‘I know it seems a long time ago, and so much has happened since then, but I cannot forget how distressed you seemed. It appeared to be a matter of some urgency.’
Julia bit her lip and looked down, avoiding Mary’s eye. Did she imagine it, or had a shadow passed across the girl’s face at her words?
‘Miss Bertram? Have I said some thing to offend you?’
‘It was nothing—a—a misunderstanding,’ said Julia quickly. ‘My apologies, my dear Miss Crawford, but I find the walk has tired me more than I expected. Perhaps we could return to the house?’
‘By all means,’ replied Mary, quite at a loss to know how she had transgressed.
Julia rose to her feet, and stood for a moment looking over the balustrade. The workmen were clearly visible on the far side of the stream, as was the cart in which their tools were stored; they had already completed the first length of the channel, and an ugly black gash was perceptible against the verdant green bank.
Julia’s brow darkened. ‘How long, do you suppose, Miss Crawford, before they start to fell the avenue?’
Mary went to her friend’s side, ‘I am afraid I do not know. It will depend what instructions my brother has left in his absence.’
‘So there may still be time,’ said Julia, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Time to prevent it.’
They returned to the house in time to see a messenger mounting his horse, and departing down the drive. Seeing their approach,Tom Bertram came down the steps to meet them, but it was clear even before he spoke, that the letter had brought nothing of significance, concerning either Fanny, or Sir Thomas’s health. Julia took the opportunity to excuse herself, and hastened away into the house without meeting Mary’s eye. Still wondering at the sudden alteration in her manner, Mary was about to take her leave, when Tom asked if he might take a turn with her for a few minutes, and consult her on the subject of the message he had just received.
‘I would be most happy,’ she said, as they moved towards the garden, ‘but I am not sure what assistance I can provide.’
‘On the contrary,’ he replied earnestly, ‘the advice you were previously so good as to offer, was exactly what Edmund suggested in his letter. Your happy interposition saved us at least three days. We are all—the family—most grateful.’
Mary wondered for a moment at that ‘all’, suspecting that Mrs Norris was in all likelihood experiencing quite another emotion, but she knew better than to voice such a sentiment aloud.
‘All the same,’ she replied, ‘I gather from Miss Julia that following my advice has not advanced you very far.’
Tom shook his head. ‘The messengers made every possible enquiry on this side of London, renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in St Albans and Barnet, but without any success; no-one answering to Fanny’s description had been seen to pass through. I believe a carriage was seen early that day on the turnpike road, three miles from here, which may, or may not, have contained the fugitives. It was travelling at speed, with the blinds drawn, and bore no livery. But beyond Northampton it cannot be traced.’
‘But it was going south? To London, I mean, and not to Scotland?’
‘Indeed. And as far as I have been able to ascertain, it was not hired any where hereabouts.’
‘I see,’ said Mary. ‘That suggests to me that it may have been brought especially from London for the purpose, which places the matter in a rather different light.’
Tom stopped, and looked her in the face. ‘How so?’
Mary sighed. ‘I believe it proves that this was not the impulse of a moment. No sudden decision, but a premeditated plan, carefully conceived. I fear that whomsoever she has gone with, has made the most careful arrangements, and finding the two of them will be all the more difficult as a consequence. And yet she left Mansfield with nothing beyond her purse and the clothes she was wearing. It is all so very strange!’
Tom nodded. ‘I can only concur. But thanks to your kind hint, we have also made enquiries throughout the surrounding neighbourhood, and all the young gentlemen of our immediate acquaintance are either in residence, or accounted for, save one. Tom Oliver is thought to be at Weymouth with a party of friends, but there was some uncertainty about his plans, and my letter to an acquaintance in the town has not, as yet, met with a reply. It is, however, unlikely—I would be much surprised if Fanny had spoken to him more than twice in her whole life. Indeed, Miss Crawford, at times I am almost forced to conclude that she did not elope at all, but left here alone, and under her own direction.’
‘But even were she the sort of young woman who might contemplate doing such a thing,’ said Mary, ‘surely she would have taken more of her belongings with her? That circumstance alone seems to argue for the presence of a protector and companion.’
‘If that is indeed the case, we can, at least, remove one name from our list of possible seducers,’ replied Tom. ‘The letter I have only now received was from my father’s friend, Mr Harding, in London. He has been making discreet investigations on our behalf, and while he has found no trace of Fanny, he was able to inform me that an engagement has just been announced between Mr Rushworth and a Miss Knightley, who has a fortune of over thirty thousand pounds. The two families’ estates lie immediately adjoining one another in Surry, and it seems that Mr Rushworth’s father has long hoped to unite them by means of this marriage.’
‘Mr Rushworth did not behave as a man who considered himself on the brink of matrimony,’ said Mary hesitantly, wondering how much Tom Bertram had noticed of what had passed between Mr Rushworth, his sister, and Fanny. He had never struck her as particularly discerning, but the frown her words occasioned suggested that he had been rather more observant than she had previously guessed.
‘No indeed,’ he said. ‘Some part of his conduct I cannot excuse. Had we known of the existence of this Miss Knightley, both Maria and Fanny might have been on their guard, and dismissed his behaviour as mere flirtation. But whatever else we might justly accuse him of, he bore no part in Fanny’s disappearance. All the rest is irrelevant now.’
Mary could not be so sanguine. She had seen looks exchanged between Fanny and Miss Bertram in public, and could imagine the words that might have accompanied them in private. It was clear to her that they had never been friends, and once rivals, they had quickly become the greatest of enemies. How would Maria take this latest news from London? She might well have hoped that, with Fanny out of the way, Mr Rushworth would be free to return to her. If so, the news of his forthcoming marriage would be a bitter blow.
‘You must understand now why I wished to consult you,’ continued Tom. ‘On the day Fanny went off, the prospect of an alliance with Rushworth, begun under circumstances such as these, filled us with horror; at any time it would have been unwelcome, given her longstanding engagement to Edmund, but to have it so clandestinely formed, and at such a period, would have been the severest of trials. But as the days have crept slowly by, and no news has come, we have all been reduced to the faint hope that it would indeed be Rushworth, and no worse a scoundrel, who would prove to be guilty in this affair. My father might have been brought, in time, to forgive the foolish precipitation of such a match, and receive him into the family. But now, our fears can only increase with each hour that passes.’
‘And Miss Price is now twenty-one,’ said Mary thoughtfully. ‘If she was determined upon marriage, there is no impediment now to prevent her.’
Tom nodded grimly.‘Fanny’s coming of age should have been a day of celebration, especially now that my father’s health is improving. It was instead marked by the most bitter recriminations. I know I can trust to your discretion, Miss Crawford, when I say that we are all angrily blaming one another for being blind to the truth and strength of Fanny’s feelings, which now seem only too obvious. It is a wretched business, and I do not know what else we can do. What do you advise?’
‘I advise, Mr Bertram! I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified for an adviser.’
‘You should have a juster estimate of your own judgment, Miss Crawford. I know Mr Norris holds you in very high regard. He himself suggested, in his last letter from Cumberland, that I might turn to you for counsel, and rely on your good sense.’
‘I—I hardly know what to say,’ she stammered, her cheeks in a glow, wondering what she should make of such a gratifying compliment. ‘I truly believe you have done all that could be expected of you. And your letter to Weymouth may yet lead to some thing. In the mean time we can only wait, and hope for the best.’
Mr Bertram took her hand, and shook it warmly. ‘Thank you, Miss Crawford. I do not know what we should do without you. My younger sister, in particular, will, I fear, continue to need your help in the coming days. She is not strong, and the strain of this dreadful situation, coupled with the burden of supporting my mother’s enfeebled spirits, is more than her own delicate constitution can withstand. I am sure it would be a great relief to her if she could confide in you, as a friend.’
‘Pray tell her I am at her disposal; she has only to ask,’ replied Mary but as she watched her companion return at a brisk pace to the house, she wondered, not for the first time that afternoon, if Julia really wished to have her as a confidante or whether there was, in fact, some thing preying upon her friend’s mind that she had decided to keep to herself, and reveal to no-one.
CHAPTER XI
With the rain returning in full force that evening, the weather added what it could to the mood of gloom and despondency at Mansfield. A storm raged all night, and the rain beat against the parsonage windows, but by eight o’clock the following morning the wind had changed, the clouds were carried off, and the sun appeared. Mary had never been so eager to be out of doors, and walked to the village before breakfast to fetch the letters, a task usually assigned to the groom. She was disappointed in her hopes of a line or two from Henry, but consoled herself with the prospect of a day in the sunshine and fresh air, and offered to assist Mrs Grant in cutting what remained of the roses. The two ladies spent the morning in calm, sisterly companionship, and were just beginning to think with pleasure of luncheon and a glass of limonade, when they were startled by shouts and cries of alarm from the other side of the hedge. They hastened to the gate, to find one of the workmen, with a dozen others at his heels, and in his arms, the apparently lifeless body of Julia Bertram. Her clothes were clinging to her thin frame, her lips were blue, and her eyes closed; she did not even seem to breathe.
‘She was like this when we found her,’ the man stammered, his face white and terrified. ‘We didn’t know what else to do, but bring her here.’
‘Quickly!’ cried Mary. ‘Carry her into the house, and have the maids fetch blankets and hot tea. I fear she has been quite soaked through.’
‘You mean she b’aint dead after all?’ said the man, as he followed them inside. ‘It took us so long to free her, and all the while she neither moved nor spoke. I don’t mind telling you, we feared the worst.’
‘Bring her through here, if you would,’ said Mrs Grant briskly. ‘Lay her on the sopha—gently now! Mary, rub her temples, and send a maid to find my salts. Heaven only knows how long she has been in this state.’
Mary looked up at the man, who was standing in the doorway, twisting his hat in his hand. She had seen him before—a tall, handsome fellow, who had touched his hat to her once or twice when she had encountered him in the park.
‘Did I hear you aright—did you not say some thing about freeing her?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, miss. We saw her as soon as we got to the avenue—she’d gone and chained herself to one of those old trees. How she managed such a thing on her own, God alone knows, but I swear she weren’t there when we left the place last night.’
Mary wondered for a moment why they had not sent immediately to the Park for help, given the much greater distance to the parsonage, but she had seen the trepidation in the man’s eyes; in the face of what must have seemed to be a fatal catastrophe, he had no doubt feared that his employer would be only too ready to lay the whole blame of it at his door.
‘You have nothing to fear,’ she said quickly. ‘You have acted quite properly. But I am very much afraid that Miss Julia is extremely ill. We must dispatch a messenger for the apothecary at once, and send word to the Park. Her family will already have missed her.’ Even as she uttered the words, her heart ached for the distress the Bertrams must be in— first Fanny, and now Julia, gone from the house with no explanation. What must they be thinking?
Mrs Grant was clearly of the same mind; she went immediately to her writing-desk, and penned a short note to Lady Bertram. ‘If you will be so good as to take that to the Park,’ she said, holding it out to the workman. ‘And with all speed, if you please.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, bowing, and with a parting look at Mary, he was gone.
The apothecary was not long in arriving thereafter; it was lucky for them that he was close by, having been attending a case of pleurisy in Mansfield-common, and he was able to give his opinion on the invalid without delay.
‘I am afraid, Mrs Grant, that it is a very serious disorder,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Her strength has been much weakened, and in consequence the danger of infection is very great. I will prescribe a cordial for you to administer, and you must convey her upstairs to bed at once. On no account should she be moved unnecessarily. I will call again later today.’
‘Thank you, Mr Phillips, you may rely on us,’ said Mrs Grant. ‘I will see you to the door.’
When Mrs Grant returned to the parlour she found Mary sitting at Julia’s side, her eyes filled with tears. ‘I should have foreseen this!’ she said. ‘I knew she had been neglecting her health—I knew she was half frantic about the felling of the avenue—I should have talked to her—comforted her—’
Mrs Grant sat down next to her, and took her hands in both her own. ‘I am sure you did every thing you could, Mary. I know your kind heart, and I know your regard for Miss Julia. This latest folly of hers was in all probability the whim of the moment—how could you possibly have anticipated she would do such a thing? And on such a night!’
Mary wiped her eyes. ‘It was her last chance,’ she said softly. ‘They were to start the felling today. She must have been truly desperate.’
‘Come, Mary,’ said her sister, kindly, ‘the best way for us to shew our concern is by ensuring she is well cared for. The maids have prepared the spare room, and lit a good fire. Let us ask Baker to carry her upstairs.’
Mrs Grant went in search of the man-servant, and Mary was left for a few moments to herself—a few moments only, for she was soon roused by a loud knocking at the door, followed, without announcement, by the unexpected appearance of Mrs Norris. This lady looked exceedingly angry, and seemed to have recovered all her former spirit of activity; she immediately set about giving loud instructions to the maids, and directing her own servants to carry Julia to the waiting carriage. Mary intervened most strenuously, citing the apothecary’s advice, her own concerns, and the certainty of the best possible care under Mrs Grant’s good management, but to no avail. Mrs Norris was not to be denied, and even the reappearance of Mrs Grant herself could not dissuade her.The two were seldom good friends: Mrs Norris had always considered Mrs Grant’s housekeeping to be profligate and extravagant, and their tempers, pursuits, and habits were totally dissimilar. One of the Mansfield footmen was already lifting Julia in his arms, when Mary made one last attempt to prevent what must, she believed, be a wretched mistake.
‘I beg you, Mrs Norris, not to do any thing that might endanger Miss Julia any further. Mr Phillips was most definite—she was not to be moved.’
‘Nonsense!’ cried Mrs Norris, turning her eyes on Mary with her usual contempt. ‘What can you know of such things? I have been nursing the Mansfield servants for twenty years—Wilcox has been quite cured of his rheumatism, thanks to me, and there were plenty who said he would never walk again. And besides, we have our own physician to consult—quite
the best man in the neighbourhood, I can assure you. Not that it is any of your concern. What are you standing there gaping for, Williams? Hurry up, man—take Miss Julia to the carriage!’
‘In that case,’ said Mary firmly, ‘I hope you will permit me to accompany you back to the Park. It would comfort me to know that Mr Phillips’s instructions were conveyed correctly.’
‘That is quite ridiculous!’ cried Mrs Norris, her face red. ‘Absolutely out of the question! Even if there were room in the carriage, how dare you suggest that I cannot comprehend the instructions of a mere apothecary, or that the Bertrams are incapable of caring properly for their own daughter!’ And with that she turned, and without the courtesy of a bow, swept out of the room.
Mary was about to follow her when Mrs Grant put a hand on her arm. ‘Let her go, sister.You know it is useless to remonstrate with her when she is in such a humour as this.’
But Mary was not to be restrained, and shaking herself free, she ran out of the house towards the carriage, only to stop a moment later in amazement and confusion. For who should she see helping to settle Julia into the carriage, and arranging the shawls gently about her, but Edmund! She had been thinking him two hundred miles off, and here he was, less than ten yards away. Their eyes instantly met, and she felt her cheeks glow, though whether with pleasure or embarrassment she could not have told. He was the more prepared of the two for the encounter, and came towards her with a resolute step, ignoring his mother’s agitations to be gone.
‘Miss Julia is most unwell,’ faltered Mary. ‘The apothecary—he was concerned at the harm that might be caused by such a removal—I do not think Mrs Norris—’
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