A Contrary Wind: a variation on Mansfield Park (Mansfield Trilogy Book 1)

by Lona Manning

  “No, ma’am. If you please, ma’am, I can instruct Mrs. Smallridge’s daughter in her needlework—I can make lace, netting, fringe, filigree, do carpet work, and embroidery and cross-stitch of all sorts.”

  Fanny had had the forethought to bring with her a cunningly made little housewife, covered with ornate embroidery, as an example of her skills with the needle, which she presented to the widow. “And I am adept at plain sewing also, ma’am. If you would care to examine the hem of my handkerchief, you will see the evenness of my stitches.”

  “Now here is a useful talent.” Apparently satisfied with both her dinner and Fanny’s answers, Mrs. Butters slowly rose from the table, followed with rather more alacrity by Fanny.

  “Your youth is against you, or rather, your youthful appearance. Do not think I resent your youth! If you were attired in grey bombazine perhaps you would look more the part. But we are not expecting to engage an Oxford don for children barely out of leading strings. The boy, of course, will go away to school when he reaches the proper age. Caroline will be your charge alone. English, history, geography, natural history, some arithmetic, penmanship, dancing, needlework, and, when she is a little older, French. If you feel you can undertake this much then perhaps we will take you on trial. You may share a room tonight with my lady’s maid.”

  Fanny was so astounded that she forgot—in fact it was a matter of days before she recollected—she hadn’t asked about the wages the Smallridges would pay.

  * * * * * *

  After her brother’s hasty departure from Northamptonshire, Mary Crawford was anxious to visit the Bertrams but she judged it best, given her brother’s indiscretion and the folly of Miss Price, to remain quietly at the parsonage for a few days, and make no calls unless invited to return. Without Edmund’s grey mare at her disposal to ride, she was confined to taking many a turn in the garden beside the house, an exertion that suited the revolutions of her mind. She felt tolerably certain that her brother would acknowledge his duty to marry Maria Bertram in due course, but would Edmund undergo ordination before the tie between the two families became permanent? He had announced his intention to take the step with a friend of his, around Christmas-time, which was just over six weeks away. The thought filled her with something approaching disdain but she could not contrive an alternative, however many times she paced around the shrubbery. She and Edmund had canvassed this point before—he was too old for the Navy, expressed distaste for the law and soldiery, there was no interest to get him a seat in Parliament, but he must have some profession as a second son, as an unjust Providence had ordained that his brother Tom, and not he, was the heir to Mansfield!

  When she thought of Miss Price, Miss Crawford’s uncertainty gave way to resentment and jealousy. She had never heard Miss Price venture an opinion on anything much beyond the weather or the beauties of the shrubbery. To find herself held up by this mere nobody from Portsmouth as actually unworthy of Edmund Bertram—when in fact, any candid observer would have said the opposite—that a second son with no independent fortune was presumptuous to aspire to the hand of an heiress and acknowledged beauty such as she—this was not to be borne. Some remonstrance was called for. Miss Price should be warned, should be reproved, should be corrected, for her own benefit.

  Mary recollected how Fanny tended to agree with anything Edmund said, how her big blue eyes followed him around the room. The two of them were undoubtedly very close. The more Mary thought of it, the more resentful she grew of all the past confidences that Edmund had no doubt shared with his cousin Fanny. How often had they talked of her?

  She was called out of her reverie by a visit from Maria Bertram, who sought her out that morning as the only person who could discuss the anxious topic of Henry Crawford with anything resembling sympathy or approbation.

  As soon as she had reached the age of reason, Maria had taught herself never to wish or expect anything of consolation or advice from her own mother, because Lady Bertram could barely be made to attend to anyone for more than a few moments before her attention wandered, and at best would murmur absent-mindedly, “is it really?,” or “poor dear,” before her thoughts would completely revert to her own cares and idle occupations, an habit which, while not designedly unkind, had the effect of further depressing the spirits of her children who went to her hoping for someone to take a warm interest in their distress.

  Aunt Norris had always praised and flattered her, and for that reason, Maria was as indifferent to her praise as she was to her censure—and for now, Aunt Norris was still angry at her for throwing Rushworth off. Her sister Julia’s vexation had subsided into sullen grief; Julia spent her waking hours at the pianoforte, playing “Dido’s Lament” over and over again. They were not even speaking to one another.

  With no one at home, therefore, to calm her spirits, Maria went to Henry’s sister at the parsonage.

  “Miss Bertram? Or, may I at last call you Maria? How good it is to see you! You are wondering, perhaps, if I have had a letter from my brother. Do not punish this messenger who has no message to deliver!

  “I recollect that you have said your brother is no correspondent, Miss Crawford.”

  “I undertake to write him this very day for you, and to insist upon an early reply—should my letter find him, for he may be at Hill Street with my uncle, or gone fox hunting with Lord Delingpole, or heaven knows where. But wherever he is, I am certain he is thinking of you. And do not forget, you are not the only sufferer in Henry’s absence. My poor brother-in-law has had no excuse to order extra dishes for dinner or drink claret for a week. Spare a thought for Dr. Grant’s trials, in the midst of your distress! Pray, is there any news of Sir Thomas—or of Miss Price?”

  “No, we have heard nothing from either, but we do not expect to have word from father until he is on our doorstep. Once he has reached an English port, he will travel to us more rapidly than the mail coach, I am certain.”

  “And no word from your cousin in Portsmouth? No assurance of her safe arrival?”

  “I think not. It is most unaccountable, is it not? I never would have thought that my cousin Fanny had more daring than either Julia or I. We would never have gone abroad without a chaperone, in such a fashion.”

  “Ah, but surely there is no comparing the Misses Bertram with Miss Price, so far as the expectations of the world are taken into account? She may come or go, and is not noticed by anyone out of the little family circle, whereas, if the two first young ladies of the county were to decamp, we cannot doubt that Dame Rumour and her attendants Envy and Malice would follow in their wake, human nature being what it is. Everyone looks up to the Miss Bertrams for showing the world what female conduct should be, while Miss Price sets the pattern for nobody.”

  “Even so, I had not thought my cousin capable of it.”

  “Perhaps your Aunt Norris is correct that Miss Price is a sly, subtle creature. I always thought she was as she appeared to be—quiet, retiring, even timid, but evidently she harboured secrets. Did she ever confide anything to you of her innermost wishes?”

  Maria looked startled by the question. “Fanny? Confide in me? No, I think not.”

  Miss Crawford flattered and pressed, and suggested that Miss Bertram, with her superior intelligence and penetration, must be in the secret of Fanny Price’s true character and her unspoken longings. But she finally had to conclude, from Maria’s answering entirely by rote—speaking of anxiety for Fanny while showing none, that she was almost entirely indifferent about her cousin, and was not in the least curious about what had driven Fanny to leave Mansfield! Fanny’s heart, Fanny’s woes, were but of little interest, at least in comparison with Maria’s own concerns, which she soon took up again.

  “Mr. Yates has left us, Mary, did you know? So we are all alone. You cannot conceive how lonely and solitary we are, after all the bustle of the play-acting! There are to be no more dinner parties or card parties either, as Edmund and Tom are being so hateful. They say the entire neighbourhood is speculating abou
t me so I should not go abroad, either.” She sighed. “They, of course, may go wherever they please, whenever they please.”

  “And when Mr. Edmund Bertram goes to Peterborough to be ordained, as it apparently pleases him to do so, our little circle will be even smaller! Will you wait until your brother is in orders, so that he can perform the wedding ceremony for you and Henry?”

  “Edmund? No, that would seem odd to me, somehow. Dr. Grant will suffice. Only...”

  “What is the matter, Maria?”

  “As I now recollect, your brother has not asked me to marry him. He said we would be reunited soon, and all sorts of wonderful things, but he did not, in point of fact, ask for my hand.”

  “Oh, pray do not worry. Perhaps he is waiting until he can speak with your father. Henry is quite old-fashioned in some ways, you know.”

  “In no way that I have observed!”

  To turn Maria’s thoughts to a happier train, Miss Crawford began to speak of Everingham, her brother’s estate in Norfolk, and how handsome Henry had made the park and shrubberies all around it, and how it lacked only a mistress to make it all that was elegant and comfortable. Maria took her leave, feeling tolerably reassured, and with a promise to Miss Crawford that she would petition her brother Edmund to allow the use of the little grey mare to ride out if the weather continued fine.

  Miss Crawford then went upstairs and composed a reproachful letter to her brother: Oh Henry, when will you be serious at last? She then, impulsively, pulled out another sheet of letter paper and composed a longer letter to “Dear Miss Price,” directed to the Price home in Portsmouth.

  Chapter Seven

  The journey was accomplished in a little over three days (Mrs. Butters preferring to spend no more than six hours every day on the road), and late in the afternoon, five days after Fanny had left her home, the carriage turned into the drive of Keynsham Hill, the estate of Mr. and Mrs. Smallridge, near Bristol. Three days’ companionship in a closed carriage and at wayside inns had raised Fanny yet higher in the older lady’s esteem. Miss Price was an attentive and courteous listener, faultlessly polite in her ways, tidy and regular in her habits, unobtrusive when Mrs. Butters was dozing in her seat, and conversable when her hostess was inclined to speak. Fanny could well tolerate long periods of silence on the journey, as she had so much to reflect upon, and was passing through country she had never seen, and although nothing could be viewed to its best advantage in the damps of late October, she was sometimes carried out of herself by the contemplation of a fine prospect or a cheerful town, as to make her forget she was now among people who called her “Miss Price” but never “Fanny,” and that every mile drew her further away from all that was familiar and beloved.

  However, when the carriage pulled up in front of the neat and modern home, fronted with fine white columns and large windows, Fanny was nearly overcome with trepidation and remorse. She was as frightened as she had ever been throughout her journey, not excluding the commencement of it, and heartily desired herself back at Mansfield Park, and was even silently formulating her protestations and apologies for having falsely imposed herself upon others as qualified in any respect to be a governess! Her inner struggle to maintain her composure must have shown on her face, or betrayed itself by a trembling hand and a faltering step, as the lady’s maid gave her an encouraging wink and a smile, and the groomsman fetched her portmanteau and gave her a little bow. Upon finding she had not the fortitude to speak out to end the masquerade—indeed, she was at that moment too overcome to speak at all—she uttered a silent prayer, and followed the broad back of Mrs. Butters through the front door and was swept along helplessly to the sitting-room where the mistress of the house awaited her arrival.

  Keynsham Hill was smaller than Mansfield Park, but it was modern-built and all new-furnished and landscaped in the Capability Brown style. Mrs. Smallridge, to whom Fanny was presented, gave the impression of being landscaped in the old style, being so festooned and ornamented and emblazoned with ribbons and bows and silk flowers that she resembled an Elizabethan knot garden more than an Englishwoman of nine or eight-and-twenty. This was perhaps owing to modesty, Fanny surmised, as she was in an interesting condition and the stiff embroidery and embellishments to every part of her dress helped to conceal, or at least distract. She was a handsome woman, if no longer young, with dark eyebrows and eyelashes and the direct gaze of her aunt.

  She welcomed Fanny not unkindly, expressed some dismay at her youthful appearance, and waved her away to be escorted to the nursery to meet her new charges. Fanny escaped, grateful to have avoided an interview, for it seemed Mrs. Butters, having made the choice of Fanny, would do the talking on this occasion. Mrs. Butters had overruled her niece, who desired a governess who could paint, draw, play and sing, but had armed herself with the argument that firstly, the children were too young to study these pursuits seriously, secondly, the lack of these accomplishments meant that Miss Price could not expect to command the salary that their cousins the Bragges were paying to Miss Lee, and thirdly, should little Caroline show promise as an artist or musician, Miss Price could be discharged and a new governess hired. “And, Honoria,” Mrs. Butters pointed out, “These so-called accomplishments are on display only for a season or two and are abandoned by most ladies upon marriage. When did you last sit down to your pianoforte? And can we demonstrate that a gentleman chooses a wife because she can cover a screen or play a cross-hand piece? So much effort and expense for so little proven return. A knowledge of cookery and all the branches of housekeeping will better enable your daughter to become mistress of her own house one day. Of course she will never perform these offices herself, but she will know how they are to be done, and that’s what signifies.”

  “I understand you, ma’am, and am vastly obliged to you for fetching Miss Price to us—but isn’t she rather too young for the responsibility of looking after my children?”

  “In many ways, she has an old head on those young shoulders. She can talk better extempore than I can write, and she is almost amusing when she starts prosing on in her quaint fashion! And, you know, she will do very well when you invite the vicar or any other superfluous gentlemen for dinner. She is very genteel, without appearing above herself.” Privately, the widow added to herself, but she’s as unworldly as a day-old chick, for all that.

  In the nursery, the ceremony of meeting the two children who were to be her charges was less of a trial on Fanny’s nerves. Caroline was six years old, and Edward had just entered his fourth year. There had been another little boy, who, to the grief of his parents, had not survived his second summer, while the cradle in the corner of the nursery testified to the expectation of another little Smallridge.

  Caroline at first showed herself indifferent to the new governess, being absorbed in play with her dolls, and only looked up briefly to regard Miss Price without expression or reply to her greeting, before returning her attention to Polly and Molly. Edward ran and hid behind the nursery maid’s skirts and refused, despite Anna’s coaxing, to come out and say ‘how do you do.’ Fanny was a little disappointed that she was not loved at first sight, but knew enough about children and their ways to let them become accustomed to her presence.

  Madame Orly, Mrs. Butter’s lady’s maid, kindly gave Fanny a tour of the principal rooms of Keynsham Hill. Her new home was built on a low prominence that had received an elevation, in name if not in fact, to a hill. There were several adjoining sitting-rooms and a large dining-room, all done in shades of rose and blue with gilded mirrors. In lieu of ancestral portraits, Daphne and Echo, Venus and Mars, Paris and Helen, clad in the flimsiest of draperies, chased each other across wooded groves. There was a small study, and a billiards room, and an imposing formal entrance hall and staircase that led to an open hallway above. This, with the offices at the rear of the house, comprised the ground floor.

  Fanny was struck by the fact that there was no library, nor any substantial bookcases in the study. The idea that some families did not consid
er books to be as essential a furnishing in the home as chairs or knives had never occurred to her. In every home she had entered—the parsonage, even the White house, and of course in Mansfield Park, books were to be found on every side table and mantelpiece. Her uncle maintained a substantial library. At Keynsham Hill Fanny noted only a family bible, a Pilgrim’s Progress, and a decayed old volume of The Spectator. The absence of books, to Fanny’s eye, made the house feel half-empty and cold, as though the occupants were merely temporary dwellers. She enquired, and learned that Mr. Smallridge took the local newspapers, Mrs. Smallridge studied the fashion plates, but neither were in the habit of reading for pleasure or improvement. This information had the effect of rendering her employers less intimidating in the young governess’s mind, for her respect and admiration were all for the well-informed and the educated, such as her uncle and her cousin Edmund.

  Fanny’s new domain on the second floor comprised the schoolroom, the nursery, and her own little bed-sitting-room, adjoining them both. This room, with its little fireplace and a window overlooking the park, was in fact superior to her bedroom in Mansfield Park. She had a narrow bed, a rug, a wardrobe, two chairs and a little table that also served as her writing-desk.

  Fanny had tormented herself with many fears upon entering into the Smallridge’s employ, not the least of which was her trepidation concerning the children—would they obey her, and would she win their affection and her employers’ approbation? She had, as is so often the case in human affairs, and most particularly in the case of inexperienced, timid eighteen-year-old females, worried to no purpose. Fanny first recommended herself to the children by offering to tell them a bed-time story that evening. Recalling the little tales she used to tell her younger sisters in the cramped bedroom they all shared in Portsmouth, Fanny spun a tale of a little fairy family that lived at the bottom of their garden, who used foxglove flowers for cups and toadstools for tables, and so entranced were the children that they extracted a promise from Fanny to go and search for the fairies when the warm weather came.