by Lona Manning
* * * * * *
Neither Maria nor Julia were in spirits to wonder at anything that did not concern themselves, and not even the unexplained absence of their cousin could rouse them from their seats, but Mary Crawford instantly volunteered to help find Miss Price. She first went, naturally enough, to the East Room, where she fully expected to find Fanny sitting morosely by the fire. But the grate was cold—in fact was completely bare, as though no fire had been lit during the whole course of the autumn—and there was no Fanny. Mary descried a letter lying on the school table. She snatched it up and saw in Fanny’s neat, elegant hand, the inscription: “To Cousin Edmund.”
Mary was instantly convinced that Fanny had left Mansfield Park. The letter would provide some explanation, but what if—what if that explanation involved her brother Henry and his unguarded behaviour toward Fanny’s cousins? Fanny had often sat in the theatre and acted as prompter for many of the rehearsals between Maria and her brother. What if the silent and watchful Miss Price, had, like Julia, been a witness to the indiscretions of her brother and Maria? Mary herself had left her uncle’s home in London in disgust last spring because he had chosen to live openly with his mistress. Would not Fanny Price, the exemplar of female rectitude, quit the house rather than live with a cousin whose passions were stronger than her virtue? What if the letter contained a condemnation of her brother Henry’s behaviour with Maria? Fanny’s testimony could only further damage the successful conclusion that Mary Crawford now sought to bring about.
These speculations took less time than it has taken to relate them—the seal was broken—the letter opened—another, smaller, note addressed to “Sir Thomas Bertram” fell out, which Mary set aside, giving her full attention to the letter addressed to her “dear Cousin:”
You, who have always been my chief friend, advisor and protector, will defend me again I know, if any defense for my conduct can be made. I have tried to do what I thought was right, and if my judgement has erred, you will still understand my motives and my sentiments. If anyone can understand why I have left Mansfield Park, it must be you, dear Edmund. Upon your candour I must rely.
The time has come for me to recognize “who and what I am.” I am not a Miss Bertram, and I vow before Heaven I have never had any expectation of assistance from your uncle beyond all that he has generously provided to me, ever since I was sent to live amongst you.
I always have been—and should I remain at Mansfield, always will be—accused of ingratitude! Can it really be so! My faults are many—faults of weakness, timidity, and foolishness, but Edmund, I am not sensible of ever feeling less than the purest gratitude to your family for sheltering and educating me. Gratitude I do feel and will always feel, but I must confide this to you, that I can no longer endure being accused of not feeling, or showing, sufficient gratitude. I would rather put an end to this burden, this debt that is impossible to satisfy, than to continue as I am.
“Ingratitude indeed,” murmured Mary. “Baited and scolded for years by that interfering aunt—only someone as meek as a Fanny Price could have borne it! And yet, even she has not borne it, she has broken her tether and run away! How extraordinary!”
Yet how much more shall I be accused of ingratitude now that I leave you all without making my farewells in person! But I am a coward, as you know, and could not endure a conscious parting. Please give your dear mother my apologies and my heartiest wishes for her continued health and happiness. Beg her pardon on my behalf, if you can! I enclose a note to your father, but again, I implore you to speak on my behalf, as I am unsuited to speak for myself. I am greatly grieved if I have caused any offence.
Satisfied that Fanny’s letter contained no damaging intelligence concerning her brother and Maria, Mary hastily began to fold up the letter, even as she perused the final postscript.
Farewell, my dear cousin. The memory of your kindness, your guidance and instruction, will be all I need to sustain me in the future. We may not meet again for many years, so may I say in parting, as your happiness is dearer to me than my own, I implore you, do not bestow your affections on anyone who is not worthy of you! Please remember those misgivings of which I have hinted. I cannot say more. God bless you.
Mary froze in surprise. There could be no doubt that Fanny was referring to herself, Mary Crawford, as being unworthy of Edmund Bertram. A wave of vexation overtook her and a hot flush stained her cheek. Who was Fanny Price to presume to call her ‘unworthy’? The poor relation, the daughter of nobody, whom she, Mary, had graciously flattered and befriended. What was that kind and elegant compliment she had recently bestowed—oh yes, ‘she fancied Miss Price had been more apt to deserve praise than to hear it.’ She thought Miss Price had been happy, even honoured, at the notice Mary had condescended to take of her. And instead, behind those modestly lowered eyes, that mild countenance, Miss Price was finding fault with her and confiding her thoughts to Edmund? Here was a most unexpected enemy!
If Mary Crawford was not worthy to marry Edmund Bertram, then who, pray, was worthy? A new suspicion darted into her mind just as familiar footsteps in the hallway announced that Edmund had followed her to the East Room. There was no time to re-seal the letters. With a rapidity of thought and gesture perhaps only possible for a Mary Crawford, she tucked the letter in the folds of her shawl and regained her composure just as Edmund crossed the threshold.
“There, Mr. Bertram, there. On the table.”
“What! —a letter from Fanny to my father? Does this mean that Fanny has left home? And alone?”
“The letter will confirm the fact, I fear. But perhaps she has gone no further than the village, or your aunt’s house.”
A swift exchange of knowing glances proclaimed without words how unlikely it was that Fanny would have taken refuge there.
“Then I will lay you any odds she has returned to her family in—where? Some seaside city, as I recollect.”
“Portsmouth.”
“Oh yes, Portsmouth. I would have looked into her bedroom,” continued Mary, “to see if her clothes were gone, but I didn’t know where her room is.”
“Yes…. Yes! How quick-thinking you are, Miss Crawford! I admire your composure and presence of mind more than I can express. This is what a true Englishwoman should be! Julia is weeping again, I fear. Would you be so kind—could I ask you—could you speak to her, endeavour to calm her, while I search Fanny’s room?” And without waiting for a reply, he snatched up the letter intended for his father and ran for the stairs to the servants’ quarters.
So, Fanny was placed in the attic with the servants, Mary remarked to herself as she hastened to the main staircase, tucking the letter to Edmund in her bosom. As she was evidently so little regarded by the family she will be soon forgotten, I fancy.
She had not spoken; she had not confessed, and she now reckoned it was impossible, without exposing herself to embarrassment and recriminations, to return the letter to Edmund without acknowledging that she had opened it. Even if she re-sealed the letter, she could not replace the note to Sir Thomas within it.
An unpleasant thought froze her in mid-step. Fanny had said “I enclose a note to your father,” in her letter to Edmund. What if Fanny alluded to her letter to Edmund, in the note to Sir Thomas? But, the message to the uncle was but a single piece of lady’s writing paper, much shorter than the letter to Edmund. Fanny had been brief—she could not have aired any doubts or accusations.
But what if? —what if Fanny had more guile than Mary had ever given her credit for? Was she running away only to be pursued? Was Fanny foolishly hoping for a reunion with Edmund, and a tender eclaircissement? Viewed through the lens of jealousy and resentment, Mary now considered her interception of Fanny’s letter as fully justified, even providential.
It had been the work of an instant, of impulse, but Mary had prevented Edmund from receiving what she now regarded as a declaration of love from Fanny, and she resolved that he should never know of Fanny’s true feelings for him.
* *
* * * *
As every mile put more distance between herself and Mansfield Park, Fanny was able to drift into a light sleep, her small neat head sometimes resting against the plump shoulder of the genial Mrs. Renfro. She dreamt of her brother William, of playing and running with him along the ramparts overlooking the sea in the days when she lived with her family in Portsmouth. William’s smiling face was before her, her older brother, whom she had seen once only in the intervening ten years since leaving Portsmouth. She had written to William faithfully in all the years of their separation, and he to her. In his letters, he was interested in all the comforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield; ready to think of every member of that home as she directed, or differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris, and with whom all the evil and good of their earliest years could be gone over again, and every former united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection.
In her dream, freed from the stifling air and restricting walls of their small home, invigorated by the ocean breezes and the cries of the seagulls overhead, the children larked about freely. William challenged Fanny to a race to the Union Jack, and he kindly curbed his own speed so that his little sister could reach the flagpole just before he did. Breathless and laughing, she looked behind her and saw her younger brothers John and Richard, having thrown off their mother’s hands, running to catch up. Little Richard stumbled and fell to the paving stones, but William ran swiftly to him and scooped him up with a laugh and a smile, and Richard, who had opened his mouth and drawn a deep breath in preparation for sobbing, forgot and joined William and Fanny in the general laughter.
She awoke with a start, and fearfully wondered whether her family would be called to account for her abrupt departure from Mansfield Park. Over the years, Sir Thomas had done what he could for his wife’s sister’s plentiful family: he assisted Mrs. Price liberally in the education and disposal of her sons as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit. John was now in London and Richard was serving on an Indiaman. Would Sir Thomas put a veto on any future benevolence to Sam, Tom and Charles, the brothers still at home, to punish them for the actions of the sister? No, no, that could not be, she thought. I think too well of my uncle to believe he would show resentment toward innocent persons.
Recalling William’s cheerful, blunt, confident manner, so different from her own, Fanny felt solace. She believed that, no matter what she did, and no matter what the consequences, William would be kind to her, support her and encourage her.
Fanny smiled to herself and drifted back to sleep, moving ever farther away from her past and toward an unknown future. Until she had a new home, she could not send William a direction to write to.
* * * * * *
To make some small amends for all that Edmund had endured, and would yet endure, in arranging matters between Maria, Julia and the Crawfords, Tom Bertram, accompanied by Mr. Yates, had volunteered to ride to the village and confirm that Fanny had indeed travelled on the mail coach, as they surmised. When they returned, with the certain intelligence that she had boarded the morning coach to Oxford, they found a reduced party gathered in the sitting-room. Maria and Julia had gone up to their bedchambers after tea. Edmund and Miss Crawford were talking intently by the fireplace, and his mother was lying on the settee, obviously in a fretful mood, stroking her pug dog for comfort, while Aunt Norris plied her needle with energy.
“Why has she gone away?” exclaimed Lady Bertram, still struggling with her puzzlement. “When I retired to my bedchamber last night, Maria was engaged to Mr. Rushworth and Fanny had promised to tack up my new dress pattern. I wake up to learn Maria is engaged to Mr. Crawford and Fanny has left us. How I wish your father were here!” Mrs. Norris, who had returned to the Park to support her sister in this time of crisis, had not yet reconciled herself to Maria’s throwing Rushworth over, although, as Maria was her decided favourite, it would take but the operation of time for her to discover that Crawford was to be preferred and that she had both foreseen and approved the match. Her censures, therefore, were directed to Fanny. “Why indeed, Lady Bertram? She was met with nothing but kindness here.”
“We opened Fanny’s letter to father,” replied Tom, “as he authorized Edmund and I to do with all his correspondence in his absence. Here is the letter, aunt,” he added, offering it to Mrs. Norris with a significant look. “Perhaps you would like to read it to my mother.”
Mrs. Norris took the letter reluctantly and read the following:
To Sir Thomas Bertram,
Honored uncle, dear sir,
This letter will surprise you and, I greatly fear, injure me in your esteem. Allow me to thank you for making Mansfield Park my home for these ten years. I am now 18 years of age and, as I am not entitled by birth or fortune to live as a Bertram, nor ever presumed to be other than who and what I am, I have resolved to return to my own sphere. I will ever remain,
Your grateful niece,
Fanny Price
PS—please give my respectful regards to my Aunt Bertram.
A thoughtful silence passed, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire in the grate. Tom waited for either of the ladies to recognize in Fanny’s letter an allusion to the unkind words spoken by Aunt Norris. Then—
“But why has she gone away? Why?” from his mother, and “Humph. No mention of me, I see, although I superintended her upbringing as much as anyone. Ungrateful girl!” from his aunt.
Feeling that any remonstrance would be both futile and disrespectful, and feeling as well that his own callous treatment of his young cousin could ill bear scrutiny, Tom retrieved the letter and made no remark upon it, referring only to what he had discovered in his trip to the village.
“There can be no doubt then,” Tom concluded, “She bought a ticket to Newbury and by the time we discovered she was missing, she had already been on the road for eight hours.”
“And from Newbury it is only another day’s journey to Portsmouth,” Edmund explained for Miss Crawford’s benefit.
“No prospect of overtaking her, then. Mother, could you please send a note to your sister Price, asking her to assure us of Fanny’s safe arrival?”
“I daresay she wrote to my sister Price in advance,” said Mrs. Norris, who appeared to be chiefly annoyed that she had not been consulted on the scheme, or asked to organize the trip herself, for she could not be supposed to object to Fanny’s departure from the household. “Such secrecy and double dealings, I never expected to see! Baddeley,” she enquired of the butler, who had entered to remove the tea things, “did Miss Price give you any letters to post in the last fortnight?”
Baddeley paused, “I believe, ma’am, she sent a letter to her brother, the midshipman. Aboard the Antwerp, ma’am.”
“She writes him every month, I think,” said Edmund. “but she has no other correspondents that I know of, outside of her family.”
“If you would be so kind as to give me the direction to her parent’s home in Portsmouth, Mr. Bertram,” Mary interposed. “Would it be officious of me to write to her directly—as a friend?”
“You are too good,” Tom answered, “but I expect Maria or Julia to...”
“Oh, but they have cares of their own, and—and, am I not soon to become your sister, that is—once Maria and Henry are united?”
Tom said nothing, but Edmund’s countenance, as he thanked Mary for her kindness, was all she could desire, and she accepted his offer to accompany her back home to the Parsonage, where, despite the chill of the evening, they chose to walk, so that they might have a longer tête-à-tête.
“You do not appear to be angry with me, Mr. Bertram.”
“Angry? No. Did you suspect me of being so?”
“Thank you. I wanted to assure myself. I know that my brother has behaved selfishly, imprudently. I cannot expect you to approve of his behaviour, whatever the outcome. And I feared… I feared….”
For answer, Edmund drew her arm within his.
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br /> “While my brother certainly behaved rashly, in the end it will all be for the best. As for poor Mr. Rushworth, he is better off as he is. You were kind enough to undeceive him, but the truth would at last have dawned upon him sooner or later.”
“While I cannot defend either of our relatives, I think the greater error was on my sister’s side. When Maria discovered her feelings for Rushworth were not what they ought to be, she should have ended the engagement.”
“You have heard of the expression, ‘a bird in the hand,’ Mr. Bertram? Many women would not relinquish the first plump little bird until she was assured of the second.”
“Night is falling and I cannot clearly see your face, Miss Crawford. I don’t know if you are jesting or are in earnest. If you sincerely believe this, then your opinion of womankind is a degraded one.”
“You are too severe upon our sex, Mr. Bertram. Kindly recollect, if you please, that we women generally are not as bold as my character in our play; custom deprives us of the freedom to make declarations of love. The alliance with Mr. Rushworth was not a thing to be thrown away lightly unless she was certain she had secured my brother’s affection.”
“By ‘alliance’ you are referring, I suppose, to his property and his fortune?”
“Any sober-minded woman would weigh a proposal from such a man very carefully before refusing. You shake your head. But we have debated this point before, have we not? Please,” she leaned lightly on his arm, “let us not quarrel about the prudence of marrying well. We have had enough discord for one day! I flatter myself I was of some use today in soothing both your sisters. To succeed with them, only to quarrel with you, makes me doubt my abilities as a conciliator. But pray believe me when I say that I respect your opinions. You cause me to think and reflect, as perhaps no other person has… you have a solidity, a constancy, so different from the sort of man one meets in London.”
“If I could lay myself out for a compliment as artfully as some ladies do, I would prefer to hear some encomiums on my wit.”