Crawford, Chapter 4

We come now to the longest chapter in this story. I think you will see there is a reason why I waited to break it where I did. I feel like I ought to apologize, but, well, it was inevitable. Enjoy!


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.

---

Let me know what you think!