Everyone was astonished, and not all were pleased. Mrs. Norris expressed doubt. “Are you certain, Sir Thomas, that this – this creature is Tom’s?”
“Yes,” said Sir Thomas, in a voice that permitted neither contradiction nor discussion.
“Your first grandchild, Mama,” said Julia.
“Yes,” said Lady Bertram.
“She is not what you expected, is she?” remarked Maria.
“No,” said Lady Bertram. “But that is not her fault.” She then actually moved aside her pug, rose and went to William and introduced herself to Elissa, her gentle tones reassuring to the little girl, and observing that Elissa resembled Maria and Julia when they were that age, although Elissa was dark while they were fair. Then Lady Bertram returned to her sofa.
Susan’s mind and heart were full of both astonishment and comprehension. Hetty – this slave woman back in Antigua – no wonder Tom considered himself unfit to marry anyone; his heart belonged to another. Susan, like Aunt Norris, wondered briefly if the child really were the daughter of her cousin – but the little girl’s chin was exactly like Tom’s. Susan did some reckoning, and decided the little girl could not be more than three.
What did she now think of Mr. Bertram? Natural children were a frequent occurrence; Susan knew of many cases in Portsmouth and even some in Northamptonshire, although she had only heard of one mulatto. Certainly, Mansfield Park was providing plenty of gossip for the parish this summer! Mr. Charles Maddox and his wealthy widow would soon be dropped from conversation. And then she looked at her uncle with respect; he was risking the approbation of his family and friends, in order to do what was right by this young child. Susan esteemed William, too, for having carried out the commission, and she told him so.
Those were Susan’s feelings. What, she wondered, were the feelings of the others? Lady Bertram was tranquil, Julia seemed disappointed, Mrs. Norris angry, and Maria – Maria appeared resentful. Why? Then Susan realized that this transgression of Tom’s would be, in many eyes, no worse than Maria’s own – yet Maria was banished from Mansfield Park, while Tom was still the eldest son of a baronet, with the position and expectations that accompanied it.
“Does Mr. Bertram know?” Susan ventured to ask, wondering how Tom would react to discovering that the woman he loved had died and that he was now expected to act the part of a father.
Sir Thomas replied that Tom knew about the child, of course, but was unaware that she was at Mansfield Park. Sir Thomas had not decided, either, exactly what should be done with her; that decision had to be shared with her father. He would have to meet her, and then needed to decide what was to be done.
“But we will have to take care of her now,” said Susan, wondering where to put the little girl for the next few nights. Now that she was past the shock from learning of Elissa’s existence, she was able to study the girl. Mixed-race people, usually adults, were sometimes seen in Portsmouth; in fact, Elissa was a pretty honey color, with rich dark curls cascading down her back. However, in Northamptonshire she would be a novelty.
“Are you hungry?” Lady Bertram asked Elissa; the little girl nodded. Lady Bertram asked her nephew to bring her granddaughter over to her sofa. William did so, helping the little girl stand, and holding her hand as they crossed the room.
The next fifteen minutes were spent feeding the little girl, who liked the bread, jam and ham that been sent with the tea. When she had eaten, she stared with curiosity and longing at her grandmother’s lap dog. Lady Bertram introduced Elissa to Pug, and Elissa petted her so gently that the grandmother’s heart was conquered. “I am your grandmamma,” she said, “and these are your cousins,” indicating William and Susan, “and those are your aunts,” gesturing towards Julia, Maria and Mrs. Norris; “and Sir Thomas is your grandpapa, and in a day or two you will meet your father. We are your family.”
Lady Bertram was prepared to love her granddaughter, but the rest of the family were less ready. Mrs. Norris, struggling to sound reasonable even as the sight of Elissa made her angry, said: “Sir Thomas, do you think it is wise to keep her at Mansfield Park? She will cause a great deal of talk.”
“Yes, she will,” said Sir Thomas. “But that will not prevent me from doing what is right.”
“The servants may object,” said Mrs. Norris, who usually did not care for the opinions of the servants. “Some may even give notice.”
“I will deal with the servants,” said Sir Thomas. “The question is, what should we do with her now?”
William said that Elissa was afraid to be left alone, especially at night. Of all those present, he knew her best, of course, having taken care of her during the passage, but he had to leave Mansfield Park in the morning.
Sir Thomas glanced around at the ladies in the room; they were all silent, perhaps more aware than Sir Thomas was, of how much effort he was asking. Besides, Lady Bertram was too indolent; Julia could expect to be joined by her husband as soon as tomorrow; Maria might consider her reputation too sullied to care for a natural child; and Mrs. Norris – Susan could not risk leaving the little girl with Mrs. Norris. “She can stay in my room with me, at least until a more permanent solution is found,” said Susan.
“Thank you, Susan,” said Sir Thomas, his voice full of gravity and gratitude.
The others appeared uncomfortable at his words, especially Maria, who was attempting to regain her father’s good opinion and realized she had just neglected an opportunity. “It is better for Elissa to be with someone who lives here,” said Maria, and then added, “but I am willing to assist Susan.”
Mrs. Norris frowned at her niece’s offer. Julia said nothing.
“I agree Susan is the best choice at present,” said Sir Thomas. “She has several younger brothers and sisters, and helped look after them in Portsmouth.”
“Yes, Sue was always good with the little ones,” said William.
Elissa gave a great yawn; after such a long day her fatigue was unsurprising. William said he would have the little girl’s few possessions sent up to Susan’s room, and Julia said that when Elissa was more comfortable at Mansfield Park, she could be moved to the nursery.
Sir Thomas arranged for some things to be moved to Susan’s room. As Mrs. Norris predicted, some of the servants were taken aback by the small, dark child. All of them stared and many of them muttered, but they were too accustomed to obeying Sir Thomas to voice any audible objection. As dusk fell, Elissa fell asleep. William carried her up to Susan’s room, Susan following, where they found Ann Jones putting a blanket and a pillow on a little bed.
“You will take good care of her,” said William, after Elissa had been put into a nightdress and tucked into the bed.
“I will try,” Susan promised.
Elissa slept at once, but the brother and sister were loath to go far away. They left Susan’s room, but also left the door open, then went and seated themselves on the top of the stairs where they spoke in low voices.
“What can you tell me about her?” asked Susan.
William described Antigua in more detail than Susan had ever heard before: the heat, the squalor, the wretchedness of life on sugar plantations, the suffering of the slaves. Elissa had not been born a slave, because Sir Thomas had manumitted her mother, but without a parent or guardian she would always be in danger of being forced back into that life. She spoke English, but with an accent. After the heat of Antigua, Elissa probably would find Mansfield Park chilly; Susan needed to take care that she was warm enough and did not catch cold.
Susan had many more questions for her brother, but then the little girl gave a cry, and Susan remembered that her young cousin was waking in an unfamiliar room.
“Be good to her, Sue,” said William. “I know you will, but she just lost her mother and came a very long way. I must go downstairs to speak with Sir Thomas.”
Susan returned to her room and spoke gently to her little
cousin, soothing away her fears, telling her that she should sleep now, and that tomorrow, if the weather was fine, she would show her the gardens. Elissa said she liked Susan’s room much more than she did the boat or the carriage, her modes of transportation with William. She had never been in such a comfortable bed before! Then Elissa asked her to sing and so Susan sang until the little girl fell back asleep.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Susan took care of Elissa during the night, helped her dress in the morning and then took her downstairs for an early breakfast. This time Elissa descended the staircase herself, clinging with her little fingers to Susan’s hand.
Susan and Elissa said farewell to William, who had to return to Portsmouth. On the way, he planned to call on Fanny and Edmund, and he was obliged to Sir Thomas for making this possible. Sir Thomas replied that he was indebted to William for rescuing his granddaughter from a dangerous situation. Then William departed, and Sir Thomas went to his study, leaving the little girl with the ladies. “We cannot determine what to do with her until her father returns,” said Sir Thomas. “I am sure you will treat her with kindness.”
But the ladies were not prepared to take care of such a small charge. Maria and Julia had never been mothers. Lady Bertram was a mother, but many years had passed since her children were young, and besides, she had always had Nanny and then the governess to supervise the children.
Still, most of the ladies made an effort. Maria and Julia showed their niece the pianoforte, and Lady Bertram invited her granddaughter to sit with her and Pug on the sofa. The weather was fine, so all the ladies went outside for a while and Elissa explored the flower-garden, her exclamations and wonder at the pretty flowers charming nearly everyone. Only Mrs. Norris stayed at a distance, as repulsed by the little girl as if she were made of dirt or nettles.
Most of the burden, however, fell on Susan. Mrs. Yates and Lady Bertram quickly grew tired and sat down on benches, and were joined by Mrs. Norris, but Susan listened to the little girl’s many questions and did her best to answer them as they strolled on the gravel walk.
As Susan and Elissa rounded a hedge, they encountered Maria, who stood on the spot in the garden with the best view of the Mansfield Parsonage. She was gazing in its direction, a frown on her face. Susan wondered if Mrs. Rushworth were thinking about the inmates. Did she still have feelings for Mr. Crawford? Or did she simply regret what had happened?
Maria sensed Susan’s interest. “Why do you stare at me, Susan?”
Susan could not let her cousin know her true thoughts, so she found something else. “I was admiring your necklace,” she said. “That is a sapphire, is it not?”
Maria’s demeanor softened. “Yes, it is. It was a present from my father on the occasion of…”
Susan assumed “my marriage” were the words Maria would not say. “It must be very valuable.”
Maria seemed to take offense, for she turned away and went to sit beside Mrs. Norris. Susan wondered if she should not have commented on the jewel’s worth: did that show a want of taste and breeding, making her appear too conscious of money? And yet people thought about money quite a bit; pretending otherwise was nonsense. Susan had assisted her mother with the budget while in Portsmouth, and now she often took notes for her uncle on pecuniary matters. And certainly Mrs. Norris spoke frequently about money, and Maria seemed to sit contentedly beside her.
Susan plucked a daisy, gave it to Elissa, and told her to carry it to her grandmother, then took a moment to glance in the direction of the Parsonage herself. Had they learned of the addition to Mansfield Park? They must have, and the news must have also reached the village and the rest of the neighborhood. But unlike the day after the death of Mr. Yates, when many notes of concern had been sent to Mansfield Park, so far this day, no correspondence from their neighbors had arrived – only several letters of business for Sir Thomas, a note from Fanny to Lady Bertram that had been composed before the arrival of Elissa, and a note written yesterday from Tom to his father saying he and Mr. John Yates would return today. The neighbors were probably at a loss at how to treat this piece of information; should they send congratulations or condolences?
What, for example, would the vicars in their circle write? Dr. Grant had lived in London, and he must have seen every type of sin and many natural children, but he might hesitate to pen anything due to the awkward relationship with the family at Mansfield Park. Turning in the direction of Thornton Lacey, which William must have reached hours ago, Susan considered her brother-in-law. Edmund was a man with delicate sensibilities, horrified by sin, and still too young to forgive easily. Susan was aware that Edmund had strongly condemned both Mr. Crawford and Maria after their liaison. How would he behave towards his own brother, Tom, when he learned of his affair with a dark woman in Antigua? And how would he treat his out-of-wedlock niece, the indisputable evidence of his brother’s guilt?
With these thoughts, and recollecting that she, too, was an indigent niece, Susan stopped gazing in the direction of Thornton Lacey and went over to Elissa, who was exclaiming over a pair of snails beneath a bush. From her position Susan could easily hear the talk of the other ladies, seated on benches nearby.
“Cook tells me that the thief stole something again during the night,” announced Mrs. Norris. “A plain cake was missing.”
“Really? How peculiar,” said Maria. “If one of the servants is hungry, then why not ask for more?”
“The thief does not seem to be a servant,” said Mrs. Norris.
“No?” asked Lady Bertram. “Surely you do not think that the murderer of Mr. Yates is stealing bread and cake from our kitchen.”
“Mama, I am sure the matters are unrelated,” said Julia. “Why would a murderer break into Mansfield Park to take bread?”
“Why do you say that the bread thief is not a servant, Aunt Norris?” Maria asked.
“Because Cook saw someone leaving the kitchens around two in the morning,” said Mrs. Norris. “Cook could not sleep; she was certain someone was stealing from the kitchens, and she was right, absolutely right! Sometimes presentiments are valid.” Mrs. Norris then launched into a story about her garden in Ireland, about how she had been convinced that something was digging in her flowerpots of foxglove only to discover that the culprits were living close by. A pair of magpies, nesting in a nearby cherry laurel tree, were responsible for the mess, but she had been able to stop them by placing several large stones in each flowerpot.
Maria interrupted her aunt to ask her about the bread thief.
“Oh, dear, did I fail to mention the person? Cook believes the person was a woman. And, when I asked her, she agreed that it might have been Susan.”
Susan, although a little distance away, had heard every word; she turned and defended herself. “I did not steal bread or plain cake from the kitchen. Not last night, nor the other morning, nor any other morning.”
“Perhaps Elissa was hungry,” suggested Maria, “and you were so fatigued from looking after her, that you forgot that you went down the stairs.”
Susan repeated her denials; during the night she had not left Elissa. “If I wished for bread, why would I take it but not tell people? Why would I behave in a clandestine manner?”
“To give to someone else,” said Mrs. Norris. “To give, perhaps, to the murderer.”
“Do you truly suppose, ma’am, that the murderer of Mr. Yates is hidden in my room?” asked Susan.
To Susan’s relief, Julia came to her defense. “I do not see why Susan would be taking bread from the kitchen. And perhaps Cook was mistaken. She is not young; how well can she see, especially when it is dark?”
And Maria added: “No one here has reason to steal bread; should we want more, we need only ask.”
Mrs. Norris, spurred by these words from her favorite niece, grudgingly yielded to the notion that Susan was neither stealing bread nor concealing an assassin in her chamber. “Perhaps
you are right, Maria. The culprit could be one of the servants. Perhaps one of the servants knows where the murderer of Mr. Yates is hidden and is bringing bread to him.”
“That is a possibility,” said Maria. “Among the servants there are several young women; Cook may have mistaken one of them for Cousin Susan. We should search the grounds. Do you not agree, Mama?”
But Lady Bertram, a smile on her face, appeared to be contemplating something else. Maria and Mrs. Norris had to repeat their ideas and suggestions to her until she understood, and then, with a resolution uncharacteristic of her, she said it was better not to worry the servants with searches and accusations. “That will only distress them.”
“But Cook is distressed about the missing bread!” exclaimed Mrs. Norris, and then proceeded to detail several faults she had noticed with recent meals: the gravy had had lumps; the slices of ham had been tough; and the potatoes overcooked. “I am sure Sir Thomas has noticed as well, my dear sister, and you should tend to him.”
Lady Bertram stared at the ground for a moment. “Very well, I will tell Cook that I have been taking the bread. Susan and I are about the same height. In the dark, as you say, it would be easy to mistake one of us with the other.”
“You have been taking the bread?” asked Mrs. Norris.
“But why have you kept it secret all this time?” inquired Maria.
At first Lady Bertram did not seem to understand the question, then she frowned a little as she considered. “I do not exactly know why I did not tell anyone that I have been craving bread during the night or the early morning. But does it really matter?”
Mrs. Norris was ready to support her ladyship. “No, you may do as you like, Sister, for you are the mistress of Mansfield Park.”
Julia supplied another explanation. “Perhaps, Mama, you did not wish to worry Cook with odd habits and hungers.”
The Mansfield Park Murders Page 13
