by Lona Manning
Sir Thomas, owing to his years in parliament, had a goodly acquaintance in the City. He made his round of visits, left his cards, and established invitations for his family wherever he could. He did not need frequent reminders from his daughters to obtain tickets to Almack’s Assembly Rooms. And with rather more difficulty, because the time was so short, he got his daughters on the list for presentation at St. James’s Court. It was only fitting that the daughters of a baronet make their curtsey to Queen Charlotte.
Maria cherished the idea that the day of her presentation at Court would be the ideal day to publicly announce her understanding with Henry Crawford. It would be coming only twelve weeks after she had dissolved her engagement with Mr. Rushworth. She made it clear to Mary Crawford that she expected Henry to attend at St. James’s on the important day.
But there were many other diversions around London to enchant the Bertram sisters—shopping along the Strand, viewing the Panoramas, walking in Hyde Park, riding on Rotten Row, attending the theatre and the concerts, and drawing the attention of new admirers, so Maria was by no means always pining for Henry. The business of shopping and dressing, of going out visiting and receiving at home, occupied her most agreeably.
* * * * * *
Fanny regarded the New Year as an occasion for self-improvement, and had determined within herself to profitably use any spare time that fell to her, so in addition to practicing her scales on the pianoforte alongside little Caroline, she studied dressmaking, a pursuit that finally gave her a topic of common interest with Mrs. Smallridge, who, as a linen-draper’s daughter, was very knowledgeable about fabrics. Before she left Keynsham Hill, Mrs. Butters had highly praised the two new dresses Fanny had made for herself but had been exasperated when Fanny blushed and demurred, saying to her, “You must be prepared to accept the truth, Miss Price, and that is, you have a talent, my word, indeed you do!” and then fell to seriously commending her skill as a seamstress—how well her new garments fit and moved and the simplicity and elegance of her design. Out of habit, Fanny’s heart fluttered, she grew nervous, and she almost looked over her shoulder to see if Aunt Norris was standing there.
Fanny realized that she had acquired the habit of panicking when she was singled out for praise because she would invariably receive a corrective, administered by Aunt Norris, which depressed her spirits further than the compliment had ever elevated it. To draw notice at Mansfield Park was to expose herself to her Aunt Norris’ resentment and scorn. But here at Keynsham Hill, where, if she had few friends, she had at least no enemies, she need not be so afraid of being distinguished or receiving compliments and praise. This realization materially lessened her fears, and she schooled herself to receive compliments quietly and calmly, without flurries of panic and denial.
Mrs. Butters had been a valuable teacher indeed! And with her departure, Fanny keenly felt the absence of a sympathetic person with whom she could converse unreservedly on larger topics, as the Smallridges never thought or spoke of anything but their own doings and those of their neighbours.
She secretly amused herself by encouraging the habit of daily reading for them both. She had first stimulated Mrs. Smallridge’s interest in novels by reading aloud to her in the evening, from The Ruins of Rigonda, which Mrs. Butters had given to her for Christmas. She set the volume down and was gratified to see Mrs. Smallridge pick it up and finish reading the story herself. She followed that experiment with reading aloud from books describing travels to Scotland and Europe, and she also had the happy thought of sometimes asking Mr. Smallridge for his opinion of current events, so that he was compelled, out of vanity at being thus applied to for his wisdom, to pick up the newspaper to inform himself of the matter in question.
One evening, when Fanny was not in the parlour and Mr. Smallridge actually happened to be reading the newspaper, he saw a small item amongst the Notices.
“Honoria! Where is Miss Price from? What country?”
“She is from Portsmouth, my dear. She has one or two brothers at sea, I think. Why do you enquire?”
“There is a notice here in the paper for a ‘Miss F.P.’ It reads, “The friends of Miss F.P., formerly of Northamptonshire, would be greatly obliged if she would contact them by post, signed ‘E.B.’”
“Ah. That could not refer to our Miss Price, then.”
* * * * * *
Henry Crawford finally returned to London, after repeated urgings from his sister, and from that time forward the Bertram sisters sought separate amusements. It was Maria’s first object to go where Henry went, as it was Julia’s desire to avoid him whenever possible. It fell out somehow, without any conscious discussion, that Mrs. Norris was Maria’s chaperone, and Edmund was Julia’s. Maria was the acknowledged favourite of her aunt and further, when Mrs. Norris felt herself to be too occupied with looking after the house or visiting some of her own acquaintance, Maria could safely be entrusted to Mrs. Fraser, the friend and protectress of Mary Crawford. Maria had only to mention that Mrs. Fraser had invited her to do such-and-such, and her aunt would happily give her consent—the grandeur of the Frasers, their wealth and consequence, and the connection with the Crawfords, were the only recommendation Mrs. Norris required to suppose that Mrs. Fraser was an appropriate chaperone for a young lady.
Although Henry Crawford was not eager to marry Maria Bertram, he was exceedingly eager to find some means of being alone with her again, a fact which surprised him, because in his experience the pleasure to be derived from arranging a secret assignation with a young lady from a good family did not repay the time and trouble it took to bring about. One had to first overcome their reluctance, of course, and that was pleasurable in itself, but then one had to get the girl away from duennas, mothers, jealous sisters, and trickiest of all, prying servants. And in the end, married ladies, such as Mary’s friend Lady Stornaway, were to be preferred, being both more experienced and discreet.
That Henry Crawford worked diligently to obtain his pleasures, none could deny. He had first come to Mansfield last July and had stayed on with his half-sister and her husband in the parsonage far into late October, save for a fortnight at his estate during the hunting season, during which time his chief occupation had been to assiduously court and charm both of the Bertram girls; by turns flattering one and rousing the jealousy of the other, then turning to placate the jealous one; so that by September he had both of them in love with him. To seduce both at the same time would have been an unparalleled triumph, but his hand had been forced during the casting of the play Lovers' Vows, when both sisters expected to be chosen for the part of Agatha, and he had favoured Maria. Blessed by nature with an optimistic temperament, he did not entirely despair of serving Julia in her turn, for so long as she showed resentment she was not indifferent to him. But he had always preferred Maria, and the delicious amusement of making love to her in front of the stupid fellow she was engaged to marry happily occupied the month of October.
But for all of his efforts, and the long weeks invested at Mansfield Park, and the slow patient progress from gallantry, to insinuation, to long, intense looks full of meaning (and he believed that no man was his equal in this art), to stolen kisses, to quick grapples in the shrubbery or behind the draperies, he had had only three opportunities to be alone with Maria Bertram. At Sotherton, the estate of the unlucky Mr. Rushworth, he and Maria had slipped away into the park, and matters were in a fair train until they had spotted Julia in hot pursuit of them; after the rehearsal of Lovers' Vows, he had given in to temptation, only to be interrupted once again by Julia, who almost brought disaster on them all, and finally on the day he met Sir Thomas, his daring was rewarded with a brief and delicious encounter in the breakfast-room. Maria was ripe and willing, he was hungry for more, and it was deuced difficult to stay away from her, even though he was threatened with matrimony.
Being Henry, he hit upon a solution, and with the cheerful connivance of his sister, put his scheme into action. He took a room at one of London’s most elegant host
elries. Mary, in Mrs. Fraser’s name, sent Miss Bertram an invitation for a weekend visit. Mrs. Norris escorted her to Mrs. Fraser’s door, then bid her a complacent farewell. Then Mary summoned a sedan chair to carry Maria to her rendezvous with Henry.
They embraced, he removed her cloak and heavy veil, she started to speak, and he silenced her with a kiss.
“No, no. Don’t speak my love, my angel,” he whispered fiercely, pushing down her sleeves to bare her lovely shoulders. “I am dying for you. I must possess you, now. Don’t deny me.”
And this is where he finally reaped the reward of his patient effort—the conquest of Maria Bertram was not simply the work of the present hour, or a day, or a week. Maria had been thoroughly seduced, and his to command, for weeks before.
Later, when Henry was drowsily calculating how much time would elapse before he would be able to start the dance again—very little time indeed, in fact—his partner raised herself up on one elbow and, brushing her hair back from her face, whispered softly,
“Henry, Henry, when shall we be married?”
“Married, madam?” Henry answered without opening his eyes. “What, are you proposing marriage to me? Can you so forget the modesty of your sex?”
“Don’t tease me, my love—we have been engaged these three months.”
“I never read anything about it in the papers. Are you sure?”
“But Henry, you cannot mean, we are not engaged? Did you not vow that you loved me?”
“‘Lovers' vows’? Where have I heard that before? I may have said something of that kind, but my dear,” Henry yawned and stretched, “in my defense, how could any man keep his head when in your company?”
He opened one eye and watched, amused, as the colour drained from her face and she scrambled out of bed, wrapping the bedsheet around her.
“Henry! I gave myself to you. You must make me your wife. What is to become of me?”
“My dear, if you had not spent your life mewed up in your father’s house, then you would know the words of that French fellow are true— ‘hypocrisy is the homage that vice pays to virtue.’ Did you honestly believe that healthy young people in the prime of life, in the pride of their beauty, wait until marriage to sample the delights that you and I have known?” Henry was on his feet now too, and deftly sliding his shirt over his head.
Many gentlewomen would have fainted at this point, but Maria Bertram had more spirit, which he rather admired. He had to grab her wrists to keep her from clawing at his face and her strength surprised him.
“My g-d, Henry! By heaven, how could you do this to me! As g-d is my witness, I would never have lain with you if you—if you –”
“Well, not to quibble over a trifling point, my love, but I never offered you marriage. As for the rest, d’you not expect me to take what you so freely offered to me?”
Another attempt to scratch his eyes out and Henry changed his tactics slightly. He was feeling generous. He had enjoyed her thoroughly, wished to enjoy her some more, and perhaps, possibly, she would be the woman he would marry, and he supposed that he would marry, one day. He knew of no one he would prefer to marry, that he could recall.
“My dear Maria, calm yourself. I did not say that I would not marry you, only that I had not yet proposed to you—but how can a man go down on his knees when he is in danger of being blinded or scarred for life?”
That was better. He might regret his impulsive actions on some future day, but for now he reveled in his power over her—the proud, the elegant Maria Bertram, naked and weeping before him, begging him for a word of comfort…. he embraced her and gently led her back to bed to pass a delightful afternoon.
* * * * * *
Edmund’s hopes of feeling secure enough in Mary Crawford’s affection to ask for her hand had received a material setback since they had both taken up residence in London. He had first made her acquaintance in the country, with few other admirers to contend with, but now she was returned to her native element, like a gaudy tropical bird returned to the wild jungle, surrounded by swarms of loud and assertive young men and women, all rapidly firing their merciless wit upon any of their acquaintance as chanced to be absent. His quiet, droll asides, which used to amuse her so greatly when they walked or rode out on horseback, went unheard in the crowded drawing-rooms of London.
He was more admired by the other young ladies at these gatherings than he was perhaps aware of, for though he did not put himself forward, his height, air, and handsome countenance drew many eyes, and had he been an heir, and not merely a second son, he would have won yet more attention. But his eyes were all and only for Mary.
For her part, Mary was woman enough to want to show Edmund how admired she was, but not so much of a coquette as to wish to dishearten him entirely. She wanted him to be as seduced by her world, as he had been seduced by her, so that she might lure him away from his resolution of becoming a clergyman. But nothing availed to alter his determination on that head.
Mary asked Henry to invite Edmund to dine with their uncle, the Admiral, in the hopes of strengthening the ties between the two families, and speeding the day when Mary Crawford became Mary Bertram and Maria Bertram became Maria Crawford.
Mary and Henry, orphans from an early age, had been raised by this uncle and his late wife. The aunt had been almost a second mother to Mary, and her unhappiness in married life with the Admiral had rendered Mary more cynical than most young women concerning matrimony, declaring it to be ‘of all transactions, the one in which people expect most from others, and are least honest themselves.’
Mary had left the Admiral’s roof and gone to live with her half-sister, Mrs. Grant, when, after the death of his wife, the Admiral began living openly with his mistress. However, her brother Henry continued on very good terms with his uncle, who in turn loved him better than anyone.
On the appointed day, therefore, Edmund Bertram was presented at Hill Street by a jovial Henry Crawford. It was to be a bachelor’s dinner—the admiral’s mistress did not descend from her private apartments to be introduced and Edmund of course did not enquire.
Admiral Crawford was a shrewd, bluff man of five-and fifty with a booming voice and a choleric colour that suggested a fierce temperament. He provided, as Henry had promised, an excellent dinner with very good wine, but the coarse expressions of the host caused no little discomfort for the honoured guest.
The Admiral was also in perpetual peril of losing his false teeth, especially when expressing himself with vigor. The Admiral cursed them volubly, complaining they were very ill-fitting, although the teeth themselves were those of healthy young men from the battlefields of Europe. His misfortunes in no way diminished his devotion to his dinner, and as a dining companion, Edmund reflected, he must have disgusted his elegant niece.
Henry Crawford was obviously amused and entertained by his uncle, and the affection between the two was evident. “This rascal nephew of mine has two dangerous hobbies—women and horses. Dangerous and expensive, aye. Did you know he has taken up coach driving—here is a gentleman, born and bred, who, for his own amusement, dresses up as a common coachman and flies about the countryside on top of his barouche, four reins in hand. We Crawfords are never happier than when risking our necks!”
“Nonsense, uncle, I can always control my team.”
“Are we speaking of the ladies or the horses, now boy?” the Admiral laughed and poured Edmund some more wine. “And the flattery he pours into their ears! Nonsense, I say. A needless waste of breath. Speaking now of the ladies, that is. Once a woman sees what we Crawfords have stored in our breeches, no further badinage is necessary. The virgins are near to fainting and the married ladies’ eyes light up, don’t they, boy? The lad is a true Crawford in that regard.” Edmund could hardly gainsay the remark, as the Admiral then casually stood up, unbuttoned himself and, turning to a nearby cupboard, opened a door and pissed in a chamber pot, affording Edmund a view of the organ in question. “The peacekeeper, I used to call it, when your old aun
t was alive. At sea they used to call me ‘Long Nine Crawford.’ If you know what that refers to, Bertram. No short-barreled carronade for the late Mrs. Crawford. Well, here’s to her memory.” And the glasses were topped up again.
“They say old Boney can’t come up to the mark with the ladies—his cock, they say, is the size of my little finger. Poor Madame Josephine, hey? But they say she finds consolation elsewhere.”
Remembering the occasional indelicate remarks that his beloved Mary had made in the past, including a vulgar pun about rear and vice Admirals, Edmund could now only wonder that her manners were so very excellent as they were, after having spent much of her girlhood with such a guardian, and he recollected as well an occasion when both he and Fanny thought Mary had spoken disrespectfully of her uncle—he wished he could tell Fanny that he now acquitted Mary entirely—Mary was in fact a marvel of self-restraint so far as speaking the truth about her uncle was concerned.
“But hey, I recollect,” cried the Admiral, breaking in on his guest’s reverie, “Bertram, you are to turn clergyman. Will you not reconsider? Can’t you turn your hand to some honest work—become a highwayman, for example, or a grave robber?”
Edmund smiled weakly but said nothing and Henry Crawford thanked his lucky stars that at least his friend had the good sense not to start prosing away about the virtues of the clerical life, as he had heard him do with poor Mary.