Part 1

Posted on 2013-01-12

In the first week of their rupture, his sufferings had been severe. He had found it difficult, though necessary, to leave his room and engage in all the business of the day. He performed his duties remembering all of her witticisms about the church and men of the cloth, and decrying that unfortunate education that had ruined such a richly endowed mind.

He dined with his family at Mansfield every Saturday, and found a most compassionate listener in Fanny. Susan's presence meant that Fanny was not needed in the drawing room so often as she had been in the past, so she was at liberty to walk with and listen to him. He was certain that, though passion as his must surely be unparalleled in anyone else, she had most likely been touched in a similar, inferior way by the brother, and to be so disappointed!

She did not speak of her own disappointment, but allowed him to speak of his with little or no interruption, entering into all his regrets and reminiscences.

The next weeks brought, with time, an abatement of his pain. He could pronounce the name "Mary" without overwhelming agony, and even found that he could lament her loss no more than a few times a day, rather than a few times an hour. Fanny still most patiently bore with his melancholy, though, and was his greatest comfort, as indeed she had always been.

At length - he could never say how long exactly - he found himself capable of talking and thinking of other things. As summer gave way to autumn, he one day happened upon Fanny when she was alone in the drawing room - an unusual occurrence, but he supposed his mother and Susan had been needed elsewhere.

She sat in her accustomed chair, a letter in her hand. At his entrance, she looked up and blushed, and unsuccessfully attempted to hide the paper.

"Is everything all right, Fanny?" he asked, taking the chair next to her. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

She smiled a little tremulously. "Not a ghost, Cousin, but something nearly as unexpected."

He glanced at the paper and started. The bold yet feminine hand was familiar to him; he had often sighed over it, acknowledging that even her handwriting was a charming echo of her character. Unexpected, certainly, and his surprise was quickly followed by anger. What possible reason could Mary Crawford have to write to Fanny, when all semblance of acquaintance had been dropped for months?

"I should not hide it from you, I suppose," Fanny said, watching his face intently, "for you will learn of it soon enough. I have not heard from her for months and I cannot understand her purpose now, unless she intended for you to be discomposed…"

She stopped, and Edmund wondered how many times Mary Crawford had written to Fanny in the past, aware that he would demand to see the letter and admire her vivacity and wit. For the first time since their last interview, he felt a tinge of disgust.

"What does she say? It must be something particular to warrant a letter now. If you do not wish to tell me, I will not insist."

Fanny eyed him warily, but said, "You will know sooner or later, so my telling you can make no difference. Miss Crawford is to be married."

Edmund waited for the blow, for the despair, but felt nothing. "I see."

"She says that she wanted to inform me, as we were once so intimate. I cannot understand her."

Edmund thought that Fanny had been right - Miss Crawford had undoubtedly meant to discompose him with this news. Perhaps, he thought suddenly, she had even expected him to fly into a rage of jealousy, hare off to town, and demand that she marry him instead. The idea that she could believe him so weak, and that she would use an innocent girl like Fanny to further her own ends, set his teeth on edge.

"I wish her happy. Provided he is rich enough, she will be content, I think." His voice, when speaking of Mary Crawford, had never been so cool or composed.

"She writes in the greatest spirits, but I do not think she is happy. I doubt she ever will be," Fanny said reflectively. She stood and consigned the letter to the fire.

"Why, what do you mean?" Edmund started. The speech was totally unlike Fanny. In another woman he would have thought it spite, but there was no bitterness in her words. She even seemed melancholy.

"How can such a woman ever be made happy," Fanny asked, gazing at the fire, "forever wanting what she does not have? If she had married you, she would have lamented the loss of society and importance. When she marries this lord, she will have her importance but never the love and companionship she has learnt to wish for. No, she will never be happy."

"You sound as if you pity her," Edmund said.

"I do. While her behavior and expressions were often painful to me, and I find it hard to forget the impropriety and coarseness with which she sometimes acted, I cannot forget that she was a friend to me. Perhaps her intentions were never the best, but she was kind, in her way. She noticed me, and talked to me, and even occasionally listened to me. For that she has certainly earned my compassion."

"And…her brother?"

Fanny paused, and he thought he knew the reason. They had never spoken of the brother, but always of the sister. Perhaps it was still painful for her to talk of him.

"I cannot find out that I pity him in any way. Is that cruel of me? His motives were never better than selfish. Perhaps he was not solely to blame - Maria must share some part of it - but he will never feel the consequences as strongly as she does. He will recover, and no doubt return to his previous life. I do not believe he will ever be truly content, but he has never known anything better to make him regret it."

"How can you say so?" Edmund smiled. "I think you are a little cruel after all, or at least overly modest. You know that he loved you, and that you are far superior to any other lady he may have met."

Fanny blushed scarlet. "He did not love me. My happiness and comfort were never his objects. He would not have pursued me so relentlessly if he had cared for me at all."

"How do you explain that? It has always been my experience that when men are in love, they do pursue the lady in question."

"Against her express wishes? Against every plea to the contrary? I cannot think highly of men in love, then. If Miss Crawford had stated quite plainly to you that she did not love you and had no desire of your courtship, what would you have done?"

"I would have spared myself a great deal of trouble and heartache."

"You see? You would have left her in peace, and not troubled her anymore. Instead I was forced to endure his company and conversation again and again."

And at the earnest desire of everyone related to her, Edmund thought guiltily. He had been amongst the most eager in his desire for Crawford to win his cousin. "I hope you will forgive us all, now that the event has proved you so wise."

Fanny blushed again. "There was never anything to forgive. You all thought you were acting according to my best interests."

"But I knew you, and should have known better than to work against you. I have intimate knowledge of your intelligence and sense, and should have recognized that no one knew your mind and heart better than yourself."

Fanny seemed overcome with confusion, and directed her gaze again to the fire. Edmund felt that quite enough breath had been wasted on the subject, and said no more.

Part 2

Posted on 2013-01-20

In the late autumn Edmund received a guest at his parsonage - a man he had known at university and with whom he had maintained a sort of friendship. Mr. Elton was on his way to a living in Surrey, and proposed stopping at Thornton Lacey for a few days. Elton was an agreeable, sensible man, and Edmund was happy to receive him.

Sir Thomas, who could not bear to lose his son's company on a Saturday, extended an invitation to Elton to dine at Mansfield Park. Elton readily accepted, and the day passed pleasantly enough.

Edmund could not help being struck by the idea, during the course of the meal, that Elton was paying Fanny rather an extraordinary amount of attention. He had never seen his friend so gentle and accommodating, but then accounted for it by supposing that he had never seen him in the company of ladies before. He was rather a different man altogether, and Edmund was not sure that he cared for the change.

After dinner, Elton very smoothly interrogated Sir Thomas about his niece's circumstances. Information did not come unreadily; Fanny was one of Sir Thomas's favorite subjects. If Edmund was his pride, Fanny was his joy, and he liked nothing better than to talk of her merits. When first he had come to admire her, he had thought only of her beauty, but subsequent events had fixed her in his mind as everything that a woman ought to be, and he found pain only in the idea that she was not, in fact, his daughter.

When they returned to the ladies, Elton, armed with new intelligence of Fanny's timidity, modesty, and gentleness, recommended himself anew, and with marginally better success. A smile was even coaxed from her on a few occasions, and Edmund felt that he was glad she could accept the admiration of a gentleman without mortification.

In the coach returning to Thornton Lacey, Elton said, "Bertram, you are quite sly. You never mentioned your cousin was such a beauty!"

"She is my cousin, and we have known each other for most of our lives. I confess I have never thought of her in such a way."

Elton laughed. "I had no idea growing up with a pretty woman could make one blind to her charms. I am glad I have never been so inconvenienced. Well," he continued, "it's a pity Surrey is such a distance from Northampton."

Edmund, all of a sudden, was inclined to think it was not a pity at all. "I daresay you will be able to bear the deprivation. There are undoubtedly handsome women in Surrey as well."

"Oh, without a doubt," Elton agreed, "but will they all be nieces of baronets? Alas, alas!"

Edmund was not inclined to answer, and could bid his friend goodbye the next day with a distinct feeling of relief. Elton made a few more comments, obviously angling for an invitation to stay at some point during the winter, but Edmund could not oblige him. His comments about Fanny's connections had rankled. Were none of his friends what they seemed?

His agitation abated quickly enough during the week; he was a busy man after all, and not a great deal inclined to dwell on the follies of others. How, then, could he explain his feelings when he entered the drawing room of Mansfield on Saturday and discovered that Elton had been correct?

The scene he observed was not unusual. He had walked in upon just such a scene any number of times during his life. His mother was seated on her sofa, petting her pug in her lap, and speaking fretfully to Fanny. Fanny was arranging her aunt's work for her and speaking in low, sweet tones to soothe away whatever distress her ladyship had felt or imagined. Susan, who had not Fanny's yielding temper, was watching the scene with amusement. When the door closed behind him, the ladies looked up and smiled, and Edmund felt suddenly at a loss.

The firelight, or the candlelight, or something, was giving Fanny's dark golden hair a rich shine; as always, her hair was dressed simply, but the style seemed to suit the simplicity and delicacy of her character. Her smile was sweet and gentle, her complexion pale but smooth and clear, and her eyes were the color of honey, and so soft and affectionate that Edmund wondered he had never admired them before.

Fanny was pretty. He felt a little dazed at having discovered it, and more than a little foolish for not having noticed before. That was, he had always known she was pretty, in a general way, but he had never before found her attractive. It was an unsettling development, and he blamed Elton.

He responded as well as he could to his mother's inquiries about his parish and took his accustomed seat in the chair next to Fanny's. She had finished setting her aunt's work in order and was beginning her own; she had a linen handkerchief to which she was applying a delicate lace trim.

"Edmund, will you read to us?" his mother asked as she took up her needlework. "We have been quite stupid today; Sir Thomas has been shut up with his attorney all day and we miss you dreadfully."

"Certainly, ma'am," Edmund agreed. "Have you anything in mind?"

"Fanny has been reading some of that poetry she adores so much. I can never remember the gentleman's name…"

"Shakespeare, ma'am," Fanny interrupted gently.

"Ah! yes, that is the man. The volume is just here."

Edmund obligingly picked up the volume and began. He had not read long when he was struck with the words of the twentieth sonnet.

"A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth…"

Unconsciously he glanced up and met Fanny's golden eyes. He glanced down hastily at the book again, feeling confused for he knew not what reason, and irritated that he felt so. He read a few more sonnets, keeping his eyes on the pages though he knew several by heart, and was captured again by the fifty-fourth.

"O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade;
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth."

Again he stopped and stared at the page in surprise and irritation. That Fanny was the rose and Mary Crawford the canker he could not doubt. Even in the height of his infatuation he had considered Fanny the superior creature of the two. He wondered if she could feel the contrast as strongly as he did, and glanced up at her again to see if she had noticed anything amiss. Her head was bent over her work, and she betrayed no consciousness of anything unusual. She did look up when his silence had stretched longer than necessary to light on a new passage, but her blush was, he supposed, nothing more than her usual distaste of being watched. She was too modest to compare herself so favorably with another woman.

Feeling an odd sort of desperation, he set down the book and declared himself tired. The ladies instantly expressed concern, but he waved away their worries and reminded them that he had a sermon to deliver the next day. Fanny instantly apologized for having inconvenienced him, but with a little more confusion he dismissed her apologies. Fanny took up the book instead and endeavored to entertain her fussy aunt with her own sweet, well-modulated voice.

Elton's words returned to resonate in Edmund's brain. I had no idea growing up with a pretty woman could make one blind to her charms. Fanny had chosen some of the more amusing sonnets, no doubt hoping to draw a laugh from him. When she began with "My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun…" she looked up at him with a hopeful smile and an amused glow in her eyes.

Edmund leapt to his feet and excused himself to find his father. He insisted in response to their repeated inquiries that he was well, and hurried into the hall. Once there, he passed a hand over his eyes and attempted to have more command over himself. When he felt he had succeeded, he walked in the direction of his father's study.

"Ah, Edmund!" Sir Thomas said, rising as his son entered the room. "Come in, come in. Mr. Forbes was just leaving."

Edmund greeted Mr. Forbes and waited until the man was gone. "Mother claims you have been shut up with Mr. Forbes all day."

"So I have," Sir Thomas replied, resuming his seat and motioning to a chair. "I have been working on some very delicate changes to my will."

Edmund took the chair offered and looked at his father questioningly. "Changes of what nature, sir?"

His father paused for a moment before saying, "Maria is still my daughter, though I shall never admit her presence at Mansfield again. I could not think it right to cut her off without a penny. She will still receive a portion of her inheritance."

"Only a portion?"

Again his father paused. "I would like to include Fanny in the will, and give her an inheritance. She has more than repaid any kindness I ever paid her. I need not say too much; you know as well as I what she has come to mean to your mother and me. I wish for her to have proof of our regard when we are no longer here to protect her."

"You wish to give her a part of the portion that ought to have been Maria's? She will not like that."

"What your sister does and does not like is a matter of supreme indifference to me."

"Pardon me, sir, but I was talking of Fanny. Her delicacy will not allow her to accept money that ought to have been another's."

"It is my money to give as I choose." Sir Thomas looked at his son's troubled expression. "I did not make this decision lightly, son. Fanny will certainly dispute the decision, perhaps even be very upset for a time, but in the end she cannot change my mind. She is as another daughter to me, and I will treat her accordingly."

"You realize, of course," Edmund said, "that an inheritance will make her much more…attractive…to suitors."

"I do, but I shall rely entirely on her sense and perception. I ought to have done so long ago, after all." Edmund could think of nothing to say in reply, and Sir Thomas took the opportunity to change the subject. "I have been thinking that it is high time we drove to Thornton Lacey to see you speak, Edmund. After the service we could dine with you at the parsonage. Would that be agreeable to you?"

"Certainly, sir. I should be honored," Edmund stammered. "I'm afraid my style of living at Thornton Lacey is not what you and my mother are accustomed to."

"Nonsense. We will be highly gratified to see you in your own home. We will forego our usual Saturday dinner and see you on Sunday instead."

Edmund could make no objection that would not make his father suspicious, and rose to follow him to the drawing room to join the ladies and begin their dinner. Fanny, to his consternation, sent him a number of solicitous glances throughout the meal, not least when he declared his intention of not staying after the meal, but of returning to Thornton Lacey without tasting his father's brandy. Even Tom looked at him in concern then, and hoped he was perfectly well.

He took leave of his family and left the table as soon as decently possible. He had almost gained the door when he heard his name called. Reluctantly he turned to face Fanny, who had followed him into the vestibule.

"You say you are well," she said softly, "but you need not hide the truth from me. Miss Crawford's marriage has affected you more than you expected."

Edmund stared at her in astonishment. "Miss Crawford?"

"She was married yesterday; you must have seen the announcement in the paper this morning," Fanny said, sounding entirely too sympathetic.

"I did not."

"Oh!" Fanny now looked terribly embarrassed. "I am sorry. I did not know what else could have discomposed you so…and now I have told you so abruptly. I hope you will forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, my dear. If I appear tired, you may rest assured that Miss…what name shall I call her now?"

"Lady Cleveland."

"Lady Cleveland has no more power over me."

"Oh, Cousin." Fanny's eyes shone with tears. "I am so glad to hear you say that. I worried so for you." She reached out her hand and, without thinking, he took it. "You have relieved my mind." She released his hand and smiled at him. "Until next Saturday, then."

"I'm afraid I won't see you on Saturday. My father has informed me that you all are to dine with me at Thornton Lacey on Sunday."

"I look forward to it," she said cheerfully.

"Begging your pardon, miss." A maid interrupted their conversation. "Her ladyship is asking for you, miss."

"Good night, Cousin," Fanny smiled, and then turned to leave him.

"Fanny!" Edmund was not sure what had made him detain her, but when she turned and gazed questioningly at him, he could only stammer, "You look very pretty tonight."

Confusion flickered across her face. "Thank you," she murmured, and then went into the drawing room to attend to his mother.

Part 3

Posted on 2013-01-27

During the ensuing week, Edmund tried to make sense of what he had experienced in his father's house. He had seen Fanny nearly every day of his life since he was sixteen, had taught and comforted her whenever she was neglected, and had attempted to take up her cause whenever her aunts imposed upon her too much. Surely she had always been as a younger sister to him. Why must he see her as a woman now?

And yet he knew the answer. Before Mary Crawford - Lady Cleveland - he had not known what it was to love. His love for her had been intoxicating and invigorating; he had lived in anticipation of her notice and smiles, and he had felt as if an unknown part of his soul had suddenly jumped to vigorous life. The very fact of being in love had enthralled him. Even when she had disappointed him so severely, he had clung to the memory of his love for her rather than admit the end of such a delicious chapter of his life.

It was only natural, was it not, now that he knew the richness of being in love, that his awakened heart should seek a new object? And what more reasonable object than his cousin, who had always been dear to him, always a person of peculiar interest? Indeed, the whole circumstance appeared to him so easily explained that he felt scarcely any uneasiness now, but that he should curb the indiscriminate urgings of that treacherous organ, and attempt to behave rationally. Fanny should not notice anything amiss, and soon enough he would be himself again.

Sunday found Thornton Lacey in a fever of anticipation. The housekeeper and cook were anxious that their lord- and ladyship should find nothing amiss, and Edmund was not exactly tranquil himself. He supposed that a week had been insufficient to achieve the calm indifference for which he had hoped, and was still smarting from the realization that a Saturday without Fanny's conversation had been exceedingly dull. She was not lively, but then neither was he, and they had always been able to converse with ease.

When Sir Thomas's carriage could be heard rattling up the drive, Edmund could not wait sedately in the drawing room, but hastened out onto the drive to greet them. Sir Thomas, Fanny, and Susan had already exited the carriage; Sir Thomas was in the process of handing down his wife, while Fanny gazed around her surroundings. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the oaks that bordered the drive and the lane that led around the house to the garden. She looked speculative, no doubt, Edmund thought, picturing what the place would look like in the peak of summer.

"Sir! Ma'am! Cousins!" he said cheerfully as he advanced upon them. Fanny turned in surprise and smiled a greeting, and his parents exclaimed at his precipitance. He shook his father's hand, kissed his mother's cheek and then, because in the confusion of the moment he could think of nothing else to do, kissed Fanny's gloved fingers. The glow in her cheeks reminded him that he had likely never done such a thing before. He attempted to cover his embarrassment by repeating the gesture with Susan, but felt that, quite inexplicably, it was not the same at all.

After only a brief struggle, he turned to offer his arm to his mother, to offer his escort into the house. She took it with a smile, and his father attended to his nieces. He could not help wishing, however, that he had left his mother to his father's care, and escorted Fanny himself.

Once they were all in the drawing room, Lady Bertram immediately took possession of the largest sofa in the room. It was her way, and no one would have dared to correct her. Sir Thomas looked about the room, praised its dimensions, admired the view, and then sat and took up a newspaper, which Edmund had placed on a table for just such a purpose. Susan sat close by her aunt and talked steadily to her.

Fanny, however, seemed to perch on the very edge of her chair. Her interested eyes took in every detail of furniture and wainscoting, and lingered at the windows as she scrutinized the view. After a few moments Edmund suggested the possibility of taking a tour of the house. His mother politely declined the offer on her own account, and Sir Thomas preferred to stay with his wife. Fanny looked very disappointed at such a response until Sir Thomas suggested that Edmund should show Fanny and Susan about, as Fanny so obviously desired it. Fanny blushed and disclaimed, but only for a few moments; her curiosity must have truly conquered her fear of imposing on others.

Wandering the halls and rooms with Fanny on his arm, pointing out the improvements he was making and discussing new tapestries and wallpaper, felt almost alarmingly domestic. He could not show her the garden in the winter, but he led her into the summer room, which had windows from the floor to the ceiling and would offer a fine view of the grounds in the summer.

"Oh, how lovely!" Fanny exclaimed as they entered.

He smiled at her enthusiasm. "I have a particular fondness for this room. In the summer it was particularly pretty."

"I'm not sure I would sit anywhere else," she replied.

"Next time you visit I'll make sure to have a fire built here. It wouldn't do to have you catch a cold."

She smiled. "You seem very happy here."

"Do I?"

"Aren't you?"

For the moment, at least, Edmund felt perfectly content. "I believe I am. I simply had not stopped to think about it. The house is small, but comfortable enough for a bachelor."

"I hope you do not think it too small. I think it a very correct size. I love Mansfield Park, but sometimes it can feel rather over-sized." Her hand slipped from his arm as she approached the windows. "How nice it is to be protected, but not separated, from nature. Here I can almost feel as if I were outdoors, without the cold and wind." She seemed to take in every detail of the grounds. "There are some nice clear spots that would do very well for stargazing. Have you had any since you came?"

She turned to look at him, and for a moment Edmund was distracted by thoughts of stargazing with Fanny. He had done it countless times since she was a child, but the thought of standing in the starlight alone with her now was mesmerizing. At her puzzled look he abruptly brought his mind to the present, and attempted to banish all such thoughts, which were clearly far from her mind.

"In the summer I had no time, and it has been too cold since," he said.

"You must let us know," Susan interrupted. She smiled at her cousin, and Edmund could not help but think her smile a little too knowing.

"Dinner will be served soon," he said abruptly. "Shall we return to the drawing room?" They began the return to his parents. "How did you find the church?" he asked. He supposed the question could do for both, but he was most interested in Fanny's opinion.

"It was very nice," Susan said. "So many churches have terrible draughts, but yours seems quite snug."

"I am afraid that won't have endeared it to you, will it, Fanny?" Edmund teased. "Shouldn't a proper church have arched ceilings and stained glass windows?"

Fanny smiled back. "You do me a disservice, Cousin. Such a church might please one's romantic sensibilities, but I would not wish to worship there."

He really must stop making Fanny smile, Edmund thought, if he wished not to make a fool of himself. He was grateful that they had reached the drawing room, and that his maid entered to announce dinner shortly afterward.

The snows of winter were melting away, and the first buds of spring were opening, when Edmund gave up the struggle with his feelings for his cousin. Besides acknowledging the event as inevitable, he had long ceased to wish for indifference. There could be nothing unpleasant in loving a woman well worthy of the regard, and he knew Fanny to be so.

He felt that a man in love must always believe the lady in question to be above his touch. He had felt the same way when he had loved Lady Cleveland, and there were countless examples in literature to support his observations. However, he loved now not with the blind infatuation he had enjoyed before, or with the grand passion of romantic heroes, but with a thorough knowledge of Fanny's integrity and principles, a sincere respect for her sense and intelligence, and an appreciation of her beauty. Though rather less interesting than a sweeping romance, he felt that such a love was perhaps more suited to building a happy marriage, and would have embraced the change if he were not held back by two serious considerations.

First, there was the matter of Fanny's superiority. He had often wondered how a sensible man like Crawford could throw over a woman of her stamp for Maria, and only now recognized the hypocrisy of which he had been guilty, in preferring Lady Cleveland to Fanny, even when he had acknowledged to himself that the former was an inferior woman. He had been drawn in by the most superficial of attractions, and worse, he had unguardedly confided in Fanny at every opportunity. She was fully aware of the extent of his folly. She had listened to every speech justifying the unjustifiable, and defending the indefensible. She knew that he had been prepared to give up almost every principle for the sake of pleasing an unworthy woman. Whenever he remembered the play, and his willingness to enter into the scheme in order to save the feelings of that woman, when he had so steadfastly objected before, he shuddered. Every good feeling had been replaced by a desire to attach her. Good God! what must Fanny think of him?

Modest as she was, it would be impossible for her to forget that she had been the only person strong enough to withstand the pleas and insistence of the others, or that she had been the only person to see anything to suspect in the manners of both Crawfords. She must remember that she had often reminded him of an indiscretion, only to be informed that archness and vivacity must make such offences acceptable.

He had believed Mary Crawford to be above his touch. If she was so, Fanny was nigh untouchable.

Then, there was the matter of her fear of change. There was no steadier woman than Fanny, no one more attached to her home and family, but if she had a fault - and Edmund could now, with a love more reasonable, acknowledge that one's beloved might have faults - it was her dread of alterations. She had long viewed him as another brother, and found difficulty in changing her views. To convince her, therefore, that he could be more, would be a difficult point. To persuade her to marry him, to leave Mansfield Park, and to take up residence in Thornton Lacey, would be very close to impossible.

With such thoughts as these to comfort his solitary hours, it was no wonder that he began to appear less cheerful than was his wont. Fanny's solicitude, whenever they met, was welcome, and sometimes he thought he could detect more than cousinly interest, but when he returned to the parsonage and thought again of the events of the day, he would shake his head at his own foolishness.

Part 4

Posted on 2013-02-06

The spring was mild, and Fanny, who must be exercising every day, began her walks again. Susan's temper, though not yielding, was teachable, and her steady good sense and earnest desire of doing right soon made her a convenient replacement for Fanny. She could sit with her aunt for as long as Fanny could, and in fact be of rather more use, as she was stronger and healthier.

Edmund as he was driving into the Park one Saturday, found Fanny at a much further distance than she had ever been known to walk before, with a maid beside her and a basket in her hand. She looked up in surprise when he called her name, a smile of welcome lighting her features.

"Hello, Cousin!" she said. "You are early."

"Yes, I am…and you are much farther from the house than I expected. What have you been doing?"

Fanny looked down at the basket in her hands. "Since Susan came, my aunt does not need me so much as she used to do. I have more time to myself now, but…I do not always know what to do."

Edmund understood immediately. Her education had but little supplied her for idleness. She walked and rode, read and worked, but as she neither played, drew, nor sang, she must be sometimes at a loss as to how to fill her hours when she was not wanted in the drawing room.

"And so you have taken to walking about with baskets?" Edmund prompted her.

"No…I asked my uncle if he knew any of his tenants who needed assistance…I thought I might at least carry some food, and bring him word if anyone was ill. My aunt is so often unwell and unable to attend to these matters, and…" Fanny met his eyes and must have encountered his thunderstruck expression, for she blushed. "Have I done wrong?"

"I…no," Edmund replied, attempting to school his features. "No, of course not. I was only thinking how often you throw other ladies into the shade." He spoke without thought, but could not bring himself to qualify his statement.

Her blush deepened. "Don't tease me, Cousin."

"Oblige me, Fanny," he said earnestly. "Do cease to call me 'Cousin.' Furthermore, when have I ever teased you? At least, I have never flattered you, have I?"

"No." The word was little more than a whisper, and Edmund could see that she was now thoroughly uncomfortable. He turned the conversation.

"You look tired. Shall I drive you home?"

"Oh, but Nancy…"

"I can get home well enough, Miss," the maid smiled. "'Tis a lovely spring afternoon. Shall I take the basket for you?"

"Yes, thank you," Fanny answered, and soon she was placed in the curricle, though she still had not recovered her complexion.

Edmund, though he drove in silence, was much occupied. Where else would he meet a woman who, raised only to attend to the wants of two unreasonable women - one indolent and one irascible - when faced with hours of unprecedented leisure, would immediately think of the health and comfort of others whom she had never met? He had been correct in his musings, though he had not before done her justice. She was too good for him.

Rather than feeling more discouraged, however, he made a sudden determination that, however difficult it might prove to change her mind and convince her to love him, he would accomplish just that.

Aesop had been correct when he asserted that things were easier said than done. Though he had determined to convince Fanny to marry him, Edmund was unsure how to go about it. He knew that flattery and compliments would only embarrass her, and at any rate he had never been prone to either.

In the end, he considered that perhaps, as she valued honesty and fairness so highly, he might just as well cease to censor his words in her presence, and speak as he thought and felt, instead of trying to guess what she wished to hear. He resolved to follow this course of action and observe its effects.

To put his plan into early action, he rode to the Park on a Wednesday, when he knew no one was expecting him. The butler appeared surprised as he acknowledged the ladies to be at home, and Edmund felt some satisfaction on beholding Fanny's astonished look. His mother showed no astonishment, thinking it only natural that Edmund should return to the Park whenever he could, and welcomed him with her accustomed calm affection.

"And what are you reading today?" he asked, looking at the book that Fanny had laid aside on his entrance. "More poetry?"

"No, Fanny has begun a most amusing novel. I do not recall the name, but I believe it is about a castle."

"That sounds rather more to Susan's taste than yours, Fanny," Edmund said, turning to her.

"It was Susan's choice," she admitted, "but many people would find The Mysteries of Udolpho amusing, I imagine."

"Emily reminds me so much of you, Fanny," Susan said, "and from what you said of Aunt Norris I imagine she was much like Emily's Aunt Montoni."

"Susan!" Fanny blushed.

For the briefest of moments, Lady Bertram's lips thinned, but, Edmund knew, not out of anger at this attack on her sister, but at the mention of her at all. Lady Bertram could not abide the mention of anything that might remind her how close her family had come to social ruin. The names of her daughter and sister, since the day the latter had removed to the country, had never once passed Lady Bertram's lips.

His intention of walking out with Fanny was perforce delayed a little. Lady Bertram would require a few moments' reflection before she would be willing to sit with Susan alone. A chapter or two of Udolpho produced the desired result, and Edmund requested that Susan be permitted to take Fanny's place. Lady Bertram consented, and they walked out into the shrubbery.

"You do not often come to visit us during the week," Fanny observed as they strolled about. "Has something particular brought you here?"

"Certainly," Edmund replied. "I wished to see you, and Saturday seemed too far off."

Fanny blushed slightly and observed, "We are always happy to see you whenever you can spare time for us."

"Did you like Thornton Lacey?"

"Oh! yes. I thought it quite charming. I wonder that you can wish to be away from it at all."

"It is comfortable enough, but I had much rather talk to you than rattle about by myself." If he was not careful, Edmund thought, he would begin to sound like another Henry Crawford. Still, she did not draw back, or look disgusted. She merely blushed more deeply.

"Had you anything in particular you wished to discuss with me, Cousin?"

"My dear, haven't I asked you not to call me 'Cousin'?"

"I am sorry…Edmund…but I have called you so for so long. You know I have trouble breaking my habits."

That, Edmund thought, was the trouble. "There is no need to apologize. I only thought…we have something more than mere cousinship, haven't we?" She looked quite distressed, so he added, "Aren't we friends? I have always, at least, considered you the very best of friends."

"Yes…yes, certainly we are friends. I have never wished to appear disrespectful or forward, though."

"Disrespectful! You! My dear, I doubt you have any experience at all at being disrespectful or forward." He held her gaze for a moment to convince her of his sincerity, and then reverted to the original subject. "I have not answered your question. I do have something I would speak to you about, but not now."

She stared at him, her expression puzzled. "But when?"

"Soon."

She turned away and looked about her. "Spring is lovely, isn't it? It is always wonderful to see the world return to its former glory after so many months of grey."

He allowed her to direct the conversation until they returned to the house; once he had deposited her with her aunt, he found his uncle in his study.

"Edmund! This is quite a surprise," Sir Thomas exclaimed. "What can have brought you here?"

"I have been meditating on something for a long while, sir," Edmund replied, "and I thought it only right that I consult with you before I take any definitive action. I would know your mind."

Sir Thomas's brows knit together. "I don't understand your meaning, son."

"Sir, I know that Fanny has become your greatest comfort, but I wonder what you would say if I suggested another home for her."

Sir Thomas's frown deepened. "Do you mean as a lady's companion or a governess, or something of that sort? I'm afraid it won't do at all, though I mean no offense to whomever you have in mind. Our Fanny is so shy and retiring that I could never agree to send her among strangers."

"That is not exactly what I had in mind," Edmund sighed. "Sir, I…I once overheard a conversation between you and Aunt Norris. She was deploring the attention I paid to Fanny, and said that I would be getting ideas. You reminded her of my good sense and honour, and that I would never forget my place so much. I could not fail to understand her meaning, or yours."

Sir Thomas looked by turns angry and ashamed. "I am sorry that you should ever have heard such nonsense, but at the time I thought my reasoning sound. Little could I know that Fanny alone would become the daughter I wished, nay imagined, I had! But I know her merits are not mine. All I have ever given her was dress and fortune."

"Not so. You gave her an escape from the inelegance and unhealthfulness of her mother's house, and the benefit of an education. You are not undeserving of her gratitude."

"But why do you mention this now? I still do not comprehend you."

"I am afraid, sir, that you were mistaken. I have forgotten my place."

For a moment, Sir Thomas looked at him in confusion, and then as comprehension dawned his expression turned to one of heartfelt delight. "Have you indeed! My dear boy, I can think of nothing that would please me more!"

"Truly?" Edmund still felt a little wary. He knew that, in terms of fortune and lineage, he could make a better match. Such considerations had held much weight with his father in the past.

"Have I not made her my daughter in everything but name? If I were not afraid of mortifying her parents I should have rectified that as well, but now I see I have no need. Could any man wish for a better daughter-in-law? You have made me very happy indeed." Edmund was too surprised by his father's raptures to interrupt. Sir Thomas continued. "Does your mother know? Fanny might be too shy, too fearful of her reaction to tell her herself. Shall I go? Or shall I send for Fanny and talk to her here?"

"Sir," Edmund interrupted at last, "I'm afraid you have supposed more than the truth. I have not yet spoken to Fanny."

His father stared at him in astonishment. "Whyever not?"

"I am not at all certain that she will have me. You know her disposition, sir."

"Yes," Sir Thomas sat back in his chair and considered his son. "Why did you come to me?"

"I suppose I thought you might have some advice, sir."

"Ask her to marry you. That is my advice."

"And if she should refuse, sir?"

"You would at least know whether or not she would have you. If you do not ask, you will never know."

Edmund smiled wryly. "That sounds very practical. In my experience love is not practical at all."

"Nonsense. Can you think of anything more practical than falling in love with such a woman as Fanny? And once you know you love her, what is more practical than to marry her? It all makes perfect sense."

Edmund laughed at that. "I suppose it does."

"Speak to her after dinner. I will entertain your mother and Susan. Go out and have some stargazing." Sir Thomas rose to signal the end of the conversation, but not without a last smile.

Part 5

Posted on 2013-02-10

The stars were lovely, but Edmund could not keep his thoughts on them. That was just as well, as his suggestion of stargazing was a mere ruse to begin with. The sky was clear, but the night was cold, and as he had no wish to make Fanny ill, he felt that he had better begin.

"Do you see the Bear?" Fanny asked, pointing out the brightest constellation. "And there is the Lion!"

"Fanny," Edmund began with a deep breath, "I do not wish to discuss the stars tonight."

She looked puzzled. "But you said we could have some stargazing."

"I did, but I hope you can bear to listen to me instead."

Fanny's golden eyes were fixed on his face. "Of course, Edmund. I am always ready to listen to you."

"I hope what I have to say will be worth hearing." He took a step closer to her and took her hands in his. "You said that you liked Thornton Lacey. I wonder if you could be persuaded to consider it a permanent home." Her expression was unreadable, her eyes inscrutable. He must be more explicit. "I did not plan to speak to you so soon, but I know I can rely on your goodness of heart to forgive me if I offend you."

"You could never offend me," Fanny whispered.

"You are too good for me, Fanny," he said. "I do not talk of hoping to deserve you one day. I know it could never happen. But I do hope you might be persuaded to think of me as more than a cousin, or even a good friend. I hope that you might find it possible to view me as a suitor, and later a husband. I think you could, if you will allow me the attempt."

Fanny's face was now very pale, and her hands trembled. She turned her eyes from his and carefully withdrew her hands. "I do not understand," she addressed the ground. "You cannot mean…"

"I love you, Fanny. Not as a cousin, or a brother, or a friend, but as a man would wish to love his wife. Do you think that, someday, you could love me in the same way?"

"You cannot love me," Fanny whispered. "I am not beautiful, or accomplished, or witty. I am awkward and shy. You would be ashamed of me."

"Fanny…"

"I am familiar to you," she said, her head still turned away. "You are comfortable with me. You know I would never intentionally do anything to hurt or humiliate you. It is understandable…natural…that you would think thus. But one day you will meet a woman you will truly be able to love, fully and completely, and you will regret addressing me this way."

Edmund struggled to speak. "Do you…do you forbid me to attempt to persuade you otherwise? If you wish it, I will never address you on this subject again."

Fanny was silent for several minutes, and when she finally turned to face him, she still kept her eyes downcast. Edmund wished she would look at him. She could not fail to understand and believe him if she would look into his eyes.

"I cannot answer you tonight," she whispered. "I must think." She shivered a little, and Edmund immediately offered his arm.

"You are cold. Forgive me. Let us go in."

Silently they returned to the house. Fanny went immediately to her room, probably to cry and to warm herself by her fire, and Edmund, though he would much rather have gone home, returned to the drawing room to endure the surprised, disappointed gaze of his father, and to wonder how he could persuade Fanny to accept him.

How impossible to describe the mind and heart of Fanny Price at this moment! How long had she longed for the declaration, believing it impossible, the stuff of dreams? With what longing had she imagined the moment when he would declare his love?

What, then, now held her back, when she could have everything she had wished for? She sat in a little chair in her attic, looking about her at the books and plants that had helped her fill her time when she was not wanted downstairs. Her eyes fell on a second chair at the table, and she frowned, recalling the last time it had been occupied.

She had not heard Edmund mention Mary Crawford for many months, but her ghost still hovered just outside of Fanny's vision. She was more than a former object of Edmund's affections: she embodied everything that Fanny herself was not, and surely she was not unique. Despite Edmund's early assumptions that he should never meet with such a woman again, Fanny could not help but think that another pretty, dark-eyed, vivacious woman must exist elsewhere in the world, and that Edmund might even meet her one day.

This, then, Fanny sighed, was the secret to her reluctance. She knew that he would defend and protect her until his last breath. She had no qualms about trusting him with her life - but with her heart? What was to be her security that he would not regret his choice at some future date, and realize that his affection for her had been exaggerated by the effects of loneliness, heartbreak and sympathy?

But what, then, her reasoning urged, was her alternative? Was she to love him in silence until the day she died, rather than take the chance at happiness that was offered her? She ought at least to hear him.

Though she faltered at the possibility that he had already reconsidered and regretted speaking so hastily, her heart won in the end. It was only just, of course, to allow him the opportunity to speak. If he had indeed come to love her, to answer all the wishes of her heart, she resolved to fear no more.

Fanny's resistance had surprised Edmund, though perhaps it should not have. He felt he had not expressed himself well, and had taken her wholly by surprise. He resolved to meet her alone and start again. She thought so little of her own worth - but he would convince her, in the end.

He was very much surprised to find her outdoors when he approached the house. She was sitting on a bench under a tree with a book, and looked up as he drew nearer. He thought she looked less troubled today, and hoped she had given his suit more - and preferably positive - consideration.

Edmund sat on the bench next to her, but said nothing. The common civilities seemed very incongruous with his situation. He was still surprised that she should, apparently, meet him willingly, but his astonishment grew when she was the first to speak.

"I hope I did not offend you," she said, "by my words last night."

"You could never offend me," he said.

"You must understand," Fanny continued haltingly, "that I never expected…that I was so very astonished…" She stopped to take a breath. Edmund remained silent.

"I know how you loved Mary Crawford. You gave her virtues that she did not have, and ceased to see her faults. If you had married, eventually the scales would have fallen from your eyes and you would have been forced to see her as she was. You would have been miserable in the discovery.

"I also saw how you mourned her loss. I fear you miss being happily in love, and that you have chosen to love me rather than be alone."

"You have mistaken me, entirely mistaken me," Edmund insisted gently. "My feelings are not of an immediate nature. I have been meditating on this matter for several months. I thought as you thought, that my heart was merely searching for a replacement, but I have come to understand that this is not the same love with which I loved her."

"But how can you be sure? How can you be certain that you will not, twenty or thirty years hence, regret marrying someone so plain and shy?"

With a pang, Edmund understood the cause of her reluctance. Once more he had underestimated her. She did not consider herself unworthy of him. She considered him unworthy of her. Never would she say as much, and probably she was not even conscious of her true objections, but so it was. She believed him inconstant.

"How can I answer you without confirming your suspicions?" he asked at last, his voice heavy with regret. "If I praise you, you will feel justified in your fears. If I speak of faults, you will be insulted and embarrassed."

"You have no need to fear me. You may tell me exactly what you think, as you always have."

"As I always have! Very well. I do not think you plain, though beauty is of course not your only or even your best attribute. You are good, honest, compassionate, and generous. You are not a wit, but you seem to share all my opinions and feelings. Perhaps our conversations would never be set down in prose to be marveled over, but I can think of nothing better than to spend the rest of my days sitting quietly at Thornton Lacey with you, as you embroider handkerchiefs or fill baskets with food for the parishioners."

Fanny had bowed her head and was studying her hands, the book now closed and forgotten.

"I cannot promise you that we will be blissful all our lives, Fanny." Edmund reached out to take her hand, and this time she did not pull away. "I can only promise you that I will always place your happiness and well-being as my highest priority. I will endeavor to ensure that you never regret marrying me."

"And this," Fanny said after a moment, "is what you really think and feel?"

"Not quite all. Put just that way, I sound as if I am suggesting that we live together as brother and sister. I do not know how to make you understand how dearly I love you, how much I miss you when we are apart, and how sternly I must remind myself to tend to my work when I would much rather come here to see you. I do not know how to describe for you the peace that comes over me whenever we are together."

"I believe I understand," was her quiet response.

"Do you? Will you believe me, then? Will you allow me to court you?"

"What of my uncle? Does he know of your intentions?"

"He was quite disappointed in me for not offering for you sooner."

"Truly?" Fanny finally looked fully at him, her incredulity writ clearly on her face.

"Yes. You see, Fanny, the only person who can find fault with my wanting to marry you, is you. Of course," he said hastily, "I do not mean to pressure you. You must always decide for yourself what will make you happiest. If you decide against me, no one will blame or reproach you. You will continue to live happily and peacefully as a daughter of Mansfield Park."

Smiling, Fanny resumed her study of her hands. After a moment she looked up again and met his eyes.

"You need not court me," she said quietly. "I am willing to accept you now."

Edmund's astonishment was beyond expression. He stared at her until she blushed and looked away. "I am sorry!" he exclaimed. "But I did not expect so immediate an acceptance as this. I thought perhaps I might, in time, persuade you…But you love me already?"

Fanny considered within herself how much she ought to reveal. She did not want to pain him by relating how long exactly she had cared for him. She decided to tell him no particulars unless he asked. "Yes."

"And…you will marry me?"

Fanny smiled, her eyes glowing. "Yes."

"You believe me that…"

"I trust you," Fanny interrupted with conviction, her face turned up to his with such a sweet expression that Edmund could not resist. He bent his head and gently touched his lips to hers.

Alternate Scene

Posted on 2013-02-13

Author’s Note: This was a scene from the earliest draft of A Matter of Trust. In the end, I preferred a quieter, less dramatic, more introspective resoultion to Fanny and Edmund's love story, but I still really love this passage. I've always been interested in Tom and his transformation after his illness. I also wanted someone to say what I've always thought. I am extremely fond of Fanny and I never thought anyone at Mansfield deserved her.

Anyway, this scene takes place after Edmund speaks to Fanny for the first time.

The knock on her attic room door rattled her nerves terribly. Tremulously she bade the person enter. She feared Edmund, come to apologize and acknowledge her to be in the right. She feared Susan, bright-eyed and full of questions. She feared her uncle, severe and perhaps blaming her for leading his son astray.

It was Tom.

Startled out of her fear and misery, Fanny stood quickly and rushed to offer him a seat. He was not yet strong, and she wished her fire was heartier and the room less draughty. He sat for a moment without saying anything, only looking at her as if trying to puzzle out a deep mystery.

"My brother spoke to you tonight," he began, and Fanny turned pale. He paused, but continued very gently. "I take it he was not successful. What I cannot understand," he pressed when she did not reply, "is why."

She looked at him in alarm, but could not yet bring herself to speak.

"Illness provides one with plenty of opportunity for watching unobserved," he offered by way of explanation. "Anyone can see that you and Edmund are made for each other. Anyone who observes you closely knows you are not indifferent to him."

Fanny grew, if possible, even paler, and shook her head weakly.

"I don't know how long you've loved him…probably all your life. You would never have said anything."

"Please, Cousin," Fanny said weakly, "this is not something I can bear to hear talked of. It is not a joke."

Tom laughed harshly. "A few months ago I would have found this as amusing as can be. How I would have ribbed and teased you about it! I would have made you absolutely miserable, wouldn't I? I would have had you wishing for death. I was quite a monster, then, was I not?"

"N-no…not a monster…"

"Nonsense, of course I was: a selfish, unprincipled, uncaring monster. I spent so much that I forced Father to present Edmund's living to someone else, and I allowed Crawford's attentions to Maria and Julia. I saw, to some extent, what he was about, but I decided that they could take care of themselves. A fine elder brother! I tore apart my father's household for the sake of a scheme I knew he would never approve. Acts worthy of an heir! And you! How abominably, how monstrously, has everyone in the house, at one point, behaved to you. Here you are, sitting in your little attic with the smallest fire possible, and thinking it a luxury too great to be deserved."

Tom stood up and walked about the attic. Fanny watched him with some trepidation. He had never spoken to her so much at once, and she felt bewildered, particularly at his vehemence.

"But it won't do, Fanny; our eyes have been opened, and now yours must be as well. Father does not say to you half of what he feels on the subject. You are the joy of his heart, did you know that? He couldn't think more highly of you if you were his own daughter. Mrs. Norris was a canker, a poison in the house; she spoiled everything she touched. You must forget everything she taught you."

Fanny sighed, and felt tears well in her eyes. "But what of Mary Crawford?" she asked pitifully. "Edmund loved her so dearly."

"Yes, he was quite a slave to her, wasn't he? Abandoning all his principles and morals to please her, hoping against hope that she could come to love him despite his profession, praying that he could make being a parson's wife not irksome for her. She would have ruined him. What good could such love ever have done him?"

"When we fall in love," Fanny said a little more strongly, " we little think of any benefit to ourselves. What good has come to me of loving him? I have known nothing but pain and alarm since I knew the nature of my feelings."

"I cannot excuse him, any more than I can excuse myself. The world is a dangerous, seductive place; it leads us to value that which ought to be only tolerated, and to tolerate that which ought to be punished. We have all paid for our misdeeds, in proportion to the weightiness of our errors. And poor Edmund, to suffer twice for the same error."

Fanny looked at him quickly. "Suffer?"

"Certainly! By now he has returned to Thornton Lacey. Knowing my brother as I do, I imagine tomorrow's sermon has long been prepared, so he sits in his drawing room, brooding over the fact that an error of judgment has spoiled, perhaps not his last, but probably his best chance for happiness."

"I would never willingly cause him pain," Fanny insisted.

"No, but you have done so unwillingly. You do not trust him - "

"I trust Edmund with my life!"

"But not with your heart?" Fanny was silenced. "You do not trust him. Perhaps you fear that, once you have married, some other pretty, vivacious, dark-eyed young woman will arrive and make him regret that he mistook loneliness for love of you. I cannot say of course that it will not happen, for which of us knows what will happen in times to come? But what a fate to assign yourself! Do you plan to love him in silence until the day you die, but never marry him because there is a possibility of unhappiness? That, my dear, is cowardly, and unworthy of you. You have always been a timid little thing, but cowardice is something else altogether."

Fanny sat thoughtfully, and Tom, who was beginning to feel weary, rose and left the room.