by Joan Aiken
Quick-witted and intelligent, used to dealing with her lively brothers, Susan was easily a match in argument for her cousin Tom, who had never been more than ordinarily clever and had generally been excelled at school by his younger brother Edmund. When Susan first arrived at Mansfield, Tom, then aged twenty-six, had been slowly recovering from a dangerous fever; greatly reduced and weakened he had, for a short time, been pleased enough to have the companionship of the plain, eager, lively fourteen-year-old girl, who was friendly, ready and willing to play chess with him, read to him, or entertain him in any way he wished. But as his strength returned, so did the urge to dominate; Tom had always been used to command his younger sisters, and his delicate little shrinking cousin Fanny; he was good-natured enough and often gave them presents, but he was accustomed to lord it; he expected a more subservient and complaisant attitude from Susan than she was prepared to yield; indeed she was not prepared to yield to her cousin Tom at all, finding him in all respects except for looks, greatly inferior to his brother.—Recovered from the fever, Tom was certainly a fine young man of pleasing air and appearance, open-faced, fresh-coloured, well-set-up, cheerful and obliging so long as he had his own way, and prepared to enter heartily into other people’s interests so long as they coincided with his own.—But in all deeper and more serious aspects, Susan considered Edmund infinitely superior; Edmund was a reading, judging, thinking person, an original intellect, a nature of just and strong principle. Whereas the nature of Tom was shallower, or at any rate had not yet been stirred to any very profound reflection, even during the time of his serious indisposition.
In many small ways, without particularly intending to, Susan had contrived to indicate her poor opinion of her elder cousin; and his retaliation was to make plain the fact that he considered her an intruder, from an undesirable, indigent background, of inferior status to the Mansfield family. This attitude he had managed to transmit to his sister Julia, who, though selfishly glad that no part of the care for Lady Bertram devolved on her, yet felt it a grievance that somebody with no right of birth should be enjoying the benefits of Mansfield.
When she was younger Tom had teased Susan about her plain looks, addressing her as Miss Bones and Mouse-locks, though not in the hearing of his father. During the past six or seven months Tom had been away from home so much that the improvement in his cousin’s figure and countenance had come to him as a considerable surprise on his return. In that regard he could no longer find fault, but this could almost be felt as an additional annoyance, along with what he chose to consider her unjustified self-assurance.
“Fanny gave you the news about my sister Maria?” he now demanded.
“If you recall, brother,” said Edmund hastily, “Fanny was with us when Frank Wadham gave us the information. Fanny has been acquainted with the whole matter from the start.”
“True. She was there. I had forgot.”
The news in question being that their disgraced sister Maria had recently seen fit to quit her secluded country abode and remove herself to London. The cause of this, and means whereby it had been achieved, were the death of the widowed Aunt Norris, sister to Lady Bertram, with whom Maria had for some years resided. About six months previously Mrs. Norris had succumbed to an affection of the lungs and, dying, had bequeathed her entire fortune to her beloved niece. Since Mrs. Norris’ disposition had been a particularly thrifty and frugal one, the fortune in question proved to be of quite ample size, some eight and a half thousand pounds. Thus endowed and freed at the same time from her watch-dog and chaperon, Maria had no hesitation in disposing of her small country house and finding herself lodgings in Upper Seymour Street, not far from a set of unsteady and pleasure-loving friends from former times, the Aylmers. In London, it was greatly to be apprehended, since the former Mrs. Rushworth could not be received in polite circles, and did not choose to remain in solitude, she could only of necessity mix in a highly questionable part of society, and must be a source of mortification and anxiety to her sundered family, who might justifiably wonder what scrape she would fall into next. The best to be hoped was that she might scramble into matrimony with some elderly man, not too nice in his judgments, and vain enough to set store by the connection with one who was still an acknowledged beauty, though of blemished character.
This news had been brought to Mansfield by the Reverend Francis Wadham, Edmund’s friend who was to take over his parochial duties during his absence in the West Indies.
Mr. Wadham was not personally acquainted with the former Miss Bertram, but his widowed sister Mrs. Osborne had been a neighbour of the two ladies in their Cumberland seclusion, and a kind and attentive neighbour, furthermore, who had done all in her power to render assistance and give comfort during the last wretched weeks of Mrs. Norris’s life. After that lady’s death, also, Mrs. Osborne had endeavoured to continue in her friendly offices to the bereaved niece, and had advised her most fervently and earnestly against the move to town; but all such counsel fell on deaf ears; Maria had only been waiting for this opportunity. Another three or four weeks saw her and all her belongings transferred from Keswick to Upper Seymour Street.—Of this Mr. Wadham had been able to inform Edmund and Fanny Bertram when he came to Mansfield Parsonage.
Who would be the proper person to inform Lady Bertram of her daughter’s action, was the next question to be discussed among the three cousins.
“Wadham’s sister herself, the Mrs. Osborne in question, is coming soon to keep house for him while he is at the Parsonage.” said Edmund. “She is a most excellent person: intelligent, gentle, unaffected, and sensible. She is the widow of an admiral, Admiral Giles Osborne. I think Mrs. Osborne will make a valuable older friend for Susan while Fanny is overseas; and perhaps, as she has been poor Maria’s neighbour, and has seen her lately, she may be thought the best person to impart this agitating news to my mother.”
Tom, however, was wholly opposed to this suggestion. What! a complete stranger! a woman whom none of the family had met, or even heard of before that day, to be communicating such a particularly delicate and distressing piece of news! “Good heaven, Edmund, what can you be thinking of? This Mrs. Osborne is, I daresay, well enough in her way, a decent enough sort of woman—but for an outsider to be meddling in a matter such as this, is not to be thought of!”
“Then you had best do it yourself, Tom,” said Edmund calmly.
Tom hemmed and hawed at this.—He was not on such confidential terms with his mother as to justify his being the one to make such a revelation—thought in any case the information would be best imparted by a female—a female would know best how to break the disagreeable news without imparting too much of a shock. Without any doubt—thinking the matter over—Fanny would be the most suitable person for such a task. Yes, Fanny had better do it. She was the right, the only person.
The only drawback to this scheme being that Fanny and Edmund were due to quit Mansfield at eight o’clock the following morning, long before Lady Bertram had even left her chamber.
“Well then,” said Tom, when finally brought to accept this inconvenient fact, “there is nothing for it. Julia must tell my mother. Yes, that will be best. Julia, after all, is Maria’s own sister, she must be thought to have the greatest interest in the matter. I will send a note over to Shawcross, and ask Julia to come tomorrow. I daresay my mother will be glad of a visit from her tomorrow, in any case; she must be missing Fanny.”
Having thus satisfied himself, Tom went away to write the note.
The other two were less convinced that Julia would be the right person, but, knowing Tom would not be happy unless he felt the decision was left to him, were content to leave it so, since both of them had many affairs of their own to attend to, Edmund the last details of his packing, and Susan the arrangements for the reception of her little niece.—They bade each other an affectionate farewell and swiftly separated.
Tom’s note to his sister, imparting the news of the disgr
aced Maria’s removal to London, and asking Julia to divulge it to Lady Bertram, met with an extremely curt refusal. Mrs. Yates had no interest in her sister’s present position or whereabouts, and saw no reason why she should be saddled with the task of disclosing the matter to her mother. Let Susan do it if the thing must be done; for which, on her part, she saw not the slightest necessity.
In the end, therefore, it was Susan, who, handing back her aunt’s netting with all the tangles straightened out, ready to be retangled, said calmly,
“Aunt Bertram, I have a piece of news to give you.”
“What is that, my dear? Nothing dreadful has happened to Edmund and Fanny and dear little William?”
“No, ma’am, nothing of that kind. It relates to my cousin Maria. Since Aunt Norris died, she has sold the house in Cumberland which my uncle bought her, and has removed to London.”
“Indeed?” remarked Maria’s mother languidly. “To what part of London?”
“To Upper Seymour Street, Edmund told me.”
“Ah. I am not familiar with that street. When the children were small, and Sir Thomas was in Parliament, we were used, in the season, to take a house in Grosvenor Square; but I found the journeys to London too tiring; I began to find it too tiring; and so we gave up the habit. I take no pleasure in London. There are too many strangers. We go on far better in the country, seeing only those we know. Ring the bell, Susan, I want my dinner. Tom must be dressed by this time.”
Susan smiled to herself, as she obeyed her aunt, recalling all the foresight and caution that had been wasted on this slight exchange.
Chapter 2
Susan thought it proper, so soon as Mrs. Yates paid her next visit to Mansfield, and she could be spared from an hour’s attendance on Lady Bertram, to walk across the park and call at the Parsonage.
By this time Mrs. Osborne had arrived, and was installed as lady of the house. Her brother, the Reverend Francis, Susan had already met on the previous Sunday in Edmund’s company: he was a sensible, interesting, gentlemanlike man in his early thirties, rather thin and pale from the illness that had obliged him to return from his missionary duties; he greeted Susan, when she arrived at the Parsonage, with every kind attention, and asked leave to introduce his sister. Mrs. Osborne, some five years older than her brother, was very similar to him in feature: she had the same long, rather serious cast of countenance; that of Mrs. Osborne suggested that she had spent many years with her husband at sea; she was deeply tanned, and her hair, somewhat untidily arranged, had turned prematurely white. She met Susan with unaffected interest, exclaiming, “Ah, my dear, how glad I am to know you! I have heard so much about you from your cousin Edmund. How young and pretty you are to have such a household on your shoulders! But I can see that, though different in appearance from your sister, you share her practical judgment and good sense.”
Susan laughed, blushed, and disclaimed. “It is all made easy for me there, ma’am; I only pass on my aunt Bertram’s wishes to the housekeeper.”
In no time she found herself conversing with Mr. Wadham and his sister as with old friends; there was a bewitching charm and informality about their manners which contrasted strongly with the sobriety to be found within the confines of Mansfield, and which greatly raised her spirits, depressed at the six-months’ parting from Fanny and Edmund, besides the prospect of being, during the ensuing period, principally in the company of Tom Bertram and Mrs. Yates. But now—with this delightful company to be found just across the park—she need have no apprehension of loneliness or lack of counsel.
“You must feel us as shocking intruders in your sister’s house,” Mrs. Osborne said. “I have probably put all her favourite plants in the wrong places. I am a sad, heedless housekeeper. Pray, Miss Price, do not stand upon ceremony; walk about the house as if Mrs. Bertram were here, and, if you see anything out of place, do not hesitate to move it back.”
“No, ma’am, I have no wish to do so, I assure you; everything looks charmingly; it is a pleasure to see the house in such good hands.”
Mr. Wadham presently excused himself to be off about his duties in the parish, and Susan soon after rose to take her leave, explaining that she could not be absent from her aunt for too long.
“May I walk back with you across the park?” inquired Mrs. Osborne. “That would be such a pleasure. I am used to take long walks and rides every day, in Cumberland, you know, where it is so wild that the sight of an unescorted lady causes no remark because there is nobody to see her; one may walk for twenty miles and never encounter a soul. Here it is not so, I am aware, and I have promised Frank to curtail my walks. He, poor fellow, is still weak, and soon knocked up; I cannot expect him to escort me just yet except in the barouche.”
Susan was happy to have her company and the two ladies crossed the park at a quick pace. The month was April, and Mrs. Osborne exclaimed at how much further advanced the season was here than in the countryside she had left behind.
“There, you know, Miss Price, winter lasts until mid May; but here, how fresh, how green everything appears. What a charming prospect across these lawns and plantations. You are lucky to live amid such scenes.”
“I am fully aware of that.’ said Susan. “Until I was fourteen, you know, I lived in a city, in Portsmouth. I was accustomed only to crowds, incessant noise, dirt, and confusion. Even after four years my awareness, my gratitude for the alteration in my circumstances has not abated in the slightest degree; I feel it every day. I love Mansfield dearly.”
Mrs. Osborne smiled in friendly approval of this sentiment. “I believe,” she said, “that Mansfield has a particular charm, a particular power to instil affection into the hearts of those who reside here. Some months since, as I believe you may know, I was able to be of service to a sick lady—your aunt, Mrs. Norris. Towards the end, her illness had affected her mind, she was greatly confused and wandering a great deal of the time; all the while I sat with her, in her delirium, she would be talking of Mansfield, its walks, its shrubberies, its lawns and gates; she missed it sadly, I am sure, poor lady, and yearned to be back here.”
Susan was much struck by this. “How very sad! My poor aunt Norris. I did not know that she was so attached to the place. I was not well acquainted with my aunt; she quitted Mansfield very shortly after I arrived here.”
Susan could have added that the departure of her aunt Norris was a source of unalloyed relief, since her aunt had taken a strong dislike to the newly arrived niece and lost no opportunity of bestowing snubs, sharp remarks, and slighting references to poor and pushing relations. But there was no purpose in speaking ill of the dead. She said instead, “Aunt Norris was very devoted to my cousin Maria, I collect. She must at least have been happy to die in her company.”
Mrs. Osborne looked doubtful. “Your cousin Maria—have you ever met her?’’
“No, I have not.”
“She is of a strong, impatient disposition, not the most suitable, perhaps, for care of a sick person. Latterly she was not much in company with your aunt; she was not equal to the requirements of invalid care, and the vagaries and ramblings of Mrs. Norris worried and wore her out; some people are like that; they find a sick-room too taxing. Your aunt, I think, had been a very strong, active character, when in good health?”
“So I understand.”
“Her niece, perhaps, had relied upon her and depended on her; then she found it too difficult when the positions were reversed and she herself was called upon to be the supporter.”
“I fancy,” said Susan, thinking of Maria’s sister Julia, and of how little use she was likely to be in a sick-room, “I fancy that my aunt Norris was very lucky to have you, ma’am, as a neighbour and friend during her last illness.”
“Oh, my dear. I have been used to so many vicissitudes! On board ship, you know—and most of my life has been spent on board ship—there is always somebody in need of care. I have nursed a great quantity
of midshipmen, lieutenants, even captains, in my time; I looked to nurse my poor husband in his last illness, and it was a sad shock when he was swept overboard by a wave in the North Seas.—But your aunt Norris I believe would have been very glad to return to Mansfield. Very frequently in her latter days she would be mistaking me for her sister Lady Bertram. ‘It is time the girls should have a ball at Mansfield, sister,’ she has said to me, twenty times over, and I always replied, ‘They shall have one, Mrs. Norris, as soon as you are back on your feet and cook has made sufficient white soup.’”
“Ah, poor soul,” cried Susan, touched by this story. “It will be very kind in you, Mrs. Osborne, to talk with my aunt Bertram some time about her sister, and tell her some of these memories. But, I think, not quite yet; my uncle’s death, and the departure of my sister and her husband, have been heavy burdens on my aunt—her mental constitution is not robust—”
