I took her by the hand and led her outside, for the morning was such as to cheer anyone. The sky was blue and soft breezes were blowing across the meadows. I heard about Susan, Tom, Sam and the new baby, but most of al I heard about Wil iam.
‘How old is Wil iam?’ I asked her.
‘Eleven,’ she told me, with the awe that only a ten-year-old can muster for such an advanced age.
It was with Wil iam she played, Wil iam who was her confidant, Wil iam who interceded with her mother on her behalf when needed, for he was clearly a favorite with Mrs. Price.
‘Wil iam did not like I should come away; he said he should miss me very much indeed,’ she said with a sob.
I handed her my handkerchief and persuaded her to take it, for her own was wet through.
‘Never fear, he wil write to you, I dare say,’ I reassured her.
‘Yes, he promised he would, but he told me I must write first.’
I soon discovered that this was the cause of her tears, for she had been longing to write to him since her arrival but she had no paper.
I took her into the breakfast-room so that she could send a let er at once, but as soon as I had furnished her with everything necessary, a fresh worry raised its head and she was afraid it might not go to the post.
‘Depend upon me it shal : it shal go with the other letters, ’ I told her, ‘and, as your uncle wil frank it, it wil cost Wil iam nothing.’
The idea of my father franking it frightened her, as though such an august personage should not be expected to help her, but I reassured her and at last she was easy.
‘Now, let us begin,’ I said.
I ruled the lines for her and then sat by her whilst she wrote her letter. I believe that no brother can have ever received a better one, for although it was not always rightly spelt, it was written with great feeling.
When she had finished, I added my best wishes to her letter and enclosed half a guinea under the seal for her brother. The look of gratitude she turned on me was enough to reward me ten times over for my smal trouble, and I began to feel that she was a very sweet little thing, with an affectionate heart. I took some trouble to talk to her and discovered that she had a strong desire of doing right, as wel as an awe of Maria and Julia.
‘You must not be afraid of them,’ I said to her. ‘They are only further ahead than you because they have had a governess, whilst you have not, but life is not al French and geography, you know. It is fun and games as wel . You must remember to play with my sisters, and to enjoy yourself. We al of us want you to be happy, and you wil oblige us greatly if you can manage it. Wil you try?’
She nodded timidly.
‘Good.’ I saw my sisters on the lawn. ‘Look! They are out in the garden. The sun is shining, it is a beautiful day. You should go out and join them.’
She dried the last of her tears, looked at me for reassurance, then slipped off her chair and went over to the door. She turned back, and when she saw that I was watching her kindly, she smiled and waved, then ran outside. I saw her emerge on to the lawn and approach Maria and Julia. Maria looked about to rebuff her but when she saw me watching she held out her hand to Fanny. Fanny went to her shyly, and before long the three of them were playing together. I thought she might like some books to read when she returned to her room, so I chose some from the library for her, and then I walked over to John Saddlers to see about some new harness for Oberon.
Friday 15 August
Tom and I went into town this morning. I had some commissions to undertake for Mama and Aunt Norris, and some books to buy for myself, whilst Tom wanted to look at another horse.
‘Not to persuade Papa to buy, just to look at,’ he told me.
We met at the inn for luncheon and he refused to tel me about his parcels, but when we returned home, al was made clear. After dinner, he gave a new shawl each to Maria, Julia and Fanny, with al the liberality of a future baronet. Maria wished hers had been blue, and Julia coveted Maria’s, which, however much she said she disliked it, she would not exchange, whilst Fanny was too overcome to speak. When she could at last thank him, she stumbled over her words and then went bright red, before escaping to the nursery with her treasure.
‘She is a funny little thing,’ said Tom, as the door closed behind her.
‘She seems a pleasant child,’ said Mama, stroking Pug behind the ears and adding, ‘does she not, Pug?’
‘She is prodigiously stupid,’ said Maria complacently. ‘Only think, she cannot put the map of Europe together. Did you ever hear anything so stupid?’
Aunt Norris shook her head.
‘My dear, it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself.’
‘Hah!’ said Tom, but Maria ignored him.
‘I am sure I should be ashamed of myself to know so little, ’ said Julia. ‘I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, Aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!’
‘Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at al .’
‘But I must tel you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid,’ said Maria. ‘Do you know, she says she does not want to learn either music or drawing.’
‘To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation,’ returned Aunt Norris. ‘But, al things considered, I do not know whether it is not as wel that it should be so, for, though you know (owing to me) your Papa and Mama are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at al necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are. On the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a dif erence.’
‘I believe Fanny wil like music and drawing wel enough once she knows more about them,’ I said, unwil ing to have Maria and Julia encouraged to slight her. ‘She has not had a chance to study them so far, that is al , and so she does not yet understand their worth. Do you not think so?’ I asked Mama.
‘You must ask your father, Edmund. He wil know. See what Sir Thomas thinks,’ returned Mama placidly.
I was disheartened, as I had hoped she would join her voice to mine, but at least my words curbed my sisters’ contempt enough to make them conceal it from Fanny. I would not like to find her in tears again, for she is so smal and thin she looks as though she could hardly stand it. Tom was an unexpected al y, for he said he saw no harm in her and he was sure she would grow up to be perfectly charming, then teased Maria and Julia by saying that they should emulate Fanny’s gratitude, or he would not bring them any more presents. Monday 18 August
We heard this morning that the rector of Thornton Lacey had died. Papa cal ed me into his study and gave me the news, then told me that he intended to give the living to Mr. Arnold, who wil hold it for me until I am of an age to take it myself, if I so wish. He asked me if I had given any more thought to my future, and I confessed that I had not.
‘No matter. The living of Thornton Lacey wil be held for you anyway and you may take it or not as you please when you are older. It is not the best living in my gift, for that, of course, is Mansfield, but in the ful ness of time, that, too, wil belong to you. Now, tel me of your studies, and of what you like to do.’
He listened as I told him about my progress at school, and asked me several judicious questions, and then I was free to go.
I went out to the stables and found Tom. Before long, we were riding out towards the woods.
‘So Papa was asking you about your choice of profession? I am glad I do not have to make any similar decisions, for I would have no idea what to do if I could not run riot with my friends. I wish Jarvey were here, though perhaps it is better he is not, for he is always wanting to be doing something, and today it is too hot to do anything more than ride in the shade and dream of pretty girls.’
We went home with a hearty appetite and I finished my dinner with three slices of apple tart. Julia cal ed me greedy, but Aunt Norris said that Tom and I were growing boys and that she liked to see a healthy appetite.
Thursday 21 August
I was walking through the park this afternoon when I saw little Fanny returning from the rectory with a large basket. It was far too heavy for a girl of her size and strength, for she was leaning over to one side in an ef ort to balance the weight, and she was perspiring profusely. Her breathing was shal ow as I approached her, and I was concerned for her health.
‘Here,’ I said, taking her basket, ‘you must let me carry that. Whatever possessed you to go out in such heat, without a hat, and to carry such a heavy load?’
‘Mrs. Norris wanted her work basket and had left it at the rectory,’ she said timidly.
‘You should not have offered to fetch it for her. You are not strong enough,’ I said. She looked awkward, and I guessed that she had not offered, but that my aunt had sent her.
‘Let us sit awhile,’ I said. ‘It is cool under the trees. You may catch your breath, and then we wil return to the house together.’
I spread out my coat for her, and bade her sit down. I was about to ask her about Wil iam when she surprised me by reciting:
The poplars are fel ed, farewel to the shade
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade.
‘You have read the Cowper I gave you,’ I said, much struck, for, although I had defended her at the time, I had been guilty of believing my sisters when they said that she was stupid.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I read it every night.’
‘You seem to be a very devoted student, little Fanny,’ I said with a smile. She gave a tentative smile, too, but this time it was with pleasure. I talked to her about the things she had read, and found an intel igent mind beneath her timidity. When she was ready to go on I walked slowly beside her, and took her into the library.
‘Aunt Norris . . .’ she said.
‘A few minutes more wil not make any difference.’
I talked to her about what she liked to read and helped her to choose some books, then I accompanied her into the drawing-room, so that I could turn aside the worst of my aunt’s il humor. I appealed to my mother, who said that Fanny must not be sent out without a hat in such heat again, and received a look of grateful thanks from my little friend. Tom was lounging on the sofa, and he suggested we go and see Damson’s new puppies.
‘Though you do not need one,’ he remarked, as we left the drawing-room, ‘for I am sure it wil not fol ow you around as adoringly as Fanny, nor come so readily when you cal .’
I smiled, and he teased me some more, and told me that if I decided against being a clergyman or a poet, I would make a very good governess.
Friday 29 August
The candles were brought in earlier today, and it made me realize that summer is drawing to its end. Soon it wil be time to go back to school. I would rather stay here at Mansfield Park. I confided my feelings to Fanny when we walked together in the grounds, as has become our custom after breakfast, and then I was surprised I had done so. But there is something comfortable about the patter of her little feet next to mine, and something indefinably sweet about her nature that seems to invite confidences. She told me that she would rather I remained at home as wel , then looked surprised at her own courage in speaking. I could not help but smile.
‘I wil miss my shadow when I have gone,’ I said.
I asked her about her reading and found that she had read the books I recommended, and that she had committed a surprising amount of verse to heart. She is an apt pupil, and I think it wil not be long before she ceases to draw down my sisters’ contempt for her lack of learning. I spoke to both Maria and Julia today, tel ing them they must be kind to her when I am away, and I have wrung a promise from them that they wil protect her from the worst of Aunt Norris’s attention. My aunt is very good, but I believe she does not realize how young Fanny is, or how easily wounded. A harsh word, to Fanny, is a terrible thing. And then she is so delicate. She tires quickly and is prone to coughs and colds. I hope the shawl Tom bought her wil be enough to protect against winter’s draughts.
Tom was morose when I mentioned that we would soon be back at school, but then he brightened.
‘Only one more year, Edmund,’ he said. ‘Only one more, and then I wil be up at Oxford. And in two years we wil be there together.’
1802
NOVEMBER
Tuesday 9 November
I wondered what Oxford would be like, and whether I would take to it, but now that I am here I find I am enjoying myself. Tom came to my rooms when I had scarcely arrived and told me he would take care of me. He hosted a dinner for me tonight and it was a convivial evening, though I was surprised to see how much he drank. At home, he takes wine in moderation, but tonight he seemed to know no limit. I held his hand back as he reached for his third bottle, asking him if he did not think he had had enough, and he laughed, and said that he would not listen to a sermon unless it was on a Sunday, and at this his friends laughed, too. I felt uncomfortable but I suppose I must grow used to some wildness now that I am no longer at school. Wednesday 10 November
Whilst coming back from Owen’s rooms in the early hours of this morning I saw a fel ow lying across the pavement. I was afraid he was il , for I saw that he had been sick but, on approaching him, I smelt spirits and realized he was only drunk. I was about to step over him in disgust when I saw that it was Tom. His mouth was slack and his skin was pasty. His clothes were soiled, which distressed me greatly, for he has always been very particular about his dress. Many a time have I seen him berate his valet for leaving a fleck of dust on his coat or a bit of dirt on his boot, and to see him in such a state . . .
I tried to rouse him but it was no good, and so in the end I picked him up: no easy feat, for he is a good deal heavier than he used to be, and carried him back to his rooms. Thursday 11 November
I cal ed on Tom this afternoon and found him sitting on his bed with the curtains drawn, nursing his head. He said he had had a night of it, and that he could not remember how he got back to his rooms. I told him I had carried him.
‘What, so now you are a porter, little brother?’ he said, and laughed, but the laugh made his head ache and he clutched it again.
‘You should not get in such a state, Tom. What would Mama say?’ I asked, hoping that thinking of her would bring him back to his senses.
‘She would say, “Tel Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas wil know what to do,” ’ he said, mimicking her. I did not like to hear him making fun of her, but I knew it would do no good to remonstrate with him. It would only make him laugh at me or, if he was in a bad mood, grow impatient.
‘Just try not to drink so much tonight,’ I said.
‘Always my conscience, eh, Edmund?’
‘You need one,’ I told him. ‘As long as you are al right, I wil go. I have some work to do before dinner.’
‘You work too hard.’
‘And you do not work at al .’
‘You sound like Papa,’ he said testily.
‘You make me feel like him,’ I returned, and then I felt dissatisfied, for Tom and I have always been friends.
I tried to say something softer but he only cursed me. I saw that there was no talking to him whilst his head was so sore, and so I left him to himself and sought out Laycock instead. Monday 15 November
Tom cal ed on me this afternoon and my spirits sank, for he only ever comes to my room now to ask for money. He told me that he had lost heavily at cards last night and had exhausted his al owance.
‘It is a debt of honor and I must pay it,’ he said. ‘I need twenty pounds.’
I gave it to him, but I told him that it was the last time I would help him.
‘You might have money to lose, but I do not,’ I said.
‘Why worry? You are already provided for. You wil have the Mansfield living when you take orders, and
the living of Thornton Lacey as wel . You wil not be poor.’
‘If I go into the church. I might not.’
‘Oh, what else are you thinking of doing?’ he asked curiously, as he sat down on the sofa and crossed one leg over his knee.
‘That is the problem, I do not know,’ I said with a sigh as I sat down next to him.
‘You take everything too seriously, Edmund.’
‘And you do not take things seriously enough.’
‘Then we make a good pair, for we balance each other’s faults. But do not go into the church if you do not like the idea.’
‘I have not said that I wil not, only that I am not sure. There is a lot of good I could do—’
‘You sound like Aunt Norris!’
I shuddered at the notion, and said quickly, ‘Perhaps I may go into the law instead.’
‘A good alternative, for there is decidedly no chance of you doing good there. Papa would find it harder to help you, though,’ he said more seriously.
‘Then I wil have to do what everyone else does, and manage on my own.’
‘In that case, you must have your fun now,’ he said, standing up. ‘Come, I insist. Kreegs is having a party at his rooms this afternoon — a sedate party,’ he said, seeing my look. ‘No drinking, no gambling, no women — unless you count his mother and sister. He is entertaining them to tea.’
‘Wel . . .’
‘Miss Kreegs is very pretty,’ he said temptingly. ‘You should marry, Edmund, you are the type. Marry someone as sensible as yourself, then you and your wife can sit at home in the evenings in your slippers, with your noses in a couple of books!’
I punched him playful y and he responded in kind, and before long we were wrestling as we used to when we were at school.
‘Do you ever wish we were boys again?’ he asked.
‘Never,’ I said.
But it was not quite true. Sometimes I wish that life could be as simple as it was when I was at school, when I did not have to decide on anything more important than whether to have an extra slice of pie for dinner, and my problems were no deeper than the difficulties of learning Latin verbs.
Edmund Bertram's Diary Page 2
