When the doctor came in, Henry started to remove himself from under Fanny, but the doctor gestured him to stay right where he was. They shook hands, and the doctor asked: 'What is the matter with the young lady, I heard she fainted?'
Henry answered: 'She did faint, she got some news that was dreadful to her, and she hadn't been very well before that. She is used to living in the country, with a lot of exercise, fresh air, good food and privacy, and here she lived in a cramped house with noisy brothers, no chance for exercise, and I guess meager food.
She was losing health before today, and I came to deliver a letter and check on her health. The letter contained news that hurt her badly, and as I was the
bearer of the bad news I brought her here when she broke down.
The woman who attended us advised me strongly to hold her for her support.
So I did, though I have no right to.' The doctor shrugged, niceties were of no import to him, he was concerned with the health of his patient.
He said: 'I'm going to wake her up now, I need to examine her if we are to know how bad her situation is.' The doctor did wake Fanny up, and she was alert, though despondent. The doctor did not ask the nature of the bad news, and after his examination he said: 'Young lady, you are badly undernourished, small wonder you fainted. Your friend here is right, you need plenty of good food, fresh air, exercise and probably a friend to support you in your grief. I advice you to start with the good food right away, red meat preferably, to strengthen your blood, even though you might not feel like eating at all.
You, sir, may have to help her to eat, a normal portion, not more but not less either. Eating less has started this affliction, though homesickness and fear of bad news may have worsened it.' When Henry wanted to get up to pay him and see him out, the man said: 'The inn will add my fare to your bill, and I'll be so free to order what this lady needs to eat from the kitchen. You stay there and support her, and make her eat. And eat something yourself, for you look afflicted too. Can't have you fainting as well. Good day to you.' And he was gone.
Fanny looked at Henry and said: 'They seem to live in a totally different world, they didn't care three straws that you were holding me. You showed so much respect, Henry, I really value that. And I also value that you could put it aside when I needed it. I still need it. Can we travel without chaperone if we're engaged?' He had to recover from that question, and hearing her say his name, again, and only after a full minute did he control his voice enough to say: 'I think so, yes.' 'Then let it be so, I find the loneliness hardest to bear, I will try to be as cheerful as possible,' she observed. He felt a mixture of melancholy and elation, but said: 'Thank you for your trust Fanny, I will not let you down. You can save the cheer for public occasions, and be yourself with me. I'll comfort you and join you in your grieving from time to time, and I'll be glad to be spared the loneliness myself.' And just like that, they were engaged.
When the food arrived, roast beef with root vegetables, Henry felt his hunger,
but Fanny did not. But for every bite he took himself, he insisted on her eating one as well, and she let herself be fed like a small child, satisfied to let him care for her for a few hours. Tomorrow she would start trying to be strong, tonight she would indulge in her loss. When the food was gone, he took her to her room, and stayed with her until she had fallen asleep. Then he sent a message to her parents, asking to deliver her stuff at the inn, giving ill health and bad news from home as reason for her departure. They wouldn't care, though he felt bad for Susan.
And when the work was done, even though it was only early evening, he retired to his room and cried like a child. He was engaged to the woman of his dreams, but she would most likely never really love him. It was heartrending, but he could just not leave her to die of grief, nor could he imagine ever meeting another woman like her, so this is what they both would have to live with. He wept until he too was too tired to feel anything, and then he slept until he was woken at dawn by a servant, knocking on his door: 'Mr Crawford, the lady is asking for you.'
He gave his acknowledgment and dressed quickly, trying to wash the signs of their intense day from his face at the wash-stand, hoping to get a chance for a bath later in the day. When he left his room, the servant led him to the room where he had left Fanny yesterday evening.
Chapter 6
He entered her room eagerly, his love was still as fresh as it had been before he knew the truth, it had taken such a time for him to give away his heart, he could not take it back instantly, it would be hers yet for a very long time. She was dressed, sat in a chair by the window, and she looked even worse than yesterday, pale, drawn, anguish all over her beautiful features. It was clear that she had slept restlessly, or maybe had been awake early, plagued by thoughts and feelings, maybe even doubting yesterday's decision to get engaged to him.
He checked his own feelings with difficulty, aware that they must be visible in his every feature, possibly causing her discomfort.
But the great advantage of loving someone of great sensibility and delicacy is, that they can relate to other people more easily, and so it was with Fanny, she understood the feelings of love and worry displayed on his face, and she could even value the effort he made to control them when he became aware of them.
He kneeled before her, inviting her to accept his hand, which she gladly did, strange how such smal gesture did indeed relieve the pain a little, and asked her with a low, feeling voice: 'How are you doing, Miss Price, are you holding up?'
She wished he would call her Fanny again, but maybe he was waiting to speak to her uncle before taking such a liberty in public. Or, maybe, he was afraid she'd changed her mind, he did not show his usual sedate, upright posture, he did indeed look uneasy and doubtful. She replied with a steady voice: 'I am as well as I can be, considering the circumstances. It will take time to get my health back. Will you please call me by my given name, Henry? I didn't figure you for a formal husband.'
His expression cleared instantly, his posture straightened, she had seen through him, he even smiled at her unexpected wit, he had been in doubt.
And he must be shocked by her appearance, it had shocked even herself, though she could feel the cause in her mind and body.
She spoke again: 'My things have arrived, Susan brought them but I couldn't face her, I'll write to her from Mansfield Park. She deserves my attention, she has been a very good sister to me during my time here, and I don't want to neglect her.'
'I can imagine that, for she seemed a nice, well-tempered girl. Let's have a hearty breakfast and be on our way, Fanny, and see how we will be received in Mansfield Park tomorrow.'
Henry was relieved by her witty comment, finding her still engaged to himself, and apparently in better spirits than yesterday. She really made an effort to eat well, he could see that, and it gave him even more heart for the future. Apparently she was not planning to pine away quietly, which he had been afraid of, having to see her sink into depression and not able to support her. This brave creature he could work with, there would be times of depression of course, but as long as there was sense of humor and will to eat, there was hope.
His own spirits lifted by hers, he dared to look forward to the time ahead, there were so many interesting and fun things to do with her, to show her, if only she would be open to them. 'Can I be just a tiny bit gallant to you in public? I have a reputation to maintain after all,' he asked her, and got a sincere smile as his answer.
And so he held the door of the carriage open for her with a flourish, as the baggage was loaded on the back, and the driver was calming the spirited horses, and he was rewarded with another smile as she entered and seated herself daintily. He could not but admire her carriage, her elegance, despite knowing now how thin she really was, her dress hid her true condition, and for a short moment he was proud to be allowed to call her his fiancée, forgetting for a moment it was just a rational arrangement.
Once they were on their way, leaving Portsmouth behind them, reality i
ntruded again quickly and painfully, as she broke down in the privacy of his carriage, tears starting to leak from her pretty eyes again, falling ever faster, though she stayed upright and dignified, and didn't make any sound.
The sight of her wrung his heart, and he wanted to comfort her, well able to imagine what she was going through by the similarity of his own situation.
Afraid of being too forward, he kept an eye on her for some sign that she wanted him to hold her, and he soon got it in an anguished look that caused him to hold his arms out as an automatic reaction, finding her slight shape in his embrace quite naturally. It was difficult to just comfort her, he wanted so
much to kiss and love her, but he had to quell that need for once and for all, or he would spoil whatever chance he had of being of use to her happiness.
Fanny spent most of the journey in deep sorrow and regrets, Henry holding her without hope of his love ever being returned, but still conscious of the good he was doing her, hearing her account of how she fell in love with her cousin, and how she had to watch his progress with Miss Crawford, indeed being confided in all the time, whenever he had been disappointed as well as when he had met with success.
But there were moments of compensation, mostly in public, when she became the beautiful and enchanting fiancée he had dreamed of, putting aside her grief for an hour or two, conversing with him on all manners of subjects, witty, charming, everything he had imagined she could be when he fell hopelessly in love with her. And whenever they passed through really beautiful scenery and he pointed it out to her, she'd look up from his arms and take it all in, and her depression would make way for reverie, or for another stimulating conversation, about the charms of nature, and the views she wanted to visit with him when they were at Mansfield Park once more.
These moments could not but put some heart in him, for it had been only yesterday that she had learned of the dreadful news, and she was clearly distraught, but time and the inevitability of the separation from her cousin would bring acceptance, and Henry was convinced that these precious moments would then outnumber the moments of depression.
And Fanny often said things like: 'Do you mind my talking of Edmund to you, Henry? It relieves me, after all these years of secrecy, to be talking to an understanding mind of the hopes I had. But if it too painful for you I can keep quiet,' or: 'I cannot thank you enough for your kindness, without your support I would be so utterly alone and friendless.'
He answered: 'Whilst it pains me to hear you speak of him with such love, I cannot but understand your feeling it, I consider him the best of men, without equal. And in the interest of your health and your happiness you need to talk of him, and of your disappointment, or you would be poisoned from within.
So though it does indeed pain me, it is a sweet pain, for it means I am giving you what I promised I would, and that is a reward in itself.'
This answer caused her to spill a few tears of gratitude, and they were different from the tears of sorrow, he could already read so many moods and emotions in her countenance, they had grown so close in so short a time, that
sometimes, when Fanny was asleep for a short time, and he was holding her, watching her sleep, he felt a tiny bit of hope stir within him that all was not hopeless, that his dedication to her happiness might still result in its ultimate reward.
But he always put her happiness first, and only allowed himself to relish those hopes whenever his own anxiety and sorrow threatened to dishearten even his indomitable positive spirit. When she was lost to the world in her grief, he sometimes indulged in his own disappointed hopes, but he always checked them very carefully, for he could not be of use to his beloved if he let himself sink into depression.
With the fast trotting horses and an experienced driver, they managed the journey a lot faster than Fanny had traveled towards Portsmouth with her brother. Thinking of her brother, she could not help but realize how welcome the news of her engagement to Henry must be to him, and she felt a little treacherous, to be misleading all her family in this way, for her own selfish needs.
And Henry himself, she was using him most of all, though so far he seemed quite equal to the situation. He had been so kind and so attentive and controlled, that she was almost sorry that she could not love him as he loved her, for she was convinced more and more that they were as suited to each other as Edmund had believed they were.
Of course the thought of Edmund gave her a pang, but she controlled it and looked about her instead. The country was starting to look familiar to her, and indeed Henry said: 'We're twenty minutes from Mansfield Park, Fanny, let us plan how to proceed when we get there.'
Her sensitive nature demanded she thank him for all he had done for her and would yet do, and that she do it here, where they were still by themselves.
Not having any experience with men, she had no idea what her kind gesture would do to someone violently in love with her, but she meant kindly. She said with feeling: 'Thank you so much, Henry, for what you have done for me, the support you give me,' and she embraced him intimately, holding him against her tightly, resting her head in his neck, her warm breath on his bare throat, her feminine scent in his nose. She took him totally by surprise, he had no chance to harden himself against her unwitting assault on his senses, and passion flared up in him so suddenly and violently, that he crushed her against him, pushing his face in her hair first, and after taking a deep smell of
that, kissing her throat eagerly, just below her ear.
She shivered, then stiffened, and he released her as quickly, stuttering an excuse: 'I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to do that, you just took me by surprise, please forgive me.' Fortunately she didn't turn from him, frozen by his sudden ardor, stunned by his lightning reaction.
He tried to explain: 'Fanny, men are not as naturally contained as you women are, we need to carefully control our urges, and as a gentleman I am trained superbly in self-restraint. But I have been through a lot as well as you, my feelings have been shaken. Your sudden affection awoke my passion before I could control it. Can you forgive me?'
But he need not have worried, Fanny's stunned demeanor had not been caused by disgust or fear of him, but by the very first stirring of lust inside herself, wakened by his almost violent display of his passion for her. Being very restrained herself, she had not imagined so much feeling possible in a fellow human, but it did not scare her or put her off, it showed her a glimpse of a wholly different world, a world she hadn't even known existed. It interested her, and she filed the feeling away for further contemplation, tonight, in the privacy of her bed. Now she needed to reassure Henry, who was anxiously awaiting an answer from her. She didn't like seeing him humble like this, she preferred his usual self-assured posture, though once it had disgusted her in its high-spiritedness and liveliness. But it was that same spirit and liveliness that kept her able to face the world now, so she took both his hands, only a lot more slowly this time, saying: 'There is nothing to forgive, Henry, your sudden reaction has merely shown me there is more to life than I realized. It stimulates me to go on, discover the world instead of drowning myself in grief.'
Such an observation at such a time was not going to quell Henry's love for this surprising young woman, still feeling the tug of passion, the soft skin of her cheek against his lips and a vague memory of the smell of her hair and her skin still in the front of his mind. He was more than relieved, he was thrilled, but he managed to check the feeling and said calmly: 'You make me very happy saying that. I really hope you will find it in you to explore the world, bit by bit, I'm sure there is every hope it will be able to make you happy.'
The scenery was even more familiar now, and Fanny was sure they were very close to their destination, so she asked: 'What do you suggest we do once we
arrive? They will notice we traveled without chaperone.' Henry had his usual posture back, and said with self-confidence: 'I will see your uncle straight away, and since he wants the marriage very much, he'll forgive us the impropriety, if ind
eed there is one. I will tell him I could not leave you in Portsmouth for fear of your dying of deprivation or catching consumption, that will also explain your current state of health and your wan looks. Your unhappiness will become apparent in a few days, we can think of an excuse before then. I can stay with my sister and brother, but supposing Sir Thomas would invite me to stay at Mansfield Park, would you mind that?'
In all honesty, Fanny hoped he would stay in the same house with her, and she replied frankly: 'I would prefer to have you around all the time, I fear I cannot bear my aunt Norris anymore and she will keep her quiet with a visitor in the house.'
He had an observation there: 'Remember, dear Fanny, that you are supposedly making an advantageous marriage for your family, this should raise your consequence within this house, and you may need to assert yourself to your horrid aunt. Or I will do it for you, if you'll permit me, for she needs firm handling, a hint won't do the trick.' Henry was pleased to see a sly smile on the usually timid girl, and he praised her: 'Good, that is the right attitude.
Will you be fine whilst I talk to your uncle? And he will want to talk to you, think of what you will tell him. You cannot break down in front of him.
Edmund's marriage will be mentioned as well, in fact, I will have to introduce it if it is not, he's marrying my sister after all, and I'm truly glad for her sake.
If you cannot stand it anymore, retreat to your room and I'll find you there.
And I can hold your hand now in public, don't hesitate to seek my side.'
Mansfield Park the Crawfords' Redemption Page 4
