Do you see what this meant?
I looked around and saw what I expected to see—not far away—a crooked, little wooden stall where two men were swiftly taking down their banners: “Place Your Bets Here,” “Racing Forms for Sale,” and stowing everything into two portmanteaus.
“Search her! Search her! No doubt she has hidden your purse inside her pelisse!” I heard René exclaim, and I heard Rose wail in distress.
It was all play-acting. Rose and her confederates created a diversion—a very titillating diversion. While the punters watched a beautiful, frightened French woman being stripped half-naked, the blacklegs pocketed all the bets they had laid and slipped away. At Basingstoke, I had interrupted their play in the second act, so to speak, which is why they were all so surprised, including Rose. And no doubt, when I intervened, they were worried that their confederate had not made his escape in time, but he did.
The next time, you must be more careful, Rose.
And I had likened myself to a hero in a romance. Instead, I was a fool, a complete booby.
I became aware that I was running madly after the two men with the portmanteaus. I had no trouble catching up with the fatter of the two and knocking him down. It was Carbuncle. Of course, they changed roles at every racecourse. Last time, he was the tormenter of Rose; this time he played the part of the blackleg. Because a punter might have placed a wager with him at one racetrack and then recognized him at the next. I certainly should have. But only I had discovered the connection between the poor woman accused of being a pickpocket, and the blackleg who absconded with everyone's wagers.
I explained my theory to Carbuncle, while I had my knee in his back and while smashing his face into the ground, and he conceded that I was correct. “Sir,” he added, “I'll give you—all the money—I have here—take it all—if you will let—me get away. I beg you, sir.”
Exhausted, and as miserable as a man could be, I rolled off his back and collapsed in the dust beside him. “I am going to let you go but not because I want the damned money. If I were to bring a charge against you, you would turn King's evidence and testify against—against the rest of them to save your own neck.”
Carbuncle had nothing to say to that because it was true.
“Would you give Miss Laval a message for me?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady and cool.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!”
“Tell her—” I stopped. Tell her what? Tell her that I thought she had broken my heart before, but I did not know what a broken heart really felt like until this moment? No, I could not confide my feelings to Carbuncle. Rose had permitted him to grab her and paw at her in front of a crowd of men so that they could steal my money and everyone else's. I loathed him so much I could barely stand to look at him.
“Tell her that Mr. Tom Bertram sends his compliments and advises her that racecourses are unsafe places for an unaccompanied lady.”
“Yes, sir. I will sir, thank you, sir.” Carbuncle scrambled to his feet, grabbed his portmanteau and paused, looking at me apologetically. “If it makes any difference, sir, Rosie—Miss Laval that is, she didn't want to do it. She hates it. She begged her brother to leave off. He told her ‘just one more time.’ You see, he has lots of gaming debts he must pay off, or it will be the worse for him.”
“Debts of honour. Of course.” I closed my eyes and swayed a bit, for I was still reeling from horror and despair. What a pathetic figure I must have made, sitting in the dust. I suppose people took me for a drunk. When I opened my eyes again, Carbuncle was long gone.
All right. So, I stood up, picked up my hat, retrieved my horse, and left the racetrack. I thought that before I went back to George's house and re-joined our party, I would take a long gallop through the fields and clear my head. Of course, I went riding like a madman, and that's when I tried to take the hedge.
And lost my seat. And broke my collarbone.
I lay flat on my back for several hours, looking up at the sky. The pain from my collarbone was sharp and cleansing and somehow served to numb my feelings. I tried to think, coolly, what had it all meant? How much did I resent the woman I thought I loved? On the one hand, if Rose had not helped her brother, he would be flung into debtor's prison or be broken in two by some footpad who made Carbuncle look like a sweet maiden aunt. On the other hand, she had been deceiving me from the first moment of our acquaintance. How much did I hate René for getting Rose into this scrape? How angry was I with her that she could not break free of him—her only living relative? How much had she and her gang stolen from me? Ten pounds? The laws of England provided they should all be hung by the neck. Ten pounds. But stay, I was offered odds of ten-to-one on my horse. That is one hundred pounds they robbed from me! But of course, that was just a lie. I cannot be robbed of one hundred pounds that never existed. What is a wager, anyway? One fellow convinces another fellow that a winning hand at cards is worth a guinea, when they really have no value at all, and by the end of the night, one man walks away rich and the other fellow is a pauper. Nothing has been purchased or even exchanged. But the money is gone. I myself have managed to lose hundreds of pounds at cards and at the racetrack, money that was never mine in the first place…
Thinking of that, a memory washed over me. It was a little over two years ago. I was in my father's study. He held out a piece of paper, listing all of my debts and expenses since I had left Oxford. I knew I had been exceeding my allowance and borrowing against my father's name, but I never kept a close accounting of it, and the total figure shocked me into silence. Even this was not the worst of it because I had contrived to keep some of my gaming debts from my father's knowledge. I am too ashamed to tell you the figure written on that piece of paper, but believe me, had I taken that money from a stranger and not my father, I could have been sentenced to hang a thousand times over.
My father told me because of my spending—on clothes, drink, horses, my carriage, travel, cards—he was unable to keep the living at Mansfield parsonage for my brother, Edmund, and would have to sell it to another clergyman.
“I blush for you, Tom,” he had said. “I blush for the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten, twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income which ought to be his.”
Robbed. Yes, that was the word he used. And I remember that at the time I felt ashamed but brushed it off tolerably quickly and, in fact, seldom thought of it afterwards. And do you think Edmund has ever once thrown it in my face? No, not once.
I had robbed my own brother, perhaps for life, of more than half his income, and here I was, lying on my back in a field, wondering how to revenge myself on the woman I loved for stealing ten pounds from me.
And then I realized—although Rose deceived me, I deceived her in return, for she truly thought I was a good, kind man. When in fact the evidence would suggest that I am a selfish, lazy, thoughtless, conceited, bullying, contemptible ass. But I desperately want to be—I want to be—the man that she thinks I am. And in the end, that is all I can take away from this past ten months. I want to be a better man.
What? Have none of you anything to say? George? Edward? Charles? Perhaps you take me for a fool. Perhaps you have contempt for me. I am still Tom Bertram, your old friend and comrade. Was I wrong to expect some pity from you?
I fear I may have had a little too much to drink. Never mind. I am sorry.
Ah, I am damnably thirsty! I just want some water. Some water.
Please, ring for the servant. Water, damn your eyes!
Why won't you say something?
Oh God, this cursed collarbone. It aches so badly.
All right, if no one will help me, I am getting up. I shall get some water myself, curse you.
* * *
What groan was that I heard?
Oh. It was me.
Where is everyone? Where is the bell? Will someone help me.
Help me, please.
/> Just some water.
Water.
* * *
“Oh, Tom! My poor Tom. Sssh, sssh. I am here, chéri.”
Rose?
Rose?
I was dreaming.
Or I am dying, perhaps. That’s it. I’m dying. Well, if this is dying, it is not so bad. It's very peaceful.
But on the other hand, I have not apologized to Edmund yet. I need to talk to him. I need to tell him how sorry I am. I was going to be a better man, and now it is too late. I have got to get up. I have got to go home.
Why am I still on the floor? I have got to get up. I must get up.
* * *
Cool water on my lips. Cool hand on my forehead.
"Mon dieu, Tom. You are on fire! Quickly, Mr. Sawyer, please help him."
Rose. Rose.
* * *
I do not know if it was because of the fever or because I was thoroughly foxed—they found half a dozen empty bottles scattered all around me—but I was not rational for a day and a night. When I regained my senses, I was washed and bandaged and lying in bed with Rose sitting quietly at my side.
Rose explained to me that she had heard talk at the racecourse that Tom Bertram was lying ill at a nearby house, that his friends had left him behind to join another party of pleasure. Alarmed, she took a horse, found the house, knocked on the door, then went around to the window and spied me, lying on the floor in front of a cold fireplace. It seems I was insensible and had been for some time, in a dream-fever, imagining that my friends were all there, listening to my story. Rose did what she could for me, then hurried to fetch a physician.
I think Rose never left me for a week. She held the basin while the physician bled me; she sponged cool water on me and fanned me by the hour when I roasted, and wrapped me up well when I shivered, as the fever that had seized a hold of me came and went. She spooned warm broth down my throat and held my head when it came back up again. And she sent an express to my father, describing herself simply as “a friend” and telling him how matters stood.
I seldom was able to say more than “thank you” and to bless her again and again for her goodness. I held her hand in mine and could sometimes summon the strength to lift that hand to my lips. Mostly, I slept. I was so tired and too weak to even lift my head off the pillow.
I knew I was feeling a little better a few days later when I first started to wonder—how did I look? That is, how did I appear to her with my hair soaked in sweat and my skin pale and clammy? I believe I had already lost a lot of flesh in those few days.
“Rose, I fear I must make a very poor figure,” I began, and she laughed and shushed me.
“Do not be so vain, my dear Tom.” She laughed again. “We must get you healthy. We will get you healthy again. I promise.”
“I love you, Rose,” I breathed.
“It is a miracle, you have forgiven me for my terrible secret. When you first rescued me at the Basingstoke Races, I could not believe it. Before, all the young gentlemen only watched me, as René and the others humiliated me and uncovered me in front of their eyes! You came and rescued me—like a knight from King Arthur's stories! And when you asked me to marry you, I thought I would die of the remorse! Ah, I was so ashamed when Simon brought me your message! Now I can be at peace. Je t'aime, mon cher. Je ne t'oublierai jamais, pour le reste de ma vie, do you hear?”
“And I will never forget you, Rose. Or cease to regret losing you.”
Those soft lips brushed my cheek. I closed my eyes and savoured the light scent of her perfume as I drifted back to sleep.
“My dear Tom,” she told me a few days later, “you have a letter from your mother. Your brother is coming to take you home. I believe he should arrive by this afternoon. I shall not be here when he comes for you.”
“I understand your feelings, Rose, but I am sorry that you will not meet him. He is one of the best fellows who ever breathed.”
“Your mother says he is riding up by way of London and will retrieve your carriage to take you back to Mansfield Park. Mon chéri, are you sure that you are well enough for the travel?”
“Apart from leaving you, Rose, I am anxious to get home again.”
And as soon as we get back to Mansfield, I am going to sell the blasted carriage—and my racehorses, and I will do everything in my power to make amends to Edmund, and take lessons from him, too, on how to be a decent human being.
“God willing, we may meet again one day, my dear Tom.”
“I wish you every happiness, my love. If you ever need me, if I can ever be of service to you, please call on me. You risked your life coming here to help me. For all you knew, I could have had you thrown into prison. But you came anyway.”
“No, no, Tom, I trusted you. I knew you were the kindest and best of men!”
“I am not the kindest and best of men, but I am going to become a better man than I am. And it is because of you, my Rose, my darling.”
* * *
Tom returned to Mansfield Park to be reunited with his family. He still had to endure a lengthy convalescence with several relapses before he:
“…gradually regained his health, without regaining the thoughtlessness and selfishness of his previous habits. He was the better for ever for his illness. He had suffered, and he had learned to think, two advantages that he had never known before…. He became what he ought to be, useful to his father, steady and quiet, and not living merely for himself.” —Mansfield Park, Chapter XLVIII.
LONA MANNING is the author of A Contrary Wind, a variation on Mansfield Park. She has also written numerous true crime articles, which are available at www.crimemagazine.com. She has worked as a non-profit administrator, a vocational instructor, a market researcher, and a speechwriter for politicians. She currently teaches English as a Second Language. She and her husband now divide their time between mainland China and Canada. Her second novel, A Marriage of Attachment, a sequel to A Contrary Wind, is planned for release in early 2018. You can follow Lona at www.lonamanning.ca where she blogs about China and Jane Austen. Click to connect with: Lona Manning
Novella V
Last Letter from Mansfield (mature) Brooke West
HENRY CRAWFORD
Rich, fashionable, self-satisfied. Henry Crawford was accustomed to having his own way and motivated to find pleasure in all his pursuits. Though not depicted as good looking, his affable and pleasant manners more than offset his plain countenance. He and his sister had been raised by their uncle, Admiral Crawford, who after the death of his wife, invited his mistress to live in their home. “My dearest Henry, the advantages to you of getting away from the admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his, before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions...” —Mansfield Park, Chapter XXX. After an indecent flirtation with the engaged Maria Bertram, he decided to seduce her timid and penniless cousin, only to discover he had indeed fallen in love with the virtuous Fanny Price.
“I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be good for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent, nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be the case with men of the world.” —Henry Crawford to Maria Bertram, Mansfield Park, Chapter X.
LAST LETTER TO MANSFIELD
Brooke West
OCTOBER 5, 1809, EVERINGHAM, NORFOLK
My dearest Fanny—
He stared at his handwriting, the ink drying with his slow exhale. How to address…? Those words would fit his purpose, his desires, but not his situation. Dearest, she was. Darling. Beloved. Admired. But Fanny she could not be. Not anymore—not ever. He crumpled the paper with one hand and tossed it aside to join its fallen brothers on the floor, evidence of many discarded attempts.
My dearest Miss Price
Before the ink had dried this time, he set his quill aside. Dearest and Miss Price could not coexist. Even now, he could not reduce the salutation to such a common expression of friendly affection. What right had he to even that intimacy?
And how could he so diminish his love?
My love, most unluckily absent forever
Sweetest girl, whom I should have liked to spend decades learning and pleasing
My lovely Fanny
The kindest and warmest woman I have known, and without whom my home will be cold and joyless
These he could not commit to paper. These he could only hold in his thoughts as he struggled to keep his resolve to not return to Northamptonshire. Immediately. To not throw himself at her feet and beg forgiveness for his lack of thoughtfulness, for his vanity, his folly. The months he had spent with Maria kept him numb. Seldom had he allowed himself a moment to dwell on his Fanny with Maria so nearby. Now that he was free of Fanny Price’s more determined cousin, his love was never far from his mind.
Henry was thoroughly unused to the tortured pangs of a broken heart and ungratified desires. He was desperate to relieve this new experience of heartache and loss. The only way out is through. He picked up his quill, his hand less steady than he would have liked.
I know not how to address you in a manner that does not insult either of us—your proper understanding of what intimacies may be allowed even if not encouraged, and my sensibilities of both my affection and my error.
Knowing he could not send the letter, regardless of address, gave him a grim resolve to continue. For months, Henry had tried to wish away the affair with Mrs. Maria Bertram Rushworth, hoping that if he could scrape it from his mind then society must as well. Hoping that word would not reach Fanny or that time would erode the effect of his actions. He knew better than continue those hopes. Little news from Mansfield Park reached his ears anymore, but what he heard, and what he knew of Fanny, told him she was lost to him.
Dangerous to Know Page 17
