by Lona Manning
One sunny morning in late October, as the family sat at breakfast, Susan proposed that the young people go for a long walk along the hedgerows and gather rosehips for tea.
“I don’t care for rosehip tea,” observed Lady Bertram, shaking her head and making a little grimace. “It is very disagreeable.”
“As you like, ma’am, but if you have no objection, we shall go gather some for ourselves,” said Julia. Upon William’s professing himself to be an enthusiast for rosehip tea, it was decided.
Fanny kindly volunteered to remain behind to attend on Lady Bertram. “You will find it more pleasant than gathering roses in the heat of the summer,” she smiled, privately remembering a miserable afternoon last year with Aunt Norris.
“Oh, but only a ninny would pick flowers in the heat of the day!” declared Susan with a laugh. “Everyone knows that the best time to cut flowers is early in the morning.” Fanny nodded and said nothing, but thought—the younger sister could speak for herself in a way that the older sister would not have dreamt of. How helpless and overwhelmed had she been last year when faced with the demands of her aunt! How silly, how trifling, these disputes seemed to her now, how easily swept aside by a character possessed of firmness and resolution.
The young people, armed with scissors and baskets, having departed, Sir Thomas sat with the ladies, and placidly read his book, until a special dispatch arrived for him, whereupon he excused himself and retired to his study, and the family did not see him again until they all sat down to dinner. Fanny was acutely aware that something grave had occurred, but it seemed only she shared a consciousness of feeling with her uncle—William and Julia being too engrossed in each other’s company, laughing and comparing the scratches on their hands from their encounters with the wild rose bushes, Susan was too young, and Lady Bertram too indolent, to be aware that the head of the household was more silent and thoughtful than usual. Fanny boldly followed him into his study at the conclusion of the meal and asked him, “Sir, is there anything the matter? Will you be needing Edmund? Shall I send William for him?”
“In good time,” was all Sir Thomas would say at first, and Fanny saw that he was deep in thought. In a moment he roused himself, smiled weakly and said, “It is of no use, I perceive, to attempt to evade you, but the intelligence I have received is not easily comprehended in one afternoon. The full consequences are yet unknown. Fanny, I have learned that the Vice-Admiralty Court in Sierra Leone has found that the brig Clementine was unlawfully engaged in the slave trade, contrary to the new Act, and its owners will suffer the confiscation of the ship, in addition to heavy fines.”
“Oh, yes, sir, the brig which William captured, from on board the Derwent.”
“Yes, that much was not unknown to me. And until today, my only reflection upon the matter, was that those persons who had sent a new brig to convey more slaves to the Indies, uninsurable because engaged in unlawful trade, were all of them reckless fools, whose greed and cupidity overcame their prudence. But today I discover…” He paused, rose and strolled to look out the window.
“Sir?”
“Today I discover that I am one of those reckless fools. I am a silent partner in the enterprise which, unbeknownst to me, acquired this new ship, and was heavily indebted for its purchase price, and sent it to acquire its illegal cargo—instead of palm oil, as I had been led to believe—in anticipation of handsome profits. My partners did not inform me of this stratagem. I shall be liable to pay the debts of the partnership as well as the Crown penalties. At this juncture, I cannot say with exactitude what portion will fall to my share, but the debt will be prodigious, and may well entirely consume my investments.”
“But sir! If you knew not of this venture, how could you be held responsible?”
“There is justice, Fanny, and there is the law, which are sometimes two different things. What once was legal, is now illegal; and we are all bound by the laws of Parliament. The law will deal harshly with me now. As for what we may consider to be just and fair, I cannot deny that I once believed that an African transported to the West Indies exchanged a life of barbarity, of lawless warfare and subjugation, for one of order and security—yet, now I must acknowledge that no one, not even a savage, will voluntarily assume the shackles of slavery, no matter what I or anyone say in its favour, and a practise once accepted as necessary, as expedient, and which moreover, formed the basis of the prosperity of many households including our own, is swiftly becoming detestable in the eyes of all Englishmen. However much I may wish to shield my family and my dependents here at Mansfield Park, a new epoch is dawning for us.”
Fanny felt for him most acutely. She silently resolved that she would take the position offered by Mrs. Butters, so that he had one less dependent relation to be responsible for, in the face of the financial crisis that now threatened to overwhelm them.
A full year of our story has passed since those events transpired, which commenced it—a year since Fanny Price had fled from the Bertram’s roof, a year since Maria ended her loveless engagement to Mr. Rushworth, and a year since the fortunes of the Bertrams became inextricably intertwined with those of the Crawfords.
After the tragedies and disappointments of the past twelve months, and most particularly the latest calamity, Sir Thomas determined upon giving up Mansfield Park. The mansion had been built in his father’s time, when the income from the sugar plantations appeared to offer a never-ending source of wealth; it was intended to be the seat of the Bertrams for many generations to follow, and so to abandon the dwelling was to abandon the assumptions, the expectations and the hopes that had animated his every waking hour.
His heir Tom, Sir Thomas was now fully persuaded, would never take his place as the head of a household. Likewise, while Maria had, by the most unlikely of circumstances, attained to some degree of respectability, she would never be the mistress of Sotherton, never be within a carriage ride of her parents’ home. Nor, to his regret, did he find himself welcome at Thornton Lacey. Miss Crawford had been all affection and complaisance before her marriage, and Sir Thomas had congratulated himself on the acquisition of such a lovely daughter; but now, Edmund’s wife never invited them to visit, and declined all invitations to Mansfield Park, even to visit with Fanny and Julia. Sir Thomas supposed that the death of her brother was the cause of the estrangement, and being helpless to provide redress, accepted the breach with resignation.
The prospect of growing old while living in the great mansion alone, in severely reduced circumstances, surrounded by memories and empty rooms, pitied by the more kind-hearted of his neighbours and mocked by the rest, made an utter removal appear as the least of several evils. Life as he knew it would never return again, both in consequence of the advent of the Crawfords and because of the change of sentiment overtaking the nation in regard to slavery and those who profited from it. What would have been unthinkable only a year before was now almost to be preferred.
Therefore, at Maria’s urgent invitation, Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram prepared to take up residence with her in Norfolk.
Sir Thomas took this step in consultation with his son Edmund, who approved of the measure, as the cost to maintain Mansfield Park, without the additional income from the Antigua plantations, often exceeded the income from the rents attached to it.
Once resolved, Sir Thomas did not hesitate; he promised Maria that he would celebrate Christmas with her at Everingham, and he was as good as his word. Christopher Jackson was put in charge of boarding up the windows, Fanny superintended the packing and removal of the books, plate and paintings, the faithful Baddeley and the old coachman Wilcox received pensions, while a handful of groundskeepers and servants remained to maintain the gardens and safeguard the property.
Edmund, the heir presumptive of what little remained, agreed to assist the steward until a new tenant could be found. He did not foresee a future day when a Sir Edmund might take occupation of Mansfield Park once again. As he explained to his wife, not without some trepidation, “I
cannot promise you that we will return to Mansfield Park one day because I cannot promise anything which must be so completely beyond my power to command.” As matters stood, he added, he intended to live and die as a clergyman, making Thornton Lacey his home, and upon Dr. Grant’s retirement, he would prefer to appoint another clergyman rather than move to the Mansfield Parsonage within sight of his boyhood home. She was greatly discomposed by the news, he saw, but she said only, “I see,” before withdrawing to their bedchamber.
* * * * * *
One sunny afternoon shortly thereafter, Fanny was alone in the East Room, filling a small trunk with her own belongings, which she had left behind a year ago—her beloved books, and her writing-desk. Some of her supernumerary sewing chests and netting-boxes would go to her sisters, but she was happy to claim these remembrances from her cousins, reminding her of all that was bitter and sweet of the past.
There came a soft knock at the door, and she turned to behold Edmund.
“What? Still no fire in the hearth, Fanny?” he began cheerfully enough, but soon, the consciousness of what had transpired a year ago in that room, served to silence them both for a time. Here was the table on which Fanny had left her farewell letters, to be intercepted by his now-wife, here were the chairs in which he, and Mary, and Fanny sat, reading through Lovers' Vows together, here they had stood while he compelled her to agree with him that he ought to take the part of Anhalt in the play—here, in this room, had young Fanny worked and read, and grown and dreamed, and what, exactly, she had dreamt and wished for, could not be enquired after by him, nor be confessed by her, but it seemed to her that the truth hung in the silence between them. At last, with a shake of his head, and a slight laugh, he gestured toward the windowsill and asked, “did you not wonder what became of your geraniums? I took them to the head gardener, and he assured me that geraniums are a remarkably tenacious plant, and can be revived almost from the dead. I think you will find them in the greenhouse.”
“Thank you very much, cousin,” Fanny replied as she resumed wiping a dust cloth over her volume of Lord McCartney's Journal from China, before placing it in her trunk.
“Are you not feeling a little melancholy, Fanny?”
“Oh yes, but it is to be expected—how could we feel otherwise? Your mother is being remarkably stoic about everything. Susan is with her now, they are sorting through all her old letters.” She straightened up from the trunk, pushed some curls back from her forehead, and paused to look out window. “I fancy this is what I shall miss the most about this room—this view of the park—but I shall always be able to remember how it looks on an autumn day like this, with the sun illuminating the golden leaves on the trees like stained glass—and so long as I have my memories, nothing else matters. But you, cousin, what must you be feeling?”
“I feel a great many things—to relate them all might tire even your patience, but there is one thing in particular—I will stay overnight here and have supper with you all—my father wants to discuss some of the details of the estate with me—but first, Fanny, I want to speak with you alone—I want to apologize to you Fanny, for my blindness—”
“Oh! Cousin! No, you need not, indeed you must not—”
“No, let me say this much, let me overrule you this one last time, and I will have done. I was too much in the habit of taking you for granted, for assuming that you would agree with me in every thing. I flattered myself that our thoughts, our sentiments, our tastes and our principles accorded so well that we would never differ on any point. And, it fed my vanity to suppose that I had indeed played some part in shaping your tastes and convictions. So, when we did differ—as we did on the question of whether I should join the play-acting—I would not do you the justice of even permitting you to disagree with me.
“How often did I silently berate others in my family for treating you as a doll, as an automaton, without due respect for your independence and dignity! Yet, after we were separated, I examined my own conduct and discovered that I was no better—very little better, at any rate! I was blind to my arrogance.
“I do not say that, had I behaved differently, had I listened to you, instead of compelling you to agree with me, events would have transpired differently. I do not place that great of a burden upon your shoulders. The choices that I made were mine, and mine alone.
“I will not ask your forgiveness, for I know you would give it to me instantly. But will you do this for me,” he added, taking her hand. “Will you always be my friend, Fanny? Will you promise me that we will never allow time, or distance, or mischance, to make us forget all that we are to one another?”
“Never, never!” Was all Fanny could trust herself to say.
“And, also, Fanny, would you leave your labours here long enough to come for a walk with me in the shrubbery? It is very fine outside, and it may be our last opportunity to walk those familiar paths together and talk about books and poetry as we used to do.”
“I shall just collect my shawl and bonnet from my room,” Fanny said, starting for the door, when Edmund smiled.
“No, Fanny, I sent a servant to fetch them for you before I came here to find you. I assumed you would fall in with my wishes—as you nearly always do.”
* * * * * *
Edmund returned home from his overnight visit with his parents in tolerably placid spirits. He led his horse to the new stables behind his house, and saw to his surprise that the new gig was gone, along with the little mare. Returning to the house, he gazed in stupefaction at his entry hall, bereft of furniture. He pushed past his housekeeper to the parlour, and found it likewise empty—the paintings on the wall, the draperies in the window, the new furniture—all gone.
“Her uncle, the Admiral, came with men from the city,” the bewildered housekeeper explained. “For, she said, she knew she could not get the hire of enough horses and carts here in the country. She took everything, sir—the furniture, her clothes, her harp—everything.”
Edmund walked slowly upstairs to his empty bedchamber, to examine his own feelings. He felt sorrow and some guilt for having so thoroughly disappointed his wife’s hopes in marriage, but since his own hopes for domestic felicity had dwindled to ashes, he could and did acknowledge to himself, that he felt as a captive feels once released from prison.
* * * * * *
Lady Bertram astonished all who knew her, or knew of her, by her fortitude in quitting Mansfield Park and travelling to such an alien place as Norfolk. The great inducement to leave was the prospect, very pleasing to her Ladyship, of having a grandchild to love. And as is so often the case, the grandchild was doted on more unreservedly than the actual child. The infant son of Maria Crawford, born not long after her parents had joined her in Everingham, brought a second spring of felicity to Sir Thomas and his lady, who both thought him the cleverest, handsomest baby in England.
As for Maria, she had once sought marriage as a means of escaping her parents, most particularly, her father. But upon finding herself on the brink of motherhood, alone without a husband or loved one to share her joys and burdens, she underwent no small revolution in character. Although her temper was still sometimes ungoverned, she learned to appreciate and truly love her father’s solid worth, to bear with her mother more patiently, and to devote herself to her duties as mistress of Everingham.
Sir Thomas took up the judicious management of Everingham and its estates with a competence and disinterest that swiftly won him the esteem of his neighbours and the gratitude of the tenants. He had heard enough hints from Fanny to be wary of the steward, Mr. Maddison, and indeed, Mr. Maddison was gone within a twelvemonth and the affairs of Everingham prospered as never before.
As for Mrs. Norris, she experienced the indignity of being unceremoniously turned out upon the London streets by Mrs. Edmund Bertram, when that lady arrived from Thornton Lacey. Mrs. Norris was the last of the family to be undeceived as to Mary’s true character, and alas, was much humiliated. She fully expected to accompany her sister and brother-in-l
aw to Everingham, and was further mortified when Maria wrote to her to discourage her removal from Northamptonshire. Maria had discovered that life without her overbearing and overpartial aunt was far more congenial than life with her, and so wrote that ‘she knew her own dear Aunt Norris would be much more content to remain in Mansfield village,’ where she was such a valued and important neighbour. The hint was too broad to ignore, the slight too great to forgive. Mrs. Norris’ curiosity and anxiety over who would be the future occupant of Mansfield Park was in itself almost enough of an inducement for her to remain where she was. She re-installed herself at the White house, to await future events and to act as the custodian of all the memories of the past.
Susan had passed several months as the guest of Lady Bertram; but she rejected an invitation to continue in the unpaid service of her Ladyship—being useful and wanted, assuredly, but only for fetching and carrying, and ministering to her aunt’s trifling pastimes, tasks which could not satisfy Susan’s active nature or her restless mind, and she wondered at the docility of any girl, not excepting her sister Fanny, who could have endured it.
Susan’s half-year’s absence from Portsmouth—and the contrasting misery of having Mrs. Norris with them during the interval—led her mother to finally comprehend how much Susan had contributed to the comfort of them all when at home, and how little thanks she had received in recompense. Susan therefore was welcomed back most affectionately, and enjoyed a greater measure of respect and consequence than she had before. She became the acknowledged manageress of the house and it was remarkable how, even with the same limited means, the family lived in far greater comfort and had better food to eat. It was no longer considered an insurmountable task to wash the windows inside and out with vinegar and water and paper, and the front steps were scrubbed daily. Even her father acquiesced in taking his evening pipe outside when the weather was clement, and her brothers had the dining-room table—cleaned thoroughly every day—for their school work. Sir Thomas sent a good carpet from Mansfield to grace the Price’s parlour, and the old carpet was cut up and made up into portmanteaus, which Susan used when she visited her sister and Mrs. Butters.
