Mansfield Park the Crawfords' Redemption

by Kirsten Bij't Vuur

These thoughts flashed through his mind, but only to have something to tell the doctor, he didn't realise their meaning yet. She was still out cold, breathing normally, looking more at peace than when she was conscious, actually, but she seemed frightfully pale and thin. He could no longer control himself, he had to take her small, pale hand in his larger browner one.

  Holding it to his face, he could feel her pulse on his cheek and it seemed

  strong enough, she was clearly not dying.

  He could feel his own heartbeat in his throat, hammering away in his veins, as the servant told him: 'I'll let her smell the salts, sir, and she will probably come to. But she's frightfully thin, better let the doctor see her anyway. You might be wanting to hold the young lady, sir, it is clear she has suffered a great shock and needs someone to comfort her.'

  Looking up at the servant, he saw no suspicion or innuendo, just plain concern for a young lady who had fainted. In a split second Henry reached his decision, and he said: 'I'm not a relation, I have no right to hold her, is it enough to hold her hand and stay really close?

  '

  The servant, still just concerned, said: 'In cases like these, sir, it is in the interest of the patient to be comforted, and no-one will think the worse of you for wanting to help her.' But Henry did not want Fanny to wake up in his arms, without having given him permission to hold her, so he said: 'Thank you for your kind understanding, I am aching to hold her and comfort her, but if she wakes in my arms it might make her situation worse, so I'd rather just hold her hand and wait for her own wishes. Is that acceptable?' The servant replied: 'Certainly sir, it seems you know the lady well, so you'll know what her wishes are. Here I go now.'

  And she did indeed hold a bottle of salts under Fanny's nose, after which the poor distraught girl wakened, looked at Henry, looked at his hand holding her hand, and whispered: 'Is it really true, is Edmund engaged to your sister?'

  His heart wrung by the way she looked, pale, wan, and struck with intense grief, he had to answer her question, and, by now convinced this was what she was afraid of, had probably been afraid of for weeks, he said in a low voice: 'They are my dear Fanny, I thought you'd be happy.'

  She never heard him call her dear, for by then she was lost in an inconsolable fit of crying, quietly, totally locked in herself, lost in her private grief.

  Shut out from her world, Henry held on to her hand, wracked by her intense grief and by a sadness of his own, slowly starting to understand why he had not been able to make even the slightest progress in winning her affection.

  Fanny could only shut the world out for so long, she was not strong, and when fatigue numbed her awareness she came to her senses and immediately felt ashamed to have shown such weakness and to have possibly betrayed her secret. Looking around, she saw that she was in an unfamiliar room, with Mr Crawford and a woman she did not know. She felt a moment's relief that Mr

  Crawford had not taken her home, but probably to his hotel.

  She tried to thank him, but the woman, a servant by her clothing and respectful attitude, advised her not to speak for a while yet, to just gain her strength back first. She also said: 'I'll leave you alone for a moment, I think you have private matters to discuss before the doctor comes.

  Don't worry, no-one ever comes here.' And with this she gestured to Henry, clearly admonishing him to hold Fanny after all. He nodded in acknowledgeable and got up really slowly, lifted her upper body a little, then sat behind her, wrapping her in his arms. She didn't say anything, but nestled against him, clearly very much in need of physical contact to console her.

  The servant looked her approval, then left.

  For a long time, neither of them spoke. Henry was trying not to relish the moment, that felt like abusing the situation, but he loved her so much, and she was in such distress, how could he not feel relief and even a tiny bit of joy to be here to console her? He felt her body, so slight, against him, she was not crying anymore, but rather intensely tired and extremely sad and unhappy.

  And Fanny? Despite being nearly senseless with grief, a part of her was happy that Mr Crawford was the one to witness this: suppose someone of the family had been present when she got the news. For she knew now that all her attempts to arm herself for this moment would have been in vain, the loss of Edmund was like his death, worse, for she would have to see him in another woman's arms, a woman who did not deserve him in her opinion.

  This thought brought on another urge to cry, and she could not but give in to it, hiding her face in Mr Crawford's arms, strangely glad he was here with her, feeling only slightly embarrassed to be in the arms of an unrelated man, remembering what the nice woman had said just now, no-one would see it.

  Despite her extreme distress, she became aware of the man holding her, really aware: of his chest, solid beneath her cheek, and especially his smell, so different from what she was used to. She had never come so close to a man before, and usually when one smelled a man from a larger distance, the smell was not too pleasant, like spirits, or sweat, or smoke. But Mr Crawford did not smell from a long distance, his smell was very personal and rather nice, and she had never gotten even a whiff of it before. She guessed he was fastidious, bathing often and maybe even using a cologne, though this scent fit him so naturally that she guessed it was part of him.

  His voice disturbed her absent thoughts, and her grief came rushing back. She managed to control it this time, and heard him say in a choked voice: 'Fanny, I can't stand not knowing anymore, are you all right? You are so quiet, you're not losing consciousness again are you?' She could hear the love in that voice, never before had it been so evident that his love for her was not something he had made up to amuse himself, it was real.

  But she didn't want his love, she wanted someone else's, and she would never have that now. She knew this feeling of despair would be with her for a long, long time, maybe for the rest of her life, and that thought made her want to cry again. But she could not deny Mr Crawford an answer, he was very good to her and he deserved to be put at ease.

  She tried her voice, and it would obey her, so she said: 'I'm not in any danger Mr Crawford, no need to worry.' The arms holding her tightened a bit in relief, and his head rested on hers for a very short moment. Then it suddenly lifted and the arms loosened, as he realized the liberty he was taking with her.

  He mumbled: 'I'm sorry, Miss Price, I forgot myself for a moment in very real fear and concern for your health. I hope you'll forgive me. Do you want me to release you?'

  The thought of being alone with her lost hopes and her grief nearly panicked her, and she shook her head with the energy of fear, and said: 'No please Mr Crawford, I don't want to be alone right now, I couldn't bear it.'

  He sighed with relief, and she felt his chest move under her with the release of his breath. She felt weak with tiredness, and she was afraid of his judgement, having been raised in a family of extreme morality she felt all the impropriety of having fallen in love with her cousin, who was way above her station in her view of the world, and who was the son of her benefactor.

  But Henry Crawford had been raised with less morals and more feeling, and moreover he was suffering the pangs of love himself, never more than at this moment, realizing that the woman he worshiped had been hopelessly in love with another, a man forbidden to her, all the time he had eagerly pursued her.

  She had been suffering from a doomed love, seeing her object steadily wooing another, undoubtedly sharing his hopes and disappointments in intimate head-to-head talks, needing to keep her secret all this time, feeding her love with morsels of kindness and small tokens of friendship.

  Henry Crawford would be the last person to blame her, he felt her disappointment as strongly as his own, realizing his love never had any chance at all, competing with Edmund the perfect cousin, her model of

  manhood, of a moral and religious superiority that he could never hope to achieve. His heart bled for her, and for himself.

  He relished the feeling of the woman he loved
to distraction in his arms, for it would be the first and last time he would hold her. There was no way he could win her with the ideal of Edmund always before her. Putting his own feelings aside for the moment in real concern over her health and happiness, he asked her: 'You love him, don't you? Have always loved him, the only person who ever valued you as you deserved in that family.'

  Though the habit of secrecy was still strong in her, would stay with her always now her hopes had died, she felt compelled to talk about her love once in her life, knowing now it would hurt him to hear it, but not able to deny his question and the possibility to talk about it, be it only once.

  With an unsteady voice she admitted: 'Yes, I love him, Edmund, my cousin with the name of kings. The admiring love of a teenager for her older cousin turned into real romantic love without her noticing it until it was too late. He doesn't know, will never know now. I feel like I've died, I don't want to live anymore, my hopes for happiness are over. I'm sorry, for you too. I realize now you really love me, until now I thought you were just pretending, that for some unfathomable reason you enjoyed playing at being in love. You know now why it could never have been, why I refused you and consistently rebuffed you. Your persistence caused me a lot of pain, as much as knowing the truth likely will hurt you after today. I can't help it, I can't answer your love. I do want you to know I'm glad, Henry, that you were here with me when I found out, and that it is an incredible relief to have told one person on this world that I love my cousin, have always loved him, and will always love him.'

  She was silent, shaking in his arms, weeping quietly again. She had called him by his first name, for the first and last time. He wanted to cry himself, but he was not going to, this was her moment of grief, his would come later, in the privacy of his own room here at the Crown.

  Chapter 5

  But that meant she would have to go back to her parent's house, and that was totally out of the question, she could not go back there in this state, her heart torn to pieces, her health delicate. Knowing that his love was in vain did not remove it instantly, he still couldn't bear the thought of his beloved Fanny pining away and dying of deprivation or consumption within a year. She was eighteen, and violently in love with no hope of return and even of public grieving, she must not be left on her own, she needed care from someone who knew and understood.

  He could but think of one person in her life qualified to give her that care, and that was himself. He had only wanted to make her happy, and now all hope of that seemed lost. But he had promised himself he would prove his consistency to her, in the conviction that she would love him eventually, true, but had he wanted to make her happy for his own good or for hers?

  She was still weeping in his arms, lost in her grief once again. But losing herself in grief was only the beginning of her downfall, and he loved her too much to let that happen, so he locked his own intense feeling of loss away again, and tried to catch her attention. 'Fanny, Fanny' She looked up at him, eyes red, cheeks tear-streaked, extreme fatigue all over her pale features, still beautiful but in a disturbing way. 'Fanny, please listen to me for a moment.

  We need to think about what to do next. I can hold you for as long as you like, but once we leave this room I will have to be your brother's friend again.

  You cannot go back to your parents, you are not able to hide your grief and you have no privacy there. And anyway, you wouldn't survive for a month, you need to go back to the country, to your own room.' The thought of going back to her parents' house clearly abhorred Fanny, and Henry said: 'I'll take you to Mansfield Park, today, or tomorrow, in that case you'll have your own room in this inn, I'll take care of it, it will all be decent.' At this remark, Fanny clearly thought of the cost, and the trouble it would put him through without ever getting a return.

  Voice betraying some emotion after all, Henry told her: 'Don't worry about

  obligations, I wouldn't be much of a man if I stopped caring about you because you cannot return my love. Don't waste energy even thinking of it, I can afford it.' Fanny had stopped crying now, and looked at him in wonder, Edmund forgotten for a really short moment. 'You are a much better man I ever gave you credit for, Henry, can I call you by your first name as long as we're in this room together?' A quiver of intense feeling ran through him, but he ignored it, and replied, voice now steady: 'I would appreciate that, I cannot call you Miss Price either whilst you are in my arms.'

  'Fanny, how will you go on? Even at Mansfield Park you cannot tell anyone, and you cannot lie in your own room crying your eyes out, people would notice and start asking questions. I cannot stand the idea of you grieving yourself to death, but I cannot see you keeping up appearances on their wedding, and waiting on your aunt all day and being scolded by your horrible other aunt, and living through family visits.

  They will probably invite you to stay with them a few times a year. How will you bear it?'

  She was shocked by the picture he painted of her future, but he was right, it could not be borne to live like that.

  But staying in Portsmouth and dying of deprivation was not a pretty picture either. A feeling of hopelessness began to creep up on her, and all her grief returned to her manifold.

  Henry now did rest his head on her shoulder, and said in a low voice: 'I have a proposition for you, to make your life bearable. I promise that if you agree to it I will not take advantage of your situation.' As she looked up, his face was really close to hers, and despite her intense grief his genuine concern really moved her. Who would have thought that the shameless flirt that she had hated for some time during the theatre-episode would turn out to be such a sweet and caring man? She asked: 'I see no options that aren't excruciatingly painful to me, so please tell me.'

  'Please hear me out, don't blame me before you have heard it all,' he said, and then: 'All I ever wanted to do was make you happy, Fanny, and I find that even now I realize you love another, I still want you to be happy. If you ever allowed me to, I was going to take you to concerts, and to a real, superior theatre, and I was going to accompany you on your daily rides, taking you to all the beautiful natural spots in the vicinity of Mansfield Park, or even beyond that, admiring nature and culture together. I would show you

  Everingham, and London if you were interested, but mainly I would sit by you in the evenings and read to you, Shakespeare, anything you wanted. I hoped you'd start to love me once you had seen I wasn't toying with your affections as I had with other women's, once you'd seen I really loved you, but of course that is all different now, I didn't know your heart was already engaged, and by a man I could never compete with. But the point is, I still want to do all that, and I would accompany you to the wedding, keeping your spirits up, you could talk to me if you were depressed, and your life would be bearable until you felt better.'

  'But why would you do that, wouldn't you rather go back to your old life and find another woman, one who can love you?' Fanny asked in wonderment, tempted by the prospect of not having to bear her grief alone. 'And wouldn't that be way too painful for you, loving me, knowing that I love another?'

  Henry answered, audibly affected now: 'Of course it would be painful, but do you think I would not experience pain if I never saw you again? Do you think I could forget you just like that? I have years of grief before me as well as you, and I'd like to share it as well. I thought maybe we could console one another and do some enjoyable things besides. Do you think you are easily replaced? I'm just as spoiled for others by you as you are by Edmund.'

  Doubtful, Fanny observed: 'What you have said doesn't add up, there is something missing, what is the catch?' With his head bowed in supplication, Henry admitted: 'The catch is, that I would not be allowed to take Sir Thomas' niece anywhere without chaperone. To make it work, we would need to enter an engagement, so we would be allowed to go out by ourselves, be together without supervision.

  If you ever found love in another, or strength to go on alone, it is only a little embarrassing to break an engagement, much less t
han having to admit to loving your cousin, or breaking down in public when he kisses my sister.'

  That caused Fanny to sit up straight, and Henry felt his heart sinking. Of course he hoped she might be able to love him in time, and she knew he did.

  But what did it all matter, she didn't care much about anything, and if it made him happy and gave her someone to confide in, and some freedom and privacy, yes, and some entertainment too. For the theatre, and concerts, and rides with someone she was starting to like for himself, it gave her some hope for a future without Edmund.

  The thought of having to meet Edmund with Mary Crawford on his arm was infinitely painful to her, yet it would happen at least once a month in the

  future. 'I'll have to think about it, I'm desperately tired and every few minutes I think of something that makes me cry. I can't think right. Can I let you know tomorrow, on our way to Mansfield Park? For I'd like to take you up on your offer to convey me there, I cannot stay here for I'm starting to believe you I'd die if I did. If I'm not welcome there I don't know what to do, but actually, I don't even care. I seem to have no feelings left, except loneliness.'

  He seemed satisfied with her answer, and said: 'I'll arrange a room for you and I'll send a boy over with a note to Susan, she'll get your stuff together.

  Who do you want to take as chaperone, I was thinking of the lady who was here just now, we can talk freely before her. Does that meet with your approval?' She nodded. 'And do you want me to hold you until the doctor comes?'

  She nodded again, and she allowed herself another cry against his chest, held by his arms, letting her disappointment and grief free rein. And if anyone else had been in that room, they would have seen Henry Crawford spilling a few tears of his own, though most likely he would not have let them fall if anyone were present to see him weep.

  It took another half hour for the doctor to arrive, and by that time Fanny had fallen into a restless sleep. Henry still held her in his arms, dreading the moment he would have to let go of her, maybe forever. But he would be free to retreat to his own room soon after that, and then he would finally be able to let his grief free rein. For deep in his heart he had no hope at all he could ever supplant the memory of Edmund Bertram, convinced of that man's superiority to him in every respect, except fortune, which was the only thing in life that had no influence over Fanny whatsoever.