by Lona Manning
Fanny had not thought it possible to feel more despondent than she had for the last half-hour, but now fresh well-springs of misery flowed forth. Edmund was giving every evidence of being a man in love. Her own humiliation at the hands of her aunt had brought it about—Mary Crawford’s pointed attentions confirmed her in Edmund’s mind as being without equal in compassion and goodness. It appeared then to Fanny that Edmund would inevitably take the fatal step that would bring him lasting unhappiness and disillusionment. Mary Crawford as a clergyman’s wife in a small country village! The mind revolted! The kindest and the best of men so sadly deceived! And herself a helpless witness to it all.
With a trembling voice, Fanny finally excused herself for the night. The others hardly acknowledged her departure, which was at once all she desired and at the same time fresh proof of her insignificance to the household and her supposed nearest relations. Her resentment toward her Aunt Norris was now strangely benumbed, replaced by anger at herself, at who and what she was: a pathetic creature who could only go away and cry. She hurried up the stairs to the second floor to reach the back staircase and gain the privacy of her own modest room in the attic, where the sound of her sobs would not be heard over the bleak cold rain drumming against her narrow window.
* * * * * *
The carriage was summoned to convey the Crawfords back to their sister’s home. Edmund handed Miss Crawford in, and briefly made as though he might climb in beside her and accompany her to her own door, but her brother and a groomsman were sufficient escort and the lady herself was not welcoming. Edmund had angered Mary earlier that evening when, in a rather sententious tone, he pronounced that it was inappropriate for a clergyman (or soon-to-be clergyman in his case,) to portray one on the stage. But by so doing, he was refusing the opportunity to play the part of her lover. His indifference had wounded Mary’s pride and she was very far from being ready to forgive him, barely acknowledging his cordial adieux.
“Well, sister,” remarked her brother in a low voice, as the carriage pulled out of Edmund’s hearing, “Perhaps we should make our excuses and go to Bath or London, rather than stay for this play-acting scheme. I think, for a party got up for pleasure, there were more long faces than happy ones at the Park tonight. Miss Julia spiteful, Bertram vexed with everyone, Edmund Bertram at his most insufferable, Miss Price near to fainting, and as for that aunt!”
“Maria plays the tragic part but she was looking particularly well pleased tonight, a matter I will leave for now to you and your conscience.” Mary Crawford nodded meaningfully at her brother, who smiled, showing himself to be rather more gratified than abashed at the accusation.
“True—I would regret leaving off such a fair opportunity to play the tragic hero. To be authorized by the script to kiss Maria and press her to my bosom, in front of her future husband, is too irresistible!” Henry laughed.
“We know where to lay the blame for Julia's ill-temper, do we not?”
“We do indeed—we lay the blame on female vanity and caprice—for despite my best efforts, Julia Bertram scorned to take any part but that of Agatha. In the face of such obduracy, reasoning is in vain and flattery useless. She must be first in consequence, and if she cannot, she chooses to be nothing at all.”
“As for that last, are you speaking now of the play, or of your affections, Henry? At any rate, the foolish girl should have more pride and resolution. Heaven knows my vanity has been mortified tonight, though I would confess it to no one but you.” Miss Crawford willed herself to not look out the window to see if Edmund was still standing in the sweep and watching the carriage as they drove away.
“When you gave Bertram your consent to apply to his friend Charles Maddox to take up the part of Anhalt, were you in earnest? Or do you object to playing love scenes with a gentleman with whom you are barely acquainted?”
“No, Charles Maddox is not objectionable—in himself. But I thought, I had thought, I had more power over—” she stopped in vexation and let out a little laugh. “Perhaps I should enlist Mrs. Norris in my cause. She could scold Edmund Bertram into playing the part!”
“You remind me, I have hit upon an idea which will spare us any further scenes as we have witnessed tonight. Let us propose our own sister for the part of Cottager’s Wife.”
“What a capital idea, Henry! She will be very pleased to be asked. And you know, Cottager’s Wife is a comic part, and although Miss Price has many fine qualities, I’m sure, I cannot discover that she has any wit about her.”
“She is an earnest little soul, not a merry one,” Henry agreed.
“Perhaps she has little enough to laugh about!”
“Yes, but we all must learn to laugh at ourselves and I fancy Miss Price cannot. Too delicate and scrupulous to walk on stage, in front of her friends!”
“But did you not perceive how she contrived to make herself the centre of attention tonight? I fancy she would have drawn less notice upon herself had she simply acquiesced! She could have, with some justice, objected on the grounds that Cottager’s Wife must half-carry your poor, expiring, wronged Agatha across the stage. Little Miss Price would be hard-pressed to do so,” Mary laughed. “She might even have done herself an injury in attempting it. Maria Bertram will need the talents of a Mrs. Siddons to convince me that she is near to expiring from want of food!
“There, you see, Henry, I can laugh at others, and in time, I promise you, I will resume laughing at myself. Only do not ask me to do so tonight. I am too chagrined.”
* * * * * *
The grandfather clock in the front hall struck eleven, then midnight, and Fanny still lay awake in her narrow bed, unable to console herself. As miserable as her present circumstances were, the future offered no hope of improvement.
At an age when most young ladies were beginning to seriously contemplate matrimony, she had already formed the resolution that she would never enter the state; it was impossible that she would ever meet another man who could be the equal of Edmund Bertram. She rejected with contempt the idea of marrying for money, and in her humility she could not conceive of receiving an offer from one who esteemed her well enough to overlook her lack of a dowry. Settling with her family in Portsmouth appeared to be as equally out of the question as finding a husband. Her parents had never, in the course of her nearly ten years’ absence, expressed the wish that she return to them.
Fanny’s visions of her own future had all centered on a plan concocted with her older brother William—namely, that they would one day live in a little cottage and she would keep house for him when he retired from the Navy. But what was she to do until then? Her cousins had paid little regard to her over the years, but how empty the great house would seem when Maria and Julia married and formed their own establishments. Tom was abroad more than at home and Edmund would remove to Thornton Lacey after his ordination. She would be left behind to grow old in the service of her aunts. A long twilight existence, fetching and carrying for Aunt Bertram and bearing Aunt Norris’ slights and insults in silence, stretched ahead of her. She might have to endure ten, fifteen, twenty years of such a life before she could retire to a cottage with her brother.
And could she truly rely upon this solace, in the end? Although marriage formed no part of her brother’s plans at twenty, could she expect him to regard the state with the same indifference at five or eight-and-twenty? What if William did marry, and his wife had no wish to be encumbered by a maiden sister? And whether in Mansfield, Portsmouth, or her brother’s cottage, was she not dependent upon the charity of others for every mouthful she ate and every thread upon her back? Were her comings and goings to be entirely at the command of others, her own preferences never consulted?
As Fanny tossed and turned for the hundredth time that long night, a new, unbidden, notion suggested itself to her—you are acquainted with one independent gentlewoman who earned her own bread.
Your own governess, Miss Lee.
Why should you not do the same?
* * * * * *
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The following morning, Fanny escaped to the East Room after a half-eaten breakfast to ask herself how the thoughts she had entertained the previous night appeared to her in the judicious light of morning.
The East Room had once been the school-room and had sat empty after the departure of their governess. It was now used solely by Fanny, the smallness of her own bedchamber making the use of the other so evidently reasonable, and Mrs. Norris, having stipulated for there never being a fire in it on Fanny's account, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of what nobody else wanted.
The aspect was so favourable that even without a fire it was habitable in many an early spring and late autumn morning to such a willing mind as Fanny's. The comfort of it in her hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there after anything unpleasant below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or some train of thought at hand. Her plants, her books—of which she had been a collector from the first hour of her commanding a shilling—her writing-desk, and her works of charity and ingenuity, were all within her reach.
To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on an agitated, doubting spirit. Could she, Fanny, take a position as governess? Of caring for children, she had had much experience. As the eldest daughter of a family of ten, she had been important as playfellow, instructress, and nurse until sent away to live with her uncle and aunt.
In the ordinary course of events, gentlewomen only became governesses out of necessity. It was the last resort of the genteel but poor. It was a position entered upon with resignation at best, despair and resentment at worst, by widows and orphans, by persons whose expectations had been dashed and whose hopes had been overthrown—it was not to be wondered at that governesses and their faults were dwelt upon with much energy by ladies on their morning visits throughout the kingdom. While it was possible that some governesses become honoured and beloved members of the family, Fanny only knew that the profession never wore a happy face in any novel she had picked up.
Fanny paced unceasingly around the old work table, greatly agitated at her own audacity for even entertaining such ideas as now entered her head. She attempted to recollect, as best she might, any remarks dropped by Miss Lee concerning her opinions of the profession. But Miss Lee had been of a taciturn and formal disposition, qualities that recommended her to Sir Thomas, but she had not aroused lasting feelings of affection or confidence from her pupils.
Fanny had first met Miss Lee upon coming to Mansfield when she was but ten years old, and for many months was afraid of her, though anxious to win her approbation. The governess’s biting remarks upon Fanny’s backwardness, ignorance and awkward ways had often brought Fanny to tears. Almost a year passed before Miss Lee had realized that of her three pupils—Maria, Julia, and Fanny—only Fanny loved learning for learning’s sake; only her timidity before the others prevented her from showing that she had memorized every textbook laid before her, and thenceforward Miss Lee was more encouraging.
Maria and Julia were overjoyed to be released from the schoolroom upon turning seventeen, while Fanny, the youngest, continued for another year, sitting with Miss Lee for several hours every morning, studying French, geography, and natural history, or walking the grounds of the park to collect botanical samples.
Although Miss Lee had less to do as a governess when she had only one pupil, she was required to devote her afternoons and many evenings to attending on Lady Bertram. When the governess was at last discharged from Mansfield Park, Fanny was old enough to supply her place as Lady Bertram’s errand-runner and cribbage partner.
Fanny wondered whether these tasks were rendered less irksome to Miss Lee by the knowledge that she was paid for performing them. Would living among strangers be preferable to living with her cousins, if she received a salary, however small, rather than paying for her bread and board with the coinage of duty, submission, and gratitude?
A tap at the door roused her and her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund. They had not spoken since Aunt Norris’s cruel rebuke of the night before, and Fanny, her colour rising, anticipated the unlooked-for joy of a private conference with Edmund, in which he would declare his indignation at their aunt, and assure her of his esteem and regard. But no, it was the play, and worse, it was Miss Crawford, that occupied Edmund’s thoughts and occasioned this rare, this precious conversation.
“This acting scheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a play as they could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask the help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first. I know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must spring from his being admitted amongst us in this manner is highly objectionable, the more than intimacy—the familiarity.”
He came to the East room, he said, for her ‘advice and opinion,’ but a very few moments made it clear to Fanny that he had already made up his mind—he would yield—he would take the part of Anhalt himself rather than see a stranger admitted on such intimate terms. “Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place, Fanny. Consider what it would be to act Amelia with a stranger.”
Fanny protested, she was ‘sorry for Miss Crawford, but more sorry to see him drawn in to do what he had resolved against.’ Would he abandon his objections on behalf of his father? Her last, futile, appeal was to his pride: “It will be such a triumph to the others!”
“They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously I act,” Edmund responded drily, adding that he hoped, by yielding in this fashion, to persuade the others to keep the theatricals private and not involve any others in the neighbourhood, either as performers or audience. “Will not this be worth gaining?”
“Yes, it will be a great point,” Fanny answered, but reluctantly. Then Edmund did, finally, refer to her humiliation of the previous night, but only as a further reason to yield to Miss Crawford and take the part of Anhalt, for Miss Crawford “never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last night. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill.”
At this, Fanny could only nod, and Edmund was only too willing to interpret her silence as consent.
He smiled, he spent a few moments looking over her little library with her, when he was clearly eager to be gone, to walk down to the Parsonage and convey his change of sentiments to Miss Crawford. Then he was gone, entirely insensible of the pain he had inflicted.
Had either circumstance—Aunt Norris’ insult or this fresh proof of Edmund’s infatuation—occurred separately, Fanny would surely have spent her morning weeping. But occurring within twelve hours of each other, the absolute misery of the whole was so stupefying that she could no longer weep and, resolving within herself that she would weep no more, Fanny jumped up from her seat and slipped downstairs to the breakfast-room, unobserved by anyone.
Lady Bertram kept her recent correspondence in an elegant little desk there. All of Lady Bertram’s acquaintance, including Miss Lee, had received a note from her Ladyship hinting at the engagement of her eldest daughter to the richest landowner in the county—and the former governess, Fanny knew, had recently replied, wishing her one-time pupil every happiness. The note was postmarked from Bristol, where Miss Lee’s current employers resided.
With a rapidly beating heart, Fanny retraced her steps to the East Room where she composed a letter to Miss Lee, imploring her to keep her secret for now, and asking her advice on whether she thought her youngest pupil at Mansfield Park might be suited to become a governess. No sooner had she sealed her letter than she was summoned to walk into town on an errand for her Aunt Norris, which happily afforded her the opportunity to visit the village post office without the letter passing through the hands of servants at the Park.
She walked by Dr. and Mrs. Grant’s home on the way to the village, and she could hear the lovely rippling strains of harp music issuing from the sitting-room. Miss Crawford was entertaining her cousin Edmund. With tear-fille
d eyes, Fanny hurried past the parsonage, followed by the faint sounds of Edmund laughing in response to something witty Mary Crawford had said.
Chapter Two
Julia, usually regarded as the more cheerful, lively, and obliging of the two Bertram sisters, had entirely lost her composure when Henry Crawford intervened in the casting of the roles of the play; both sisters recognized his preference for Maria over herself in the part of Agatha as an unspoken avowal of particular regard for the eldest sister. Maria gloried in her triumph and sought every opportunity to rehearse her Agatha with Henry Crawford’s Frederick, whilst having as little as possible to do with her betrothed, Mr. Rushworth. Fortunately for Mr. Rushworth’s peace of mind, his faculties were so heavily taxed by the demands of learning his two-and-forty speeches by heart, that he had little leisure to observe and less capacity to understand what his lady love was about.
Julia was in love with Henry Crawford and had believed he was falling in love with her. Why should she not believe it, when his eyes, his gestures, his whispers, had proclaimed his devotion? Now that the conviction of his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it without any alarm for Maria's situation, or any endeavour at rational tranquility for herself. Henry Crawford himself had attempted to soothe her through flattery and re-doubled attentions—she scorned them, and him, and he soon gave up the effort.
Nor was Julia in any humour to acknowledge the elaborate attentions and gallantries of her brother Tom’s house guest, the foppish Mr. Yates, who, hailing her as “the divine Miss Julia,” made a point of sitting by her at breakfast, fetching her morning dish of coffee, declaring his raptures over her dress and shoes and the arrangement of her hair, and soliciting her approval of his own choice of cravat and jacket. She knew not how, but she could not discern in his assiduous gallantries any true symptom of a lover. Her brother Tom acknowledged the unserious nature of Mr. Yates’ attentions, although in terms she could not understand.