A Contrary Wind: a variation on Mansfield Park (Mansfield Trilogy Book 1)

by Lona Manning

  The service concluded, Edmund and Anderson waited respectfully for the others to leave before they departed.

  “A chilly reception, bigad, Bertram,” whispered Mr. Anderson after they shook the vicar’s hand and regained the street. “I am accustomed to my relatives watching me in church as though they expect me to burst into flames, but for you, sir, this must be a novel experience.”

  Edmund said only, “a great many people loved Henry Crawford. There must have been more to the man than I ever saw in him.”

  “Yes, and for every man here there must be at least two or three young ladies at home, weeping their eyes out.”

  They were but a few steps from the church when a shrill and angry voice assailed them. They turned to see the Admiral bearing down on them, with half-a-dozen or more angry supporters behind him.

  “Hey! Ahoy! You blackguard Bertram! I ought to beat your brains out here in the street!” The Admiral waved his walking stick emphatically.

  “Sir,” Edmund bowed. “Pray allow me to convey my most sincere condolences and sympathies, on behalf of myself and all—”

  “Be silent, you quivering poltroon.” The old man fixed Edmund with a venomous stare, his cane clutched at the ready in his fist, the veins in his neck throbbing. “You Bertrams are bent on the utter destruction of my family! You challenged my nephew to a duel with the false and scurrilous lie that he deflowered some little whey-faced cousin of yours. When in fact, he never laid a finger on the little

  b-tch, and she was living in luxury at his expense, calling herself “Mrs. Crawford,” ordering his servants about and helping herself to everything that wasn’t nailed down—along with a parcel of her poxy Portsmouth relations! Then, when my nephew was lying in his death agonies, your lying whore of a sister showed up and claimed that the bastard in her belly was his child, so she could inherit Everingham away from Mary, the rightful heir. You wouldn’t allow the surgeon near him, nor let him have any brandy or laudanum, until he was forced into marriage with the slut!”

  By now a small crowd had gathered, and were listening intently. The Admiral took a deep breath, fumbled with his false teeth, and resumed: “As for Mary, she told me she believed you actually loved her—more fool she—and that you cared nothing for her fortune, when in fact, before the ink was dry on your marriage license, you began draining her pockets to turn your wretched hovel in a g-d-forsaken village into a palace, while at the same time installing your thieving aunt in Mary’s house in London, living at her expense. She told me you abandoned her last month, over some trumped-up quarrel you invented and you have left her to die of a broken heart. My family, sir, has reason to curse the day we ever heard the name ‘Bertram.’”

  There were some disapproving murmurs in the crowd and angry looks directed toward Edmund and his companion. He removed his hat and bowed again, deeply.

  “Sir, I very much regret the circumstances of the accident which claimed your nephew’s life. As to the rest, sir, time and Providence must be my judge.”

  “Don’t ‘providence,’ me, you black-robed jackal! My niece, married to a clergyman! G-d help us all! By g-d, if I had you on one of my ships, I would lash you to the gratings and flog you to the bone! I’d flog you, just as your father, the honourable Sir Thomas, flogs his slaves, you sanctimonious prating hypocrite!” The Admiral’s voice raised to a crescendo, the false teeth nearly slipped out and were retrieved, and the crowd now completely surrounded the old Admiral and the object of his hatred.

  “Sir, we all regret the mischance that befell your nephew, but it is not in my power to—”

  “Mischance! You pharisaical whoreson! Give me my nephew back! And you may go to the devil, with all of your tribe of vultures!” The Admiral raised his cane, but just as Edmund lifted his arm to ward off the blow, the angry old man spun around abruptly and scuttled away as quickly as he had come, leaving the murmuring crowd to discuss whether the impudent b-st-rd ought to be hung from a lamppost or merely pelted with the dung from the streets.

  Mr. Anderson seized his arm and hurried him away before the crowd could decide on the correct course of action. “By my faith,” Anderson panted, “I thought the apoplectic old fellow would drop right there on the pavement and you’d have the death of another Crawford on your conscience! What a final oration, though, begad! Not since Antony has a man stirred up a crowd like that, eh?”

  “There is enough truth in what he said to discompose me and enough clever falsehoods to illustrate the malignity of the mind that invented this version of events. And yet, is it invention, or do the Crawfords regard this as a true history? How wonderful are the workings of the human mind when the desire arises to justify oneself to others!”

  “A little less philosophy and a little more velocity would be to the purpose, Bertram,” cautioned Anderson, looking over his shoulder. “We haven’t shaken the last of the Admiral’s claque yet.” And a clump of horse dung caught Edmund squarely between the shoulder blades. Still, he refused to run.

  * * * * * *

  Several evenings of quiet retirement at Mrs. Butter’s fireside, and several days devoted to long walks in the park, were needed to tranquilize Fanny after the events of the past fortnight. She had elected to remain in the peace of Stoke Newington, now that the alarms over her brother and Mr. Gibson were got over; they were known to be safely in Portsmouth, and she felt she could know neither good spirits nor good health in her parents’ house, nor in the Crown Inn, for any tolerable length of time. Mrs. Butters had promised to escort her and Susan to Portsmouth in plenty of time for the court-martial, and after that ordeal was over, she knew not where she would reside—and yet, that question, which ought to have occupied her the most, concerned her the least.

  She was still very much inclined to blame herself, not the principals themselves, or the vagaries of chance, for the sufferings of Maria and the tragedy of Henry Crawford’s death. She prayed for him earnestly, believing that his courage and steadfastness in doing right by Maria, undertaken at a time of such physical suffering as made her weep to recall, was eloquent testimony that he intended to be a better man. Had he lived, she firmly believed, he would have become a better—if not perfect—husband and father, a good landlord and master. The admiral had snatched his broken body away, but he could not hang on to his soul—he was lost to his family, to his uncle, before his death—he had awakened, he was beginning to turn his back on all that was reprehensible in his past. That was why the old admiral was so vicious, so unreasoning in his anger.

  Fanny wrote long penitential letters to William, Sir Thomas, and Maria, explaining how it had come about that she had pretended to be married to Henry Crawford, and the considerations that had impelled her to do it. She shrank from the task—she would far rather that someone, anyone, speak on her behalf, but Mrs. Butters firmly urged her to be her own advocate.

  Her cousin Edmund was gone, escorting his sister Maria to Everingham. The family’s old nursery maid, Hannah, was with them as well, to give Maria the comfort of a familiar, loving face in her new home. Fanny was grateful that she was not to be of the party, for she admittedly had not the courage for the ordeal of explaining to the vicar, or to Mr. Maddison and the rest of the servants, why one Mrs. Crawford went up to London in August and a different Mrs. Crawford, now a widow, came back in September.

  It was impossible to keep any part of the affair from the newspapers, a circumstance that filled her with shame, most particularly when she considered Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram, and yet, the provision of a home for Maria and a name for her child was a happy resolution unlooked-for by the family only a week ago. Maria herself, Fanny had been assured, had courage and spirit enough to assume her new role as mistress of Everingham, and sufficient tender feelings subsisting for her late husband to raise his child so as to honour the memory of the father.

  Everingham was uncongenial to Fanny, but Thornton Lacey was forbidden to her. Although she and Edmund had re-established the most perfect sympathy, friendship and underst
anding betwixt them, although she had had the joy of being with him, talking with him, and just listening to him during several evenings at Mrs. Butters’ table, she knew that she would never be welcomed across the threshold of the parsonage by its mistress. She would like nothing better than to hear Edmund preach a sermon, and he promised that it should be so, on some future occasion, but it was impossible to foretell when favourable circumstances might arise. Fanny sighed at the necessity of the separation, but was resigned to it.

  As for returning to live in Mansfield Park, she disliked the idea, as being a falling back, a withdrawal from the world, and a return to too many things she had fled. She and Sir Thomas had yet to meet, and she must await his invitation and his forgiveness, should he be inclined to extend it, before she could enter his halls again as a visitor. She looked to time, and Sir Thomas’s sense of justice, for a reconciliation.

  The bequest from Henry Crawford might be enough, with careful management, for her to live modestly, in independence and obscurity, a prospect as beguiling to her as a palace would have been to many another. But in the varied scenes of the future that her fancy painted, there was always another one living with her; sometimes it was Susan, sometimes William, perhaps even Miss Lee, retired from her labours, some congenial person with whom to talk and walk. For the present, Mrs. Butters did not speak of Fanny ever leaving her side, and Fanny was grateful to remain with the kind old widow.

  * * * * * *

  Mary Bertram, clad in the deepest mourning, lay prostrate on the sofa, her lovely eyes red-rimmed. The old Admiral, whom she had always detested, had proven to be her staunchest ally in the catastrophe, and to her surprise she found herself inviting him for tea a few days after the funeral so that she could once again review the disastrous events of the past year. She could not think of enough bad things to say about her husband’s family. Who would have thought that the meek little Fanny Price could have authored such devastation? She must have brazenly lied to Edmund about being deceived and seduced by Henry, and her brother was dead in consequence.

  Even as Mary spurned Edmund and refused to answer his messages, he was all she could think about, and she realized that she longed to feel his arms around her again. She could not bear the company of her old friends, such as Mrs. Fraser. The Earl of Elsham had sent flowers and his card; she was at home to nobody. Yet, she hated being alone. She wanted desperately to feel as secure and loved as she had when she was first married. “Tell me again of my husband, uncle. What did he say to you after the funeral?”

  “Very little to the purpose, child, he bowed and stammered and said he was sorry. The pious fraud. I gave him a piece of my mind, you may be sure!”

  “Thank you, uncle. When I think of how that wretched Miss Price connived against us—my brother in his death agonies, our family estates stolen away from us!”

  “Mr. Stanhope said that Miss Price would not leave your brother’s side.”

  “Yes, so as to keep him prisoner until he could be forced into marriage with Maria!”

  “Aye, and the grieving widow has already hastened to Norfolk to seize control of Everingham.”

  “And what of Edmund’s father or his brother—did they dare to show their faces at Henry’s funeral?”

  “Sir Thomas, I believe, is hiding away in his estate. As for his elder brother, that reminds me, I’ve significant news for you. This morning I had it on good authority—

  “—by ‘good authority’ I know you mean that woman who lives with you, yes?”

  “Sneer if you will, but Sophia is very reliable. I have never known her to be in error in her information. The older Bertram son, the one they call ‘Tom,’ but whom I will call a— (and here the Admiral used a string of colourful naval epithets that made Mary wince) —fled to Liverpool on the morning of the duel.”

  Mary frowned. “The duel wasn’t actually fought, was it? Why would Mr. Bertram need to evade the law?”

  “Ah, he is not fleeing from the law. He is fleeing from his life, don’t you know. He has set sail for America where he plans to breed horses. But he’ll breed nothing himself—if what Sophie hears of him is true, he will make no heir, so your husband will be the heir presumptive. Or, if you have a son, Mary, he will be a baronet one day. That ought to please you. What a revenge that will be for losing Everingham! Please promise me you will cuckold him.”

  Mary sat bolt upright, alarm in her eyes.

  “Uncle, what did you say to Edmund after the funeral? Tell me everything.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “We have a proposal for you, Fanny,” said Mrs. Butters in her direct way, one morning at breakfast. She had yet to explain who ‘we’ were, but Fanny knew the rest would follow shortly. She and Susan exchanged glances—and Susan took the precaution of selecting another muffin and buttering it well, in preparation for whatever news befell them.

  “My relations—not the high and mighty Smallridges—I mean the Blodgetts—those folk who sell fabrics and lace in Bristol—you have been to their shop with me, haven’t you, Fanny?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You and I and Madame Orly, last winter.”

  Mrs. Butters leaned forward confidingly.

  “They have plans, Fanny. Plans to expand their trade to London.”

  “I see.”

  “Not yet, you don’t. I have yet to explain. We shall also be opening a dress-maker’s shop and engaging the most skilled mantua-makers. Our scheme, as well, is to provide honourable employment for girls in reduced circumstances.”

  Susan’s eyes grew wide in horror, wondering if she were a girl in reduced circumstances, and if Mrs. Butters meant to tie her to a stool and have her stitch away from sunrise until midnight as so many seamstresses did. As though anticipating her, Mrs. Butters added, “My relations, the Blodgetts, will offer training, comfortable working conditions, adequate light and air, and healthy meals, in exchange for diligent labour and exemplary skills. They are partnering with Mr. Wilberforce’s Society for Bettering the Condition and Increasing the Comforts of the Poor, to create a workplace founded upon humane principles.”

  “This all sounds most commendable, ma’am, and there are many young persons who—”

  “These young persons will require persons not quite as young, to supervise and train them, and I had proposed your name, Fanny…”

  “Oh! Mrs. Butters! You must excuse me, I could not undertake such a responsibility,” Fanny responded, almost automatically.

  A piercing look from Mrs. Butters.

  “Do you mean to say, you do not care to accept this offer of employment, or you feel yourself unequal to it?”

  “Well, I…. I…. “

  “Do not decide now. Consider it. I was under the impression that you would like something to do with yourself every day, now that you are neither a governess nor pretending to be married. And I have told my relations that you could not be expected to work the long hours customary in the trade, but nevertheless your talents could be put to good use.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, I am most obliged to you. I would like to learn more of your scheme—I suspect that you, in your benevolence, were actually the one who proposed the entire idea.”

  * * * * * *

  Edmund’s wife was waiting for him at Thornton Lacey when he returned from Everingham, as the cheerful housemaid informed him at the door— “So good to see the mistress again sir, I’m sure you were missing her, you were that quiet when she was away.”

  She was not in the parlour, which was still in a half-finished state, so he climbed the crooked staircase to their bedchamber and wondered, would she be penitent? accusing? conciliatory? And he found her sitting on their bed, looking more beautiful than he had ever remembered, clad only in a flowing silk brocade wrap with her hair unbound. She waited for him to close the door behind him, then commenced eagerly, in her low, soft voice:

  “Edmund, you remember when I said that selfishness must always be forgiven, because there is no hope of a cure. I could not bear to share your
love with anyone, not even your foolish little cousin.”

  “Mary, this estrangement is dreadful to my feelings, and contrary to everything we looked and hoped for in the marriage state,” Edmund began, suddenly feeling like a pompous fool. He paused and started again. “But first, Mary, may I say to you how sincerely, how deeply sorry I am about Henry’s accident.”

  Mary dissolved into tears and Edmund caught her up in his arms and held her while she wept. It was some time before she could speak again.

  “Edmund, I cannot bring myself to leave you. I need you still. Please tell me that you still need me. I am your wife.”

  “Can we begin again, Mary? Could it be possible for us to forget the past and begin again? The most important bond between a husband and wife is mutual confidence, sympathy and trust. We took a sacred vow before God to be loyal to one another. What can this mean, but to be truthful, to have no secrets worth the name, no reservations, no holding back.”

  Mary stirred restlessly and slipped out of his arms. “What, Edmund, are you going to lecture me, at such a time?

  “When we were last in the same room, Mary, I had just learned that you had been lying to me, repeatedly, about my cousin. A wife who will lie to her husband about one particular, may well lie about many other things—or so he will come to fear. Doubt will inevitably chase away—”

  Mary sprang from her seat, her countenance changing from supplication to disdain, with a rapidity that startled Edmund. “Tell me, Edmund, if you cannot trust me, why do you trust Fanny? She deceived everyone, did she not, by pretending to marry my brother? She lied to you, to Sir Thomas, to your sister, to the world. Have you forgiven her? Do you respect and trust her? There is no question, is there? She may do as she pleases, so long as she fawns on you like a lapdog. She feeds your vanity and you will not hold her to account.”

  Edmund did not need to be reminded that his wife was one who, in flights of passion, made remarks which she was likely to regret when her temper cooled. He abhorred this type of temperament, even as he acknowledged her skill in inflicting deeper wounds in every sentence.