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

by Lona Manning

  “You won’t tell anyone I told you, will you!” The tear-filled eyes flashed their alarm.

  Edmund reassured her and walked with her while she dabbed at her eyes and then blew her nose. It is not an easy thing, he thought, to be in love with someone when there is no hope of a return. But whether or not Margaret Fraser has acted out of motives of revenge, I believe her.

  * * * * * *

  Fanny had lost count of the days and nights, but it was later reckoned as the sixth day, when Caroline’s fever at last subsided, and she began to cry to be loosed from her restraints—for, the children had been wrapped firmly in torn bedsheets so that they might not scratch themselves, and Anna said that her old Scottish granny had always used an oatmeal poultice for soothing the skin, and the satisfaction of being able to do something for the children which brought them present relief, and the joy of seeing them return slowly to their rational selves, called forth more prayers of thanks from their grateful governess.

  The children were sleeping a sweet peaceful slumber, and the crisis was passed, when Fanny allowed herself to leave their bedsides and go for a walk outside, singing silent hosannas as she breathed the fresh air of the park. The green lawn, bathed in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun, had never looked lovelier. It was good to be alive, it was wonderful that Caroline would live to see more sunrises and sunsets, and perhaps grow up and fall in love and marry…

  Fanny thought, unaccountably, of placid Lady Bertram, who seemed untouched by any knowledge of true calamity or sorrow. Life, love, marriage, childbirth, childhood, all had their risks. Had Lady Bertram been afraid when brought to her childbed four times? She was blessed with four handsome adult children—had she ever knelt in anguish over a sickbed? There was hardly a family in England that did not know the misery of losing a child, or a mother dying in childbed; there were children left orphaned, like her friend Mr. Gibson, who had been brought up by a puritanical uncle. And yet, for all its risks and sorrows, life was a miracle, it was glorious just to be alive at that moment, to smell the grass beneath her feet and hear the raucous cry of the peacocks in the garden.

  At moments like this, when she was carried away by the sublimity of nature, she thought of Edmund. He was with her every time she arose to a particularly beautiful sunrise, she could hear his voice when she re-read a poem he had taught her, she could see his smile when she recalled a private joke they had shared, every time she hummed a piece of music they had both admired, she felt every tender sensation of her love for him. Now, she thought, she must find a way to distill the pleasure from these memories, and try to leave the pain behind. From the time she left Mansfield, she had nurtured her thoughts of Edmund, as though any diminution of her sorrow concerning him must be a type of disloyalty, but here she was, walking through the shrubbery, alone with her thoughts, consciously happy, consciously at peace, and Edmund was still lost to her forever. If she could survive her broken heart, perhaps some future happiness awaited her.

  * * * * * *

  Henry Crawford was feeling sorry for himself. Why were the pleasures of the flesh so all-consuming and yet so fleeting? Why did he have to expend so much of his time to obtain them, through weeks and even months of patient gallantry, and, having finally achieved his desire, did boredom and disillusionment replace ardour and passion so swiftly? His once-enchanting Maria now seemed to him to be a common trull, no better than one of the blowzy little actresses he picked up at the theatres, and with the devil of a temper.

  He had done his best to keep his distance from the silly girl, his supposed betrothed, at no small inconvenience and exertion neither—he denied himself the pleasures of several receptions and gatherings, upon receiving the intelligence that she would also be there, and on several occasions he watched for her and Mrs. Norris to set out on their morning visits, before dashing to their front door and leaving his card with the butler. He contrived to always be where she was not, and to not be where she was, but had still succumbed to his weakness when it came to entertaining her privately in his hotel room.

  She had insisted on coming to see him today—only a few days having passed since their last rencountre—because with her brother Edmund’s return to the city, another pair of eyes would be watching her comings and goings. She found Henry distracted and distant, to which she responded with pride and resentment, and the worst of their tempers were soon on display to each other.

  “I must leave London for a time, my Maria. When I return, we can talk some more.”

  Henry pushed her back into the bed, pinned down her shoulders and began nibbling on her neck, working down to those delicious breasts. He was tired of Maria, but he would miss those breasts.

  “Henry, how long will you be away? Let us set a date for our wedding before you go—ow! Not so roughly!”

  Henry released one fat pink nipple and replied, “Set a date? We are a long way from being able to set a date, don’t you think?”

  “What do you mean?”

  L-rd, the woman was aggravating! Deciding to eschew further preliminaries, Henry pushed her legs apart with his knee and entered her without ceremony.

  “Well, firstly—there is the question of your—wedding settlement—from your good father—for rumour has it—about town, I am—sorry to say—that Sir Thomas is—somewhat embarrassed at—the present and—may find it difficult to—come down with—all of your—dowry.

  “Secondly, and—by no means of lesser import—is that Sir Thomas does—not smile upon me—and I scorn to—join in an alliance—with a household that—does not welcome me—with the due consideration—that any self-respecting—gentleman would expect.

  “So—on both—these points—the remedies — are—in your—hands—rather—than—mine—and—I—shall—not—trouble—myself—any –further—to—give—my—good—name—to—a—little—slut—who—has—ahhhhhhhh! Sorry, m’dear.”

  Maria sat up and pushed him away, her eyes blazing.

  “You dare call me a slut!” She slapped him hard, across the face.

  His eyes narrowed, he rubbed his cheek. “You shall regret that, Miss Bertram.” He paused, sorely tempted to teach her a lesson right there and then. But, as he reminded himself, la vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid.

  * * * * * *

  “Good day. Is Miss Bertram within?”

  Mary heard Edmund’s voice in the hallway, talking to the butler, and she dropped her newspaper and jumped from her seat.

  He had come to Mrs. Fraser’s house looking for his sister—nothing could be more natural, except of course, she was not there—the butler opened the door and presented “Mr. Bertram.” Mary gave him her most dazzling smile and went to meet him.

  “Mr. Bertram. What a pleasant, pleasant surprise. Welcome back to London.”

  “Miss Crawford.” He took her hand and held it for a moment. She looked up at him—she loved to look up at him—his person, his height, his air, were all excellent, and she felt a tingle which had nothing to do with the alarm which was making her heart beat faster. How to explain Maria’s absence?

  “Well, Miss Crawford, and how did you and Mrs. Fraser enjoy the concert last week?” he smiled.

  “Oh, very well, I suppose. The crowd was insupportable, but we secured tolerably good seats.”

  The friendly light died from his eyes.

  “Miss Crawford, I must explain the reason for my lack of ceremony. My aunt tells me that Maria has been a frequent guest here at Mrs. Fraser’s, and that upon Maria’s return to our London home, she describes the suppers she has eaten here, the games of cards she has played, the parks and the concerts she has visited and so forth, with Mrs. Fraser and you and her other guests. But…” he released her hand and walked over to gaze out the window, though he saw nothing of what passed outside. “Miss Crawford, I have heard from a source I do not doubt that Mrs. Fraser has been away from London these past two weeks. I shall be perfectly candid with you—can you, without giving me the pain of enumerating them, understand the
doubts, the fears, and the suspicions which now prey upon my mind?”

  “Oh, surely, Mr. Bertram, there must be an explanation.”

  “Do you mean, an innocent explanation? Please give me one, I beseech you. I know that Maria has been telling us falsehoods. Who else is a part of her confederacy? That Mrs. Fraser is such a one, I have little doubt. But it wrings my heart to have to ask myself—Mary—”

  She gasped, for it was the first time he had called her by her Christian name.

  “Mary, tell me truthfully, have you lied to me?” Words failed him, and he looked at her in anguish.

  Mary hesitated. Should she show resentment at the question, or should she appear wounded? She decided on a show of anger at first. It was a point of pride with her that she did not resort to tears as often as did most other women, and she felt it to be good policy also, as to cry too frequently inevitably led to disgust and weariness, at least so far as she had observed with her friends and their lovers and husbands.

  “Mr. Bertram—you are insinuating something so improper—so indecorous—that I can hardly comprehend—words cannot express….” Mary clasped her hands together and walked about the room, feeling his eyes follow her. “I say again, there must be some explanation. Pray, let us wait for an explanation from Maria before making vile accusations. I had not thought you capable of it.”

  “Miss Crawford,” he said gently. “Did you, or did you not, go to a concert last Tuesday afternoon with my sister and Mrs. Fraser? Was she not to have been your chaperone?”

  “I? I—who can recall?” She laughed lightly. “When I am not in your company, I hardly care where I am or who I am with.”

  “I believed you did,” he continued, in the same gentle but remorseless tone, “because, as you may recall, you told me of the concert before I went away, and that you and Maria were to attend.”

  “Ah yes! Yes, I do recall now,” Miss Crawford’s reply was rapid. “Now I understand you. Due to the crush of people, we were compelled to sit apart, I a few rows ahead of Maria, so I could not observe her. I looked for her during the interval, but did not find her. We were reunited after the concert.”

  “But did you not also say that Mrs. Fraser attended with you?”

  “I don’t recall.” Was it time to weep yet? Mary asked herself. No, wait a moment.

  “Not recall? I asked you if Mrs. Fraser enjoyed the concert not two minutes ago.”

  Mary was silenced for a moment, trying to remember exactly what she had said. She thought she had only said ‘we’, and had not mentioned Mrs. Fraser by name in her reply, but was she certain? Not waiting for her reply, Edmund pressed his point:

  “Mary, are you in league with your brother to arrange secret assignations with my sister? Have you conspired to help your brother seduce her? Can your morals possibly be so corrupted?” Edmund looked at her as though he might well cry himself.

  Now was the time! Tears welled up in her dark eyes, one perfect tear slowly traced down one cheek. To her relief, she saw Edmund visibly waver.

  “That you could even begin to suspect me—that you could give voice to such foul insinuations—oh, Edmund, my heart is broken.”

  But what to say next?

  “Yes” —the chin wobbled, the voice wavered— “I did withhold some information from you—but it was not my brother, it was Maria—Maria who asked me to say that I was at a concert with her. Out of friendship and love for her, I did not question where she went! I should never in a thousand years have suspected that Maria would behave so foolishly! If I had, I do assure you...but must we assume the worst? Perhaps they enjoyed being together, simply talking together, without the constant chaperonage of Mrs. Norris—pardon me, but to be alone with the one you love, is delightful above all things, to confide in him who holds your heart—”

  He looked at her, aghast. “Now I know that you can look me in the face, Miss Crawford, and tell me falsehoods. It is impossible for me to unlearn this knowledge.” He looked as though he wanted to say more, a great deal more, but he turned, and slowly made his way to the door.

  Both resentment and tears had failed her. I will stake my last like a woman of spirit, she thought. No cold prudence for me. I am not born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be from not striving for it.

  “Edmund,” she pleaded, running after him and placing her hand confidingly in his. “Edmund, I must tell you something, I must breach the bounds of decorum and speak to you from my heart. If you asked me—if you had asked me to meet you in secret, I would deceive Mrs. Fraser, my friends, my brother, anyone, to be with you. I could not resist you. There. I have told you the truth. I love you. I love you. Will you judge me, and Maria, so very harshly, or will you understand that we are young and in love and we cannot help ourselves? Are you so cold?”

  She stood on her tiptoes, placing her hands on his chest, imploring. He closed his eyes in pain, and gently but firmly grabbed both of her upper arms, and she feared he was going to set her aside and walk out the door. She brushed her lips against his cheek, trailing to his ear. “And they are engaged to be married, Edmund—oh, Edmund, ‘tis better to marry than to burn,’” she murmured. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer—she felt his entire body stiffen for an instant, then—thank heavens! —he yielded. His eyes were full of pain as he stroked her face with one finger, then traced the swell of her lower lip, his arm was like an iron bar around her waist, her eyes implored him, his lips descended on hers, her breath caught in her throat, and she gave herself up to his kiss. After a delicious moment, he broke away.

  “Mary!” He cried hoarsely, grasping her face between his hands, raining kisses on her hair, her eyelids, her forehead, her cheek, her lips. “I am burning. I love you so, I love you utterly, I will love you until my last breath. But—”

  “If you love me, you must forgive me, Edmund! Forgive me!” He tasted the salt tears on her soft lips. She was nearly fainting in his arms. “Edmund, I would do anything for you. You make me want to be a better person, I need you to help me. I love you, my love for you has made me reckless, shameless. Please, Edmund, please help me.”

  He embraced her tightly but briefly, then cupped her face again in both of his hands, tipping her lovely face upwards so that her eyes met his. The pent-up feelings poured out of him, all the things he had longed to say, “Mary, if you love me, you must understand I cannot abandon my profession, or transform myself into what you desire. If you want London, fashion, wealth—I cannot give you that life. Please, Mary, please say you will be content with such a life as I can offer you? I swear to you that I will not claim one shilling of your fortune—it will be yours to spend on what you wish, to go where you wish, to do as you wish—my love, my Mary, so long as you come home to me. More I cannot offer you. Please, Mary—no, no, do not speak, not yet, let me kiss you again, my love! I cannot give you up! I will not!”

  Now the sparkling tears in her eyes were in earnest.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A few days after their fevers had broken, the Smallridge children were permitted to sit up in bed and have their warm milk and bread, and Fanny was quickly stitching up more night caps for Caroline's little bare head, when she became aware of feeling oppressively hot. She had been more than a week with only scattered sleep, had only paused to wash her face and drink a cup of tea before returning to the children’s bedside, and so it was no surprise that the rocking chair she sat in seemed to be rocking of its own accord and the nursery started to spin. She tried to stand up but a swirling darkness overtook her, and her next distinct sensation was of waking in her own narrow bed, with the housekeeper peering down at her anxiously, and asking the physician, “Will she live, Mr. Forrest?”

  Over her feeble moans of protest, Mr. Forrest exposed her arm and stuck her with his lancet, to release a dark stream of blood into a basin. “We will do everything for her that we can, Mrs. Campbell. My course of treatment has cured the children completely, as you can see, so we can hope
for no less with Miss Price. I did not prescribe emetics for the children, on account of their youth, but Miss Price ought to be purged twice a day. I will return tomorrow to bleed her some more and in the meantime, keep her away from drafts –on no account open the window.”

  The next few days were a nightmare. Foul tasting medicine was forced down her already sore and inflamed throat, despite her tears and protests, which caused her to vomit again and again, when she had nothing to bring up. She had never experienced such dread as she felt when wave after wave of dry heaving wracked her exhausted frame. She was kept in sweltering heat and tightly wrapped from neck to foot, and the doctor drained several basins of blood from her. He had no difficulty locating the blue veins on those thin arms! The nursery maids began to mutter about keeping Mr. Forrest locked out of the room, but Fanny could not hear them; she was in a delirium, sometimes calling for Mrs. Butters, sometimes for ‘cousin.’ Her hair was cut very short, but not shaved, and she lost a good deal of what little flesh she had, so that the nursemaids could count the ribs on her narrow chest when they changed her wrappings. Sleep brought her no peace, for she dreamt of Aunt Norris, who told her she must sew enough green baize curtains to wrap around Mansfield Park, and have it done by nightfall, or she would be a most ungrateful girl. Fanny’s wasted frame shook with rage—she screamed back at her aunt, screaming out years of deeply buried anger and resentment, but no sound came out of her mouth. Aunt Norris just continued to sit and to sew and to ignore her.

  Fanny came to herself long enough to hear someone say, “Does she have any family? Shall she be buried here, then?” and the thought occurred to her it didn’t really matter where she was buried, so long as she caused as little trouble as possible.

  * * * * * *

  Edmund alternated between being in a happy daze, as regards his own engagement to a woman of uncertain candour, and dire disapproval for his sister Maria’s proven deceit. He forbad Maria to leave the house without Mrs. Norris or himself—she was never to cross the threshold of Mrs. Fraser’s door, and she could only see Mr. Crawford if he came to visit them, in the parlour, with a chaperone. Maria chafed and raged, but had to submit. She mostly kept to her room, and saw as few morning visitors as possible. With every passing day, she grew more fretful.