by Lona Manning
“Yes, yes, and perhaps this augurs well for Maria’s happiness, once the scandal attached to the sudden dissolution of her engagement to Rushworth passes over. However, can an understanding formed under such circumstances be expected to prosper? Whatever intimations Crawford has given to Maria of his attachment to her—”
(May you never know about the intimations Crawford gave to our Maria, old boy, Tom thought to himself.)
“—he knew she was promised to Rushworth. What is more, considering matters in this new light, I think Crawford’s manner was a little too warm with Julia. I was disposed to like Crawford, but, taken all in all, I doubt that Maria will find lasting happiness with him. How can she rely upon his constancy, faithfulness, honour? I will always regret how this came about, as should they. Even though,” —Edmund could not but consider the effect upon her who was always foremost in his thoughts— “even though I have reasons of my own for desiring closer ties to this family. But happily for us, Tom, we may defer any decision regarding a union with Crawford until our father’s return, which will accord with our inclinations and his principles. He asked that Maria not marry until he returned, and this condition should abide even if the bridegroom changes.”
Tom suddenly had a happy inspiration. “You are to become a clergyman soon, Edmund. Bearing sad tidings will be no small part of your future duties. Who better than you to separate Maria from Rushworth?”
Fortunately for Tom Bertram, nothing so reconciled his brother to the performance of an unpleasant task than the hint that it was a moral duty. Edmund charitably disregarded the motive that prompted it, and saw matters as Tom could have wished—if he shrank from addressing the follies and sorrows of others, he was perhaps unsuited for ordination. With a heavy sigh, Edmund arose and dressed and sought out Mr. Rushworth for the first of many unpleasant interviews that must be held before the morning was over. He had never before had such cause to be thankful that his mother was not in the habit of early rising, and that his Aunt Norris preferred to take a dish of hot chocolate in her room before joining the family at breakfast.
He cared not a jot for the loss of the connection to Mr. Rushworth’s grand estates and fortune, and he hoped, rather than believed, Maria would feel more regret for the pain she would be causing Mr. Rushworth, than for the loss of Sotherton and all the consequence and distinction attached to it. But above all Edmund wondered, how would Mary—for so he thought of her—bear this news? Would she be chagrined, as he was, that their near relations had engaged in secret intrigues—Maria, breaking her pledge to another, and Henry, requiting the hospitality of the Bertrams in such a fashion? Or would Mary welcome the joining of the two families as a precursor to another, more intimate tie?
Edmund found Maria’s fiancé—or so poor Mr. Rushworth still fancied himself—pacing up and down in the little theatre, attempting to memorize one of his two-and-forty speeches, beating time with one hand as he furled and unfurled his copy of Lovers’ Vows.
…In a gay, lively, flimsy… hang it all! In a gay, lively, inconsiderate, flimsy… gay, lively, inconsiderate, flimsy, frivolous coxcomb… such as… such myself, it is… excusable. No— it is inexcusable: In a gay, lively, inconsiderate, flimsy, frivolous coxcomb such as myself, it is inexcusable. For me to keep my word to a woman, would be deceit: 'tis not expected of me. It is in my character to break oaths in love.
A quiet shuffling, an ahem! brought Mr. Rushworth to order. He brightened at the sight of Edmund. “Is everyone awake? Is breakfast ready?”
Although Edmund had never congratulated himself on the prospect of having Mr. Rushworth as a brother-in-law, it was with genuine shame that he explained the connexion between the families was not to be—if Mr. Rushworth wished to hear confirmation from Maria’s own lips he should have it, but circumstances had arisen which compelled the Bertram brothers, acting in loco parentis, to state that they could not, in honour, allow Mr. Rushworth to marry their sister. Maria had transferred her affections to another—Mr. Rushworth could not be in doubt as to whom Edmund referred—Mr. Rushworth was held in too high esteem by them all, not excluding, of course, Maria, for any of them to be a party to the marriage going forward under the present circumstances. Edmund observed Mr. Rushworth’s countenance change slowly from perplexity, to surprise, to indignation, before Edmund’s concluding ‘greatest esteem and very great regret.’
Rushworth cleared his throat, and asked for his carriage. “I think I shall go away. I believe I shall, Mr. Bertram. I believe I shall go home to Sotherton.”
“Without,” he added, after some additional thought, “Without seeing Miss Bertram. Or having breakfast.”
Edmund stayed with the disappointed lover until his manservant was summoned, his valises were packed and his carriage brought round, and Mr. Rushworth left Mansfield Park, never to return. Although Maria’s rejected suitor does not appear again in this story, the reader may kindly wish to know that by the time he reached the outskirts of Mansfield village, he was as angry as he had ever been in his life; by the time he crested Sandcroft Hill, he was wanting his breakfast very much indeed, and by the time he reached the long avenues leading to Sotherton, he was reflecting that, all things considered, he was tolerably relieved that he would not marry Miss Bertram, as for many months past she had been cold and careless in her manner, rejecting even the touch of his hand, and causing him to doubt whether she was of a truly amiable disposition.
* * * * * *
The sound of hammer and saw drew Tom Bertram from his unhappy meditations over his morning coffee, and hastening to the billiard room, he found Christopher Jackson hard at work, as directed, building the proscenium arch. Jackson was abruptly dismissed, with orders to return later that day and “take the whole d—ned thing apart —take it away and burn it.”
The scene-painter was also dismissed, having spoilt only the floor of one room, ruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the under-servants idle and dissatisfied.
Tom then retreated to his father’s study, where, with his head in his hands, he recollected his brother’s objections to the amateur theatricals, and his correct representation of his father’s disapproval. In fact, the denouement had been worse than Edmund’s grimmest predictions.
Maria appeared before him, pale but determined. “Have you spoken to Henry this morning, Tom?”
“No, I have not spoken with our amiable guest and if I were to do so, it would be to inform him that Edmund and I have agreed to defer the question of your marriage to our father, upon his return. You shall not have long to wait, although waiting for matrimony is clearly a trial for you.”
Maria’s features contorted in ugly passion. “How dare you, brother, stand in judgment over me. How dare you! You, who have had had the freedom to ride and roam all over the United Kingdom, you who have been away to school, to Oxford, to Bath, to London, to every fashionable resort and race track, you who have poured out our father’s money, on gaming, and drink and—and—other forms of pleasure, which are too foul to be named—whilst I—” Maria’s tears were flowing freely now, “Whilst I have stayed here at home, doing my needlework, playing the pianoforte, unable to go anywhere, or meet anyone. You dare preach to me? You cannot know what it is to be buried alive, to awake every day to the same companions, the same routine, the same evenings, and the day after that, and the day after that. I dared to follow my heart for just one day—just one night—and I am threatened with ruin, and disgrace and exposure for all my days. Where is the justice in that?”
“Maria, it is not I who condemns you, it is the World, it is Society, it is the established modes of our religion—”
“It is one rule for men, and another for women! I defy you all! Tell me that you, Tom, have never, ever—”
“The world is unjust, Maria,” her brother acknowledged. “But recognize who your friends are. To publish the news of an understanding with Crawford, immediately after dissolving your agreement with Rushworth, would only expose you to malicious speculation.�
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Maria started, her lips quivered as though to say something more, but she quit the room.
A little while later, another conference was in progress in the breakfast-room, which the Crawfords had to themselves, the appetites of all the younger Bertrams being so disordered as to make it impossible to contemplate pork chops, eggs, or kippers with equanimity.
“Am I to congratulate you now, brother?” Mary enquired. “Is this the end of your flirtations and intrigues? Mr. Rushworth has been seen off, I understand.”
“Mary, you are being very charitable to refrain from saying ‘I told you so.’ Had I listened to your warnings, I would have given up the game with Maria Bertram and left this place weeks ago. Now I’m in a fairly delicate position. However, I take pleasure in informing you that I’ve obtained a stay of execution—we await the return of Sir Thomas. Perhaps he will conclude I am not good enough for his daughter.”
“Maria means to have you, so in the eyes of the world, you are in honour bound. Ah, what a picture the wedding will be! Maria blushing in bridal lace, eyes downcast, I as one of her attendants, and Julia as the other—oh! my poor Julia! What did Benedict say of Beatrice? She speaks poniards, and every word stabs! Beware you turn your back on her, Henry, especially if she is holding a sharp instrument! So what do you propose to do while waiting for Sir Thomas’s verdict?”
Henry yawned and stretched. “Life here is too hectic for me. I yearn for the tranquility of a fox hunt. And you? Can I convey you anywhere?”
“You mean to avoid the Bertram sisters for now?”
“Shall Maria Bertram, so lately, so publicly engaged to Rushworth, become the acknowledged bride of Crawford? Tongues would wag, insinuations would be made. I could not stand idly by and allow the honour of the fair Maria to be besmirched. T’ were better if there were some time and distance between us.”
“She will be anxious until your return.”
“Ah well, as the Butler says in our play:
Then you, who now lead single lives,
From this sad tale beware;
And do not act as you were wives,
Before you really are.”
“But Henry, if you refuse to marry Maria, then…. then consider how it places me. You know that I have grown more than commonly fond of Edmund Bertram.”
“I had no idea you entertained any serious notions, Mary. He is a good enough sort of fellow, but will you throw yourself away on a second son? He is to be ordained this winter, is he not? Do you yearn to become a clergyman’s wife in a little country village? Without even a Mansfield Park nearby to provide society and amusement? You know yourself better than that.”
“He is not yet ordained.”
“Oh, well then. You stay on with our sister and her amiable husband, exercise your charms on Mr. Edmund Bertram. He, by the by, knows nothing of the… epilogue to the play that Maria and I performed last night. Out of charity to you, I will never breathe a word about it to him, and I’m sure my lovely Maria will likewise remain discreet. Julia may need some wise counsel from you.”
“Yes, I can point out the two paths she may choose—she could expose you and share in Maria’s disgrace, as no respectable man would marry into the family, or she can pipe a tear at your wedding, accompany you and Maria on your bridal journey and enjoy the season in London, under the chaperonage of Mrs. Henry Crawford.”
“If you were a man, you could have a brilliant career at the Old Bailey, dear sister. Now, whilst you are arranging your future with Mr. Earnest—pardon me, Mr. Edmund—I shan’t do anything to bring the wrath of Sir Thomas down on my head. Let me know when Sir Thomas returns. Send me a line when he desires a conference with me. From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be, I will return from any place in England, at an hour's notice. I won’t publicly deny that there is an understanding between Maria and myself, but I will try to dance just out of her reach—for a time.”
“When will you make your adieux?”
“This morning.”
And so it was that both of Maria Bertram’s suitors were gone from Mansfield Park before Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris appeared in the breakfast-room. It fell to Edmund’s lot to apprise the ladies of the rupture between Maria and Mr. Rushworth; Lady Bertram was perplexed and very near to agitation, her older sister was stupefied to learn that the engagement was dissolved, on which she had concentrated all her guile and energies, and which in her own imagination would serve either as a welcome-home offering to Sir Thomas on his safe return, or the family’s consolation should he perish on the homeward journey. Because his mother and aunt could not understand why so eligible a match had been broken off, Edmund was compelled to unfold the further news about Maria and Crawford.
So astounding was this revelation, that the further disclosure that Tom had rung down the last curtain on his amateur theatre, before the said curtain had even been hung, was received with submission, even by Mrs. Norris. The curtain in question, over which she had presided with such talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she happened to be particularly in want of green baize.
The last member of the theatrical company to appear in the breakfast-room, enquiring dolefully for coffee, eggs, and ham, was Mr. Yates. Of all of the members of the late theatrical troupe, surely he was the most to be pitied. His ambitions were once again to be annihilated on the eve of his public triumph as an actor. It was with more obduracy than politeness that he proposed to summon two or more of his particular friends to Mansfield to take over the roles abandoned by Mr. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford. Even Tom grew weary of his friend’s tenacity and was truthfully not sorry to hear Yates speak of shortening his visit among them to merely another fortnight or two.
The inhabitants of Mansfield Park, each with their own wishes, regrets, and cares, were not assembled together until dinner was laid upon the table. The silence that enveloped the gathering was complete. Maria was wrapped in her own reflections of her parting from her beloved, who had insisted, as he embraced and kissed her, that it was almost fatal to him to leave her, but his solicitude for her honour would permit no less.
Julia was not speaking to most of the members of her family, and her looks proclaimed she would entertain no sallies from Mr. Yates. Mary Crawford contented herself with sending speaking glances to Edmund, wishing to ascertain within herself that his undoubted anger toward her brother did not extend to her. Lady Bertram was anxious and confused, and Tom Bertram was struggling with remorse, a feeling he hoped to overthrow tolerably soon as it was a d—ned uncomfortable state. It was only when the first course was being served that Edmund, looking around, enquired:
“But where is Fanny?”
Chapter Five
Fanny was at that time, miles away on the Oxford Road, sharing a seat with a friendly but generously proportioned lady from St. Albans. The curtains were partly drawn against the morning chill, but what little she saw of the landscape was not worth craning her neck for—it was October, clouds stretched from horizon to horizon, as though smothering her flight in secrecy, and a persistent light rain fell all around. She had taken the reverse journey almost ten years ago, when a timid child, and she had travelled under the protection of the coachman until delivered up, at Northampton, to her Aunt Norris, a first meeting she still vividly remembered. Let me never frighten the children in my care as my Aunt Norris frightened me! May I always be patient and be not quick to find fault! And concerning Aunt Norris, may I learn to forgive and, so far as I can, forget! Fanny prayed to herself.
At times waves of doubt and remorse washed over her, and she trembled guiltily at the thought that any of those she left behind might be angry with her for leaving Mansfield Park with so little ceremony.
No one of Fanny’s tender disposition could abscond from home with the intention of hiding herself forever from her relatives. She calculated, however, that those at the Park would assume she was headed to Portsmouth and, once it was discovered she was not with her mother and father, she would be
safely arrived at her destination. If she successfully entered the Smallridge establishment as a governess, she would send word to her family, and trusted that no one could, or would, oppose her. She had never been legally adopted by Sir Thomas, so he had not the authority of a parent over her, and her own father, she felt tolerably certain, would not be so angered by her removal from one place to another, as to demand that she return to a home which by all accounts had no room for her. She had never received a single line directly from her father in ten years, and had only received an unsatisfactory and infrequent correspondence from her mother, whose letters always spoke of haste, and duties which called her ‘to conclude her message,’ more than of love or longing.
The one family member on whom she could rely to return her affection equally was her brother William, currently in Gibraltar, and not expected back in Portsmouth for another month or more. William’s approbation, indeed, meant a great deal to her and she trusted that her modest earnings toward their future home together, painstakingly acquired at a governess’s rate of pay, would contribute to his future comfort.
Fanny attempted to leave off worrying about what she left behind her, by contemplating what lay ahead of her. She revolved in her mind a passage from Miss Lee’s last letter: The governess is neither a member of the family, nor is at the level of the other servants, although a well-judging, competent housekeeper is no mean companion. A governess exists between upstairs and down, and therefore might hear or receive the confidential remarks of both servant and master. The most essential qualification for being a governess, in my estimation, is an ability to endure a solitude of mind, whilst being occupied from morning ‘til night. Do you understand me? I think, Fanny, that you can.
She calculated to herself as every mile or half-hour passed: ‘by now, they will have missed me, by now they will have looked through the house in search of me, by now they will have found my letters…. will they be angry? Will they be worried on my behalf? Will he be worried?’