henry Crawford’s conscience. In vain were the pleadings of his sister, in vain were Maria’s tears and Fanny’s frowns; none of these had availed to give Henry Crawford a sense of his duty to his fellow creatures. But now, faced with the loss of his blue-and-yellow waistcoat, threatened with being an outcast from the exclusive society of gentlemen four-in-hand drivers, he agreed to everything.
“Yo
u had better see a solicitor, Crawford, and draw up the marriage articles and make some provision for Miss Price. I will meet with the Bertrams,” Mr. Stanhope offered, in a tone that brooked no opposition.
But, by the time that worthy man called at Wimpole Street, neither Mr. Edmund Bertram nor Mr. Bertram were declared to be at home by the butler, and he came away only with a note, fixing the meeting at dawn on the following day, at the West Meadow on Hampstead Heath.
* * * * * *
Tom Bertram had responded to Fanny’s note by hastening to Wimpole Street, shortly before Mrs. Butters and Susan returned from their outing. After a brief but anxious conference, he saw Fanny packed safely back to Stoke Newington—she had to be almost lifted up into the carriage, so oppressed was she with grief and horror—with a promise to send word the next day. Dusk was falling when Edmund returned and Tom persuaded him to leave home and have supper with him at his private gentleman’s club near St. James’s Square.
Tom had bespoken a private dining-room and to Edmund’s surprise, four of Tom’s particular friends—Anderson, Yates, Sneyd and Hedgerow, were all in attendance. “As it happens, Edmund, I was hosting a special supper tonight, and I think you will soon perceive why you were not one of the guests. But, events have necessitated a slight change in the evening’s entertainment.”
“We were to have been playing cards,” put in Mr. Yates, evidently disappointed.
