Posted on Wednesday, 31 October 2007

Fanny had finally been able to slip away from the others. The air in the drawing room was as it always was when the Crawfords spent an evening at the main house: tense and stifling. Mr. Crawford had endeavored to entice her into private conversations all night. Putting him off had exhausted her and a reprieve in the cool rose garden was exactly what she needed.

The path among the roses was bathed in bright moonlight. The light breeze rustling the shawl around her shoulders and tickling the stray curls at the nape of her neck revitalized her sagging spirits. The night sky was so clear that the stars popped out of the darkness with an amazing brilliance. It felt as though she were among the heavenly bodies, floating around the constellations, communing with other worldly beings.

She felt at peace, relaxed, and ready to face the unrelenting and completely annoying attentions from Mr. Crawford. The crunching of gravel in the distance indicated someone else's presence. She knew it instinctively to be Mr. Crawford. He would be the only one who would notice her absence. Her aunt was half asleep, lulling to and from consciousness due to the melodious tones of Sir Thomas's reading. Her cousin, Edmund, chose to monopolize all of Miss Crawford's time and attention, which left Fanny at the mercy of Mr. Crawford. To be fair to the gentleman in question, when he was not trying to gain Fanny's conversation, he kept to his volume of poetry, but he glanced so often at Fanny that she knew all reading on his part was a mere pretense.

Fanny looked around her; she had no avenue of escape. She must face him and she determined then that she would try to deter his intentions once and for all. He must realize how fruitless his endeavor was. How she could never love him in any measure to marry him—that she could never marry him under any circumstance.

The gentleman rounded the corner and their eyes met briefly before she pulled them away to inspect a rose bud just to her left.

"Mr. Crawford." The tone of her voice was not welcoming, but she knew well enough to know that he paid little heed to her tones of voice. The act of addressing him at all was ample encouragement.

"Miss Price," he bowed to her, "I find you at last. I have been searching for quite a while. I should have known you would be among these roses; they appear to offer you some sort of solace. I wish I could convey to you how much I envy them that ability."

"I work with them quite often." She would not explain her response with any further detail. She would not allow him access to her fond memories. She did not want him to taint them.

"They are very like you." She looked at him then, not following his comparison. "They are lovely in every way." He bent to sniff and caress a rose near him. "They shine with grace and innocence. They, like you, make me want to shelter them, to keep them with me always."

"Mr. Crawford, you should not speak to me in such a way. I have told you many times that I do not like it."

"How could I not? Your entire being encourages me to be honest with you. I cannot and will not lie to you."

"I appreciate your candor, sir, yet there are some things that I would rather not know." She paused. She admitted to herself that the compliment was not unfelt, not unappreciated, but it was unwanted and she did not know how to explain to him that he should not speak to her like that. "Withholding an observation is not the same as lying to me."

"I do not only want to be honest with you, but I want to be completely open and unguarded. I want to be able to tell you anything. I want you to know who I am. How will you ever truly know me, if I do not share with you who I am, who I can become?" He sounded a little desperate. She did not want his confidence though. It would be unfair to him to trust her with it when she could never entrust him with hers.

"You must believe me," he continued, "when I say that I cannot live without you. You are my hope, my light. The stars in the sky will dim, the breeze among these roses will cease—a rejection from you will drive the air from my lungs. Please accept me and say you will never leave me."

Of all the revolting sentimentality that had Maria and Julia hanging from his lips! She would not be deceived by pretty words and promises.

"Mr. Crawford! Pray, be serious; think rationally. I do not think I will be able to maintain my patience with you. For the last time: your attentions are very unwelcome. I cannot accept them. Please desist."

"Fanny, I will wait." She disliked the way he said her name, as if she really was his salvation. "For as long as needed. My persistence will prove my dedication; it will not fail me."

"You have said so all along; it is not working. I am no closer to wanting to marry you than when you first asked me!"

She turned on her heel and stalked away (for as much as Fanny Price could ever stalk). The protests from Mr. Crawford were carried away by the breeze. The absence of the echoing crunch of gravel indicated that Mr. Crawford did not follow her. She hoped that he, at last, took her seriously. She did not know how she would ever get through to him if her plain words could not.

She had nearly reached the exit to the rose garden when she realized how heavily she was breathing. She paused and took deep, soothing breath, titling her head to look at the sky. She blinked; her eyes must be very tired. It appeared that the stars were dimmer than before—as if they were dimming still. She looked down and watched as the rustling of the rose stems began to weaken.

"Surely not." She scoffed.

The circumstances were impossible. It was a mere coincidence. She looked at the stars again; they were lit, but the sparkle, the radiance disappearing. They were utterly dull. The breeze was gone, leaving the air stagnant and strangely chilled.

"Mr. Crawford!" Fanny pulled her shawl tighter around her, trying to ward herself from the unpleasant thought threatening to overwhelm her. She turned and ran back to where she left Mr. Crawford. They were nearly on the other side of the garden, bordering the tall hedge, which cut it off from the rest of the formal gardens. She rounded the corner and stopped.

There in the middle of the path lay Mr. Henry Crawford. Dead as if the air had suddenly vacated his lungs. Fanny stared at the astonished yet horrified expression gracing the face of her newly departed would-be-lover. She felt tears well in her eyes. Her reason warred against an emotional response, but her heart knew of the injustice of Mr. Crawford's premature demise; she mourned the life that had ended. She felt guilty by being the remotest bit relieved that he would never try her again. She mostly, however, felt ungenerous. His death, at least, proved that he was serious—he loved her.

The End