Blurb : Fanny accepts a ride home from Portsmouth, Henry tries to escape his affair, and Mary and Edmund meet over Tom’s (nearly) dead body.

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Introduction to Crawford

This story begins right near the end of chapter 45 (XLV) of Mansfield Park. For those of you who haven’t read it recently, or who aren’t as familiar with the book, I thought I should give a summary of the situation as it stands going into my story. (You will really need to have read the book to appreciate the story, though.)

At this point in the book, Tom is sick at Mansfield, Henry has just returned from Richmond, where he was entangled in an affair with Maria which he is desperate to escape, and Fanny is stuck in Portsmouth, living on letters. Edmund, if you remember, had gone to town for a few weeks with the intention of proposing to Mary Crawford, but finding her much changed by her town friends, became despondent and returned to Mansfield. He doesn’t feel that he can give her up, though, and writes to Fanny that he has decided to propose by letter. This letter is interrupted by news of Tom’s illness, and he later changes his mind and decides to propose in person instead (see the postscript to Edmund’s letter, below).

At this very interesting state of affairs, Fanny receives the very long and awful letter from Mary (reproduced in full below), in which she jokes about how nice it would be if Tom died so that Edmund could inherit, and tells her that Henry has come in and wants to know, once again, if they can please come take Fanny back home to Mansfield. (He just got back from Richmond that morning.) In the book, Fanny is torn about this on a personal level—she doesn’t want to bring Mary and Edmund back together again, but she really, really wants to go home. In the end, she defers to her uncle, and decides that since he has not said he wants her to come back yet, she will stay there. Henry runs off with Maria less than a week later.

This is the point in the narrative that I was fascinated with. What, exactly, was Henry’s plan here? Did he really intend to go back to courting Fanny as if nothing had happened? Did he think it wouldn’t come out? And why, if getting away from Maria was as simple as leaving town, didn’t he do it anyway? What would have happened if Fanny accepted that ride home from Portsmouth?

These were the questions I set out to answer. In order to move Fanny into accepting the Crawfords’ offer, I had Edmund tell her in his second letter that Sir Thomas does want her to come home as soon as transportation can be arranged. From that point on, my only goal was to write all of these characters in a way that held as closely as possible to my understanding of them from the book, and see what happened. I found the result extremely interesting, if not always pleasant.

I feel I should be clear: this is not a comedy.

Note on the letters: There are a number of letters included in this story, many of which are taken from or based on the original text. Here’s what I wrote, and what I took from the book:

1) Letter from Edmund to Fanny - Described in the book, written by me, with modifications for the current story. The post-script, which refers to Edmund’s previously stated intention to propose to Mary by letter, comes verbatim from the book.
2) Letter from Mary to Fanny - Copied entirely from the book, and included for the sake of context.
3) 1st letter from Mr. Harding - Described in the book, written by me.
4) 2nd letter from Mr. Harding - Described in the book, written by me with modifications for the current story.
5) Any other letters - My invention only.

Final note: In order to try to understand the order and timing of events during this crucial week, I used the masterfully compiled Mansfield Park timeline here . (You will need to scroll down most of the way to get to this point in the story.) Based on her proposed dates and Fanny’s belief that she could be back at Mansfield “within three days,” I set the date of their setting out from Portsmouth as May 1. Also, for anyone wondering about delivery times on mail, I figured it would take 1 day for mail to travel between either London and Portsmouth or London and Mansfield, and 2 days between Portsmouth and Mansfield.

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Crawford


“For the good that I want, I do not do, but I practice the very evil that I do not want.”
- Romans 7:19, NASB

“You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram,” she cried, “you will certainly hurt yourself against those spikes—you will tear your gown—you will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha.”
- Mansfield Park , chapter 10

Wisdom is better than Wit, and in the long run will certainly have the laugh on her side.
- Jane Austen, Letter to Fanny Knight , 1814


Letter to Fanny Price from Edmund Bertram:

I feel I must write to you, my dear Fanny, because I fear my mother has given you in her letters a far too complacent picture of Tom’s current condition. She does not know the truth, and we have seen no purpose, at this time, in disturbing her with it. It is true that the immediate danger is past, but the doctor has been at some pains to warn us that Tom cannot be considered safe. Although his original injury is healing, he is very weak, and there are marked hectic symptoms౼restlessness, nervousness, etc, that do not leave him. A cough has set in, and the doctor fears that his lungs may sustain permanent damage. My father and my aunt do all they can to relieve me, but I am best suited to care for him right now, and I do it gladly, but I will admit to you that I am tired. I am tired and I miss you, and I still fear for Tom’s life, that it may be lost in the end. You are much missed here, not only by me. Your aunt asks for you every hour, and your uncle has said that he would like you home with us as soon it may be possible to arrange it, only he does not know how it may be done right now. We neither of us can leave Tom, and there is no other respectable person to whom we can entrust you—but should the chance come, please do not hesitate—do not delay in returning home to us. My dearest cousin and sister, we need you more than ever now. With love, I remain yours, etc,—Edmund

On the subject of my last, I had actually begun a letter when called away by Tom’s illness, but I have now changed my mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends. When Tom is better, I shall go.


Letter to Fanny Price from Mary Crawford:

Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence, and behave as if you could forgive me directly. This is my modest request and expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being treated better than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate answer. I want to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you, no doubt, are perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute not to feel for the distress they are in; and from what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery. I thought little of his illness at first. I looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a fuss with, and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him; but now it is confidently asserted that he is really in a decline, that the symptoms are most alarming, and that part of the family, at least, are aware of it. If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that part, that discerning part, and therefore entreat you to let me know how far I have been rightly informed. I need not say how rejoiced I shall be to hear there has been any mistake, but the report is so prevalent that I confess I cannot help trembling. To have such a fine young man cut off in the flower of his days is most melancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. I really am quite agitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning, but, upon my honour, I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor young man! If he is to die, there will be two poor young men less in the world; and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one, that wealth and consequence could fall into no hands more deserving of them. It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of a few days may be blotted out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many stains. It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name. With real affection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by return of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me the real truth, as you have it from the fountainhead. And now, do not trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings or your own. Believe me, they are not only natural, they are philanthropic and virtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether ‘Sir Edmund’ would not do more good with all the Bertram property than any other possible ‘Sir.’ Had the Grants been at home I would not have troubled you, but you are now the only one I can apply to for the truth, his sisters not being within my reach. Mrs. R. has been spending the Easter with the Aylmers at Twickenham (as to be sure you know), and is not yet returned; and Julia is with the cousins who live near Bedford Square, but I forget their name and street. Could I immediately apply to either, however, I should still prefer you, because it strikes me that they have all along been so unwilling to have their own amusements cut up, as to shut their eyes to the truth. I suppose Mrs. R.’s Easter holidays will not last much longer; no doubt they are thorough holidays to her. The Aylmers are pleasant people; and her husband away, she can have nothing but enjoyment. I give her credit for promoting his going dutifully down to Bath, to fetch his mother; but how will she and the dowager agree in one house? Henry is not at hand, so I have nothing to say from him. Do not you think Edmund would have been in town again long ago, but for this illness?—Yours ever, Mary.

I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in, but he brings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. Mrs. R. knows a decline is apprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to Wimpole Street to-day; the old lady is come. Now do not make yourself uneasy with any queer fancies because he has been spending a few days at Richmond. He does it every spring. Be assured he cares for nobody but you. At this very moment he is wild to see you, and occupied only in contriving the means for doing so, and for making his pleasure conduce to yours. In proof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at Portsmouth about our conveying you home, and I join him in it with all my soul. Dear Fanny, write directly, and tell us to come. It will do us all good. He and I can go to the Parsonage, you know, and be no trouble to our friends at Mansfield Park. It would really be gratifying to see them all again, and a little addition of society might be of infinite use to them; and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be so wanted there, that you cannot in conscience—conscientious as you are—keep away, when you have the means of returning. I have not time or patience to give half Henry’s messages; be satisfied that the spirit of each and every one is unalterable affection. —Yours, Mary


Chapter 1

Fanny was waiting upstairs with Susan when the carriage came. Her trunk was packed, and lighter than when she brought it, as she had given as much as she could to her sister. “You must write to me every week,” she had told her, “and tell me what you are reading. I have paid the subscription at the library for three more months, and you must promise me that you will make use of it.”

Susan had promised, and tried to look brave, but Fanny’s heart was sick with guilt and grief to leave her—and yet happy, so unspeakably happy to be going home to Mansfield!—and yet in what company she must go. With so much in her heart, it was no wonder she could not stop from crying as she embraced her sister. Susan, weeping also, embraced her back, and they went down the stairs.

Mr. Crawford was already in the small parlour, speaking with her father. Mr. Price was eager to talk of ships and navy lists, and had gotten fairly along into his subject when Fanny made her appearance. He would have continued talking, too, had not Mr. Crawford broken in to greet her. Fanny, remembering all of his sister’s mentions of Mrs. Rushworth, could not bring herself to meet his eyes for more than a moment. Still, he spoke her name in the same soft, eager tone he had so often used with her before. “I am happy,” he said, “extremely happy that you accepted our offer to convey you home. Mary is just outside in the carriage; she is almost as eager to see you as I have been, and although I know we cannot expect to be a merry party, under the current circumstances, still I hope it will not be an unpleasant journey—it cannot be unpleasant to me , no matter what may happen.”

He turned from her to Susan, whom he greeted and spoke to with great civility, and then to Mrs. Price, when she appeared. Then there was a few minutes of bustle, while Fanny’s trunk was brought down, and all her younger siblings called to bid her good-bye. There were no tears other than Susan’s and Fanny’s. John and Charles got into a fight halfway down the stairs and could scarcely be separated long enough to acknowledge her, Betsey occupied her mother’s attention, and Mr. Price was still trying to speak to Mr. Crawford about the latest French frigates to be seized even while he was handing Fanny into the carriage. At any other time, she would have been utterly sunk by such a leave-taking. Today, it could only occupy a small part of Fanny’s feelings. Too many other feelings demanded priority—fear over Tom, grief over Susan, joy over Mansfield. She was unhappy to be owing such joy to the Crawfords. She could not forgive Mary her recent letter, and the cold-hearted feelings she had so jestingly expressed. She dreaded what the result of her coming to Mansfield now might be—what Edmund might say or do, how he might commit himself—and to one who had wished for his own brother’s death!

As for Mr. Crawford, the last time Fanny had seen him, he had left her with warmer feelings than she had ever had for him before. His behaviour to her and her family during his visit to Portsmouth had really been irreproachable. She had really begun to believe that he might love her—but then to hear that he had not gone to Norfolk as he said, that he had stayed to see Mrs. Rushworth again—had continued to see her, perhaps to flirt with her! Fanny was mortified. With the sister she was disgusted, but with the brother she was disappointed.

And so, with such a mixture of pleasure and resentment, of anticipation and dread, of sorrow for the one behind, fear for those ahead, and dislike of those to whom she must now owe her greatest happiness, did Fanny begin her journey.

“My very dearest Fanny,” said Mary, embracing her as she climbed into the carriage, “words cannot express how pleased I am to see you! I missed you more than I can say. I do not know how it is, for I was used to think people in London were the only source for really good company in the world, but I could not find anyone worth talking to there. Except for your cousin Edmund when he came, of course—but truly, I am relieved to be away from them and back with you.” She shook her head, half laughing at herself. “You are too sweet by far, Fanny. You have spoiled us both.”

“I do not accept the word spoiled,” replied her brother, as he settled across from them. “Say rather, Mary, that Fanny—Miss Price has improved us; she has elevated our taste, and taught us what a really good thing is.” He looked at Fanny very earnestly, though she only coloured and studied her hands. “London was dreadful without you,” he said softly. “I have no wish to ever return to it again. I only wish to be near you.”

Between embarrassment and anger, Fanny could not speak. After studying her for a few moments, Henry changed the subject and began to talk to Mary. They conversed back and forth, lightly discussing people they knew. Neither of them called upon Fanny to say anything, and yet she felt his gaze on her constantly. It occurred to her, after a time, that there was a tension in Mr. Crawford’s voice that she had not heard before. Listening to his gay conversation, almost studied in its brightness, she thought she must have been mistaken—yet, no, there was something. Fanny had listened to Mr. Crawford speak enough that she knew his voice, knew its timbres and expressions, and just at this time he did not sound quite like his usual sanguine self. She wondered what had happened in London with Maria. Perhaps his conscience betrayed him; it certainly ought.

“My dear girl,” said Mary after a time, “now that I get a good look at your face, I see that Henry was quite right to be worried about you. No wonder you are so silent; I am sure you must feel very poorly.”

“I am well enough. I am so very grateful to you for taking me back to Mansfield.”

“You ought never to have been gone so long,” said the brother. “I knew how it would be, when I saw you there last; I am only sorry I did not persuade you then to accept a ride home. You did not keep faith with me, Miss Price—I trusted you not to conceal your ill health, and yet you did it anyway.” He shook his head. “It would have been infinitely better—better for everyone—had you but said you were ill sooner. Nothing, then, would have prevented me from coming for you.”

“Better for everyone, Mr. Crawford?” she could not help asking.

“Well, for one, your family at Mansfield,” he said after a moment. “You cannot tell me you would not have been a great comfort to them during your cousin’s illness. Lady Bertram, I am sure, has been missing you by the minute, and I can only imagine Edmund’s burdens have been heavier for lack of your company and help. Think if Tom had died, and you still stuck in Portsmouth! What comfort would you have been able to give or receive there? What comfort has your tender heart been in need of already? It would have been better for you , I will not allow you to pretend otherwise, and as much as I respect your family, that must always weigh heaviest with me. I cannot be as concerned about their wellbeing as I am about yours.”

“What Henry is not saying is that he thinks it would have been far better for him too. If you had heard his complaints to me, Fanny, his sighs and laments and panegyrics in favour of your beauty and virtues, then I am sure you would not have made him wait so long to see you again. If nothing else, you would have had pity on me, as the chief auditor of his misery. You would not have subjected me to more of his sulks than you could help, if you but knew how acute and noisy they really were.”

Her brother, far from discomposed at this picture of himself, laughed. “I do not deny it. In fact, I quite agree—do, Miss Price, have mercy on my sister. Let your tender heart work in her favour, at least.”

Despite herself, Fanny could not help a smile at this, but she shook her head reprovingly and looked out the window. The rest of the afternoon passed in conversation. As much as Fanny disliked Mary Crawford, she could not, in the circumstances, refuse to answer her civil inquiries about the other Prices, and when Henry added his own approving compliments on Susan’s manners and good sense, she came very near to liking him again. Conversation then turned towards Mansfield, and what might await them there. Imprudent as Mary may have been in her letter, she had taste enough not to repeat those sentiments in person, and Henry entered into all of Fanny’s concerns with the good sense and feeling he was capable of. No one said anything to trouble her, for an hour or two at least, and she began to feel herself more tranquil and more hopeful than she had thought possible when they set out at noon.

~%~

They stopped for the night in _____. A private parlour was easily had, but the innkeeper informing them that only two bed chambers remained to be claimed, Mary and Fanny were to share the larger, while Mr. Crawford took the second. Having ordered dinner and taken a few minutes to tidy himself, Crawford came to the parlour to find only Fanny, standing by the window. Mary was still upstairs.

He lingered near the doorway to admire her for a few moments, seeing now more clearly, as she had put off her bonnet and pelisse, what depredations her stay in Portsmouth had made against her health. Fanny jumped when she looked up and saw him watching her.

“I startled you,” he said, coming into the room.

“Oh, no! That is, only a little.”

He drew closer and Fanny clasped her hands together, worried he would try to take one. Instead, he stopped a few feet away and crossed his arms in front of his chest, watching her with dark, intense eyes. “I missed you.”

Fanny blushed and looked away.

“Do not look away from me, please. I have longed to look into your eyes again—those soft eyes with their compelling looks. Your eyes are full of truth and goodness, Fanny. When you look at me, you make me more than I was—more than I am.” He swallowed. “You could make me into anything.”

“Please, Mr. Crawford,” Fanny said in her gentle way. “You know I do not like this kind of talk.”

“I cannot help it. I love you too much to stay silent about my feelings. Miss Price—Fanny—I am desperate for you! I have waited—you know I have waited these months, and I will continue to wait, however long you require it—but surely you see how unalterable my passion for you is? How eagerly I would do anything, perform any task, undertake any journey, no matter how arduous, if it would win me a smile and a warm look from you?”

“Please, Mr. Crawford—” Hardly knowing what she did, Fanny put out her hand in a beseeching fashion, only to have it instantly seized. Henry came a step nearer.

“Will you not call me Henry, my dearest?”

“Mr. Crawford!” She tugged on her hand, and he let it go, only to take her other one instead.

“Would you have me go down on my knees before you?” To her horror, he looked as if he was preparing to do just that, and she fled across the room to stand by the fireplace. He followed her more slowly. “Why do you flee from me? I thought we parted as friends last time, in Portsmouth, did we not?”

“This is not speaking to me as a friend.” Her tone was as close to angry as Fanny ever got.

He stopped a little away, looking frustrated. “Will you at least tell me that you believe me?—that you accept that my feelings for you are real and lasting?”

Fanny hesitated. She had begun to think so, after his visit in Portsmouth. She had really begun to believe that he did love her; but that was before the name of Mrs. Rushworth appeared in Mary’s letters. She did not know what to think now, with this renewal of his professions. Slowly, she began to nod her head, then changed it to a shake halfway though, and then another nod. Henry let out a long sigh, but before he could press her for more, Mary came into the room, giving them bright-eyed and significant looks as she laughingly begged pardon for taking so long.

After this, Fanny could not be comfortable again, and said little through dinner except for “yes,” “no,” and “thank you.” Henry, too, had fallen silent, and so it was left to Mary to carry the burden of conversation, which she did with little monologues on Mrs. Fraser and Lady Stornaway, on Mr. and Mrs. Grant, music, Everingham, and popular novels. At last hitting on a topic she felt must interest, she asked Fanny if she had heard anything from her cousins in London.

“No—nothing,” was Fanny’s answer.

“I must reproach them, when next I see them, for neglecting you. Though it is not to be wondered at, I suppose, if they can remain indifferently in town when they know their brother is so ill. I know you understand me, Fanny. You have a brother you love. I am sure you can no more imagine ignoring William in his time of need than I can imagine ignoring Henry.”

“Oh no!”

“Then again, Henry is superior to Tom, as brothers go, which they certainly know. I told you, did I not, in one of my letters, how Mrs. Rushworth looked when I mentioned your name to her? She is not one who can be said to be gracious in defeat.”

“Mary,” said Henry.

“Miss Julia Bertram takes it better—but as she is also still in town, I do not know that I can attribute it to any great spirit of charity she might possess.” She laughed. “You needn’t look so concerned, my dear, nor you either, Henry. That is all in the past now. Henry and Maria are on perfectly amiable terms now, aren’t you?”

Henry’s smile seemed a bit forced. “We spoke a little, in company.”

“Well, suffice to say that I am glad that it is you , my dear Fanny, who is Henry’s choice.”

To this Fanny had no reply, and after a moment the brother took up the reins of conversation again, talking of unexceptional subjects until, at last, dinner was done, and Fanny felt justified in pleading tiredness so she could retire.

When she was gone, Henry turned baleful eyes upon his sister. “If you are under the impression you are helping me, you are not.”

She shook her head. “Do not be absurd, Henry. Fanny knows very well that you have had scores of women in love with you, for I told her so myself, and you are much mistaken if you do not think she knows Maria and Julia were among them. I know that because she told me herself. She is quiet, not blind.”

Henry frowned and paced about the room. Mary selected a sweetmeat off a plate and ate it as she watched him. As the scowl on his face grew, so did the frown on hers. “How much trouble are you in?” she asked finally.

“What?” He looked at her in surprise.

“With Maria Rushworth, I mean. I thought it was merely a flirtation between you two, but the way you are acting now, I almost begin to think it more than that.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “You do not think a flirtation will be enough for Fanny, if she hears of it?”

“It may be, if you act mysterious about it, and hide it. Of course she will think it must be dreadful. But if you will only speak of Mrs. Rushworth casually—mention her in passing, like the merest acquaintance—why then, she will assume all is innocent—as indeed, it is.”

“You may be right. Still, I cannot like—” He broke off. “I wish I had never gone to that party,” he murmured. “I wish I had never seen her again.”

Mary shook her head. “You are making a great deal out of nothing. I own, I was surprised to see you going after her again; I really did think your love for Fanny had cured you of your flirtatious ways. But still, what is a little town flirtation? It is nothing at all, and if Fanny is not quite able to see that yet, dear, innocent creature that she is, she will learn it soon enough.”

Henry shook his head in turn, but did not contradict her. Stopping before the fire, he thrust his hands into his pockets and gazed at the flames. “You never did tell me how things stood between you and Bertram,” he said eventually. “I gather he has not proposed?”

She came to stand next to him. “I think he meant to, but I gave him no opening. I could not decide what to say.”

“And now?”

“And now,” she said lightly, “I am waiting to see what will become of dear Tom’s illness.”

Henry’s brows went up, and he looked at her in surprise. “That is a little cynical even for you, my dear.”

She tossed her head. “I will take no reproof from you, of the four thousand a year. It is easy enough for you to not care about money.” He did not reply, and after a moment she added quietly, “I have missed him terribly, though. I do not quite understand what it is about him, but I could not find any man in town I liked half so well. Though he is less in every way I think important, yet he is still somehow… more than all of them.”

Henry put his arm around her shoulders. “I know exactly what you mean.”

~%~

Sir Thomas Bertram sat at his desk in his own dear room, and looked at the two letters open before him. He had received them both that morning.


My dear Sir Thomas, after much deliberation I have determined to write to you on a matter of the most serious nature. I trust that you will forgive me the liberty I take in the name of our friendship. It has come to my attention that certain rumours are circulating in London concerning your daughter Mrs. Rushworth, and a Mr. Crawford, with whom I believe you are acquainted. Mr. Crawford has been very often in Wimpole St. since some time in March, and it is beginning to be said around Town that Mrs. Rushworth has taken him as her established flirt. I myself have attended parties at the Rushworths’, and seen him there, and can confirm the appearance of intimacy between them. Mr. Rushworth spoke to me of it on one occasion and I did my best to reassure him, but he must only become increasingly jealous if such behaviour continues. —Such was the situation before Mrs. Rushworth removed to Twickenham for Easter. I hesitated to write to you, as it seemed possibly no more than a flirtation at that time, and I hoped that a separation of some days or weeks might be sufficient to put an end to it. You may imagine my dismay, when having occasion to travel to Twickenham myself last week, I learned that Mr. Crawford was staying nearby, in Richmond, and that he was a frequent visitor in the house where your daughter stayed. And now, I have learned that they returned to London on the same day, and have since been seen together. This comfort I can offer you, that I do not believe the situation to be desperate yet. There has been some talk, but it may all be forgotten quickly, if Mrs. Rushworth can be prevailed upon to give the young man up. It is all the more necessary because Mr. Rushworth has returned with his mother, and she, I believe, will be far less inclined than he to impute innocent motives to their association. I urge you, therefore, to come to town as soon as you are able, and use your influence with your daughter. —Yours, etc, J. Harding.


Dear Sir,

I pray that you will forgive me if I have done any wrong, but as I understood from my cousin Edmund’s last letter that you wished for me to return if possible, I have taken the liberty of accepting Mr. and Miss Crawford’s kind offer to convey me to Mansfield. I hope we shall arrive on the evening of the 2nd, or 3rd at the latest. Again, please forgive me if I have acted presumptuously, and give my love to my aunt and tell her I am eager to see her soon. I believe Mr. and Miss Crawford intend to stay at the parsonage, so you do not need to concern yourself with accommodating them. ౼Respectfully, your niece, F. Price

Chapter 2


In the morning, Fanny assisted Mary with dressing, and accepted her help in return, though she had never needed help before. They set out early, as the greater part of their journey must be accomplished today. In the carriage, Mr. Crawford seemed to be restored to his usual charm and cheerfulness, and talked to Fanny on topics he knew to be of interest to her, so that she could not help replying to him. She was surprised at how quickly the time seemed to go by, though she was careful not to be alone with him when they stopped for lunch.

Still, as the long afternoon hours stretched out, silence fell more and more over the coach. As the prospect of Mansfield and all those within it drew nearer, each found plenty to occupy their own thoughts. Mary, perhaps, was thinking of Tom and Edmund, and in what state she should expect to find them both. Fanny, poor heart, was thinking of everybody—Tom and his illness, Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram, Edmund and Mary, Susan back home, Mr. Crawford and his advances. There was no one of whom she did not think with emotion.

Even Mr. Crawford seemed to have fallen into a melancholy. Fanny, when she had leisure from her own thoughts to observe him, was reminded of the night before he and Mary left Mansfield all those months ago. He had seemed oppressed then, and seemed so now as well. How strange it was! She had thought him sorry to leave her, but now, when he must be certain of seeing her, he seemed just as grieved.

The evening closed in. They stopped for dinner, and there was some mention of remaining for the night—of continuing the long journey in the morning, but Fanny’s evident eagerness to be home at last kept the siblings from pressing her, and they all climbed back in the carriage for the final two hours of their trip.

Darkness had fallen before they finally drew up before the house. Fanny, who had been eagerly trying to discern any detail of the familiar surroundings, smiled to see the windows lit, the rooms she knew so well and could describe from here. All her trepidations had been swept away in joy; she could not wait to be inside, to see her aunt, her uncle, her cousin—to be useful and loved again.

“We will not come in with you,” said Henry, with a look at his sister. “They will not want to see us. ” He climbed out of the carriage to help Fanny down.

She took his hand, and stepped out on the gravel drive. Behind her, the footman was already unloading her trunk, and before her, up the steps, the door of the house opened. She wanted to run up into it, but Mr. Crawford still held her hand, and she turned to him, repeating her thanks for his kindness.

“Do not thank me,” he said, stepping closer. “Only please, you must promise me—tell me that you will remember, whatever happens, you will remember and know that my heart has always been true to you. My affections have never wavered, can never waver. In my mind and my heart, I am constant.”

“Please—” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it closer, over his heart.

“Promise me, Fanny. Promise me you will remember.”

“I will,” she said, eager only to get away. “I will remember.” He let her go. “Thank you again— pray thank your sister also. Good-night!” She turned, and he did not detain her this time, but only watched as she mounted the steps, and went inside.

~%~

With what joy, what ineffable delight, did Fanny cross the threshold of her dear Mansfield Park again! The house which had held such solemn terrors to her as a ten-year-old was peace and comfort now, and even just such a homely sight as Baddeley holding the door was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Welcome home, Miss Price,” he said to her with a smile.

Another step, and she was into the hall, her delighted eyes looking everywhere, resting on every dear object, when there were voices, and Aunt Bertram came, actually came, with eager steps to meet her. She cast herself on Fanny’s neck. “My dearest Fanny,” she said in her ear, “now at last I shall be comfortable!”

A few minutes, and when Fanny at last turned from her aunt’s embrace, she found her uncle, standing not far away. Despite what Edmund had written in his letter, she was still a little afraid that Sir Thomas would be displeased with her, for arranging her own transportation, but he did not look it. He did seem tired to her, and perhaps sad, but he smiled at her very kindly, and pressed her hand, and told her he was glad she was home. Then she still had to put off her bonnet and pelisse, and finally at last, with her arm around her aunt, went into the drawing room.

Aunt Norris was sitting by the fire. “Well, Fanny,” she said, “you have had a very fine holiday, lounging by the sea all these months, and I daresay you have not lifted a hand to do a stitch of work in all that time, but here we have been very hard pressed, very hard pressed indeed, with your dear cousin Tom’s illness. I have not spared myself; anything that needed to be done, I have done it myself without hesitation, no matter how hard, and far be it from me to complain over a little labour or cost, as you know I never begrudge either, but now that you are home, I expect you to do your share of the work. You must not be thinking that because you have just had a long journey you will be permitted to sleep all day, or lie about on the sofa, like you were wont to do in the past. There is much to be done, very much to be done still, and unless you wish to show yourself an ungrateful and insensible girl, you will do it, and without complaint.”

This seemed a bit hard, coming directly upon Fanny’s entrance to the house as it did, but even Aunt Norris could not depress her spirits tonight. “Yes, aunt,” she said meekly, and leading her other aunt to the sofa, turned immediately to the table where all her work and things were laid out.

“Stay a moment, Fanny,” said Sir Thomas. “Sister, I know that Fanny is a good girl, and I am sure she will do all you ask tomorrow, but for tonight, I must insist that she sit a little, and tell us her news. I have called for tea, and I think she ought to drink it before she does anything else.”

Mrs. Norris looked angry, but could not argue, and Fanny was able to admit thankfully that tea did sound very good. She was just seating herself next to Lady Bertram, who held her hand tightly and gazed at her face, when another figure appeared in the doorway.

“I have just had word—” said Edmund, and there he was, eyes shadowed and face drawn, but smiling at her with so much affection and pleasure that she thought he had never looked more handsome. Before she knew it she was out of her seat and crossing the room to him. He moved towards her, and caught her up in a quick embrace. “I have missed you so much,” he said, as he drew back again, and squeezed her hands. “You must not go away again soon; Mansfield is not the same without you.”

“I am so happy, so very happy to be back again.”

Dropping her hands, he let her go completely, but before they turned back to the room, his eyes moved toward the hall, and he spoke in a low voice. “Is she here, Fanny?”

Fanny’s heart, full of joy a moment ago, dropped again. “She and Mr. Crawford were to go to the parsonage.”

“Do they—do they plan to stay long, do you know?”

“They spoke of staying. I think they wished to see the situation here before they decided how long.”

Edmund nodded, and with an effort put aside his anxiety, and smiled back at her again. The last thing he said before they rejoined the others was, “I am glad you agreed to let Crawford bring you home. You must be thinking a little better of him now.”

Homecomings, reflected Fanny rather bitterly, were mixed blessings after all.

As the family settled around the tea table, Fanny’s first object was to discover how Tom was doing. He had had a restless day, but was sleeping now, said Edmund, with a significant look to remind her that Lady Bertram did not know the full truth of his condition. Not long after were exclamations over Fanny’s own appearance. She denied she had been sick, blushing under their gaze.

“Crawford said something about it. He told me he did not believe the confinement of Portsmouth suited you, but I did not understand how seriously he meant it,” said Edmund, examining her pale countenance with concern. “Fanny, you should have said something. You should have written that you were not well.”

“If Fanny has been sick, I am sure it is all her own doing,” said Aunt Norris, talking over Fanny’s attempts to disclaim. “Sitting at home doing nothing, probably, instead of walking or making herself useful. You have gotten far too much in the way of always riding horses here at Mansfield, and now think that if you do not have a horse, you cannot take exercise, which is a great piece of nonsense. Why, look at me. I do not ride, but I am never ill.”

“Perhaps you were allowed to remain in Portsmouth too long,” said Sir Thomas, ignoring Mrs. Norris. “But I hope you will quickly regain your strength now that you are here again. You must be sure to ride every day, and rest whenever you feel tired. The last thing we want,” he added, with a stern look at both Mrs. Norris and Fanny, who were opening their mouths to protest, “is another invalid on our hands.”

That stopped Fanny’s protests, and if it did not quite stop Mrs. Norris’s, at least it reduced them to mere mutters. After that, Fanny answered questions about her family in Portsmouth, adding many words of praise and affection for Susan. By then she was beginning to yawn, so Sir Thomas ordered her upstairs to bed, where she went very happily, only stopping by briefly to visit the East room and look at all its treasures.

~%~

The parsonage was very quiet without the Grants in residence. They had taken their cook with them, leaving only a housemaid and an elderly manservant to care for the place in their absence. These two, having received notice only the day before of the young Crawfords’ arrival, had scrambled to procure something fit for them to eat, to say nothing of removing dust cloths and putting linens on the beds.

“I am afraid,” sighed Mary over bread and butter and tea that night, “that staying here sounded better in theory than it will prove to be in fact.”

Henry said nothing.

“I suppose, after all, that there is nothing much for us to do here. We might stay a day or two—call and determine how the invalid is—and then return to London as soon as we like.”

“I’m not going back to London.” His sister looked surprised. “Oh, I will escort you back, of course, but I will not stay—not for more than an hour.”

“Why, where do you mean to stay, then?”

“Here, until I’ve either won Fanny’s hand or lost her forever. Then Everingham, I suppose.” He stared deep into the glass of dark Madeira that had been poured for him. “But not London.”

Mary studied him. “I hate to see you so melancholy, Henry. And over a woman! Are you sure she is worth it?”

“You should know better than to ask me that. Fanny is worth everything. I am more convinced than ever of my feelings and wishes.” Determinedly, he pushed to his feet. “It is the lack of her that makes me melancholy, Mary, and I will not solve that by giving up. Until she sends me away for good—until I know absolutely that all hope is gone—I will not do that. Good-night!” He went upstairs, and Mary was left to finish her bread and butter alone before taking herself to her own solitary bed chamber.

~%~

Edmund Bertram let himself into his brother’s room softly, and carried his candle to the bed. Tom was still sleeping, his breath a gentle rasp, his face pale against the pillow. He had hung one leg over the side of the bed; Edmund put the candle down so that he could fix it, and carefully re-tucked the covers over his form. The fire had been banked, but he went to check it anyway, to be sure it would last through the night. Even with summer coming on the nights were cool, and the doctor had warned that a chill could prove fatal at this delicate stage.

Having satisfied himself that everything was as well as possible in the room, he opened the adjourning door to Tom’s dressing room, where a bed was made up. Edmund and Tom’s valet took turns sleeping on it. It was Edmund’s turn tonight. He sat on the bed with a deep sigh, and began removing his shoes and cravat.

Despite Tom’s condition, and the other concerns that pressed upon him, Edmund was happier than he could remember being in a long time, happier than he had been since returning from London. It was Fanny who made the difference, he thought with a smile. Having her back was like having a piece of himself restored. He could breathe easier, just knowing she was under the same roof again, and he would be able to see her and speak to her tomorrow.

His smile slipped a little as he thought of the other young woman who had come in that carriage, and who now lay in a bed not far away. That Mary had come he could only count a good thing. It showed her kindness of heart and affection for Fanny. Perhaps, also, it meant she wanted to see him. His innate modesty struggled with the lover’s insistence that she did care for him. Was she sorry for how things had happened in London? Would she apologise, if given a chance—more importantly, would she hear him, if he declared himself? Would she accept?

These matters were no more clear to him now than they had been previously, but at least he felt there was reason to hope. Exchanging the rest of his clothes for a night shirt, Edmund blew out his candle and climbed into the narrow bed. As he dropped off to sleep, a smile crossed his face once again. Fanny, he thought. Fanny is home.

~%~

The morning was all joys for Fanny. Her little white room, so dear and familiar; the East room, full of her plants and books, all her own—oh, what treasure, what unspeakable wealth to have an entire room, two entire rooms, all to herself, after the noise and crowding of the house in Portsmouth. Space, privacy, peace—she breathed in the silence like a sweet perfume. Susan, she thought. If only Susan could be here too, her happiness would be perfect.

Downstairs, she found her uncle and Edmund in the breakfast parlour, both smiling at her, both full of courtesy and goodwill, calling her ‘dear Fanny,’ and bringing her her favourite things on a plate. Nor was the wonder of breakfast itself lost on her. It was almost the first good meal she had had since leaving for Portsmouth, and to have it so orderly and on time was a blessing on a magnitude she could never have imagined before leaving.

After breakfast she took a leisurely ride on her own dear mare, the mare that Edmund had bought for her, and then she had the exquisite felicity of seeing Mansfield Park itself, the park and gardens, the fields and trees that she knew like her own heart. Every change that the seasons had made, every leaf and blossom and sparrow’s nest was seen and adored. She did not ride in the direction of the parsonage—it must be confessed that she did not ride that way on purpose—so she did not even see any figures in the distance who might have caused her distress.

By the time she returned from her ride and changed, her Aunt Bertram had come downstairs, and Fanny sat down beside her, to talk to her, help her and entertain her, with as much eagerness as even Mrs. Norris could wish. Lady Bertram was really overjoyed to have her niece back, more overjoyed, it might be said, than she had been even to have her husband back from Antigua. “Oh Fanny, I am very glad you are back,” she told her every few minutes. “You must not leave again.”

Fanny assured her she had no desire to leave, and the two continued together in mutual satisfaction, not even disturbed by the arrival of Aunt Norris, until Baddeley came in to announce Mr. and Miss Crawford. Fanny, despite her misgivings, could not help but ask the butler to please inform Master Edmund about their callers.

“My dear Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris,” said Mary, advancing into the room, “you must forgive us for calling when we know you have an invalid in the house, but we could not be in the neighbourhood and not wish to see you.”

Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris said all that was civil, and the pair sat down.

“We are most anxious to ascertain the state of Mr. Bertram’s health,” said Mary. “It was difficult to tell, from hearing such second and third hand accounts, how ill he really was. Do you mind if we inquire, with the confidentiality of friends of course, how exactly he is doing today?”

Fanny, hearing such an inquiry from such a source, had to look down that no expression of anger or disgust might be seen by the room. Lady Bertram said, in her calm way, that he had been very ill indeed, but she believed he was much better, and would be better still soon. Fanny looked up, to see how Mary bore this.

“That is excellent news,” said Mary after a moment. And then she smiled at Fanny. “How do you like the gift we brought for you last night, your ladyship? I trust it was much to your taste?”

“Gift? I do not remember a gift. Fanny, did Miss Crawford bring me a gift?”

“My sister means your niece, Lady Bertram,” broke in Henry. He had been sitting quietly, his eyes on Fanny’s face. “She knows you must be pleased to have Miss Price restored to you again.”

“Oh, yes!” She turned to her and reached for her hand. “Fanny must never leave me again; I cannot be comfortable without her.”

“A feeling shared by many of us present, I expect,” said a voice from the doorway, and Edmund came in.

The Crawfords both rose. Mr. Crawford went to meet him, and the two men clasped hands. “Thank you for bringing her, Crawford,” said Edmond, in a low tone. “You have done our whole family an inestimable kindness.”

“I would gladly have done it sooner,” was Henry’s only reply. They turned towards Mary.

“Miss Crawford.” Edmund bowed. “I must thank you, too, for travelling such a long way to escort my cousin back to us.”

“Mr. Bertram—” Mary seemed shocked. “Forgive me, but are you sure you have not also been ill? You look very unwell!”

He laughed shortly, and ran a hand over his hair. “No, only a little tired and anxious. But I am happy to see you, at least.” His gaze moved to encompass Henry and Fanny. “I am happy to see all of you.”

“You have been having a difficult time of it,” said Henry. “It’s not surprising, if my understanding of your brother’s condition is accurate. Was there no one to give you relief in caring for him?”

“Certainly. I have had much help from the servants, particularly his man, Peterson, whom I credit with keeping him alive until I could get there. Really, I cannot claim to be more than the entertainment these days.” He smiled. “Now that Fanny is here, he might like her to read to him, as even his nerves could not be irritated by her soft voice.”

Fanny wished to express her willingness to read to Tom at any time, if it would grant Edmund some reprieve, but was prevented by the entrance of her uncle into the room. Sir Thomas made and accepted his greetings gravely—Fanny thought he looked more serious, and less cordial than he was used to be with the Crawfords. After all the civilities had been run through, and a brief report of Tom’s condition for the day given, he turned to Mr. Crawford and asked if he would be kind enough to speak with him in his study for a few minutes. Mr. Crawford looked surprised and perhaps uneasy, but agreed.

Before they left the room, Sir Thomas turned to his younger son, and ran an assessing eye over his appearance. “Fanny is not the only one who would benefit from an increase in fresh air and exercise,” he announced. “Perhaps you could take Miss Crawford for a walk in the gardens; I am sure she would enjoy seeing them in spring.” He spared a final, approving smile for his niece before exiting, Crawford following behind.

Mary and Edmund looked at each other. “You do not need to agree if you do not wish, but I would enjoy a walk,” he said. Mary hesitated, cast a glance around the room, and agreed. In another few moments, they were gone too. “I would ask you as well, Fanny, but I know my mother will not be willing to part with you yet,” said Edmund before they left. Fanny was left alone, with only her two aunts for company.

Chapter 3


The garden really was beautiful, at all the height of late spring, before the heat of summer had driven away its most delicate blooms, but Edmund did not see it. He could not think of anything but the girl beside him. The gravel crunched quietly under their feet as they strode down one path, and then another.

“Mr. Bertram,” Mary cleared her throat. “I have heard from Fanny what her understanding of your brother’s condition is, and from your mother what her understanding is, but I know that neither of them could have such accurate information as yourself. If you do not think it impertinent of me to ask, what, pray, is the state of Mr. Tom Bertram’s health? Do you expect a full recovery?”

Edmund’s feelings warmed, and he relaxed. This was sensible talk, feeling talk. This showed Miss Crawford feeling exactly what she should. “You could never be impertinent by such an inquiry. You must know that my family regards you and your family as quite belonging to us; if anyone has a right to know our affairs, it is you. Tom’s condition is very serious, I am afraid. I do still hope for a full recovery, and he has survived the worst of the fever, but it will be some time before we can feel assured that he is truly out of danger. There are days that he seems almost himself again—weak and irritable, to be sure, but in his right mind and gaining strength—and then there are days where I fear he is slipping away before my eyes. The greatest danger is to his lungs, and that, you know, can lead to very lingering illness.”

Mary frowned over this collection of statements. “Is your fear that he will recover, but not completely, or that he will not recover at all?”

“Both. If there is a change for the worse, the doctor feels it will be in the next few weeks, perhaps the next few days, even. If he survives those—survives the next month, say, then he is likely to recover, but may not ever enjoy the same good health he used to. He may live on for months or years, perhaps even decades, while never being very strong, and then, at the slightest cold or pneumonia, be gone very quickly.” Edmond shook his head, his face full of grief. “He is only twenty-six, Miss Crawford! Twenty-six! How can I think of his life being struck down so early? I do not say his behaviour in Newmarket was not very bad, but surely this is too harsh a penalty!”

Mary bit her lip. “I am sure it is a great comfort to your father,” she ventured, “to know that he still has you, should the worst happen.”

He frowned. “I would never say that my father could take comfort in such thoughts. He does not have so many sons he could spare one of them, and even if he did, Tom is himself. No one could replace him.”

“Of course not. I did not mean to say you could. But still, you cannot deny that you have been your family’s greatest support in this time. You have always been their greatest support,” she added in a quiet voice, “for as long as I have known you.”

Edmond just shook his head. “I hope you did not have any important engagements in town you are missing?” he asked with a little constraint. “I know your friends must be wishing for you.”

“Nothing I can say I am very sorry to miss. One gets into such a round of parties, they all feel alike soon.”

“It seemed to me, when I was there, that you did not find it disagreeable.”

“Oh, no, for who can find dancing, and music, and good food disagreeable? It does not follow that no change or variety is desired, though.”

“It was good of you to bring Fanny to us,” he said after a moment. “It feels a different house already, thanks to her, and to you. I do not know when my father would have been able to fetch her, and seeing her now, it is clear she should not have been allowed to stay there as long as she did. I know that she feels it most gratefully, as I do too.”

Mary was happy to demure. “Nothing is more tiresome than to be continually thanked for something you wished to do in the beginning. If Fanny had been a little less stubborn in her obedience, we might have picked her up months ago, and then perhaps Henry and she would be engaged by now, which would mean he was happy, which would mean I was happy—”

“Which would mean I was happy.”

She faltered a little under the meaningful look he gave her. “And then who knows how everything might have worked out differently. Perhaps even poor Mr. Bertram would have had cause to be elsewhere.”

“Yes, poor Mr. Bertram,” Edmund murmured.

She shook her head playfully. “I meant the other Mr. Bertram, as you know very well. Though perhaps I might mistake you for your brother after all, if you are teasing me. This is a surprising development indeed!”

“I can tease when I want to. Just ask Fanny; she can tell you.” Smilingly they walked a little further.

“How strange to be at Mansfield again!” exclaimed Mary suddenly. “It is a little like being transported to another world, I think. Here is all peace and sobriety, family and quiet, where a newly bloomed rose bush is the most interesting thing to be seen!”

“It is too quiet for you, I suppose.”

“No—I have not always found it so,” she said after a moment. “With good society, and a large enough family circle, I have not found it too quiet. In fact, I do not think I have ever been so happy as I was, last year, here.”

Edmund stopped and faced her. His heart pounded. “Mary, I— ”

They were interrupted by a servant, who had come searching for Master Edmund. Mr. Bertram was awake; he was trying to get up, and would not listen to his valet. Master Edmund was the only one who could calm him, the only one he would listen to. Edmund made his excuses and hurried away.

~%~

Henry followed Sir Thomas into his room. It was the same room where he had declared his love for Fanny, and later urged her to accept his suit. It was also the same room that had been converted into a prop room for the play. Henry’s heart beat rapidly, and his hands were starting to sweat. With all the dread of a guilty conscience he faced the father of Maria and the uncle of Fanny.

“Please, sit down,” nodded Sir Thomas, and Henry took the chair he indicated. Steady, he told himself. This could be about anything. Sir Thomas sat opposite him, behind his desk. He folded his hands, and hesitated.

“Is there something I can help you with?” asked Henry. “Perhaps you wish to hear my opinion on Miss Price’s family, and the conditions they live in. I can give you but an imperfect report, as I did not spend a great deal of time in the house, but—”

“No, Mr. Crawford, it is not that. Though I am grateful to you for bringing her to us, my concern does not lie with my niece today.”

“Oh, well, perhaps you have a question about my sister, what her fortune is, and the conditions of the trust. My uncle is her trustee, of course, but I am familiar with the details—”

Sir Thomas raised his hand. “Mr. Crawford, please. You must give me time to express myself. This is not easy for me, as you are such a close associate with all my family, and I had previously considered you a young man of unexceptional character.”

Henry swallowed, and his heart rate increased a little more. “Only previously, sir?”

“There is a matter of great seriousness which has recently been brought to my attention, and disagreeable as such a duty is to me, I must speak to you about it.”

“I see.”

Another pause. “I am not a man of subtleties, Mr. Crawford. Perhaps it would be best if I simply showed you the letter that I received, just two days ago, from a very close and particular friend of mine in London.”

The letter was passed over and Henry read it. In the silence that followed he tried to gather his wits. Everything now depended on composure. “I don’t know what to say, sir. I am embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” Sir Thomas, who had been watching him closely, looked offended.

“That I have been the cause of such… unpleasant speculation concerning Mrs. Rushworth. Such was not my intention, I promise. I had no idea of it.” He forced himself to meet the man’s eyes.

“Do you mean to say that there is no basis for the speculation?”

“I have been often in her home, it is true.” He placed the letter back on the desk, and hoped Sir Thomas didn’t notice how his hand shook. “Mr. Rushworth, Mrs. Rushworth and I all became friends last year, as I am sure you know. I was glad to see them again when I was in town, and as I hope to shortly become Mrs. Rushworth’s cousin, I saw no harm in forwarding the acquaintance still more. It did not occur to me that some malicious tongues would wish to make more of it than it was.”

Sir Thomas’s eyes measured him. For all that he was a talented actor, Henry felt he had never put on a more important performance. “And at Twickenham?”

He shrugged expressively. “I have visited the same friends in Richmond every Easter for years. They are the ones with the close friendship with the Aylmers. As their guest, I merely fell in with their plans.”

“You returned on the same day.”

“The parties broke up on the same day. It was quite natural to travel at the same time.”

He was doubting. Henry could see he was doubting, hope warring with suspicion. He wanted to believe him. “I missed Fanny—Miss Price—very much when I was in town. I could not see her, so I suppose I sought the company of one who was connected to her, and to Mansfield. Forgive me, it was foolish of me. I should have been more cautious. I should have realised that those who did not know of the real source of our connection—of my attachment to Fanny—would invent a different one instead.”

Sir Thomas leaned forward. “You assert that you have not been flirting with my daughter? That the… intimacy Mr. Harding writes of had no element of flirtation, or attraction to it?”

He swallowed, and allowed himself to look a little chagrined. “I am a man of the world, Sir Thomas, I do not pretend otherwise. It is common, in society, to banter, to pay little compliments to women, by way of being gallant. No one takes it seriously. I cannot swear that I have never said anything to Mrs. Rushworth that might have seemed flirtatious to others, but it was not intended as such. She certainly understood me. She knew of my love for Fanny. My intentions could not be misunderstood by her .”

For several moments, Sir Thomas considered this. He still looked stern, but Henry thought his countenance had lightened a little. “If what you say is true,” he said at last, “why should Mr. Rushworth have become jealous?”

“Forgive me, but I think that has more to do with their marriage than it does with me.”

He pressed his lips together, but did not contradict him. “You have put me in a most difficult position, Mr. Crawford. Even assuming everything you say is true—which I have not yet accepted—the fact is that such rumours and speculation do exist, and they pose a material harm to the respectability of my daughter. The ties that connect our two families together are not such that can be easily severed. It is not only that you are my niece’s suitor, but that my son is your sister’s. Your brother-in-law is my rector, and lives within walking distance of my house.”

“If it helps,” said Henry quickly, “I do not intend to return to London anytime soon. I had hoped to remain here, actually, and resume my courtship of Miss Price, now that she has returned. As long as Mrs. Rushworth remains in London, and I do not, there can be no further talk. And do you not think that if it becomes known that I am living here now, that I am accepted as a guest in your house, everyone in London must realise how impossible it is that I could have any sort of improper relationship with your daughter? You are known as a model of propriety, Sir Thomas. No one who has ever heard of your reputation could think that you would accept your own daughter’s seducer into your house.” He continued before Sir Thomas could reply. “You know how attached I am to Miss Price. I am as much in love with her as I was when I first spoke to you about her. Surely you cannot think that I would ever do anything to harm my chances with her.” He forced a half-smile. “If I were to do as this letter suggests—if I were to love a girl like Fanny Price, and offer her marriage, and then go and indulge in an adulterous liaison with her own cousin—well, I would have to be a monster of depravity to do that, wouldn’t I?”

He was hoping for total capitulation, but did not quite get it. “I will think on what you have said, Mr. Crawford,” said Sir Thomas heavily. “I wish to believe you, but I cannot easily dismiss the judgement of my oldest friend. In the meantime, I will not forbid you from calling, though I cannot encourage you to treat the house as your own either. I hope that further investigation may find that you are, indeed, innocent of anything but folly and recklessness. I hope this even more for my daughter’s sake than my niece’s.”

“Of course.”

“Your sister remains as welcome as she has always been. She has proven herself a true friend.”

Henry stood. “And Miss Price?”

“You may speak to her, as always, but I ask that you not be alone with her at this time.”

Having no intention to follow this rule, Henry agreed, thanked Sir Thomas, apologised again, and escaped the room. His heart was still pounding out of his chest, and his hands were wet. He pulled his handkerchief out and dried them, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself.

A sweet-sounding laugh came from a room ahead of him. Henry turned toward it like a dog on the scent. He knew who made that laugh. He found the room and looked into it. Fanny sat in a chair next to her Aunt Bertram, her head bent over her work, that curl falling over her forehead. He wanted very much to go in and sit down, and watch her, and say something that would make her laugh again. But he was not composed enough. The battle with Sir Thomas had taken all the composure he had, and until he could calm himself, until he had talked himself back into the right frame of mind, it was too dangerous to go near her. He turned and walked out of the house.

~%~

Mary found him gone, when she came looking. One of the footmen had seen him leave. It surprised her that he would go off without her, but with Edmund attending to Tom and Fanny attending to her aunt, she had no wish to stay just now. Fond as she was of Fanny, she did not find her company enough enticement to bear the company of her aunts as well. She made her own way back to the parsonage.

A quick look through the few opened rooms of the parsonage did not show Henry. She checked his bedchamber, and he wasn’t there. Finally she tracked him down in the shrubbery, sitting on the same bench where she and Fanny used to sit, his head heavy in his hands.

“Henry?” She sat next to him in concern. “Henry, what is the matter?” He gave a strangled sigh and shook his head. “Now this is outside of enough! This is at least the third time in two days that I have found you looking as ill and melancholy as you please, without a good reason. I refuse to believe that Tom Bertram’s sickness is catching. There is something else going on here, that you haven’t told me. Something other than Maria Rushworth.”

At first she didn’t think he would answer her, but at last he gave a deep groan, and lifted his head. “In Richmond, Twickenham… it went beyond a flirtation, Mary.”

She stared at him as understanding dawned. “Oh,” she cried in vexation, “how stupid you are!”

“Yes.” He dropped his head back into his hands again.

“I cannot believe it! To let yourself be led into an affaire with one such as that, whom you have never cared for, and Fanny’s own cousin! How could you be so stupid?”

“She was threatening exposure, Mary. Not quite directly, perhaps, but it was clear… I tried to end it, but she would not let me.”

“Would not let you?” she echoed incredulously. “How could she stop you?”

“I told you, she was angry, and she would not be discreet, and I had to keep her quiet, I had to keep Fanny from finding out.”

“So you just made it all worse?” She shook her head. “I do not understand you, Henry. If you were that desperate to find release for your … luxure , why could you not have found someone who was not the cousin of the woman you love? Someone who knows how the game’s played, and would not make a fuss when you left? Goodness knows there are any number of women in town who would be willing.”

“It wasn’t like that!” He clutched his hair. “I told you, I didn’t plan on it going so far—it was Maria who made me do it!”

“Well, you’re in a scrape now. What are you going to do?” She stood up and began to pace. “Will she release you now, do you think?”

“I don’t know. I hope.” He sighed. “I left her a note telling her I was going out of town for a few days. I hope by the time she realises I’m not coming back she will have recollected the wisdom of discretion.”

“It doesn’t seem to me that either wisdom or discretion has had any part in this affair!” She continued pacing. “If you marry Fanny you will have to see her eventually, Henry. There is really no avoiding it. Do you really think she will be willing to say nothing? Unless you were planning on resuming whenever…”

“Good lord, no!” He looked up indignantly. “I would never treat Fanny so infamous…”

Neither one said anything for some time.

“You ought to go to Everingham,” said Mary suddenly.

“Everingham?”

“Yes, you ought to go to Everingham and stay there until all the talk has died down and Maria has had time to find another lover. It will not take long for that one, but you must give her a chance to get over you.”

“I intend to. That’s why I’m not going back to London.”

“But you can’t stay here. Maria is too jealous, Henry. You must have seen how she looks every time Fanny’s name is mentioned. If she finds out that you left her to come here, she is likely to lash out in any way she can.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “I can’t leave Fanny, not again.”

“You will have to, if you want to keep her. It’s the only way.” She came to sit back next to him. “You know I believe in your powers, that if any man is capable of winning a heart of stone it is you, but if Fanny Price learns that you made Maria Rushworth your mistress, she will never, ever marry you. I cannot think it possible.”

He groaned.

“Come now; what is a few more months? Go to Everingham; tell her it is for some good purpose she will approve of. Write her charming love letters which I will sneak to her under cover of my own. Then, when all is safe, you may return, like a hero of old, and sweep her away. I am sure her heart must be softened by your absence. She will only be missing you more and more, and be grateful that you did not forget her.”

He thought about this for some moments. “There is something in what you say. However, Maria herself is not the only one I have to fear right now.” He told her of Sir Thomas’s letter.

“Oh, bother! What an old busy-body, writing letters about things that do not at all concern him! Well, I cannot help you with that. Your only hope is to make yourself more convincing than all of them. You have the advantage of proximity. It is harder to disbelieve someone in person than from a distance.”

“Which is why I should stay here.” He took his own turn pacing now. “Perhaps this is for the best. Sir Thomas will never let Maria come here, not while I am here too, and if she does come for some reason, I can take myself off with perfect propriety. He will honour me for it. And if some other murmur or rumour should reach his ears, I have already given him an explanation for it. He is disappointed in me, but he will forgive—he must forgive, if he wishes Fanny to marry me, which he does. To eject me is to give up the prospect of a good marriage for his niece, a good marriage for his son—” he gave Mary a look— “and would make things very awkward with the Grants besides. No, it is decided. If it comes down to it, I will follow your plan, but for now I will stay here, where I can answer questions and defend against accusations in person. And court Fanny. Once we are safely married, then I will take her away to Everingham and we need never see Maria Rushworth again, if I can help it.”

Mary shook her head. “I hope you may not live to regret it, brother. You are putting a good deal of dependence on Maria Rushworth’s good sense, which I cannot agree with, not when it comes to you, and on your Fanny’s willingness to yield quickly. I hate to say it, but she really is proving remarkably resistant to your charms.”

He waved that away. “I have barely seen her these four months. If I can but have an uninterrupted stretch of time in which to work on her, all that will change. She is too soft, too yielding and sweet, to hold out against my love for long.”

“Indeed I hope so.”

He threw himself down next to her. “But enough about my troubles. How is the invalid?”

“Likely to remain an invalid, even if he survives.”

“Ah.” He cocked an eyebrow. “So is it to be the decision in Edmund’s favour, with the hope that a good cold will carry Tom off some year or another?”

A smile tugged at her lips. “Sir Edmund does have such a very pleasing sound to it, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, certainly. And I swear you’d do the title Lady Bertram more justice than the current holder of it does.” He shook his head. “Stupid woman.” They stood up and strolled back to the house. Just as they were to go inside, though, he put his hand on Mary’s arm. “If you want Bertram,” he said seriously, “then I would suggest you secure him now, as soon as possible. If the worst happens—if I am completely exposed—then he will feel duty-bound to give you up unless there’s a firm commitment. I don’t want my folly to ruin your happiness too.”

She nodded and embraced him impulsively. “Idiot.”

“That’s me.” They went inside at charity with each other again.

Chapter 4


By the time Edmund had Tom calmed down again, and he and Peterson got him washed and shaved and into a clean shirt, he was exhausted. The long weeks of intensive nursing were wearing on him. Though Tom was not so sick as he had been a fortnight ago, he was harder to deal with. He had just enough strength to be restless, and to attempt to exert himself when he shouldn’t. He was easily bored, often depressed, and subject to fits of coughing that left both his attendants pale with worry. Though Edmund was sincerely glad to be of assistance to his brother, and through him to his entire family, it had been a long and lonely few weeks.

A soft scratching at the door interrupted his musings. Opening it, he was surprised to find Fanny standing on the other side. “Cousin,” he sighed happily, relaxing against the door frame.

Fanny twisted her fingers anxiously together. “My aunt is asleep, and I was hoping to find out how Tom is. I heard the servants ask for you. Did something happen?”

“Nothing unusual,” he promised. “Please, come in and see him for yourself.” He stood back, but she hesitated on the threshold, looking doubtfully into the room. “Do not be concerned. He is your cousin, he is sick, and I am here. There can be no question of impropriety.” Hesitantly, she nodded and advanced into the room. Edmund led her over to the bed. “Look, Tom, see who is here to see you.”

Tom turned his head on the pillow and peered up at Fanny. “Fanny,” he murmured, and tried to smile.

Edmund could see from Fanny’s expression that she was shocked at Tom’s appearance, but she smiled back anyway. “I am glad to see you, cousin.”

His eyes shifted to his brother. “Come to keep Edmund company,” he murmured.

“Indeed, I hope I may—and my aunt, and you too, if you will let me.”

His hand groped for hers, and she took it. “Good girl.”

Fanny’s eyes flew to his, and Edmund smiled reassuringly. “I was going to read a little to Tom. We’ve been reading Waverly . Would you like to listen?” Fanny assented, and together they sat next to Tom’s bed as Edmund read aloud. As he knew it would be, in only a few minutes, Tom began to nod off again. Soon, he set down the book, and turned to his cousin with a smile.

“We can speak now. He will sleep for another hour or more.”

“I do not think my aunt will sleep so long, though.” She smiled at him. “I would hate for her to wake up and find me gone.”

“The servants will know where to find you. Please, don’t leave yet. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you.” Fanny blushed a little, but her expressive eyes spoke pleasure. He felt a rush of peace at her presence. “You must never leave for so long again—not until you are married. I know I will have to part with you then, but I reasonably hope that Crawford will not take you very far away.”

The light went out of Fanny’s eyes, and she turned her head away.

“Come now, my dear cousin, has your heart really not relented towards him yet? He must have calmed your fears over his constancy by now. He has proven himself as faithful as any man could be.”

“I do not love him.” Fanny spoke as firmly as her soft voice would allow. “Please, do not urge me—I cannot—”

“Hush.” He touched her shoulder. “I didn't mean to distress you. I will say nothing more on this, if you wish—only I cannot help advocating for my friend. I know…” he sighed. “I know what it is to love and be in doubt of a return, Fanny. It is wretched.”

Fanny’s eyes turned back to him. “Did you—with Miss Crawford earlier—did you…?”

“I did not propose. I almost began, but then I was called away, and upon reflection it is probably just as well. To be proposing while Tom is so ill must be thought indelicate, at the least. I could not give her the attention she deserved now, even supposing she accepts me.” He looked back at his brother, sleeping shallowly. Sweat stood on his brow, and Edmund picked up a cloth and daubed it gently on his face. “Did she—has she said anything about me?” he asked with difficulty. “I ought not to ask, and I do not mean for you to break her confidence, of course, but Fanny, you must tell me: you are her friend, I know she wrote to you while she was in London, you spent the last two days in her company—do you believe she will accept me, when I ask?”

A silence passed, during which he could not bring himself to look at her, for fear of seeing pity on her face, then Fanny said, so quietly he almost did not hear, “Yes. She will accept you.”

“Fanny!” He turned back eagerly. “Has she told you so?”

She shook her head, not looking at him. “No, but I believe—the things she has said—they lead me to believe she will accept.”

He sighed. “Thank you.” He caught her hand and kissed it. “Thank you, my dearest cousin. You give me hope.” Perhaps, he thought, he would propose after all. It would be folly, after all, to let Mary go back to London without even trying to obtain her promise first.

~%~

Fanny spent the afternoon with Lady Bertram, and managed to be reasonably happy, despite her distress over the earlier interview with Edmund. Her vexation over his continued hesitation, over being forced to encourage him, was too acute to be forgotten completely, but her pleasure in being with her aunt was likewise strong. Her uncle came in for a time, and talked to her very kindly. He asked a few questions about her journey here, and it seemed to her that he was trying to gauge the state of her feelings for Mr. Crawford, but he did not press her, and she certainly gave him nothing to build suppositions upon.

Mrs. Norris had gone away in the afternoon but came back in time for dinner. Her conversation dominated the quiet meal. She flattered Sir Thomas, scolded Fanny and admonished Edmund with little interruption. The only one truly happy was Lady Bertram, who had no difficulty in ignoring what she did not like, and whose satisfaction in having her Fanny home again had not diminished.

After dinner the Crawfords made an appearance again. Henry immediately offered to read aloud for them all, as he had before, and only put to Fanny the question of whether a tragedy or a comedy was to be preferred. After some hesitation she suggested that a comedy, under the current circumstances, might suit best, and he soon took up As You Like It, reading with so much animation and spirit that even Lady Bertram was provoked to laugh at times. Fanny, with her much keener sense of the text, could not help but smile and laugh a little too, much to the gentleman’s evident satisfaction.

Edmund had been gone for the greater part of this, but about the time Crawford closed the book he too came back in, and sat down next to Miss Crawford. They talked for some time, during which she gave him many encouraging smiles. Fanny, occupied by her own Crawford, only had time to notice those smiles, and to notice that Sir Thomas seemed more than usually grave. He remained in the room, not speaking, nor reading the paper, but simply observing.

It was becoming increasingly difficult for Fanny to not encourage Henry Crawford. It was not that she wished to encourage him. Her mind was as determined against him as it had been in the beginning. She had certainly not forgotten that he had been in town associating with Mrs. Rushworth. But it was always difficult for Fanny to be cold or discouraging to any person, and Crawford’s persistent attentions and many kindnesses were having their effect. Despite herself, she was growing more comfortable with him. Indeed, he was the only person in her life now, other than William, who was acquainted with both her families, who could speak to her as easily about Portsmouth as Mansfield. The delicacy of his behaviour to her family there could not be forgotten. She must still think any professions of regard disagreeable, but he did not make any that night. Under Sir Thomas’s stern gaze he was scrupulously proper, and said nothing to frighten or offend her.

Still, as Fanny made her way back to the East room that night, her thoughts were not on Henry, but Edmund. Edmund was lost to her, she thought sadly. He had never been hers, of course, not in that way, but even the intimate friendship they had shared before was lost to her now. His mind was full of nothing but Mary, and when at last he made his proposal and was accepted, she would never be able to confide in him again. Edmund did not know, he did not understand. He thought that in marrying Mary he would knit Fanny even closer to himself, through doubled, tripled ties of friendship and family and love. He did not understand that he would, in fact, be severing their bond, raising an insuperable barrier that would never really be crossed, never, never!

Fanny sank to her knees before the East room fire. An idea, insidious but undeniable, worked its way into her brain. She still had the letter Mary had written her—the horrible one, the one that must disgust any person of feeling who read it. If she showed it to Edmund, if he read it, would it be enough? Would the scales fall from his eyes concerning Mary?

It was a serious moral dilemma. Did the obligation she had to Edmund, to warn him against a woman who could not make him happy, the good it would accomplish for him to be free of her, outweigh what would certainly amount to betrayal of someone who had treated her with so much affection and kindness? And how could she, Fanny, loving Edmund as she did, suffering under the slights of envy and heartbreak, be a fair judge? She could not pretend her motives were disinterested. She could not pretend they were not even very selfish.

Long she sat by her dying fire, and wrestled with conscience and wisdom. She did not know what to do—she did not know what was best. To interfere in her cousin’s concerns seemed unthinkable; but to remain silent when he did not know the truth seemed nearly so. And what would she do if she showed him the letter, and he read it, and yet he still refused to give Mary up? That he would be pained and grieved she did not doubt, but he had been pained and grieved before. Always he had found a way to justify her, always he had persisted in his love. Fanny did not think she could bear to see him go ahead, knowing the truth—knowing he was accepted in hope of his own brother’s death. To see Edmund so reduced and degraded would be worse than all of it.

In the quiet of the night she was creeping upstairs to her own little room when she heard, distantly, a disturbance somewhere else in the house. It sounded like it came from the family wing. Her thoughts went immediately to Tom, and she ran back down the steps, navigating by light of her single candle. The flame bent and sputtered, throwing lurid shadows.

Her instinct had been correct: Tom’s door stood open. A loud, dreadful coughing came from it, reverberating down the quiet corridor. With terror in her heart she entered. A branch of candles stood on a table next to the bed; by their light she saw Edmund, hair mussed, dressing gown open, holding the figure in the bed. Another man she recognised as Tom’s valet, Peterson, hovered at his shoulder.

Tom writhed, gasping for air, hacking until Fanny feared his life would cease on the spot. Edmund held him firmly, though, gripping his shoulders, murmuring soothingly to him. At last the fit subsided, and his head lolled back on Edmund’s shoulder as he sucked in deep breaths. “You have the draught ready?” Edmund asked Peterson. Peterson handed him a glass, and as Fanny watched, Edmund coaxed Tom to drink it, a little bit at a time. When it was all gone he laid him on the pillow gently, and stepped away while Peterson darted forward to wipe his master’s face and arrange his covers.

Edmund’s eyes focused on the glow of Fanny’s candle. He smiled tiredly. “What are you doing up so late?” he asked, coming towards her.

“I was going to bed when I heard the coughing. Oh Edmund, is he often like this?”

“Sometimes.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Now you see why we worry.”

“Oh Edmund!” She grasped his hand impulsively. “What you have endured! I thought I was suffering in Portsmouth, but that was nothing compared to this ordeal—this labour and anxiety, which you have endured for your brother’s sake. I wish that I could have been here sooner—that I could have found some way to help you.”

But Edmund’s eyes had sharpened on hers. “Suffering in Portsmouth? What is this? I knew you did not look well, but I thought it must have been only the lack of exercise and fresh air. Do you mean to say that there was more to it than that? Why, Fanny, I thought you were happy with your family!”

Fanny blushed at her mistake and knew not what to say.

“Come.” Edmund took her hand, and led her back to Tom’s bedside. He moved the candles, and arranged two chairs, not too close, but positioned to see Tom’s face. “If we are quiet, we can talk, and it will not disturb him. I always stay a little while after he has a coughing fit, to be sure he is sleeping well.” He looked down at himself, tied his dressing gown, and attempted to straighten his hair. Fanny knew her hair was falling down her back, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She took the chair he indicated meekly.

“I feel ashamed that I have not asked you very much about Portsmouth yet. I meant to. We all—my father and mother and I—believed you were happy there, and enjoying your time. You certainly wrote much about Susan.”

Fanny sought for words. “Susan grew so very dear to me. She was only six when I left, you know, and I barely remembered her. It means so much to me now to feel I have a sister, a true sister, as I have a brother in William. Only—only I wish I could bring her here with me, even for a little. She is so hungry to learn, Edmund, so eager to improve herself. She would gain so much by being here.”

“You must speak to my father, and ask him if she can visit,” he said warmly. “I am certain he will agree, once Tom is out of danger. You and William have pleased him so much that he cannot have any objection to knowing Susan too. But there is nothing here of suffering! You will not distract me—I will know what you meant.”

With a little further encouragement, Fanny was brought, by pieces, to tell Edmund about her parents’ house—about the noise, and the chaos, and the food. Of her parents’ indifference she said as little as possible, though it was enough to give Edmund quite a fair idea. His senses sharpened now, awakened from his preoccupation with Mary, he turned all his attention to understanding her fully. As the picture she gave grew more complete, his frown grew deeper.

“Fanny, why did you not tell me of this sooner? Why did you not write to me, if you did not wish to trouble my mother? My father never intended you to suffer such deprivations as this! He never would have left you there if he knew.” He squeezed her hand. “I would have come and brought you back myself, if Crawford could not. Indeed, I wish I had. It would have saved us both misery.”

Fanny shook her head. She could not explain, even to Edmund, the deep sense of shame she felt over her own discomfort in her father’s house. “I did not wish to show disrespect,” was all she could manage, and although it was not very clear, Edmund accepted it, only telling her again how wrong it was to conceal her distress from him. She must never do it again—she must never suffer herself to be unhappy, and not ask him for his aid.

If Fanny could have laughed, she would have laughed at that. He could not know that he was the source of her greatest unhappiness—and he chose not to know how Henry Crawford’s suit made her unhappy. But she would not be sad, not right now, when the fellowship she had so recently grieved seemed almost restored. Tonight, in this small circle of candlelight, Edmund was her Edmund again, the same friend and companion of her youth, the only one to whom she was capable of opening her heart. She would have liked to have stayed there with him for ever—but it was not to be.

“We must go back to our beds now,” said Edmund. “You especially—you will never recover your strength if you do not sleep. You must sleep as late as you like. Whatever my aunt says, there can be nothing you need to do until my mother comes down, which is never early.” He led her out into the corridor, bringing her candle with them, and shut the door. Before they parted she found herself pressed, once more, against his heart. “You are home now,” he whispered. “Everyone here loves you, everyone wants you. You will always be at home here—do you understand?”

Fanny, too overwhelmed with confusion and longing to speak, nodded. He let her go, and they both returned to their rest, however much of it they could find.

~%~

Despite his lack of sleep, Edmund was up early. He had determined, most definitely, to seek Mary Crawford out as soon as may be this morning, and propose to her. Her smiles and speeches last night had been too encouraging to be mistaken. He could not wait for her to leave again, and return to her friends in the city. He would secure her, if she could be secured, at once.

It was too early to be making calls properly, but Tom was sleeping peacefully now, and he was not in a humour to wait any longer. He dressed himself carefully, drank a cup of coffee and ate a roll, and set out for the parsonage. He would borrow some of Crawford’s resolution, he thought, as he walked the familiar path. He would risk everything for his chance of happiness.

On reaching the house, he was shown by a little maidservant into the drawing room, where Mary was playing her harp. The morning light streamed in through the window behind her, and the sight of her there, as he had so often seen her, delightfully pretty and feminine, with her fingers drawing sweet music from the strings, intoxicated him.

Mary looked up and saw him. Her eyelids lowered, and she watched him through her lashes as she finished the final few bars of her song. “Why, Mr. Bertram,” she said, when the music had died. “I am surprised to see you.”

Edmund bowed. “You must forgive me for coming so early. I feared if I waited, I would not have another chance today.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” She rose. “Only Henry is out riding, so we are alone in the house but for Hettie, whom I am sure has gone back to the kitchen.”

“That—” Edmund swallowed. “That is good for my purposes.” He came forward, and reached for her hands, which she gave him. “Mary—Miss Crawford—you must know why I am here. You must know, must have long known my feelings.” There followed a straightforward and honest profession of his love, of his ardent desire to be her husband. “You know what I can offer you. It is not what you deserve, what your own fortune and family would entitle you to expect in a husband. But such as it is, I offer it to you honestly and completely. Another man might offer you more worldly comfort, but I do not believe any could offer you more love and faithfulness than I do. If you will accept me, I will devote my life to making you as happy as I can. If anything is needed that attention, or effort or devotion can give you, I pledge faithfully to supply it.”

It would be unfair to the lady to claim that her heart was not stirred by such professions, or that she did not answer him with genuine feeling. Mary did feel—and felt more deeply than even she expected—and her reply had all the animation, the blushes and the tears of real happiness. Edmund stayed with her for an hour, and experienced all the felicity a young man might be expected to feel, in such a situation. There was a first, tender kiss, and much holding of hands, and talk of future plans. He could not think of being married until Tom was better, but Mary understood perfectly, and expressed herself ready to wait as long as necessary. It was not fair to expect her to remain here, without company, Edmund said. Could she go to the Grants in Bath? She could, or perhaps her friends in town again. Lady Stornaway expected her back again soon. Edmund could not entirely suppress a frown at this, and wondered if she might be a guest at Mansfield proper. His mother would be glad to welcome her, he was sure, for as long as necessary, and then he would have the happiness of her company every day.

Mary thanked him prettily for the offer, but would make no commitment. She would need to consider, and discuss it with Henry, and hear her sister’s opinion. With this Edmund was obliged to be content. Called away at last by the knowledge that Tom must be wanting him, he made Mary promise to come up to the house later, kissed her reverently one last time, and after being called back only three times by her smiles, made it finally out the door.

Edmund felt he had been transported in just days from misery to ecstasy. Fanny was home and Mary was his—he was loved, he was accepted, he would soon have everything he had ever desired. The only thing left wanting was for Tom to recover, and in his exultant mood, he felt it as a certainty. Tom would recover, Fanny would marry Crawford, he would marry Mary, and for the rest of his life he would have the best, the most certain sources of companionship, friendship, love and delight.

He would go to his father first, he decided, as he approached the house. Sir Thomas, he knew, would be pleased. Then Fanny—he would speak to Fanny. She knew his feelings, she would enter into his joy. She would wish to call on her friend to congratulate her—he would send her, as his emissary, so that the woman he loved need not be alone.

Entering through a side door, Edmund was so full of happy plans that he did not at first hear the servant calling him. “Master Edmund,” said the servant again. “Sir Thomas wishes to speak to you. He asked that you come to him at once.”

Edmund smiled benevolently. “Yes, of course. Is he in his room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I will go at once.” He approached his father’s office, still smiling to himself, imagining the pleasure his announcement would give. He knocked; his father’s voice bade him enter. “Father,” he began, going in, “I have just come from—” His father turned; and the expression on his countenance brought Edmund up short. “Sir!” he cried. “What has happened? Are you ill?” He rushed forward to assist him, but Sir Thomas waved him off.

“I am not ill. I have only—” He paused to gather himself. “I must share with you news of the most distressing sort, news I had hoped to keep from you.” He reached out suddenly to grip his son’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Edmund. It is not right I put such burdens on you, but I have no one else. There is no one else I may depend on.”

“Come, sir. Will you not sit down? I will pour you a glass of wine here. It will do you good, I am sure.” After a moment, Sir Thomas submitted to Edmund’s ministrations. “I will hear whatever you have to say, of course, and I hope that it is not so bad as you fear.”

Sir Thomas shook his head. “Do you see those two letters on my desk? Yes, those. Bring them here.” Edmund brought the letters. “Sit down, please.” Edmund sat down opposite him. “Do you remember my friend, Mr. Harding, in London?”

“Of course. I dined with him at the Rushworths’.”

“These letters are from Mr. Harding. Here is the first, which I received on Monday. You ought to read it for yourself.”

Edmund read the letter, the same letter that Henry Crawford had read over in this room just the day before. A sense of disbelief filled him; he understood well his father’s shock. Still, he tried to maintain his calm. “Surely this is a misunderstanding. Crawford would never—he loves Fanny, I know he does. And Maria! She could not be capable of such wickedness. It is a misunderstanding, sir, a rumour over nothing.”

“That is what Mr. Crawford said when I spoke to him yesterday.”

“You asked him about it?”

“Yes. I showed him the letter, just as I have you. He admitted to having spent much time with the Rushworths, but insisted that nothing improper had occurred. He said he only sought out Maria because of her connection to Fanny.”

Edmund felt relief. “That agrees with what I know of his character. He is open and sociable, perhaps not always as careful as he should be, but intending no harm. And he is passionately in love with my cousin. I can well believe he might pursue any acquaintance that he thought might connect him to her.”

Sir Thomas heaved a sigh. “So much I had hoped to be true, myself. After speaking to him yesterday I thought it would be best to write to Mr. Harding, asking him for more particulars. This morning, while you were out, I received another letter, brought by express messenger. I cannot imagine he had received my own letter yet when he sent it.”

Edmund regarded the second letter with deep misgiving, his stomach turning over. The implications of the first were already too horrifying to contemplate. A second letter, with more bad news, more nasty rumours, more power to destroy his life and the life of those he loved—no, he most certainly did not want to read the second letter.

He took it, though, and read it anyway.


My dear friend, I write to you in the greatest urgency. Mr. Rushworth has been to see me. His mother and his wife have quarrelled very bitterly. Mrs. Rushworth the younger has declared that she absolutely will not live in the same house as his mother. When he tried to reason with her they too quarrelled. Sir Thomas, he says she talks of leaving him—has said that she will not live with him either any more. The phrases he repeated to me, if true, may mean her ruin. She told him she hated him and loved another, and by her language, has all but confessed to infidelity. She did not name the man, but Mr. Rushworth believes that she meant Mr. Crawford, and I have no reason to doubt it. The only good news I can give you is that Mr. Crawford appears to have left town at the present, and in that we must place any hope of amendment. You must come at once, I beseech you, and do what you can to command your daughter and calm Mr. Rushworth and his mother. Mrs. Rushworth senior has a servant who claims she saw them together; the situation is very dire. I will do everything in my power to urge restraint and silence, but you must come at once. —Yours, J. Harding

It was some minutes before Edmund found the power of speech again. The awfulness, the sheer awfulness of that letter could not be described. He had to read it again just to grasp it. Only the sight of his father’s haggard face forced him to the effort of thought and speech. “Maria was angry,” he finally said. “Rushworth was angry. She may have spoken to hurt him, he may have exaggerated to Mr. Harding. We can know nothing for certain yet.”

Sir Thomas leaned forward urgently. “You saw Mr. Crawford and Maria together here last year. Was there anything—any behaviour that might cause suspicion now?”

Edmund opened his mouth, hesitated, and shut it. Shame washed through him. “There was a flirtation,” he said at last, very quietly. “I must admit that I did not see it at the time, but Fanny noticed it. She gave it as a reason for refusing Crawford’s proposal.”

He was prepared for his father’s anger and disappointment, but Sir Thomas only stood somberly. “I am leaving for London within the hour. I would ask you to go with me, but someone must remain while he is here.”

Edmund’s head snapped up, his eyes widening. “Crawford! What is to be done about him?”

“It is of the utmost importance that he be kept away from Maria at this time. If you are correct, if somehow he is innocent in all of this, then no harm will be done. If he is guilty—” He drew a deep breath. “As abhorrent as the thought is of having him here, a guest in my house, I must still think it the lesser of two evils. Better at Mansfield than in London with Maria. I am trusting you, Edmund,” he looked at him solemnly, “to watch him and protect Fanny.”

Edmund put his hand to his forehead as evil upon evil broke upon his sight. “Fanny!” Mary. His joyous, successful proposal now felt like years ago.

“I will write to you as soon as I know anything. You will know how to act, I am sure.” Sir Thomas paused to grip his shoulder again, then moved toward the door. Edmund stood.

“Father!” His father paused. “There is something else—something that just happened. I was coming to tell you.” He drew a deep breath and looked at his father, silently asking for the help he could not give. “Father, I am engaged to Mary Crawford.”

“Oh, Edmund.” Those words, full of compassion, were all he said. They were all that could be said. No help, no comfort could be offered. Their only hope was a small one; everything depended on it.

Sir Thomas paused before going out the door. “That any daughter, any child of mine could be guilty of such conduct! I cannot conceive of it. Not even married six months!”

Standing in the wreck of his hopes and dreams, Edmund tried to gather his thoughts. Despite everything, he still desperately hoped that Crawford would be found innocent, that Maria had invented it all in anger. If he were guilty, it would destroy both their families. It would destroy Edmund. No, he could not consider him guilty, not yet—but he could not consider him innocent either.

Fanny . Pushing aside, for the moment, the thoughts of Mary that were too painful to even entertain, he focused on the duty his father had given him. Protect Fanny. With a mind finally awakened to danger, he strode from the room and asked the servants where Miss Price was. Baddeley, when he appeared, gave it as his opinion that the young lady had gone out riding.

This reassured Edmund until he remembered that Crawford had gone out riding this morning too. He hurried for the door nearest the stable, intent on finding his cousin and fetching her back, but just then a footman came running down the stairs. Mr. Bertram was having another fit—he was calling for him—could Master Edmund come? For several long moments he hesitated, torn between the door and the stairs, until the faint sound of his brother’s cough echoed down to him, and with a muttered imprecation he started up the stairs. “I want to know as soon as Miss Price is back from her ride!”

Fanny had proved resistant to Crawford’s charm so far. He prayed she still would be.

Chapter 5

Fanny rode out as soon as breakfast was over. Her gentle mare wandered the lanes and fields around Mansfield while she enjoyed the fresh country air and beautiful scenes. She had not been out long when Mr. Crawford came trotting on his own horse. She remembered the gelding; there had been a servant riding it the whole way from Portsmouth.

“Miss Price!” He looked genuinely delighted. “I must admit I hoped I might see you this morning. I rode this way for that very reason.” Reluctantly she smiled, and he looked even more pleased. “Will you permit me to accompany you? I am perfectly willing to talk or not talk as you desire.” After a few seconds she gave a very slight nod, and he fell in beside her, pulling his horse back to match the leisurely pace of her own. The old groom who always accompanied her trailed behind.

For some time they simply rode through the park, saying little except to praise the scenery, and once, from Mr. Crawford—“Your eyes look just the colour of the sky this morning, Miss Price.” As they were wending their way back towards the stables, though, he nodded at an expanse of planted trees and asked if she knew what kind they were. Fanny named them as a variety of apricot. “Do you mind if we take a short detour that way? I haven’t ever ridden through the orchard.”

She could not refuse, and they soon were riding through the orderly rows. Mr. Crawford wanted to know if she had ever played here as a child, and she admitted she had, though there had been a time she had been afraid to. He coaxed her to tell him the story, and eventually she did. It was a simple little story, about how when she was ten and not long at Mansfield, she had come out here with Julia and Maria and their governess. The older girls had gotten Fanny to play hide-and-go-seek with them, but when they were called in for tea they simply went off and left her, and Miss Lee, who had never had much patience for Fanny, waited only a few minutes before following. That left little Fanny waiting in the trees for a seeker who never came, becoming increasingly frightened and lost, until, inevitably, she was rescued by Edmund, who upon meeting his sisters and hearing the story, set off directly to find her.

“That is exactly what I would have expected,” Henry said, “knowing the characters of all involved.” He was quiet for a moment. “I wish I could be the one to rescue you. I wish I could find you in some trouble and take you out of it, and have you look at me as your champion, as your saviour and dearest companion.”

Fanny, discomposed by this picture of her feelings for Edmund, said, “Oh—oh, no! You must not say that, Mr. Crawford.”

“Why not? It is the truth. I would do anything to earn your love.”

Justice forced Fanny to admit, at least to herself, that Mr. Crawford had, in fact, rescued her from her situation in Portsmouth, and delivered her to Mansfield—a much greater good than simply finding her in an orchard. She might even have felt obliged to acknowledge some part of that to him, had he not used the word love. But since he did, there was not much of anything she could say that would not appear like encouragement.

They arrived at the stables shortly, and Crawford helped her down from her horse, then walked her to the house. She had not the heart to pull her hand away when he took it. “I hope you are not afraid to play among the apricot trees any more, Miss Price,” he said. His look made her blush and turn away.

Going inside, she ran upstairs, changed into a morning dress, and went down to greet her aunts.

“There you are, Fanny!” cried Mrs. Norris. “What took you so long? I have been waiting for you these twenty minutes at least, and poor Lady Bertram cannot continue knotting her fringe until you untangle her strands for her. You have been sitting alone upstairs, by your fire, haven’t you?”

Fanny attempted to deny it.

“Selfish girl! Mr. Crawford went all the way to Portsmouth to bring you back here so that you could be of use to your aunt, and there you go, sitting upstairs by yourself instead. That is what comes of letting you have a fire. Never mind that I left my shawl at home and was hoping you would fetch it for me. My needs ought not to be considered, it is only Lady Bertram’s that I speak of—since I cannot expect you to think of her.”

“I am glad you are here now,” said Lady Bertram, ignoring her sister’s complaints and speaking only out of her own desire. “You have only just come back, Fanny, and I cannot do without you again, especially since Sir Thomas has gone to London.”

“Gone to London?” asked Fanny in surprise.

“Yes, he came in while you were out and told me of it.” She went back to knotting her fringe, which Fanny had now untangled.

“Did he tell you why he was going, aunt?”

“Oh yes, but I cannot remember what he said.” She went on knotting, and Fanny, after a mystified moment, returned to her work. Sir Thomas must have had some business affairs to see to, she decided. If it was important, she surely would have heard of it.

The morning continued peacefully enough. Mrs. Norris continued to pester Fanny about fetching her shawl, but received unexpected opposition from Lady Bertram, who said she was sure her sister was welcome to borrow a shawl, but she thought Fanny should stay here, and not go out.

Before long, the Crawfords made their entrance. Miss Crawford looked very glowing. Fanny felt her heart failing her for a little as she gazed upon her radiance, and the significant smiles she kept sending her way filled her with dread. Something has happened , she thought. Edmund has seen her.

Under cover of her brother’s easy conversation, Mary moved closer to Fanny. “Have you seen your cousin today?” she whispered.

“No; he is busy with Tom, I think.”

“Always busy with Tom! I hope he will not be too busy. I have some claim now, you know. I have a right to as much attention as any brother, no matter how sick.” She waited expectantly for Fanny to ask, or guess her meaning, but Fanny could not bring herself to do it. Her stomach was churning, and only the years of practice she had with hiding her feelings, from Sir Thomas, from Mary, and from Edmund himself, enabled her to retain her composure.

Glancing up, she caught Henry’s eye. He also was looking at her, smiling encouragingly, nodding towards Mary. “You look sly, Fanny, but I know you understand me,” said Mary. “And I know you will understand me when I say that I hope perhaps…” she lowered her voice further, “I will receive Mrs. Crawford here some day?” Fanny’s eyes flew to hers. Mary laughed to see her shock. “You will not mind me, I know. I am too happy to speak wisely just now. You will not mind the feelings of a bride, the ambitions of a wife for her husband.”

“Why must you be so disagreeable, Fanny?” scolded Aunt Norris. “Stop monopolising Miss Crawford!”

“Look who I have brought!” exclaimed Edmund’s voice, with forced cheer, from the doorway. Everyone looked up to see him supporting Tom against his shoulder. The older Bertram looked thin and haggard, but better than when Fanny saw him yesterday. There was a little colour in his cheeks, his eyes overly bright. His valet stood at his other elbow.

Tom summoned a faint smile. “Hope you will forgive my appearance,” he murmured.

Mr. Crawford jumped up to assist Edmund, and there was a general bustle in getting him situated on the sofa opposite Lady Bertram. He batted away hands that reached for the cushions, and would allow no one but Edmund to arrange him. He did not want to lie down—he had been lying down for weeks—he would sit like a man. He was panting by the time Edmund drew back, and Mrs. Norris’s voice rose over the room, clucking and advising, complaining that her receipt for a nourishing broth had been ignored by the cook, and insisting that if only Fanny would fetch the willow sticks in her still room, she, Mrs. Norris, would instruct Peterson on how to prepare a tonic that would fix dear Tom up in no time.

The eyes of all the young people met over Tom’s head. There was a moment’s hesitation: who would throw themselves unto the breach? In a moment of courage that even Fanny could appreciate, Henry Crawford stepped forward with a question about the vegetable garden at the parsonage. Mrs. Norris, bridling with pleasure, let him draw her aside.

The others breathed easier. Edmund cast Crawford a troubled look, and then Mary a tender one before turning back to his brother, speaking to him in a soothing voice. Fanny, standing next to Mary, was perfectly positioned to not only witness that look, but also the bright one in Mary’s eyes as she examined Tom Bertram. He looked frail. Though somewhat stronger to Fanny’s eyes, he undoubtedly looked very frail, and all of Fanny’s indignation rose at what she fancied was the satisfaction in Mary’s gaze. Unable to bear it, she retreated to her Aunt Bertram’s side, the one safe place in the room for her.

After a moment’s pause, Mary sat near to Edmund and Tom, and spoke gently to the invalid. Edmund’s eyes thanked her for this, and he encouraged the conversation with a word here and there. Tom was not up to speaking much, but he seemed to enjoy Mary’s light account of a party she had been to in town. She stopped talking when his eyes began to flutter shut. In another few moments, he fell into a doze. Edmund rose and pulled Mary to the side.

“Your conversation did him good, I think.”

“Poor Tom! He looks very ill.”

“He is, as you know. The doctor thought a change might help lift his spirits, which can only assist recovery, but I am worried that the walk down was too much.”

Mary laid a caressing hand on his arm. “You are a very dedicated brother, Edmund.”

His smile turned doting. “ You would do no less, I know.”

“You know, I do not know if I could. I adore Henry, of course. I consider him quite out of the common way for brothers, and I would do anything for him, but to be confined to a sick room for weeks, to endure irritability and tedium as you do, and all for—”

Edmund’s attention had suddenly veered from her. “No!” he said loudly. Everyone looked at him.

“Bertram?” asked Henry with surprise. He had just volunteered to accompany Fanny down to Mrs. Norris’s house to fetch the willow sticks.

“I will ask a servant to fetch the willow for you, if you really feel you must have it, Aunt,” said Edmund, clearing his throat. “John footman can be trusted, surely, and he would be glad of the walk. Fanny must stay here. My mother cannot spare her.”

“Oh yes,” agreed Lady Bertram instantly. “I cannot spare her.” Mrs. Norris looked angry, but said nothing.

Edmund turned back to Mary, his colour a little high. “My cousin is not strong enough to be walking in the middle of the day,” he said in explanation.

She chuckled. “You are as protective an older brother as any girl could wish for! But Henry would not let her get overtired. He will take perfect care of her.”

He was silent for a moment. “I think you should go to your sister in Bath.”

“What?”

“I have been thinking of our conversation this morning—well, you must know which parts I cannot help but think of.” His colour rose, and Mary’s in return. Their eyes conducted a short interlude before he spoke again. “I do not mean that conversation. But the one after, concerning what you should do next. I think you should go to Mrs. Grant, and stay with her.”

“Perhaps I shall, but I have other friends I must consult with as well. Lady Stornaway has several parties she quite counts on me to attend with her, and she is too old a friend and has shown me too much hospitality for me to desert her now, you know.”

Edmund pressed his lips together unhappily. “Mary,” he whispered. “You do not seem to understand how much harm may be, perhaps already has been done by—”

“Upon my word, Edmund.” She stepped back. “Is this what I am to expect from you? Not engaged even a day, and you already presume to order my every movement?”

“No, of course not! But there are circumstances—I am persuaded you would agree with me if you knew౼Crawford!” Again his attention had shifted.

Crawford, who had just sat himself next to Fanny, looked up. “I am at your service, Edmund,” he said after a moment, rose, and joined them. He looked expectantly at the pair. Edmund cleared his throat.

Mary rolled her eyes. “We are disputing about where I should go after here, though I do not know why it should be any of your concern.”

Crawford shook his head. “A lover’s tiff so soon? For shame, Bertram, for shame.” He looked back towards Fanny.

“I hope Mary knows that I should never wish to dispute with her, over anything,” said Edmund at last. “I hope we will always agree on everything of importance.”

“Indeed, I hope we will,” replied Mary, her look softening. “You have only to add to that attitude a willingness to take me to London twice a year and Bath once, and you shall be the perfect husband.”

He sighed. “Mary…”


“I am willing to negotiate. If you press me very hard, I may settle for London once a year and Bath twice, though as Bath is the longer journey, I am not sure that either of us shall be getting what we want from it.”

He laughed, and ran a tired hand over his face.

“As charming a couple as you two make—accept my congratulations, Edmund, I am delighted to call you brother—I must agree with Mary, that this is no concern of mine. I have my own wife to get.” Henry started to turn away, but Edmund spoke up again hurriedly.

“Actually, Mary, would you speak with Fanny?” He pressed her hand. “I have had no chance to tell her yet. Will you do it, and stay with her? Do not leave her alone, please.” Mary looked puzzled by this request, but after looking at his face a moment, she agreed, and went to go sit by Fanny, joining the conversation with Lady Bertram.

Crawford was also frowning. “Is something wrong?”

Edmund opened his mouth, closed it, crossed his arms, and stared at the floor.

“Is it Mary? I know she can be a bit forceful in desiring her own way sometimes, but I do not think you will find her unreasonable.”

“It’s not Mary.” Edmund drew a deep, steadying breath, and raised his eyes. They met Henry Crawford’s dark ones, and held. Crawford drew back a little, an uncertain look crossing his face.

In the sudden quiet, Lady Bertram’s calm voice filled the room. “... as Sir Thomas has gone to London.”

Henry looked around quickly.

Mary’s eyes darted in their direction. “London, your ladyship? Why should Sir Thomas go to London?”

“I do not know. It was very sudden. I do not recall that he had ever mentioned going before this morning. Edmund, do you recall Sir Thomas saying he would go to London?”

“No, madam,” said Edmund. “As you say, sudden, urgent business required him.”

Henry’s eyes met Mary’s for a moment, then moved quickly to Edmund, and from Edmund to Fanny, and back to Edmund. He swallowed, and it seemed to Edmund that his face had lost colour. “Bertram…”

At that moment, Tom began to stir on his sofa. Edmund moved away from Crawford, muttering something. Crawford looked to his sister for help, but she shrugged helplessly. Fanny, whose eyes had been bent on her stitchery during the earlier exchange, caught this last shared glance between the siblings, and wondered at it.

“You have said nothing about my news, Fanny,” murmured Mary next to her. “Will you not congratulate me?”

“Congratulations,” she replied after a moment. “I hope you will both be very happy.”

“Very happy is exactly what I intend to be. We will all be extremely happy too, when I can call you sister as well as cousin,” she nodded, and looked pointedly at her brother. “You will never escape him now, you know, not when Edmund and I both wish it too. You can never hold out against all of us together.” She pressed Fanny’s hand and smiled at her.

Fanny could not speak.

Mary watched as Edmund encouraged his brother to drink a glass of wine. “You must have seen your eldest cousin since you arrived. Does he seem improved or worse to you?”

She tried to rally herself, tried for calmness, made herself reply. “Improved, a little.”

“Edmund is such a very devoted nurse, to be sure.” Her eyes moved to her brother. “Now what can you tell me about this visit to London? I hope it is nothing very bad.”

“I hope so as well. My aunt only told it of me earlier, but I suppose it must be some matter of business.”

Mary smiled. “Very likely. ”

On the sofa, Tom was looking a little more alert. “Crawford,” he said, focusing on the other man, who came closer. His voice was weak, but clear enough. “Haven’t seen you since the Frasers’ party.”

Crawford smiled politely. “How are you feeling?”

He shook his head. “All knocked up.”

“I can see that. Bad luck about that fall.”

“Stupid.” He shifted restlessly. “You’re here for Fanny, I suppose.”

“Yes.” Henry looked at Fanny, who looked down. “Miss Price knows I am here for her.”

A faint smile curled Tom’s lips. “Bet my sisters didn’t like that.”

A heavy silence greeted this statement. The only ones who didn’t look uncomfortable were Lady Bertram, who was nodding off as they spoke, and Mrs. Norris, who was busy instructing Peterson on the best way to prepare a willow bark tisane.

Henry broke the silence at last. “It can be none of my concern what they think,” he said. He turned to Mary. “I will take my leave now, if you don’t mind. I am sure you will wish to visit longer. Edmund, if you would do me the favour of speaking to me later, I would be grateful. Miss Price౼” He hesitated. “You will remember what I told you when we first arrived, will you not?”

Fanny blushed and did not reply. In another moment, Henry was gone. The others looked at each uneasily.

Tom turned his gaze back on his cousin. “‘Pologies, Fanny. Shouldn’t have said that.”

She shook her head and murmured something indistinguishable into her sewing. Edmund looked unusually grim. Mary forced a laugh. “Well this is a great deal of concern over nothing! There were a great many more women than that who wept and wailed at the news of Henry’s attachment, I assure you. Why, you would not believe the number of questions I had to answer from Flora Stornaway alone, and poor Margaret Fraser nearly burst into tears when I told her. Fanny’s triumph is very great—I have told her so, Edmund, many times, though she does not seem to know how to feel it as a woman ought. As for Mrs. Rushworth and Miss Bertram, well, there is no cause for jealousy at all. Henry has never cared for them, and never could.” She took Fanny’s hand and squeezed it affectionately. “He loves only you.”

Fanny was looking at Edmund. He looked unhappy, far more unhappy than he should have been on the very day that Mary Crawford accepted his hand. “You know I have never desired Mr. Crawford’s love,” she said quietly.

Suddenly, Tom was seized with a coughing fit. Edmund and his valet rushed to assist him. Lady Bertram awoke and cried out in distress; Fanny rushed to assist her. Mrs. Norris began flitting about the room, exclaiming, but having nothing of use to say, and Mary drew back a little.

By the time first Tom and then Lady Bertram were tranquillised, Mrs. Norris had decided to go home, to everyone’s relief. As Edmund and Peterson and another footman all together helped Tom up the stairs, Mary stood with her arm around Fanny. “It is dreadful, isn’t it? It is one thing to hear of it, but to see it… I remember when we were doing the play, how full of life and energy he was. Did I ever tell you I thought Tom would likely do for me, when I first came? He seemed everything a young man ought to be… but then, when he went away, I realised I cared nothing for him. It was only Edmund I thought of. And now here I am, thinking still only of Edmund, but I must admit it is a pity to see Tom like this. I most sincerely hope his sufferings will not last long.”

“So do I,” said Fanny. “I hope he recovers.”

Mary smiled sadly. “But would you, if you were in my place?” She looked at her face. “Yes, I believe you would. But we cannot all have your goodness, Fanny. It is a dreadful thing to be selfish, but I cannot help it.” She hugged her. “And that is why you will forgive me, just like Edmund does. You will forgive me and Henry both and love us anyway. Henry needs you, Fanny. You will settle him. You will fix him, and he will be happy forever with you, if you will let him. Edmund wants it too, you know. You must not let all our happiness be ruined over little matters of conscience that never did anyone any good anyway.” She whispered in her ear. “Come and be happy with us, Fanny.”

Fanny, who had spent the last hour trying very hard not to cry, could not prevent it now. The disgust she felt over Mary’s mercenary ways—the true pity for Tom—the discomfort at Henry’s attentions—and most of all the heartbreak of knowing Edmund irrevocably and forever lost to her, were more than her composure could bear. The affectionate embrace of this woman, her kindest friend and bitterest enemy, broke past the thin veil of her reserve, and Fanny wept in Mary’s arms while her friend held her close and smiled, thinking she understood the meaning of her tears. Fanny’s only comfort could be that Mary never imagined the tears were not for Henry, but for Edmund.

Chapter 6


Edmund had also been having a hard time of it. He hardly knew what to feel, or how to think. Every time he looked at Henry, he could only think of Maria, could only imagine his sister denouncing her marriage and proclaiming the existence of a lover. Mary’s jests about her brother’s conquests, which he had heard before, suddenly took on sinister new meaning. Tom’s words, Henry’s consciousness, everything made him doubt, made him regard with the gravest suspicion a man whom he had until this morning considered the best of friends.

Edmund’s temper was not suspicious by nature. Honest and unpretending himself, sincere in his principles and beliefs, he expected to see the same in others. It gave him no pleasure to think ill of anyone, let alone someone he called a friend—a man now to be his brother! His affection for Crawford, his long-felt trust of him, warred with the new information and the terrifying possibilities it raised. Maria, seduced and possibly ruined. Fanny, sweet, innocent Fanny, the object of that same seducer. And Mary —Mary, the only woman he could ever love, the woman he had just pledged his heart and his life to—what would become of her, of them, if this evil thing proved to be true? It would divide them forever. Edmund could hardly think of it.

His first inclination was to speak to Fanny about it, to get her comfort and her counsel, and to warn her not to be alone with Crawford. But Sir Thomas had not given him permission to speak of it to anyone, not yet. And there still was a chance it wasn’t true. There was a chance that Crawford was innocent. If he was, then slandering him could cause nearly as much damage as his guilt would have. It would prejudice Fanny against him, it would damage the friendship between them, and it would cause irreparable harm to Edmund’s fragile new engagement. Until he heard from Sir Thomas, he could say nothing—but how to say nothing, and still remain honest? How to be silent and protect Fanny, how to act like a friend while still suspecting him? Edmund was no actor, and he never had been. He did not know how to pretend to feelings he did not possess.

While he was still struggling over these thoughts, a servant came to tell him that Mr. Crawford had come back and asked to speak with him. Edmund wanted to refuse. To see Crawford alone was the last thing he wanted right now; but, somehow, the excuses would not come. For Mary’s sake, if nothing else, he must see him. He must find out what he had come to say.

He asked that he be shown to the library, and after taking a few minutes to compose himself, went down to meet him. Crawford was pacing the room when he entered, but stopped at once and faced him, his mien both determined and serious.

“Good afternoon,” said Edmund. “What did you want to see me about?”

“I want to know why Sir Thomas went to London.”

Edmund drew back in surprise. “Why do you want to know that?”

“Because I need to know what I am accused of, if I am going to defend myself against it.”

Despite himself, Edmund appreciated the directness of the attack. It was disconcerting, but it also made everything easier. “Have you been accused?”

Crawford sighed. “Come, Bertram, we are friends, aren’t we? You can be honest with me. I know Sir Thomas must have shown you the letter he received. Why else would you suddenly start trying to keep me from Fanny? You’ve always supported my suit before.”

He hesitated, his mind racing. “I have seen the letter.”

“I will do Sir Thomas the justice to believe that he would not have shown it to you without also telling you what explanation I made for it.”

“Yes.”

“Then you see why I must assume that this sudden trip to London concerns me in some way. If it does not, then I would have to consider you to be a most suspicious and unforgiving friend, and that, Edmund, I do not accept. Not on the same day you asked my sister to be your wife.”

Edmund winced. “This is not easy for me either, Crawford. It is a miserable position to be in. But you must see that this is a matter that requires careful investigation. It cannot be ignored, or set aside lightly.”

“You don’t trust me, then. You don’t believe me when I say that I did not behave improperly with your sister.”

“I want to believe you! I want it as much as I have ever wanted anything.”

Crawford relaxed a little, and came forward. “Then believe me.” He approached slowly and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You know me, Edmund. You know the affection I bear for you and your family, and especially for your cousin. I would be a fool indeed if I did anything to jeopardise my future with her.”

It was all very convincing, but having once been forced to see his friend in a different light, Edmund was not so easily drawn back. He thought of the cold reception he had seen Maria give Crawford when they met at Mrs. Fraser’s. Something had happened, something that changed that cold reception.

Crawford seemed to see on his face that he was not convinced, and he drew back. “Tell me what else has happened—what else I must answer for.”

Edmund shook his head. “It is not to me that you will have to answer. I am not the master here.”

The other man looked away and cursed. “That is not fair, and you know it! Every man deserves the chance to defend himself against accusation.”

“You have already defended yourself, and if you were telling the truth, I am sure nothing more is required. You are here, in this house, right now, because my father wishes you to be innocent. How much more reason do I have to wish for your innocence!”

“Why won’t you tell me what is happening in London, then?”

“It is not for me to tell. My father will write when he has any news.”

He turned away, running his hand through his hair in agitated fashion. “Does Fanny know?”

“About what?”

“Any of it! Mr. Harding’s letter, the trip to London, whatever that means—does she know about any of it?”

“I have not told her, but my cousin is astute. She will understand more than you think.”

“So you’re telling me that I have no hope. I am ruined. I am to be besmirched by innuendo and angry looks.”

Edmund’s conscience rather smote him on this point. It was a very fair point. “Do you want me to explain it to her?”

“No!” Crawford rounded on him in panic. “Upon no account, no! I will explain it myself, thank you very much, if it must be explained, but all I require now is that you not prejudice her against me by glaring at me and refusing to speak to me.”

Edmund opened his mouth to promise he would try, but hesitated. “My father charged me with protecting her.”

He huffed. “Do you think I would hurt her? The woman I love?” He shook his head. “I revere Fanny Price as the next thing to an angel. I don’t want to hurt her, I want to worship her.”

Well aware how distasteful Fanny would find such terms, Edmund yet could not help being little swayed by his fervency. He had all of an anxious lover’s sympathy. Then he remembered that Maria was threatening to leave her husband for another man, and it was probably Crawford.

“You cannot mean to explain yourself to Mary,” continued Crawford, trying another angle of attack. “You cannot mean to tell her that you suspect me of corrupting your cousin. It is not a very felicitous way of beginning an engagement, is it, to accuse your future brother-in-law of licentiousness?”

This was exactly Edmund’s opinion as well, and the frustration and despair of his position nearly overwhelmed him for a moment. “What would you have me do, Crawford?” he asked finally, resentment in his tone. “If you had been more circumspect, more considerate of everything due to my sister, my cousin and yourself, none of this would have happened. What am I to think? Fanny is the dearest person in the world to me besides Mary, and I have already pressed her to accept your courtship against her own wishes. Now I hear that you have been engaging in a flirtation with my married sister? You have been, at the very least, so often in her company as to cause the rumour of a flirtation to spread about town? That by itself is very bad, even before౼” He shut his lips.

But Crawford seized the opening. “Before what? What happened? Has Mrs. Rushworth said something, claimed something? Has Mr. Rushworth alleged new slights against him?”

“Does he have cause?”

“Not from me.” He crossed his arms. “I will tell you what I told Sir Thomas. I was incautious, I was foolish. I admit that. But I intended no harm, and believe that ultimately, I did none. And perhaps you are right—perhaps that folly is enough to prove me unworthy of Fanny. Perhaps I should take myself off and disturb her no more. But I cannot give up. I cannot relinquish the happiness I wish to have, I hope to have, in her. I will engage not to see Mrs. Rushworth again, I will avoid London itself like the plague, but until Sir Thomas himself forbids me to set foot on Mansfield property again, I must and will attempt to fix my interest with Fanny in any way I can.”

The two men stared at each other. Edmund hardly knew what to say. He was trapped, and Crawford knew it. There could be nothing more said until Sir Thomas wrote with his findings. He prayed he would discover the truth in London, whatever it was. How long ago yesterday seemed! How foolishly he had believed that proposing to Mary would end all uncertainty!

Crawford bowed. “If you will excuse me, brother.” He headed for the door. Edmund trailed uncertainly in his wake.

They came out in the corridor as female voices echoed from the other end. In another moment, Fanny and Mary came into sight, walking together. Edmund’s eyes focused on Mary immediately, slim, vivacious and lovely. His chest ached at the sight of her.

“There are just the men we need!” cried Mary, smiling. “Henry, you ought to take Fanny out to the garden, to get some sun on her cheeks. She needs a break from the house, I think. And as for you, sir,” she drew near to Edmund and looped her arm through his, “I am quite cross with you. Why, it has been more than half a day since you proposed to me, and you haven’t told me since how pretty I am, or how much you like my eyes, or how desperately you miss me every hour of the day. I am quite disappointed.”

Her charm never failed to allure him: he felt himself sinking already into those eyes, but not even Mary could completely distract him from watching as Crawford addressed himself to Fanny. She stood with eyes lowered, and only glanced once at Edmund and Mary before allowing herself to be led away. He wanted to go after them, to assure himself that she was comfortable, to remind Crawford of his obligations, but it was too late now, and Mary’s smile and her arm through his, and the soft touch of her hand, drawing him back into the library, were more than he could resist.

~%~

Henry pressed Fanny’s hand as he led her out of the house, drawing steadiness from her quiet presence at his side. The interview with Bertram had been awful, and he felt like he was selling another piece of his soul every time he lied to someone he cared about. He still didn’t know what was happening in London. That Bertram would not tell him was a bad sign, he thought—a very bad sign.

Next to him, Fanny sighed quietly. “What is that, my darling?” he asked, without thinking. “Is there something wrong?” She shook her head without looking up. He looked down on her neat and pretty curls. “Are you feeling better, since coming back to Mansfield? Are you happier?”

“Oh—oh, yes. I am very grateful—it was most kind౼”

“That was not what I meant and you know it. Have you been happy since arriving at Mansfield? That is what I mean, and nothing else.”

“I am very happy I am back at Mansfield,” she said, more clearly.

“That is not exactly the same thing either, but it is all you will tell me, I suppose.” He angled his head, trying to see her face. All at once, an image of Maria Rushworth rose up in front of him, and he looked away, fighting his guilt. It was a mistake , he thought. It was all a mistake from beginning to end, and it would not be repeated. He would never give Fanny a cause for anxiety or unease again. Speaking of which …

He steered her toward a shadowed arbour. Fanny, seeing his destination, resisted. She pulled her hand from his arm. “Pray, Mr. Crawford, do not౼”

“It is too hot for you to be in the sun for long, and I want to talk to you.” Seeing her begin to look distressed, he suppressed a sigh. As perfect as he must think her, in all her many virtues, he could wish she would be a little less resistant to him. He had never worked so hard in his life for a woman’s love. It was not that he did not believe her love to be worth the effort. He believed it worth any effort—in fact, he had been looking forward to it until the disaster at Twickenham. But he was in no mood at present for opposition. “Please. I will not say anything you do not like, but you must allow me to speak to you, at least.”

After a few more entreaties she yielded, and sat down on the bench in the bower, her hands folded demurely. Crawford sat down on the other end, angling himself toward her so that he could see her face. She had been pale and thin already when they picked her up from Portsmouth, but even so, he could not think she looked well. The shadows under her eyes were deeper than usual and … “You’ve been crying,” he said with conviction, when she raised her gaze. The immediate withdrawal of that gaze confirmed his suspicions. “No, no, don’t run from me,” he said, as she looked like she wished to get up. “I will not ask more if you do not wish it, but I hope you know that everything that concerns you is of the greatest possible interest to me. If you are distressed, I wish you would tell me.” His mind moved quickly, running through possibilities. It was difficult to know what might have caused her tears. She had never opened her heart to him.

“Miss Price,” he began, “there is a delicate matter that I feel must be spoken of between us. I would never presume to raise such a subject with you, except that it has been mentioned by others already, and I do not wish for there to be any misunderstanding.”

She blushed vividly. “Mr. Crawford, please, this cannot be necessary.”

“It is necessary. It is entirely necessary that you know and understand that nothing of any significance ever took place between your two cousins and myself.” She began to turn away again, but he caught her hand. “If there is any jealousy on their part, it is not of my doing. I never gave either of them any reason to suppose us more than friends, and they are certainly nothing to me now.” She pressed her lips together. “You have heard, I suppose,” he hurried on, determined to get to the worst of it, “that I have been speaking to Mrs. Rushworth in town, but I know your good sense would have seen that there is nothing in that . It is a family acquaintance౼a close family connection, which I hoped would become closer still. I care nothing for her friendship, but I could not fail to acknowledge the claim which our common association last summer gave to both her and her husband. I would not insult your family by ignoring her. I saw Mr. Rushworth and Miss Bertram as well, as well as Tom, and Edmund and Mary. We all of us were meeting frequently. If anyone should claim there is more to it than that, well, they do not know me, and they do not understand how impossible it is that I should wish to attach myself to any woman other than yourself. Your good opinion must always come first with me—your sweetness, your delicacy and gentleness, the clarity of your lovely mind—they have spoiled me for any other woman. What man, after loving a Fanny Price, could desire the good opinion of a Maria Rushworth? It is not to be thought of! I have thought only of you, my sweetest Fanny౼”

Fanny, who had pulled her hand away twice during this speech, stood up and turned away. Crawford, who could not bear to have her leave without her assurances, pursued her, repeating again the professions he had made before, in disregard of all promises to the contrary. He was running out of time—he would lose her if he did not do something—such considerations pressed against him, made him heedless. “You must not go away without promising me, without telling me that you understand, that you will not let anyone make you doubt my love. You will not be, cannot be so cruel. It is not in your nature. You will show me mercy—Say it now, dearest. Say, ‘Henry, I believe you.’”

“Mr. Crawford.” The look of anger, which he had only seen on her features perhaps twice before, crossed them now. He ceased talking to listen. “I am not so simple as you think me, or so blind. I do not need to hear from others how you behaved in the past, for I saw it myself, and I am astonished that you should dare to speak to me about it. As for Mrs. Rushworth, I only know what your sister has communicated, and I am sure that it is none of my concern, but your conscience should tell you what is right to show to a married woman. Now, please,” she averted her eyes again. “I wish to return to the house.” She walked away, her shoulders set with gentle dignity. Crawford, stunned by the rebuke, watched her go and tried with futile despair to determine how to stop her.

“Miss Price,” he finally called, and ran to catch up with her. She did not look around. “You cannot mean to leave me like that. If I have done wrong, you can teach me about it, surely. You can show me how to be better. I would sit under your tutelage for years, I would learn anything you wish me to know. I will put myself in your hands entirely. I will be a better improvement project than Sotherton.” He threw up his hands as she sent him a reproachful look. “That was not the best example, but the point stands. Can you really reconcile it with your conscience to give up such an opportunity? To remake a man—an indifferent sort of a man, not bad really, but not very good either, but who loves you—to take this man and turn him into something more? To make him really good? Do you not think that would be a worthy undertaking, for a woman such as yourself?”

“I would never dare assume such responsibility.”

“You would leave me without a guide, then? Without a better partner, or helper?”

“There is a Helper who may teach you everything, if you would seek Him. God is able to do all things, Mr. Crawford, but I am just a woman.” So saying, she went inside, and not all of Henry’s most sanguine feelings could encourage him to follow her further. He leaned against the wall, filled with self-loathing, and wishing more than ever that he could go back to that day on the ramparts at Portsmouth.

~%~

In the library, Edmund drew back from an embrace that would soon make him forget himself completely. Mary was warm in his arms—more warm, more willing, and more sweet than he had even dreamed. He felt faintly that they really ought to be married to be doing this—though really, it was nothing wrong, it was just the overwhelming sensations created, the strength of the intimate feelings.

Mary laid her head against his shoulder and sighed. “Yes, you shall make an excellent husband.”

He could not answer her, just held her close, and tried to reorder his own mind. It was all too easy to forget, here, the dire situation they were in. The eminence of disgrace—the horror of Crawford’s possible behaviour—the agony of losing Mary now , even, seemed like distant threats, when he had her in his arms. But he could not forget them, not entirely. They would not be forgotten.

“I would go to Bath if you would go with me.”

“I wish I could, but you know that is impossible.”

“How impossible? I do not see any impossibility.”

“I cannot leave Tom right now, and if I could, my parish demands my attention. It has been neglected too long.”

She moved restlessly against him. “Tom! It is always Tom! Why does he deserve your attention, and I do not?”

He pressed his lips to her hair. “You do not mean that, I know you do not. In truth, I am sorry to have proposed under such dismal conditions. You deserve better than this. I have not even been able to announce our engagement to my family properly, since my father left so suddenly. It has all of it been done very poorly, and I am sorry.”

“Yes…” Her hand smoothed his lapel. “Why did your father leave so suddenly? It is very mysterious, and no one seems to know.”

He hesitated. “I am not at liberty to speak of it yet.”

“No?” Her dark eyes peered up at him. “Not even to me?” She pouted a little, and he looked at her lips, already red from his kisses. “And here I thought you loved me!”

“You know I love you,” he said fervently. “I could never even imagine any other woman as my wife.”

“Well, I must say you are doing a poor job of showing it. A husband who does not confide in his wife! What sort of marriage are you offering me, sir?” She looked at him beneath her lashes, her mouth puckering provocatively. He bent to kiss her again, but she placed her fingers over his mouth. “Edmund,” she whispered, “why did your father go to London?”

He drew back, a twist of unease moving through him. “Why do you care so much?”

“Why should I not care about something that concerns my future family?” She began to look offended now, but her eyes would not meet his. “You have made such a deal over it, I thought it must be important, that is all. I do not like to think that you would be keeping things from me, especially so soon after our engagement.” She pulled out of his arms, and he felt the rush of cool air in her wake. She fussed with her gown and moved around the room. “If one of my friends in town had told me their husband refused to discuss business concerns with them, why I would have thought that quite the established mode, but you have been talking to me so long about trust and openness, and marriages of mutual affection, that I thought you were offering me something better than that. Something on a higher order of relationship, but now I see it is all a take-in, just like everyone else’s marriages.”

The twist of unease had grown. “If it were a matter of my own business I would disclose it to you fully. Ask me anything about my life or my work, and I will answer. I hope you will ask me, and take as close an interest in the concerns of my parish as I do, but౼”

“Oh, the parish!” She laughed a little bitterly. “It is always the parish, and the old ladies, and the farmers, and now Tom! Everyone is to have their first share of your attention but me. My concerns hold no weight with you, my wishes you are certain not to regard, if there be any other person who wants a prayer, or a sermon, or even to have you hold their hand for an hour. You will not think of me when they call.”

Edmund stared at her. Part of him wanted to answer her, to assure her that her concerns were his first concern as well, but another part of him felt, instinctively, that this was not really about the parish, or even Tom. The parish had always been there, and she had not objected this morning when he talked of his duty to his brother. “Mary…”

She turned around suddenly, and smiled her most bewitching smile, a smile that seemed to invite him to her. “Don’t you want to please me, Edmund?”

He did want to please her. He wanted it very much, and as he walked across the room and took her in his arms again, he vowed he would do everything in his power to do so, that would not require absolutely compromising those most cherished principles he had built his life around.

“Edmund,” she murmured some time later, “you are worried. What are you worried about?”

“Losing you.”

“Why would you lose me?”

He paused for a long moment. “I ought not to be doing this with you.” He removed her arms, with infinite pain, from around his neck.

“Well, whyever not?”

“It is not right.”

“I don’t understand.” She drew back truly offended, as well as confused. “I thought we were engaged.”

He sighed, and turned away from the enticing sight she made. “We are.”

“Then why should you object to a few kisses? It is not as if you do not have honourable intentions towards me! And if you do object to kissing me, you ought to have said so a long time ago, because it is too late to be anything but a hypocrite now.”

He winced. “You are right. I am acting the hypocrite, but oh, Mary! If only things were different! If only this wretched business of my father’s were settled, and settled happily! Then I would not fear anything that might happen.”

“This wretched business you still refuse to tell me about, you mean. You cannot say something like that and not explain it.”

A long silence followed. “I don’t know how to tell you. It is so very bad. If what has happened is what we fear, it would spell disaster for all of us.”

“You are speaking of Henry and Mrs. Rushworth, I expect,” she said matter-of-factly.

He whirled around. “You know?”

“I heard the rumours, certainly. How could I not? But it is nothing to be worried about, Edmund. Henry would not betray Fanny in any meaningful way. It is only his old habit of liking to make women in love with him, which he has not quite got over. It is very bad, but once he and Fanny are married, she will settle him. His flirtatious ways will not survive the date of their engagement, I am sure.”

“You speak so lightly of it? For a man to flirt with a woman, a married woman, while the professed suitor of her cousin?” He stared at her incredulously, a sick feeling in his stomach. “Mary, Maria’s very respectability and reputation are at stake! Her marriage itself might be in danger!”

“Pooh! Rushworth is a jealous fool, but no one cares about flirtations in town. I daresay Henry did not do half as much as rumour says he did, and now he is staying here, it will soon all be forgotten. If it is not, you may be certain that it is not Henry’s fault, but Maria’s, and her husband’s.”

He could not speak. Mary seemed to grow uncomfortable under his look, and assumed a more serious air. “I know it must be very unpleasant to Sir Thomas, to hear his daughter spoken of in such a way, and it will make things awkward for a little while, but I truly believe that it is nothing that cannot be gotten over with a little discretion and time. If we treat it as nothing, the world will believe it was nothing as well—and truly, my dear Edmund, it was nothing. A little etourderie on Henry’s part, and of course you may all take turns scolding him for it, but his heart is as much Fanny’s as it ever was. As for Mrs. Rushworth, she will simply have to accept that Henry has never been hers.”

Edmund shook his head. “I need to check on Tom,” he muttered. “I am certain to be wanted.” He turned away and hurried to the door, desperate to be away. She stopped him just as he was about to leave, taking his hand in both of hers.

“You will see that I am right, my love.” She looked earnestly into his face, a frown between her eyes. “It is not so bad as you fear. Nothing needs to change.”

Saying he hardly knew what, he pulled his hand away, and left her standing there.

Chapter 7

It had taken Fanny a great deal of time in the East room—a great deal of pacing, and weeping, and prayer, and then laying down on her bed with a cool cloth on her head, before she could feel at all calm or composed again. It had been a dreadful day, shock upon shock to her mind and sensibilities, and she could hardly fathom how it could be possible to carry on with life as usual. To think she had actually wanted to return to Mansfield! She wished she had stayed in Portsmouth, rather than to have experienced the evils of this day.

She had not minded Mr. Crawford joining her on her morning ride, or not much, at least. He had been an agreeable companion until he decided to begin speaking of love again. She wished he would stop. She wished he would see how unpleasant it was to her, and be satisfied with her acceptance of his company. But even that had not disturbed her very far. Mr. Crawford professing love was not, after all, new. What had truly cut up her peace was, of course, the news of Edmund’s engagement. Given, as it had been, publicly, slyly, with insinuation and smiles, it had been all the harder to bear. Edmund had not even told her himself! He had left it all to Mary—Mary, who must now be all things to him, while poor Fanny became less and less.

She had feared this day, expected it, dreaded it, known it was coming, but how bitter it was to have it finally here. And then to hear Mary calmly affirming those sentiments she had written her letter about—coldly admitting that she preferred Tom’s death! It was horrifying to hear, horrifying to know how her corruption must inevitably work on Edmund’s goodness, turning him further and further from the upright man he was to one made in Mary’s image. He would be miserable with her, positively miserable, unless his own morals became like hers. They would escape poverty after all, if Tom did die, but what a price to pay for conjugal peace! The letter she had not shown Edmund could never be shown now. Perhaps she should have given it to him last night—she should have fetched it and made him read it, right there in the candlelight by Tom’s bedside. She might have saved him for ever, if she had—but that chance was gone, gone for ever now. He had committed himself, and Edmund was too honourable to ever draw back once the promise was made.

And then, after the mortification of her tears, and the misery of being comforted by the one who had caused them, she had gone with Mr. Crawford outside, gone to get away from the sight of Mary and Edmund together, her so fond and possessive, and he had subjected her to another scene—a scene of the most distasteful sort. Fanny still shook with anger when she thought of it, his justifications and sophistry, his attempts to convince her that it was all nothing, that he had not dallied with her cousins in the way she herself had seen him do. And his talk of Mrs. Rushworth! If anything was lacking to convince her there had been impropriety there , it was his eagerness to defend himself against it. Everything that had followed only made it worse. He was wicked and corrupt; he was everything she had believed him in the beginning, and whatever his reasons for pretending he loved her, they were more sophistry. He was pretending to himself most of all, perhaps, but she would not be fooled. She would not be convinced he cared for anyone but himself.

When dinner time came, there were only three at the table: Fanny, Edmund and Lady Bertram. No one spoke much, except for Lady Bertram’s occasional rambling remarks. Edmund looked as miserable as Fanny felt, and her heart could not help lifting a little. If he was this miserable on only the first day of engagement, then perhaps there was hope. He had never looked really happy, not at any time she saw him today, and that made no sense that she could tell—he should have been happy at first, even if they quarrelled later—but while Fanny certainly did not desire that Edmund be miserable, she did not want him happy with Mary Crawford either. Misery now might be better than happiness, if it prevented more permanent suffering later.

Edmund excused himself immediately after dinner, and Fanny played cribbage with Lady Bertram until bedtime. It was a soothing activity, peaceful and quiet, and when Lady Bertram told her she ought to go up to bed early, because she looked sadly pulled, it was all she could do to keep from weeping with gratitude at her aunt’s easy affection. She went up, not to drift off peacefully, but to lay awake and pray that God keep her from the sin of despair. It was wicked to forsake hope, but how little hope she could feel then, poor Fanny!—at only eighteen, and the man she loved engaged to another. All was darkness in her view—her life would never be happy again—she could never love another like she did him—William’s love, her uncle’s kindness, and her aunt’s affection were the only things she had to cling to.

~%~

The Crawfords also had a quiet dinner, of plain fare. For once, neither of the siblings had much to say to the other. Both were lost in their own introspections, frowning over the undressed mutton and boiled turnips. The shadows in the mostly empty house pressed around them, the still-covered furniture circling like unformed ghosts.

“We should just go back to London,” said Mary eventually.

He shook his head. “You know I can’t.”

“Why not? At least then you would know what she’s done.”

“What does it matter to me what she’s done?” There was a bit of mustard on his plate. He dipped his knife in it, and dragged it around, in bilious swirls. “I’m done for anyway.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” There was half an over-cooked turnip. He cut it into little pieces. “I have more chance of persuading Sir Thomas to marry me than Fanny.”

“Now that is just foolish talk.”

“Is it?” He speared a piece of bread and held it up to study.

“For goodness sake, Henry, would you stop playing with your food, and look at me!”

He put the knife down and looked at her. “Apologies.”

“Now, you got us into this, and I am counting on you to help get us out. If you give up now, that is tantamount to admitting guilt.”

He laughed harshly, and dragged a hand through his hair. “But I am guilty, aren’t I? That’s the whole problem.” He put the hand across the table to her. “But you don’t need to go down with me. You should stay here, and I’ll go away. I’ll try Everingham, like you said. Edmund will protect you; he’ll stand by you.”

Now it was her turn to laugh unpleasantly. “I think you are overestimating the strength of Edmund’s affection for me. He’ll not stand the moral blight of a rake in his family, if he can help it.”

He pressed his lips together. “I’m sorry.”

She looked down at her plate, and no one said anything for another minute or two. “I don’t know what this nonsense is about Fanny, though,” she tried again, with forced lightness. “The girl wept in my arms this afternoon, and I could swear it was over you.”

His eyes lifted. “What?”

“After you and the other men left. I was entreating her to complete everyone’s happiness by accepting you, and she burst into tears. I thought for sure it was over you; young girls in love for the first time often get quite confused with their feelings, and cry over them, poor things.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Why would Fanny cry over me? She knows I am hers; she only needs to look at me, and I’ll have her at the church tomorrow.”

“I told you, a young, inexperienced girl like that can find it very confusing to be in love, especially if she thought for sure that she would never, ever love you. No one likes being wrong. She is probably just struggling to understand the truth for herself.”

He considered this, a spark of hope coming into his countenance. “I thought she had been crying earlier. But I saw her after that, and there was nothing—I made a mull of it, of course. I should never have…. She looked so severe, almost unlike herself. I could swear she hated me then.”

“Fanny Price isn’t capable of hating anybody. It just means you have made her feel strong feelings, and she’s not used to them.”

He looked more hopeful still, then shook his head. “What difference does it make? Any day now there will be another letter, with more news from London. Sir Thomas will try to speak to Maria in that overbearing way he has, and she will probably tell him everything just to spite him. Or to spite me. Or Rushworth. Bertram is already looking at me like I’m a wolf here to gobble his little cousin up. When he finds out the truth—when she finds out the truth…” He shook his head. “I don’t think I can bear to be here for that. I have no hope, Mary.” He picked up the wine decanter, and poured himself another glass. “I have no hope at all.”

Another silence. “Will you go away tomorrow, then?”

“Perhaps. I may go up to the house, try to see Fanny one last time…. If you are right, and she is starting to care for me… “ He groaned. “How can I leave her? But how can I stay?”


Mary sighed, looking across the table at her beloved brother. “All our fears may be for nothing, you know. All Maria has to do is keep her silence, and the rest will blow over. No-one will hold it against you very long.”

“Yesterday, I would have agreed with you. Tonight… tonight… I don’t know. Perhaps you are right. But I don’t think so.” He rose, picked up the decanter and the glass, and took them from the room with him.

~%~

Tom seemed a little better again in the morning. It was one comfort at least, and Edmund felt desperately in need of comfort. He was just settling him down to the weak tea and soft-boiled eggs that Cook felt appropriate for an invalid’s breakfast when there was a soft knock on the door.

Opening it, he found Fanny, looking pale and tired. “Oh! Good morning, cousin,” she said.

“Good morning, Fanny.” Suddenly he felt the urge to embrace her, to soak up her warm, sisterly love and tender sympathy.

“How is Tom today?”

“He seems stronger, I think. He did not cough much at all last night.”

“Thank God! I am so glad!” Her face lit for a moment with her sweet smile. “I was thinking, Edmund, that if my aunt can spare me later, and if you do not think it would be improper, perhaps I could sit with Tom for a while. I can read to him, or play cards. If he would not dislike it, that is. I know I am not an adequate substitute for you, but perhaps he would accept me for a little while, at least, and you could rest. You should not have to be the only one to sit with him all the time.”

“My dear cousin, I am sure that he would be delighted to see your pretty face rather than mine. But you mustn’t make yourself work too hard, either. You are still recovering from Portsmouth, and if you do not mind my saying so, you do not look well today. Did you not sleep last night?”

“Not very well,” she admitted. “But I shall be better directly, I daresay. It would not tire me to read or play cards.”

He noticed her clothing. “Do you not plan to ride this morning?”

She shook her head, looking down.

“Why not? You can’t expect to get better without fresh air and exercise.”

“I do not wish to ride,” she said, but there was that tone in her voice that said she wasn’t telling the whole truth. He frowned at her, then suddenly remembered the morning before, and his concerns about her riding out at the same time as Crawford.

“Fanny, why don’t you want to ride?”

She pressed her lips together.

“That’s no good. You have a reason, and I would like to know what it is. Please tell me. I won’t be angry or try to argue you out of it, I promise.”

Her head dipped a little lower. “I don’t want to meet Mr. Crawford,” she whispered.

“Oh, Fanny.” Guilt and worry almost crushed him. “Did you meet him yesterday?”

She nodded.

“Did he bother you? Impose on you? Harm you in any way?” Now her eyes looked wonderingly back up at him, and Edmund flushed at the surprise in them. “I’ve been a fool, Fanny. I should never have urged you to accept his proposal against your own conscience. It was unpardonable of me—I can see that now. Please tell me if he has imposed on you in any way.”

Again she stared in amazement, and to his horror, tears welled up in her eyes. “What did he do?” Glancing behind him, he pulled her all the way out into the corridor, and shut the door behind them. Gripping her hand firmly, he tried to appear as reassuring as possible, while inwardly he was near to panicking. What kind of fiend had he forced his little cousin to endure? “Please tell me, Fanny, my dearest cousin, what happened? What did Crawford do to you?”

To his unspeakable relief, she shook her head, and searched in her pocket for her handkerchief. “Nothing. He hasn’t done anything, except that he won’t leave me alone, and he will not stop talking of things I dislike, and yesterday he began speaking of Julia and Mrs. Rushworth, and—oh, cousin, I am very much afraid that he must have done—there must have been something—or else he would not feel the need to speak so particularly of her౼”

“Hush.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “You do not need to say any more.” For what else was there to say? For all of Crawford’s direct attacks and shows of righteous indignation, he was appearing every moment more guilty. His own sister’s words confirmed it. What exactly he was guilty of—how far the indiscretion, the sin had reached, they did not yet know—but that there had been indiscretion and sin, Edmund could no longer doubt.

“I will ask him to leave,” he said after a moment. “I will ask him not to return again until—if—if all is somehow settled and clear. Though I cannot think—I do not think it possible that he will be found completely innocent, Fanny. I have lost my friend. You have lost something more, perhaps, though it seems you always saw him for what he is. Oh, Fanny, there is no end of the evils that threaten us now!”

Fanny’s small hands covered his, and clasped it. Her lips worked, and her eyes, still wet from her tears, studied him anxiously. “Miss Crawford?” she asked softly.

He shook his head and pulled away. “I cannot speak of it. I still have hope—I still must try to do my best by her. I love her, and I am committed now. If only she can be separated from the evil that is her brother, we may have a chance.” He swallowed. “But you need not be troubled any longer. My father wished me to keep him here, and away from London, but he also commanded me to protect you, and clearly that cannot be while he is still here to disturb your peace. I will see if he can be reasoned with. For his sister’s sake, he may be persuaded to go back to his estate, or some other place that is not London. I am sure, from his behaviour, that he does not desire a scandal. Perhaps, if he thinks he still has a chance with you—but that is talking nonsense. I will not sacrifice your comfort any longer. He will be told, and pray God that he accepts it as he should.”

Fanny nodded, seeming too overcome to speak, but her expressive eyes conveying gratitude and sympathy.

“Why don’t you stay up here with Tom? He is in his chair—do not worry. Peterson will stay, and we can call one of the maids to sit with you if you feel you need another chaperone. I will send a note to Aunt Norris and ask her to spend the morning with my mother, if she has not already planned to. When once I have seen him, and he is gone—really gone—then you can come down. But, Fanny?” He paused on the act of turning away. “You will not abandon Mary, will you? You will still be her friend? She will need your friendship more than ever now.”

She nodded. “I will still be her friend,” she promised.

“Thank you.” He forced a fleeting smile, and started down the hall. “Have you had breakfast?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Not yet.”

“I will send up a tray.” He left her to minister to Tom’s moods as she saw fit, and headed down to the breakfast parlour. While still feeling very grim, he was a little cheered by the simple act of reaching a resolution. Knowing that Fanny, at least, would be a little happier, and that Crawford himself would be gone from the halls of Mansfield, brought him some relief. How Mary would react to him sending her brother away, he dared not think. He would face that when it came.

He was fortunate—if such a word could be applied to him in such circumstances. Breakfast was not long over when a footman came to tell him that Mr. Crawford had arrived alone. He was in the office where the estate records were kept, reviewing some numbers in a futile attempt to distract his mind. He asked that Crawford be shown there, because it was as good a room as any for such a conversation.

In a few minutes he arrived, and the two men stared at each other across the top of the desk and its ledger. At last he rose to his feet. “Crawford౼”

“I’m leaving today.”

Surprised, he paused a moment. “Truly?”

His mouth twisted. “Do you think I am so blind I cannot see the way the wind is blowing? You have obviously decided I am guilty already. Not even your engagement to my sister can procure me the benefit of the doubt.”

“I would give you the benefit of every doubt, if it were only my own wishes to consult. But that is not why I am asking you to leave. I’m asking you to leave for Fanny’s sake.”

Crawford swallowed. “I want to see her.”

He shook his head. “I promised her she wouldn’t have to.”

“Are those her wishes speaking, or yours? Did you influence her to think badly of me, to fear meeting me?”

“Of course not. You did that yourself.” Despite everything, a wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She heard the name of Mrs. Rushworth from your lips, not mine.”

He cursed under his breath and paced a couple of steps. “Bertram, you must let me see her. Just… one more time. One more time, for the love of heaven. After that, I will leave. I will go to Everingham and wait until you tell me I can come back again, but you can’t deny me the chance to speak to her, just once more. Think how you would feel it was Mary! I deserve that, don’t I?”

Edmund hesitated, but shook his head again. “I promised her.”

“Then let me write to her. Let me at least leave some pledge of my love for her. She must know that I have not given up—that I will never give up desiring her. That I will come back again when I can.”

Feeling conflicted, Edmund yet agreed to this. It would be up to Fanny whether she wished to read it. Crawford was provided with ink and paper, and took Edmund’s place at the desk, writing quickly. He covered both sides of the sheet, his face drawn and earnest as he wrote. Looking at him, Edmund could almost believe him innocent. There was no doubt in his mind that he did love Fanny—that he wanted very badly to marry her. Seeing this man whom he had called his friend, whom he had wished to call brother and cousin, with whom he had spent so many happy hours, lacerated a heart already wounded. “Will you not tell me the truth?” he asked, when Crawford’s pen had stopped moving. “Will you not tell me what really happened?”

Crawford paused a moment. “Inviting me to confession, O priest?”

“If it will help your soul or ease your conscience, yes. And perhaps it may help Maria to save her marriage.”

“You are assuming that she wants to save it.”

“I cannot believe she desires disgrace.”

Crawford looked like he would speak, then shook his head. “I have already said I did not do anything wrong. If Maria says differently, then that must be on her conscience, not mine.” He stood. “You will give this to her?”

“I will give it to her.”

He nodded, hesitated, then walked to the door. “Don’t punish Mary for my sins,” he said, when he got there. “She loves you.”

“And I love her. Whatever happens between us, it will be up to her.”

Again Crawford looked like he would speak—again he fell silent. “Tell Fanny I love her,” he finally said. “Tell her she is the only woman I have ever loved—that she is the woman I did not know existed. That my heart and my mind were constant. Tell her that, Bertram. My love was constant.”

“I will tell her,” said Edmund, “if she wishes to hear it.”

He lingered a moment longer, but there was nothing more either of them was willing to say. He was determined to maintain his innocence, and Edmund did not believe him. He left, and Edmund watched him go with dry, burning eyes.

~%~

Upstairs in Tom’s bedroom, Fanny was sitting in the window seat, reading Waverly aloud. She had seen Mr. Crawford come up to the house, and had barely been able to control her voice enough to continue. Filled with anxiety, she read with such trembling in her voice, and so many distracted mistakes, that Tom was ready to impatiently tell her to leave off, when she saw Mr. Crawford come out again. He walked slowly down the path, and when far enough from the house, turned to stare up at it. She fancied his eyes focused on the window where she sat, and she stopped reading altogether, unable to look away. He stood there for ever, she thought, gazing and gazing for the last time at Mansfield Park, and the girl in the window.

Chapter 8

Mary saw Henry off from the parsonage. He took only his horse, and left the carriage for her use. He was suffering acutely—she could see it in his face, and hear it in his voice, and she cursed Maria Rushworth yet again for her indiscretion and folly. She was angry at Fanny too, very angry. The foolish girl could not understand what she had given up—she did not know the harm her perverseness had caused. If she had accepted Henry in the beginning, they would all be happy, instead of caught in this miserable uncertainty.

When he had gone, she went back inside and looked around. She was alone in the parsonage now, but for the servants. She would have to ask Edmund if she could move in at the Park. Either that, or she would have to go back to London. She would not mind that option—even if London was likely to be uncomfortable at the moment, it would still be more comfortable than waiting here, like Damocles beneath his sword. It was not in her disposition to wait meekly for trouble to come to her. She preferred to seize it herself, with both hands, and make what she could of it.

She debated whether she ought to wait for Edmund to call on her, or if she should go up to the house herself. She would not have doubted him, only yesterday—she ought not to doubt him now, but for that look on his face in the library yesterday, before he had hurried away. It was the look of a man who had seen something very unpleasant—not a flattering reflection on her, to be sure. It left her feeling rather more uncertain than she would like.

Well, she decided, she was cross with Edmund too, for sending Henry away. She would make him come to her. So she sat and played her harp with scarcely a pause until finally, late in the morning, Edmund came to her.

She did not look up as he came into the room, but played the minor chords of her song; they reverberated against the walls, melancholy and a little angry. When she finally stopped, Edmund was still standing, his eyes deep and mournful. She struggled a little to breathe.

“Henry is gone, if that is what you are wondering.”

“Mary, you must know how painful it was to me to send him away.”

“How should I know that? I told you yesterday that this affair with Maria was nothing to be concerned about. You should have listened to me.”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot believe that, and I do not think you believe it either. It is very natural that you should wish to protect your brother, and to believe the best of him, but I have reason to believe that his transgression— their transgression—has been, at the very least, serious. Maria is threatening to leave her husband—my father has gone to reason with her, if he can—Crawford’s name is spoken of౼”

“She is foolish indeed if she thinks Henry will want anything to do with her.” She spoke without thinking, and saw from Edmund’s expression that she had said the wrong thing again. She loved him, but it was so tiresome to be always worried about crossing his ideas of proper conversation. “I am sure,” she said after a moment, “that Sir Thomas will persuade her to remain with her husband. She cannot really wish to give up so desirable a situation, it is only her annoyance at her husband that makes her speak so imprudently. I heard that Mrs. Rushworth senior had come to live with them, and I daresay that is what brought it on. It is always difficult for two females to learn to live together, when both of them wish to be the mistress of the house.”

For a moment, Edmund’s face relaxed a little, and he seemed relieved. “You are not wrong,” he said, coming further into the room and seating himself for the first time. “In fact, you have hit remarkably close to the truth—it was a fight with her mother-in-law that precipitated the rest. I hope you may be correct that she will listen to reason. But still, it is an evil! It is a very great evil that she would even think of such a thing, let alone to speak of it! Your brother’s involvement౼ Mary, I hope it may not be so bad as it appears now, but the very fact that his name has been coupled with hers in such a public way, that he has been considered as a contributor, perhaps even the main cause, of such a break in marital accord—you must see how impossible it is that he continue any association with our family.”

“I hope you do not mean to say that I may not associate with my own brother!” Her alarm rose. “Unless you mean to say that you do not mean to associate with me .” As often as she had pondered the difficulties of marriage to Edmund, the prospect of losing him, even without the title, was painful in the extreme.

“I am certainly not such a cad as to draw back from an engagement,” he said gravely, without any of the animation and warmth she had come to expect from him. “Especially since you are not guilty of wrongdoing. I told my father before he left of our engagement, and he values you too much to lay any blame on you, or to expect me to withdraw. I also know you too well to suppose you will repudiate a relationship that is so dear to you. But Henry cannot be at Mansfield. Mr. Rushworth cannot be expected to accept him as a relation, and as for my sister, it would seem the further she is from him, the better it will be for them both.”

In her agitation, Mary stood up and began to walk around the room. Part of her wanted to protest angrily against the honourable motive—to demand he speak of love, or else take himself off—but a stronger caution kept her quiet. She wanted Edmund and Mansfield, and she believed she could have them. A little time, that was all that was required. A little soothing of sensibilities, a little time for the Bertrams to recover their sense of injured dignity. Henry would have to manage on his own for now. They would have to accept him back eventually. Even little Fanny would likely wait for him; it was not as if she had any other suitors.

But for now, she would not take offence at Edmund’s tone. He was shocked, she knew, shocked and grieved. He wanted soothing. She turned back. “My dearest Edmund,” she said. “How hard you take all this! You are distressed indeed.” She sat next to him on the sofa, and ran her hand down his face. He sagged under her touch. “You must let me do a wife’s office,” she whispered, “and give you comfort.” He hesitated—she saw him struggle between desire and compunction, but when she lifted her face, he capitulated. After all, as she had told him yesterday, it was too late for anything but hypocrisy now.

~%~

Fanny had taken the letter Mr. Crawford wrote for her and buried it deep under a stack of papers in a drawer in the East room. Her first impulse had been to burn it, but something about the sight of Mr. Crawford’s lone figure on the path outside affected her still, and in her pity she could not quite bring herself to burn the last message he wished to give her. She did not read it, of course—had no desire at all to see such a repetition of sentiments as it must contain—but she did not destroy it. She hid it away, instead, where it need trouble her no more.

There was a great deal of troubling information to consider. She was relieved that Mr. Crawford had gone, but it was clear he was leaving under a cloud of the gravest suspicion, and whatever had happened in London must be even more serious than she had previously supposed. Or perhaps it was not London, but Richmond and Twickenham that had been the scene of their guilt. Edmund’s words had confirmed that Sir Thomas went to town for some reason related to it—that public scandal and disgrace might even be possible. The prospect of it, and all it would bring with it, horrified her.

More and more she wondered at the Crawfords’ purpose in coming here. Was it only because of Tom’s illness? That seemed to be Mary’s reason, and she had certainly achieved her aim, if her brother’s misdeeds did not bring the engagement to an end. Fanny wished she could hope for this outcome, but she knew too well Edmund’s sense of honour. He had told her himself: he was committed, he would not draw back, he would try to make the engagement work. If Mary herself did not choose to end the relationship—and Fanny could hardly suppose she would, as long as Tom continued so ill—then it would be a marriage at last. And someday, Fanny thought with sinking feelings, she would see Henry Crawford again. If ever there was a sister who would refuse to relinquish a connection with her brother, no matter his transgressions, it was Mary. She would marry Edmund, and some day, Henry Crawford would be back in their home, and Fanny would have to accept his company once more. If only she could trust that he would have forgotten her by then!

His coming to Mansfield was more perplexing than Mary’s. To come to the family home of the woman he had just been dallying with! How did he not think discovery would follow him? If he only wished to leave Maria, he might have gone anywhere. He might have returned to Everingham, or even to Portsmouth. Surely either of those places would offer him better protection from his iniquities than Mansfield. That he had come, and come only for Fanny, to transport and bring her home to Mansfield and to show her attentions, was the only possible conclusion. There was none other, and Fanny marvelled at the uncertain and unprincipled character of a man who could show such sincere devotion to one woman even while courting the favour of another.

She spent half the morning with Tom before Edmund came and assured her that Crawford had left for good, when she came downstairs and remained with her aunts throughout the day. Mrs. Norris was more bullying than usual, and it wore on Fanny’s tattered nerves, but she bore it as best she could. There were no Crawfords come to break up the small group today, and while Fanny was glad for it, she could not help but miss the distraction it provided her aunts. Her spirits were not improved by a letter from Susan, who wrote disconsolately of the troubles Betsey was causing her, and wished she could be at Mansfield with Fanny. The inclusion of kind messages from Lady Bertram were the only cheerfulness Fanny was able to add to her own letter.

Of Edmund she saw little, once he had delivered Crawford’s letter and his news to her. She knew he had gone down to the parsonage, but what passed there, she could only guess. Mary had clearly remained behind. When he came back, he stopped in the drawing room only to ask his mother if she would object to Miss Crawford coming to stay with them for a few days, as she was alone at the parsonage now. Lady Bertram had assured him that she could not imagine it causing the slightest trouble to anyone, and he had gone away again. Fanny later heard his voice, coming from Tom’s room, but she did not approach.

In the afternoon he called for a carriage, and in less than an hour after that, the footmen were bringing in Miss Crawford’s things, and then Miss Crawford herself was in the house, laughing as she took off her bonnet and followed the housekeeper up the stairs. This is it , Fanny thought. Now that she is installed here, we will never get her out again . She hated herself for the bitterness of her thoughts, though, especially against one who would soon be her relation, and by the time Mary came down into the drawing room, she was feeling so guilty, so chastened and determined to do better, that she met her with more than usual affection.

“I am very angry with you, Fanny,” said Mary directly, “sending Henry away without so much as a kind word like that! But as I suppose we are to be cousins I must forgive you, and hope that time, as well as my words, will convince you to look on him more favourably next time.”

Edmund was coming up behind her, and Fanny glanced at him to see if he heard this speech, and how he took it. He frowned, but all he said was, “Dinner is to be in an hour. I hope you will have enough time to unpack and do everything you wish by then.”

“Oh, dinner! A real Mansfield dinner is worth any rush of preparation, especially after you have been eating poor Hettie’s cooking down at the parsonage like I have. I cannot wait to have meat that’s well dressed and vegetables that aren’t boiled again. I will not care how I look, as long as I can eat.”

Neither party could withhold a smile at that, and soon Miss Crawford had moved on to greeting Mrs. Norris and thanking Lady Bertram very prettily for the invitation to stay with them. “I am sure it shall be very pleasant to have another young face about,” said Lady Bertram, “since we are very quiet most days now. Tom shall like the company, I think—he shall like the company, when he comes downstairs again.”

“Indeed, I hope he may.”

“I think he may be well enough to come down after dinner,” said Edmund. “How did he seem to you this morning, Fanny?”

“Better—I really think he was better. He seemed quite aware when I was reading to him.”

“I told you he would like listening to you. You are always very pleasant to listen to—isn’t she madam?” He addressed his mother.

“I always like listening to Fanny read,” she agreed.

“To be sure, Fanny can read well enough, but her voice is too soft to be really good. She does not read as well as the gentlemen—as Sir Thomas or you, Edmund. Or Mr. Crawford. Now there was a superior reader. I would listen to him any day. Fanny must not be supposing that anyone prefers her reading to his, or any one else’s either.”

Mrs. Norris’s speech pretty well put an end to any bantering or easy conversation. Miss Crawford soon went back up to finish her preparations. Dinner itself was extremely painful to Fanny’s feelings. Mary spoke to Edmund through the whole meal, teasing him for being the only gentleman among so many ladies, and then asking him questions about his parsonage at Thornton Lacey. Fanny could see how well these questions pleased him—could see him growing more cheerful as the meal went on—and though she told herself she ought to be pleased for him, it was with great difficulty that she was able to reply to Mary’s occasional request that she support her opinion.

After dinner, Edmund went upstairs to bring Tom down. Mary settled next to Fanny. “I suppose your cousin will be wishing to return to his parish soon.”

“Yes, I believe he rides over once a week, when he can, to consult with the curate. Now that Tom is improving, he may be able to go more often.”

“Do you think I have any hope of luring him into town with me? I should not like to make the journey alone.” She took Fanny’s arm. “You ought to come too, to play chaperone. You will like London; I could take you around and show you all the churches, and the historic sites that I am sure you know better than I. We can visit the Tower, and see where Henry VIII beheaded his queens.”

“I could not leave Lady Bertram again so soon.”

She sighed. “And I suppose Edmund will say he cannot leave his parish.”

“Or his brother.”

“Yes, I haven’t forgotten him.” Her face looked a little sly. “This is a very fine drawing room, isn’t it? I wonder how it would look if it were reupholstered in blue.”

Fanny was so disgusted that she could not prevent herself from drawing away.

“Oh, don’t, Fanny,” Mary shook her head. “Do not look so disapproving. Don’t worry—I will be a very good wife to Edmund. I intend to make him very happy, and if certain events take place to make me very happy, then they will be completely out of my hands. You will have nothing to condemn me for. I cannot stop the course of nature, can I?”

Fanny could not reply. What reply was possible? The peace that the brother had cost her was nothing to the misery brought on by the sister.

Soon enough, the men were back. Tom did look better than yesterday. The room grew a little bit livelier, as everyone exerted themselves to make pleasant conversation for him. Mary was all that was charming, and promised that if Mr. Edmund Bertram would be so good as to bring up her harp from the house tomorrow, they should have some music in the evening. “For I cannot play the pianoforte, no matter how I try. Perhaps it is not in my nature. I would rather pluck at things than depress them.”

Fanny went to bed with all the felicity of seeing her cousin holding his lady’s hand as they went up the stairs before her.

~%~

The express rider arrived late the next morning. Edmund took the packet he brought into his father’s room. Mary watched him walk past her in the hall, and half held out a hand, but he shook his head. He must read what it said in private.

The letter from his father was not very long, not expressive of his usual deliberate and thorough manner of writing and speaking. Sir Thomas had found the situation in Wimpole Street all that Mr. Harding had described. Mrs. Rushworth was outraged, Mr. Rushworth all things jealous, angry and humiliated. Maria had at first refused to speak to him. She would not be talked to—she would not subject herself to the same authority she had so recently escaped. The name of Mr. Crawford was raised—she reacted proudly and laughed. She would answer no questions about him, no questions about any of her previous statements. Sir Thomas told her where Mr. Crawford was. Then she grew angry. She tried to deny it—he replied with details. Then—here Sir Thomas’s narrative gave out. He could only say that there seemed no doubt of their intimate involvement, or that Maria had been waiting expectantly for him to return. She had abandoned any pretence of affection for her husband, and given it all to the other man.

The fate of the Rushworths’ young marriage was still very much in doubt. No one could question Mr. Rushworth’s right to end it, but if Maria could be prevailed upon to reconcile, then Sir Thomas was not completely unhopeful that Rushworth would agree. The scandal of it all—of a lengthy and public divorce, with all the humiliating revelations that would entail—was a powerful deterrent. Even Mrs. Rushworth senior, in her fury, could not entirely desire it. Her servant, when questioned, was found to not have seen very much. Crawford had left town too soon after their arrival.

Sir Thomas’s last injunction to Edmund was to ensure Mr. Crawford left Mansfield as soon as may be. “I say nothing of Miss Crawford,” he wrote. “You must determine your own best course of action.” He would remain in London until he felt he could do no more good. Edmund must take care of it all.

Edmund sat a long time in a state of utmost misery. It seemed hardly possible to him that it had really happened—that everything described in the letter, everything he had experienced in the last three days could have happened. It was a disaster beyond all reckoning. Their entire family was encompassed in its evil. Even if Rushworth did not choose divorce, it was a sin that could not be overlooked. Knowing the two of them as he did, the difference in their dispositions and their minds, he did not see how a true reconciliation could ever be achieved between the married couple. She would never attempt to earn his forgiveness, he would never attempt to give it. They might avert scandal, but not ruin.

Of Crawford’s role in this he could barely think. It disgusted him to know that he had been his friend—that he had wanted him to marry Fanny! How the man he had known, the man who had had the sense and taste to value her , could act in such a senseless and immoral way he would never understand. It was more than despicable, it was positively wicked.

And Mary. Mary . What did this mean for them? What path forward did this allow? With sighs of agony Edmund contemplated his future. Could she be prevailed upon to give her brother up? Surely once she knew the truth—once she found out the whole, terrible truth she would understand that it had to be. It was Henry or Edmund, brother or husband. There was no compromise possible now.

From the time Mary had made her defence of Henry’s flirtations and revealed their reality at the same time, Edmund had known that he made a mistake. Their opinions were too different, their principles too out of alignment. She had been corrupted too far by her London friends, led astray from her youth. He had thought that their differences could be gotten over, and as her heart was good, she would soon learn to think as he did—but almost every moment since their engagement had been teaching him how foolish he had been, how reckless to plunge ahead despite every obstacle.

But, that had been his fault. She had not hidden her nature from him. And the promise he had made, the liberties he had taken, the very ardent love and desire he still felt for her, all held him bound even in the face of her brother’s growing guilt. He was hers. He must and always would be hers—but neither could he ask his family to countenance such a connection as Henry Crawford. He would never allow such a man into his own home. The connection must be severed.

Heart filling with pity and anxious love, Edmund sent a servant to bring Mary. She came, looking at him with hesitant curiosity. “Mary,” he murmured, taking her hand. “My dearest Mary.”

“Good heavens. Has someone died?”

“No, not that, thank God, but I can scarcely think it much better.” He led her to a seat. “You must prepare yourself, dearest. It is terrible news.” He brought her his father’s letter, and let her read it.

Mary’s face tightened as she read. “Foolish girl!” she exclaimed. “How could she be so heedless?”

He stared. “You call it foolish?”

“Don’t you? Extremely, unforgivably foolish. To cast away everything for the sake of a man who clearly does not want her!”

He drew back, paused—”Mary, perhaps you don’t understand. They have committed adultery .”

She looked up at his face. “It is very shocking, I know. And I do not mean to defend Henry. It was the stupidest thing he could have possibly done, and so I told him, but you must admit that things would never have come to this pass if Maria had only been a little more sensible.”

His heart pounded in his ears as he looked at her. She was reading the letter again. “Mary,” he said at last, very slowly. “Mary—you knew ?”

She froze for a moment, and did not reply.

“You knew.” The statement hung heavy in the air. He could hardly think, or breathe.

“Edmund—my love—you must understand. He was trying to get away from her, to end it. He knew he had done wrong—he would not have made the same mistake again. He loves Fanny, and I am sure he would have been faithful to her. He would not have strayed at all, if she had accepted him.” Her beautiful dark eyes looked up at him, apprehensive but also sincere. He understood. She did not even know what she was saying, not really. She only spoke of the world she knew, and the people who lived in it.

“I would never want my cousin to marry an adulterer.”

She flushed.

“Or a liar.”

She put her chin up. “There is no question of that now, of course. He has already left and gone back to Everingham, so you need have no concern for Fanny’s virtue and purity.” She stood up. “Not that that was in jeopardy with him. He would never have treated her that way.”

He crossed his arms.

“Edmund.” She came to him, and placed her hand over his heart. Despite everything, he quivered at her touch. “Come, can we not be friends? Can we not agree that both our relations have behaved very badly? It is a sad situation, and I hope it may be remedied soon. Rushworth will have to learn the cost of having a beautiful wife, and Maria will have to learn to take comfort in her house and jewels, when her husband disappoints her. Theirs will not be the only marriage of that sort in town, I promise.” She smiled alluringly. “It need not interfere with our happiness.”

She lifted her face, but he did not kiss her this time. He could not, not now. Not yet. Instead, he turned away. “I must write my father a reply,” he said. “The express rider is waiting for it.”

There was a pause. “Do you not love me then, Edmund?”

“I do.” He stared at the desk in front of him. “I love you. You must give me a few minutes—a little time, that is all.”

She laughed uneasily. “I have disappointed you.”

He knew not how to reply. To say the things he was truly thinking would be to cause a break in their relationship that could scarcely be repaired. And perhaps they should be said—but he could not think, could not decide, while she still stood in the room with him. He needed to be away from her in order to find any peace or order in his thoughts.

After a moment she laid a last hand on his back, said, “You will see that I am right,” and went away. He pulled his wits together enough to write a short note to his father, to inform him of Crawford’s having left, and Mary remaining at the house. Fanny was safe—his mother was well—Tom appeared to be improving. It was all the good news he had to give him. He sent the letter off with the rider in only a quarter of an hour.

Voices came from the drawing room. He paused in the doorway, unwilling to enter, but seeing the domestic scene of his mother on her sofa, and Fanny and Mary, sitting together, both working on some kind of stitchery. Fanny was speaking to Mary in her soft, serious way, and his mother dozed contentedly with her pug by her side. It was a scene to increase all his confused feelings, to represent his most precious hopes. He wanted that scene. He wanted his cousin and his wife, his Fanny and Mary, as friends, together, part of his family circle. He wanted it with a most bitter desire.

Fanny looked up; paused for a moment—they shared a glance across the room. Then she bent her head again. Edmund turned away. He was not fit for any company now, much less the company in that room. He was not even fit to be with Tom, so to occupy himself he called the carriage and went to fetch Mary’s harp from the parsonage. It was one more act of commitment, but what was that? He was already committed.

The day drew out. Every minute one misery or another pressed against him. Maria— Crawford—Mary. He could only imagine what his father suffered. He tried to pray, and found he could cry out nothing more than the words, Have mercy!

Chapter 9

Fanny knew her cousin’s moods and expressions too well not to know something was very wrong. She had heard the rider come earlier—she could only assume the news was of the worst sort, and the knowledge of it pressed against her heart. She trembled, and wondered, and feared. She felt weak from suspense, and it was all she could do to remain in the drawing room, talking to her aunt and replying to Mary as if nothing untoward had occurred. Edmund had called Mary earlier—she must know the truth—but she did not speak of it. She looked a little pale when she came back, but smiled and spoke as always. They made nothings all afternoon, until the footmen brought in Mary’s harp. Fanny’s heart contracted again, to see this evidence of her inescapable presence in their lives.

At last, at dinner, he was there, and Fanny could observe for herself how miserable his engagement had made him. Well—perhaps it was the news from London that made him miserable, but his engagement had certainly not made him less so. He was making an effort to act as always, but it was a poor effort. Mary directed all her smiles at him, with little touches of the hand here and there. She spoke prettily of country living and Mansfield; the words “town” and “Henry” never once crossed her lips.

After dinner, Tom came down, and Mary played. It was Edmund’s favourite tune, Fanny remembered. Mary played it, and no one watching could doubt that it was he she played for. Their engagement was still not spoken of in the family; she understood he had been waiting to see what happened with Mr. Crawford, or perhaps for Sir Thomas to return. Their understanding, she thought now, must be obvious to anyone of sense who observed them. Lady Bertram, of course, did not see, but Tom surely did. Mary played for Edmund, and Edmund listened. Their eyes seemed to be communicating too, but it was a conversation Fanny was shut out of. She thought there was as much pain as pleasure in his countenance౼indecision౼ hope—despair—an agony of mind that could not be spoken. Despite herself, she hoped. She watched, and she hoped.

~%~

“Will you not bid me good-night, Edmund?” Mary stood behind him in the corridor, looking at him seriously.

He hesitated, and approached her. “Good-night.”

Instead of taking his hand, she wound her arms around him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He swallowed. “Sorry for what?”


“For not telling you about Henry. I didn’t know when we first came here. And then I could not betray his confidence—surely you understand a sister’s feelings? I only wanted everything to continue as it was.” Her eyelashes dropped.

Edmund felt his will crumbling. “We will not have much of a marriage if you keep things from me,” he muttered.

“I know. You will forgive me?” She looked contrite, and he couldn’t help but kiss her. All is not lost, he thought— it doesn’t have to be lost.

“Mary,” he said after a little while. “You will have to give Henry up now—you know that, don’t you?”

“Give him up?” She drew back abruptly. “What do you mean?”

“There can be no further connection between him and my family. It is not supportable at all.”

“I understand you cannot have him here—at least not for now—but he is still my brother. You said you understood that.”

“That was before I knew the truth. If you want to write to him, I will not forbid it, but there can be no other relationship. He will never be able to come back to Mansfield, and I cannot have him at Thornton Lacey either. The character he has demonstrated—the depravity he has shown—the way he betrayed all of us is beyond any ability to undo or overlook.”

She pulled away further, eyes angry. “Well, I call that very fine, considering the fact that your sister was his partner in all this! She is the one who betrayed her marriage, not him!”

“I do not deny that, but—”

“It is enough.” She turned away. “I wish for no more sermons today, thank you! Good-night!”

He watched her walk away, and leaned against the wall from actual lack of strength. When she had gone, he straightened slowly. He turned towards his room—paused at the idea of its emptiness—and turned back towards the stairs. Up he went, to the school room floor. He did not know if Fanny would still be awake, but when he found the East room, there was a light under the door. He knocked, heard her speak, and went inside.

Fanny was sitting in a low, worn chair just before the fire in her grate. She did not look like she had been reading, or sewing, or doing any of the things he would expect. “Edmund?” Her eyes were wide with surprise.

“Fanny! I just came here to tell you—I thought that you should know౼” He drew a deep breath. “I just—” another deep breath—“Oh, Fanny!” She looked at him then, with such ineffable pity and knowledge, that before he knew what he was doing he walked to her side and dropped to his knees. “Fanny, what am I to do?” He buried his face in her lap and wept like a child.

~%~

The most timid of women may be roused to fierceness when a man weeps in her arms. Fanny held her cousin—an arm around his shoulder, a hand in his hair—and felt that wild force, love and protectiveness and power, sweep through her. I can release him , she thought suddenly, as her mind turned to Mary’s letter, still safe in her drawer. I can release him now.

She said nothing at first, though, but let him cry, as she had dim memories of once letting little Margaret cry in her lap. She had cried to Edmund before, when she was a child, and he had comforted her, an immovable tower of strength and kindness. Now here he was, crying at her feet, and she had never felt the distance between them to be so little, her weakness becoming strength, and his strength becoming weakness.

At length he grew calm, though he did not leave her, but moved to sit next to her, his head leaning against her knee. “You don’t mind if I sit here like this, do you?” he asked in a low, pitiful tone. “You won’t mind it, cousin?”

“No,” she whispered, and, because she could not help it, placed a hand on his head again. He moved against it with a sigh.

“Maria is fallen, Fanny. She surrendered everything to Crawford; my father does not know if her marriage can be saved.”

Though she had supposed it must be so, still it came as a blow. She gasped. “Oh, cousin! My uncle—my aunt—how shall they bear it? How can you bear it?”

He turned to look at her, his eyes strangely grateful. “It is a dreadful crime, isn’t it?”

“It is exceedingly dreadful,” she said earnestly. “A wicked sin! I cannot understand how she could do such a thing! As for Mr. Crawford, I am not entirely surprised, but Mrs. Rushworth—how can she have treated her vows so lightly?”

He grasped for her hand. “I think just as you do—it is a calamitous evil. Our entire family may be sunk beneath it. But I—” He pressed his hands to his eyes, and drew a shuddering sigh. “I am mired so deep in trouble I do not know how to get out.”

Fanny hesitated, wishing to ask, but fearing it too improper.

“If only my father had told me what was happening sooner! I would have acted differently then. I would never have—” He drew up, feeling the same sense of impropriety as she, but also the same urge to speak. “Spoilt, Fanny!” was all he said at last. “Bad example, bad teachers, bad friends—! The gifts of nature, all spoilt!”

Fanny scarcely dared breathe. She opened her mouth—paused—

“Say what you are thinking,” said Edmund.

Very softly—”You are not married yet.”

He stood up and began to pace before the fire, running his hands through his hair in agitation. “No, and I have been asking myself all day if it would be right to end it. I cannot think—a bad marriage is a greater sin than a broken promise surely—but it is not only the promise. There are other reasons. I—we—” He stopped abruptly, a flush running up his cheeks.

Fanny attempted rather than succeeded in not understanding the meaning of that flush. She stared at her hands.

Edmund recovered himself. “When I first found out—about Crawford and Maria, I mean—I assumed that any true sin between them must mean the end of the engagement. I believed it as a certainty. But Mary has no such ideas, and when I think of everything she was willing to give up for my sake—how she will be lowering herself to be a country parson’s wife—it is bad enough to break my heart, but to break hers too—”

Fanny thought of the letter in her drawer. Her heart pounded, and her breath came quickly. It was too bold an action—it was improper and wrong—but before she knew it, she had jumped up and run to the drawer. She held it close as she crossed back to Edmund, who watched her curiously.

Fanny thought of the letter in her drawer. Her heart pounded, and her breath came quickly. To show it would be improper, but in the face of his agony, to withhold it seemed worse. Mary’s motives were not so pure as he thought them—he ought to know the truth—before she knew it, she had jumped up and run to the drawer. She held it close as she crossed back to Edmund, who watched her curiously.

“What is that you have?”

She tried to speak, and had to stop and wet her lips. “It is a letter.”

His expression grew gentler. “Is it Crawford’s letter to you?”

She shook her head. He looked more curious. With a hand that shook, she held it out. Edmund took it, and glanced at the handwriting. “Is this Mary’s writing?”

She nodded.

“I am not sure I should read one of Mary’s private letters to you.” His eyes darted eagerly toward the words, though.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “You ought to read it. It will—I think it will help you.”

His look was doubting but hopeful. He moved closer to the fire and began to read.

Already Fanny was doubting, already her own boldness overwhelmed her. It was necessary, she knew it was necessary, but still she felt the desire to snatch it back again, before he could read that part. It would wound him—it would wound him very deeply—with hands pressed to her stomach she watched him read. She could see the moment he reached the part— Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning —she remembered the words very well. He frowned in confusion, then confusion gave way to dawning horror as the full import of her meaning became clear. On he read, through the end, the postscript mentioning her brother, until at last he dropped the letter. “Can it be possible?

“Forgive me!” cried Fanny. “Forgive me, I did not know if I should tell you.”

He shook his head, attempted to speak, looked lost and desolate. He took up the letter again; again read the terrible passage. “How corrupted can a mind become? And she wrote this to you, Fanny!” He shook his head; a kind of despair crossed his features. “So this is why she accepted me?”

Fanny opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her natural desire, to offer him comfort in his pain, would do him no good now. He had a short, though powerful struggle—there was agony, but relief as well. In the end, he came and sat down beside her again, and leaned his head on her knee, and sighed, and she knew that the worst had passed: he had submitted.

“You did the right thing,” he said at last. “Now I know—and I am free. Not free from loving her, I do not think I will ever be free from that. She is the only woman I could ever marry. But I know what to do now. I will speak to her tomorrow. The sooner it is ended, the better it will be for both of us.”

Fanny placed her hand back on his hair—he did not move, he allowed it—and despite so many overwhelming troubles, she was happy.

~%~

You should have reminded me how much I dislike clergymen, wrote Mary in her letter to her brother. This is all your fault, of course. The more I think of it, the more angry I am at you. You should have listened, all those times I scolded you for your flirting. I always told you it would land you in trouble at last. But I am tired of apologies, so I will not expect you to make any either. I daresay it would not have worked anyway. For all that Mansfield Park is so fine, the Bertrams do not have a house in Town, and being stuck in the country for months on end is just what I cannot abide. Besides, Sir Thomas is just the sort of hale, older man who is likely to live until he is 90, which is too long to wait, in my opinion. I am sorry you will not get your little Fanny in the end, but really, Henry, I do begin to wonder if she would ever have had you. She is very stubborn, despite her submissive ways. She and her cousin are rather alike in that respect. There is a strange sort of pride beneath their humility, an unwillingness to be persuaded

Mary put down her pen and wiped the tears from her cheeks. The candle beside her sputtered and bent, casting lurid shadows. She picked up the pen again, dipped it back in the ink, and continued to write.

into thinking like the rest of the world, or even to understand that that is how the world thinks. They will maintain their own opinions, no matter what you say. I should never have allowed myself to grow attached to a second son in the first place. It was ill advised of me all around, and I do not intend to repeat the mistake. You will need to continue at Everingham for the present, I am afraid, until Mrs. R …

On she wrote, into the night.

Chapter 10

The conversation over breakfast the next morning was strained. Edmund and Mary would neither one look at the other, and Fanny was too oppressed with nervous apprehension to do more than pick at her food. The dishes that had so delighted her only a few mornings ago were passed over as nothing; Edmund’s freedom was everything.

“I wonder, Mr. Bertram,” said Mary, as the tea and coffee were almost drunk, “if you would do me the favour of a few words.”

His eyes flew to hers. “Of course.” They stood up. “We can speak in the li—” he paused. “In my father’s room.”

She bowed her head and they went out, neither one touching the other. The long walk down the hall seemed to take for ever. With utmost politeness he opened the door for her, and bowed her into the room. Coming in behind, he shut the door firmly and stood there.

Mary walked to the centre of the room and turned.

“I am glad you asked to speak to me,” said Edmund. “As painful as—”

“Mr. Bertram,” she interrupted. “I am very sorry, but after consideration, I do not believe that we would suit after all.”

Edmund caught his breath.

“I am sorry if this gives you pain—I really thought we could make a match of it. But it is clear that our tastes and wishes are too different, and considering your family’s desire to forget the name of Crawford as quickly as possible, I believe it is for the best that we part ways. As our engagement has not yet been announced, that can cause no difficulty.”

It hurt him. Even after everything he knew about her, even after his own decision to end it, it still hurt to hear the cold and dismissive way she spoke. He bowed his head, not ready to speak.

“Henry left his carriage with me, and the servants who accompanied us, of course, so I do not require transportation. If you would be so kind as to perhaps send a maid with me, as far as London, I believe she may be returned to you in a few days. I shall need nothing else, except your goodness in sending my harp back to the parsonage.”

She had been speaking with her chin up, just a little, her cheeks flushed, just a little, her eyes not quite meeting his. He waited until they shifted, and she really looked at him. “It shall be as you desire,” he said. “I am sorry—” He stopped. What else could be said? Too much had passed between them now. His own sins closed his mouth about hers. He bowed. “I am sorry,” he repeated.

She forced a smile, and a light laugh. “There is nothing to be sorry for. You are quite delightful in your way, but I think we can both agree it would have been a mesalliance . All poor Henry did was hasten the process. Really, you should thank him.” She moved towards the door.

Edmund opened it for her, but just before she walked through it, he could not help but say, “My brother Tom is getting better, you know.” He met her startled eyes. “I intend for him to live a very long life.”

She flushed a dark red, jerked away, and stepped into the hall. Fanny had been standing in the doorway opposite, waiting anxiously for the outcome of the conversation. Their eyes met, and for a moment they stood, mirroring each other—both small, one dark, one fair, one in the latest town fashion, the other in her country gown. In silence they stared at each other; Mary’s face worked, and her jaw clenched. Fanny’s eyes filled with tears. Then in another moment, Mary had turned, and swept up the stairs.

Fanny’s gaze shifted to Edmund, where he leaned, slumped against the doorpost. She went across to him, and he put his arms around her, and held her for a moment against his heart. “Your friendship is all I have to rely on now,” he said.

~%~

That evening, as Lady Bertram dozed on the sofa in the drawing room (the harp had already been returned to the parsonage), Fanny crept up beside Edmund where he was sitting, and brooding, the lines of his face marked with pain. She knew the subject of Mary was still too fresh—he would not speak to her about it again for many, many days, she thought—but there was still much he had not told her.

“What will happen with Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth?” she asked, when he looked at her.

“I don’t know. My father is doing all he can—but it is scarcely possible that Maria should escape disgrace. Her crime is too grievous, committed too soon in the marriage—and she has shown no sign of repenting for it.” He sighed heavily. “You know I have never liked Rushworth, and I can only imagine that poor Maria was very unhappy with him, but he did not deserve such treatment as that.”

Fanny agreed. “And Julia? Have you heard anything of her?”

“She is with our cousins in Bedford Square, thankfully. I have been wondering if she perhaps knew something of what was passing in Wimpole Street, and went there on purpose because of it.” He shook his head. “I was there, you know—the night they met again, at Mrs. Frasier’s party. When I think of it, I still cannot believe…”

Fanny gave her silent sympathy, and they sat together, eyes focused on nothing in particular.

“Did you ever read that letter? The one Crawford wrote you?”

She shook her head.

“What did you do with it—burn it?”

“I put it in a drawer.”

He smiled. “Poor Fanny, unable to bring yourself to destroy it, even though you hated him.”

She coloured. “I didn’t hate him, at the end. I… I felt almost sorry for him, though he deserves no pity. He could not escape himself.”

“Any more than Mary,” he whispered, then shook his head, falling back into silence. Fanny could not forbear to place a timid hand over his, and he covered it with his other one, giving an affectionate squeeze. “Do you think you will ever read it?”

She started to shake her head, then paused. “I don’t know. I do not think so.”

“He really did love you, you know. With all the sins I have to lay at his door, still I am convinced that his affection for you was sincere.”

She did not reply, and perceiving how little she wished to speak of it, he said no more.

~%~

Tom had to be told, of course, as everything that was passing had been kept from him, and from Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris. The women never would hear the entire story, nor would Sir Thomas, but Tom got it, in bits and pieces, while Edmund was settling the blanket around his shoulders, or dealing cards out for piquet. Fanny was everything to Edmund then, of course, his chief confidante and dearest friend, the only one truly capable of understanding it all, but there were some things about which one could only unburden oneself to a brother.

It was a shock. Fanny and Edmund both had worried about what effect such news would have on Tom’s strained and weakened system, and there was no denying it was a grave shock to him. Tom felt his own responsibility, Edmund felt his, and together they spoke of guilt and regret.

One afternoon, when Fanny had been reading to Tom, Edmund came in. He leaned against the doorframe, watching them and listening to her voice. She looked up; he met her eyes, and smiled. She finished the passage, gathered her things, and after bidding Tom good afternoon, left the room on her way to sit with his mother. He caught her hand for a moment as she passed: just a fond acknowledgement, really, affection and appreciation and understanding. She squeezed his hand, smiled gently, and moved on.

Inside the room, Tom was leaning his head against the wing of his chair, his feet on a stool and a blanket over his lap. He had been watching them. “A good girl, that,” he said.

“Yes,” replied Edmund, “she always has been.”

“Starting to realise why Crawford favoured her.”

Edmund scowled. He was surprised when his brother chuckled. “You find it amusing that our cousin almost married a rake and a seducer?”

He shook his head. “No danger of that, from what I can see. Never wanted him.”

“No, thank God. She was wiser than the rest of us.” He looked up to see Tom smiling faintly. “What is it?”

Tom seemed at first as if he would not speak, but then he did, more seriously than Edmund was expecting. “You’ve been far better to me than I deserved through this, Ed. I don’t want you to think I will forget it.”

“You’re my brother. I only did what was right—what I wished to do.”

“And that’s why you were always so much better than the rest of us.” Tom shifted in his chair. “Why I think you’ll come out the best from all of this in the end.” Edmund started to shake his head. “You will. I know you don’t think you’ll recover, but you will.”

“Some day.” He heaved a sigh. “Some day, with persistence, and diligence in praying and setting my mind as I ought, working faithfully in my parish—”

“Sooner than that.” Tom was smiling mysteriously again.

Edmund felt a little offended. “I wish it might be so, but I don’t think you understand how—”

He waved a weak hand. “Don’t get your back up. I know your heart is broken. I just think you’ll recover sooner than you think, that’s all.”

Edmund eyed him narrowly, but Tom would vouchsafe no more information, so he changed the subject. Inwardly, though, he thought, he’s wrong . Tom didn’t understand what loving Mary—losing Mary—the disastrous engagement and all it brought with it, had done to Edmund. It would be long, long before he could forget her, or cease to grieve over everything that might have been, if only she hadn’t been ruined by bad society—if only her brother had been less of a libertine. Tom did not understand at all. The only one who did understand him was Fanny. She knew his feelings, she entered into them, and she quite agreed with him, too. It confirmed what Edmund already believed: he would never love any woman again like he had loved Mary, and Fanny alone was capable of supporting him through it. He could endure anything if he had her friendship; without her he would be truly alone. Fanny was all he had, and she was everything.

~%~

It was winter when Fanny found it again. She was sorting through all her old papers and possessions in the East room, while the wind howled outside and a fire crackled merrily in the grate. Downstairs, Lady Bertram was attended by Susan, who had come to them some months ago, and had proved so willing a companion and helper as to almost make herself as indispensable as her sister. Fanny hummed, a soft, tuneless air, as she rifled through old French exercises and half-drawn sketches from the East room’s heyday as a classroom. It made her alternately happy and sad to see these remnants of a more innocent age. Despite her determination to clear out everything that could not be taken with her, there were a few sheets she could not help but put aside again with a tender air.

At the bottom of a stack she found it: two sheets, folded twice over, with Fanny written across the top in an unfamiliar hand. She did not recognize what it was at first. Not until she unfolded the pages and began to scan them, did she realise, and dropped the letter again with a gasp. She eyed it, and wondered if she ought to toss it directly in the flames. It seemed almost indecent to read it now, after all this time. Yet, once caught, her curiosity could not be entirely smothered. Perhaps, she thought, it might be right to read it after all, just once. It was written to be read, after all. She would read it, then give it the merciful end it deserved, and think of it as little as she tried to think of the man who had written it.

A few minutes later Edmund tapped on the door. “Fanny, are you—what’s wrong?” He hurried into the room, and sat beside her. “Sweetheart, what’s happened?” He tilted her chin up, frowning in concern at her wet eyes and damp cheeks. “What’s happened to make you cry?”

Fanny shook her head, and warmth spread across her face beneath his gaze. “Nothing,” she said, and smiled a little. “Nothing at all.”

Edmund produced a handkerchief, dried her tears, and kissed her for good measure. Fanny’s heart tumbled over with ecstasy and delight; she still could hardly believe her happiness, could hardly believe that he really loved her. “There,” he said as he drew back, and smiled down at her in satisfaction. “Much better.”

“Oh, Edmund!” was all Fanny could say.

“Now, tell me the truth,” he said a little later, as he took her hand and looked around them. “Are you sad to be leaving your East room?”

“Oh, no! At least—a little, but that would not make me cry. Not when I know I shall soon have—” She paused, and blushed.

“Yes? What shall you soon have?” His eyes twinkled at her. “You can say it, you know. It is only a parsonage—it is not a manor or townhouse, or anything grand. It is only a few parlours and dining rooms and bedchambers, placed together with a reasonable degree of order. But, my dearest Fanny,” he went on, lowering his voice a little, “it is a parsonage, and it will certainly be yours, along with the parson who goes with it.”

This was more than Fanny could be expected to reply to with a reasonable degree of composure, and another very happy silence followed before Edmund brought the subject back to his original question. “If it is not the prospect of leaving your room here that brought on your tears, then what did?”

She sighed. “I found this in the drawer.” She gestured to the letter. Edmund looked questioningly. “It is Mr. Crawford’s,” she explained quietly.

“Ah.” Edmund drew back, his face growing serious. “You read it?”

“I felt like I ought to, before burning it.”

“And did you find anything in it worthy of your tears?”

She shook her head. “My tears are not worth much, I’m afraid.”

“I disagree. Your tears are worth a great deal indeed, and I intend to do everything possible to see that you shed fewer of them in the future than you have in the past.”

She creased the pages with her fingers. “Have you ever wondered what would have happened if the Crawfords never came to Mansfield at all?”

“Sometimes. I do not think Maria would ever have been very happy in her marriage, but she would not have been so unhappy so quickly. Perhaps she and Rushworth would have learned to live together before—” He sighed.

“And you?” she whispered.

“Me?” He smiled, and laid his hand along her face. “I would have loved you, just like I love you now. I cannot imagine any other possible outcome.”

Fanny opened her mouth, then closed it again. She might cherish some doubt, in her heart, as to whether Edmund would have ever made the change from cousinly to husbandly love if Mary had not broken his heart first, but what benefit could there be in saying so? That Edmund did love her, she had been given ample evidence, and as one who had waited long for a happiness she never really believed she would receive, she was not inclined to quibble with it.

She rose, and going to the grate, threw the letter in. “I do hope he finds peace—with God, as well as with men—eventually.”

“So do I, Fanny. I hope they all find peace, in learning to think more justly, and act rightly, and to submit to the good grace of their Creator.” He stood next to her, and put his arm around her waist. He pressed a kiss on her hair. “Now, my mother has sent me especially, to see if you will come have tea with her and Susan. Tom is still holed up with my father and his steward, and they want a fourth—that is, if you will admit me to your company.”

Fanny smiled fondly. “Of course.” He bent his head; she kissed his cheek, and they went out together like that, leaving the East room papers half-sorted, and the fire still snapping in the grate.

~%~



Fanny, my beloved—If you are reading this, then I can only hope it means you have not set yourself absolutely against me. Your gentle heart will not judge me harshly, I know.—I have wronged you, but not in my heart. I acted foolishly, but not maliciously. I thought too highly of my own ability to discern my situation—to know my danger—and I did not heed the warning you gave me. Lack of self-knowledge is a terrible thing, Miss Price. I fear my lesson in it is going to cost me too much. The price is too dear; I do not know how I can pay it.

I wanted to be the man who was worthy of you. I wanted to prove myself, to be everything to you. I wanted to teach you what it is to love—and though I know you will tell me that it is I who need to learn to love, I must insist that is not true. I do love. I love steadily and consistently, rationally as well as passionately. I know my mind, I know my intentions—and yet, somehow, I could not carry them out. I could not do the thing I wished to do, and I will regret it for the rest of my life. My weakness has opened a chasm between us—am I a fool to hope it may yet be overcome? To hope that someday I may be allowed to present myself before you again, and you will look on me, not with hate or fear, but compassion and forgiveness? I do not say I deserve your forgiveness, for I know I do not, but I have read the Scriptures too, and I know that forgiveness is never deserved. You told me to look to God, Miss Price, but I always hoped to find him in you. You will think me profane, but I can only be honest, now, in this last message—pray God it is not the last message! Fanny, my love! my love! Even now your cousin looks at me sternly; I have no more time left. If ever you find you can love me, write to me, at any time or any place. Mary will carry a message for you too. I will come for you at once. You are the only woman in my heart; I will never cease loving you. I will never cease to regret. All my hope is in you. —Henry