by Lona Manning
Mrs. Crawford sends you her love and begs you to accept this small watercolour portrait in token of her affection and gratitude. The full-size version will hang over the fireplace in the main sitting-room at Everingham.
So, having located your niece, as I pledged to do, may I reiterate it was an honour to render this service to your family, whose warm friendship I will forever hold in the highest esteem. If I may ever be of assistance again, I am, of course,
Your humble servant, Henry Crawford
(When Henry had composed this letter, his sister had exclaimed, “Must you take your little fling at Maria, Henry! Is it not enough to throw her over! I fear that none of the Bertrams will ever speak with me again!”)
Before Sir Thomas could send someone to gently break the news to her, poor Maria, sitting down to breakfast, had the misfortune of seeing a small notice which Henry had caused to be placed in the papers on his last day in London: Lately, Mr. Henry Crawford, Esq., of Everingham, Norfolk, to Miss Price, niece to Sir Thomas Bertram, Bart., of Mansfield Park, Northamptonshire.
Her eyes swam with tears, her heart threatened to burst out of her chest, she felt she was choking to death, but, she did not doubt the truth of what she read. Only Henry himself would have published such a notice—it must be so.
* * * * * *
William Price attempted in vain to assemble his features into what he supposed was the appropriate and serious mien for a lieutenant. He could not entirely keep a smile from his lips as he showed himself in the dockyard for the first time in his new uniform, nor could he forebear contemplating the appearance he would make at the Assembly dance later that week. He thought as well of Lucy Gregory and her sisters, who had snubbed him at the last Assembly, when he was still a midshipman. Fortunately, implacable resentment formed no part of his character, especially not when Lucy Gregory had grown up into such a fine pretty young lady, with such jolly dimples and blonde curls, and he was picturing himself whirling her about in a country dance, when suddenly he heard his name being called by the Agincourt’s purser. He fairly flew, weaving his way around barrels and bales being loaded and unloaded, and under ropes pulled by straining men, but resisted the urge to leap over coiled rolls of rope as being incompatible with his new dignity as a lieutenant, and finally finding Captain Henderson speaking to his first lieutenant, he stood at attention, waiting for the Captain’s eyes to fall on him. The pair were discussing something with great animation, and William could make out the words “new orders” and “west coast,” but he kept a respectful distance, until, the Captain finally noticing him, he was summoned to step forward.
“Mr. Price, I am leaving Lieutenant Bayly here in charge. You shall accompany me to the Admiralty on behalf of your new captain.”
“Yes, sir.”
London! William exclaimed to himself. The Admiralty! When he had been in London with Mr. Crawford, he had been driven past the Admiralty, Mr. Crawford had pointed it out to him—now he was to step inside, perhaps actually set eyes upon the First Lord…. And then… possibly he would be permitted to visit his younger brother John, or perhaps Fanny was still in the city. Given leave to go home and prepare for the journey, his thoughts alternated between pride and dismay, picturing himself calling on his grand Bertram cousins in his uniform, and wondering if his mother had washed and mended his linen.
His announcement threw the household into more than usual heights of alarm and disorder, and Susan was urged to find dear William’s shirt and mend it, and perhaps it could be washed and then dried before the fire, and his mother thought that her sister Bertram had mentioned exactly where her family were staying in London in her last letter, at which Betsey looked conscious and turned and ran upstairs, and William followed her, to find her hiding inside a small packing box in the attic which she had fitted up with an old blanket, a dish, a cup, half of the household’s teaspoons and, unaccountably, old newspapers, handbills and—what were these? Letters?
He reached out for them, and narrowly avoided Betsey’s teeth clamping down on his hand.
“Shan’t!” she exclaimed. “The beautiful lady is going to give me a shilling for them!”
“Betsey, give me those letters, there’s a good girl.”
“Shan’t!”
“Will you give me one letter for this big shiny penny?”
Since Betsey did not know the value of coins, only that they were coins, she happily assented, and handed him a letter from the top of the pile, which proved to be Lady Bertram’s. In his haste to prepare for his trip to London, William did not stay to examine the others, but went back downstairs to help Susan find the scissors.
“Mother, I know why we can’t find any paper to use in the necessary—Betsey has it all in the attic,” he reported, as he and Susan turned the workbasket upside down and pawed through its contents. Another thought struck him; “By the by, do the Bertrams know about Fan’s marriage?”
“Why, not from me, I’m sure. I’ve had no time to write a letter this week, but I should think it’s for Fanny herself to tell them.”
“Susan, you have my leave to go over the railing, as Fan did,” laughed Mr. Price, “so long as you come home with a rich husband like your sister. By g-d, William, my boy, we will see if you are as skillful at catching prizes as your sister, hey?”
Susan muttered under her breath that she would love nothing so much as to run away from home, rich husband or no.
* * * * * *
For four full days, Maria had refused to leave her room, and could barely be persuaded to take anything more than a little tea and some brandy. She wailed aloud if anyone attempted solace in any form, or tried to persuade her to return, with all her sorrows, to Mansfield. She refused to speak to anyone, nor even allow her maid to open the curtains. Finally, on the fourth day, her father arrived in London, sent for by Julia, for Mrs. Norris would not acknowledge that anyone but she had the ability, or even the right, to console poor Maria. For the first time that Maria could remember, her father enfolded her in his arms, and she burst out weeping anew.
Edmund had been alerted to the surprising news of his cousin Fanny’s marriage by his brother Tom, who rode over to Thornton Lacey where Edmund had been living in a house torn apart with alterations. The brothers then travelled swiftly to London, Tom to Wimpole Street, and Edmund to visit his fiancée, wondering what she could tell him of her brother’s sudden preference for Fanny over Maria.
“As you can imagine, Mary, I am of two minds about this news. Fanny surprised us all when she left to be a governess—this is equally perplexing,” he exclaimed to Mary after the first raptures of their reunion had passed and they were able to contemplate some other creatures than themselves.
Mary raised an eyebrow at the perceived slight to her brother. “What girl of Fanny’s low rank would not accept such a proposal, and become mistress of Everingham? It is a tremendous match for her.”
“When we were all together at Mansfield last autumn, I saw no indication that she bore him any affection, or even esteem. Perhaps you observed something, with your quickness, that I did not. And if there is a young lady in this nation who would decline to form an alliance for mercenary reasons, I would say that young lady is my cousin Fanny. Still, he did that for her brother, which I should suppose would have been almost sufficient recommendation to her, had there been no other.”
“In other words, you think that Henry ought to feel obliged to her, for her stooping to marry him?” Mary knew she ought to have quietly assented to all, but she could not restrain herself. “You must excuse a fond sister, but I should think most people would view matters quite differently—they would wonder why a man of his sense, temper, manners, and fortune, would marry a portionless girl with neither great beauty nor accomplishments to recommend her.”
Edmund smiled down at her. “I congratulate him on his choice. While I am heartily sorry for Maria, the fact that your brother married without regard to rank or fortune speaks as eloquently of Fanny’s virtues as it does his d
iscernment of them. And my dear, as I have been fortunate enough to win your affections, I know how perverse the ways of the heart can be.”
“Yes,” Mary nodded. “For example, you know how I dreaded the day you would take orders, and now that it is done, I can only admire how very handsome you look, all dressed in black!”
“Playfully said, and you illustrate my theorem that, in marriage, the tempers had better be unlike: I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in the manners, in the inclination for much or little company, in the propensity to talk or to be silent, to be grave or to be gay. Some opposition here is, I am thoroughly convinced, friendly to matrimonial happiness.”
“Fanny will be the anchor line to Henry’s hot air balloon, I have no doubt!” Mary sounded not entirely convinced by this line of reasoning.
“Well, I hope with all my heart they shall be very happy—but I confess, speaking as a man who has loved only one woman, and will love no other, I wonder how it came to be that your brother transferred his affections so rapidly. And knowing of Fanny’s delicacy as to conduct, how could my cousin have been comfortable accepting the addresses of a man who was in honour bound to my sister? Maria is in a very bad way, by the bye.”
“Oh, dear. Poor Maria.” Mary paused here, for though she had joined her brother in laughing over Maria’s downfall, and scorning her for her jealousy, her flights of temper, and her imprudence in allowing Henry to make so free with her before marriage, she saw by the grave features of her beloved that he saw nothing to amuse, and much to lament, in Maria’s humiliation. She ventured a new approach.
“Edmund, you will recall Maria threw over poor Mr. Rushworth without any ceremony. I believe you did not condemn her at that time, but rather, thought it was all for the best.”
Edmund nodded. “But, my Mary, this is a privilege reserved to womankind, and not to a man of honour. The understanding between Henry and my sister was of some months’ duration.”
“Or so we believed, we who approved of the match. But—were they engaged? Didn’t your own father withhold his consent?”
Edmund took her hand, in acknowledgement of the point. How could this beautiful creature be so bewitching, so feminine in all her ways, and be withal so clear-sighted, so intelligent, so discerning, so unsentimental and practical when confronted with difficulties? There was simply not another such a woman upon the earth—and he had won her.
Mary intertwined her slender fingers with his broad, strong ones, and stood very still, looking up at him, willing him to kiss her again and change the subject from his cousin Fanny. But his mind still ran upon his cousin.
“My love, did Fanny like the necklace I got for her? Did she have some message for me?”
Mary’s face fell. “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry to tell you this. From the time that we first found her in Keynsham Hill she evinced the most complete coldness toward your family. I spoke to her of your affection, how the entire family regretted her absence and wished her to return with us. I recall how shocked we were at her reply, ‘I do not desire to return to Mansfield Park. This is the new life that I’ve chosen.’ And, when I placed your necklace before her, she would not take it.”
Edmund’s countenance bore testimony to his sorrow, surprise and disappointment. “Ah. Well, you may keep the necklace for yourself, my dear. And did she leave me no note, no message?”
With every show of reluctance, and a little sigh, Mary handed him the note intended for Mr. Yates, whom, in fact, she had not seen on Jermyn Street, or anywhere else. She watched his face eagerly as he read it, hoping to see such resentment as would lead to a final breach between the two. Instead, he appeared perplexed and saddened. He read it carefully, then slowly folded it up and put it in his breast pocket.
“There is a double breach between our families now, and who knows what evils it will produce! Your brother will not attend our wedding, nor will Maria, and, it seems, his new wife wishes to turn her back on all of us! I hope that you can help me to plead my case with Fanny. I am at a loss.”
“Perhaps you should forebear for a time, dear Edmund. And, of course, when the time is right, I will do everything I can to restore the good understanding you once had with your little cousin.”
She watched him as he paced up and down, deep in thought. Then: “No—this is madness. I know Fanny too well—it is inconceivable that she should be so estranged from me. Where is she? I must speak to her today.”
“No, that is not possible, I’m afraid. They are on their way to Everingham now.”
* * * * * *
Henry Crawford had been alternately amused and perplexed by Fanny Price, as though he had suddenly been handed an exotic jungle animal, or a wailing infant, that he knew not how to care for, and the challenge of keeping the creature fed and happy; of learning, by trial and error, what it liked and disliked, what frightened and what pleased it, sufficed to entertain him for a time, but the novelty of travelling, day after day, with a girl who was so easily disconcerted, yet so stubborn on the smallest points, who preferred to read books rather than converse with him, a girl entirely indifferent to fashionable dresses, or jewelry, or his routine gallantries, had long since worn away, and he was counting the hours when he could resume his accustomed habits.
She was, for example, gravely perusing some grim-looking pamphlets while they were baiting the horses at Cambridge, so he entertained himself by flirting with the serving-girl, a bonny redheaded charmer.
For her part, Fanny tried to ignore her companion, but she could not help glancing up now and again, wondering what a real bride would say to her groom if he conducted himself before her in public in such a fashion. Here was again a want of delicacy and regard for others which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was again a something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated before. How evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity where his own pleasure was concerned; and alas! how always known—
“By heaven, Mrs. Crawford,” Henry broke upon her thoughts. “You were worried that you would not be able to act your part, but I assure you, you give a perfect impression of a married woman! No one, seeing you, could doubt your complete indifference toward me. I believe you have not addressed three words to me this entire morning! What ghastly thing are you reading?”
“It is some abolitionist literature given to me in Bristol. It is most affecting, but more than that, I think it is well-argued, from a theological and moral point of view, that we English must lead all the other nations in halting the trade in human beings.”
“Sugar plantations in Antigua being excepted?”
She looked up at him calmly. “I do now comprehend, Mr. Crawford, that much of that ease and comfort which surrounded me in Mansfield Park, was owing to the sugar trade. I have not seen my uncle since I was sixteen years of age, but when I meet with him again, I will endeavour to better inform myself as to his sentiments on the matter. In my youth, he was an advocate for what was moral, and upright and just—his sense of honour is so strict, that I cannot reconcile in my mind how he could tolerate this.” And she held up a printed engraving of captured Africans packed tightly into a ship for the Atlantic crossing.
Crawford slouched back in his seat, with his hands behind his head and replied with a tolerant smile, “This slavery debate has gone on in the public sphere for some time, so I can put some thoughts to you for your consideration, Mrs. Crawford. First, you have been in correspondence with your dear brother William for many years now, haven’t you? He has sung to you the praises of the Navy, hasn’t he? Has he never happened to mention to you, Mrs. Crawford, that our own sailors, our own Englishmen, are sometimes tied to the grates, then flogged with a cat o’ nine tails, until the blood streams down their backs, and so are our soldiers in the army, and if a primitive heathen is too good to be flogged, the same as an honest Englishman, why the world is topsy-turvy, I would say.”
“As you like, Mr. Crawford, but the slave is taken by force away from his home—”
> “Nor has your brother ever once mentioned press gangs to you? You grew up in Portsmouth, did you not? Surely you know about the press gangs?”
“Why, y-yes,” Fanny admitted, hesitantly. “Although we always supposed that the gangs were rounding up sailors who had deserted their posts, or who were not doing themselves any good on shore, being drunkards, and who were the better for being on ship and under discipline—” here she paused, unhappily, thinking of her own father.
“And, have you never heard of the miserable, brutish life of the women who must pull the coal carts on their hands and knees through the dark, airless tunnels of our coal mines? Have you never seen the little children who earn their living by crawling up our chimneys and brushing out the soot? Is there not enough suffering here in our ‘precious stone set in the silver sea’ for you to bestow your benevolent concern upon, without troubling yourself over beings half a world away?”
Fanny shook her head, “Which would you rather be, Mr. Crawford? A tin miner in Cornwall or a slave cutting down sugar cane?”
Crawford laughed, and tipped his hat to her. “I would rather be who I am—but look out the window, Mrs. Crawford, if you please. There you will see, walking along the road, a family of farm labourers, dressed in rags, miserably drenched from the rain, with no home, nor steady employment. Observe how they run up to the passing carriages, and beg for some coins. On the other hand, the slaves on your uncle’s plantation are fed and clothed from birth until death, even after they are unfit for heavy work by reason of injury or old age. They are not used for one season and cast aside like the free-born men of England.”
“Life is unjust, indeed, Mr. Crawford, and it is our duty to relieve the suffering of the poor and to teach them how they may improve their own condition. But by your arguments, have you sought to excuse one injustice with illustrations of other cruel situations? Shall we despair of remedying any evils, because we cannot remedy all of them? These abolitionists have chosen this cause, and renounced eating the products of slavery, to help eradicate—”