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

by Lona Manning

  Tom, as usual, was a gracious host, spirited and witty, and Edmund would have enjoyed himself thoroughly had he not been completely consumed with pictures of facing down Henry Crawford on the morrow and watching the b-st-rd fall backwards, with a crimson stain spreading over his shirt, and his eyes staring sightlessly at the dawn sky. Tom’s friend Charles Anderson sent a servant to retrieve his prized dueling pistols, and they were passed around and admired by the men.

  The clock struck nine and the ninth bottle of claret was opened, when Edmund stood and made to excuse himself, pleading the need to get a few hours’ sleep before the contest in the morning.

  Instantly Tom’s countenance changed from mirth to the utmost gravity. “No, Edmund, you are not going anywhere.” Suddenly, four pairs of hands seized Edmund’s arms and he found himself firmly pinioned between his brother’s friends who had leapt from their lounging postures with an alacrity that took him completely by surprise.

  Edmund struggled, but in vain.

  “Dear fellow, you are at risk of tearing my lace. Pray relax and submit.” said Mr. Sneyd.

  “My faith, Tom, if you’d told me that your brother was such a well-built fellow, we’d have more volunteers for this pleasant duty,” jested Hedgerow.

  Tom laughed. “Pay them no mind, Edmund.”

  “Yes, your virtue is safe with us,” added Mr. Yates.

  “I have asked my friends to ensure that you are kept away from the dueling grounds. They will stay with you tonight. You will be released tomorrow morning.

  “What does this mean, Tom?” Edmund gasped, although he had already formed a good idea. “What are you about?”

  “Simply this, Edmund. I will fight the duel with Crawford on the morrow. Do not think I am doing you a favour. I am performing this one office of an elder brother, and you will soon agree it is a paltry enough service when you understand that in exchange, should I survive of course, I will abandon my life here in England. I will not marry, and I will have no heir. You, Edmund, are the heir presumptive. Stay away from duels, and after I die, you will become Sir Edmund Bertram one day—if not you, then your son. I will depart for Virginia with my stable of stud horses and begin my life anew, free from the responsibilities, the expectations and, I need hardly add, the continual cloud of our father’s disappointment in me that has hung over my head ever since I can remember.”

  “Instead of being covered in shame, you will be covering mares in Virginia?” jested Sneyd.

  “I believe only his horses will,” Hedgerow answered, with a friendly jab of the elbow.

  Edmund stopped straining against his captors for a moment, hoping that Tom’s friends would relax their hold, then he tried suddenly to break away. Instantly the hands tightened on him, and he was dragged without ceremony to a parlour chair, and his arms and legs were bound to it.

  “I haven’t had this much fun since Lord Ravenshaw’s masked ball,” laughed Yates.

  “Tom,” begged Edmund. “Consider what you are about. I challenged Crawford, not you.”

  “I have considered it, dear brother, and you cannot deny that, firstly, I am a much better shot than you are. Secondly, may I remind you that you are a clergyman. Thirdly, had I listened to your warning about that damned Lovers' Vows, none of us would be where we are tonight. It brought Crawford and Maria into a dangerous intimacy. Without the play, Crawford would not have had so fair an opportunity to insinuate himself into Maria’s—good graces, and life would not have imitated art. Because I was ashamed, I never informed you of what happened on the night of that final dress rehearsal. Instead, I allowed Crawford to pretend he was going to marry our sister.”

  “I too, watched complacently as Crawford flirted with both of our sisters,” responded Edmund in anguish. “But Fanny! Who could have imagined that he was so base as to promise her marriage, and through some ruse—doubtless with a confederate posing as a clergyman—deceive her into surrendering herself to him, thinking herself his legal wife! There are not words strong enough to express my horror and detestation of the man. My blood is at the boil, Tom, I must meet him and hold him to account!”

  “Ah…. pray do not distress yourself on Fanny’s account, she will be none the worse for her adventures and from what I have seen, she is decidedly improved.”

  “How dare you speak so callously!” And Edmund began to struggle again.

  “No, no, there has been a misunderstanding. There was no sham wedding ceremony. Listen to me. She agreed to pretend to be Crawford’s wife, for completely selfless motives, and he—and I have this from Fanny—never touched her, nor made any attempt upon her person. I think we can trust our cousin’s word on this point. His motive, as you may surmise, was to avoid matrimony with our sister.”

  “This becomes more and more interesting,” exclaimed Sneyd.

  “What motive would induce Fanny to deceive the world with a sham marriage?”

  “I’m sure she would have explained it all to you had you not rushed out of the room to challenge Crawford to a duel.”

  Edmund listened, transfixed—and so did his captors, for all hope of keeping their domestic affairs from the world was now at an end—as his brother explained how Fanny hoped to protect Maria from a man who was unworthy of her and, at the same time, help her brother. “I believe that the second motive was paramount. She was willing to make any sacrifice to help her brother get his promotion, and having obtained, so unexpectedly, the means to do it, she acted. I always said she would be able to act, if she tried, if you will recall.”

  “You speak very lightly of—of such a tissue of deceits and falsehoods.”

  “Well, condemn her if you must, judge her if you will, but I am rather more astonished at her temerity. Little Fanny, cold-bloodedly extorting a promise from an infamous rake, to help her brother! Who would have thought she had the sang-froid for such an enterprise!”

  Edmund groaned aloud. “So Crawford is innocent of harming our cousin in—in the fashion that I had supposed. That was, indeed, why I sought him out so impetuously. But, now that we know the whole story, he still stands condemned for seducing and abandoning our sister, and pretending to be married to avoid doing his duty by her. Maria’s life is ruined. But it was my blunder, my error, which led to the challenge being laid. Surely it is my responsibility to carry it out.”

  “Don’t suppose that I have any objection to putting a bullet in Crawford’s chest on behalf of my poor deceived sister—now that we know we would not be making a widow of our cousin—but I wanted you to understand that Fanny’s virtue is intact, if not, as you reckon these things, her honour and reputation.”

  Edmund shook his head. “If I have been too quick to judge others, brother, my own affairs have brought, and will bring, for the rest of my life, a lesson in humility. I believe I was too apt to look upon the foibles of others, too apt to condemn, but now, with the examples of my own errors and blindness before me, I must be more compassionate of my fellow creatures.”

  “With the exception of this Crawford fellow, of course,” put in Anderson. “There is a limit, after all.”

  “Come to remark on it,” Tom interposed, “The bare fact that I am not in such a passion as Edmund over this whole business, provides another reason why it is I and not he, who should meet Crawford. Mine is the cooler head. Edmund is so determined to punish Crawford he has forgotten that, if he kills him, he is killing his own brother. I believe his marriage has already been a source of some disappointment—what will it be if his wife regards her husband as the murderer of her brother?”

  Edmund’s head snapped up, astonished. He had indeed forgotten, in the intensity of his fury, the consequences to his marriage should he have assassinated Crawford. “Tom, if you finish what I began, how could I ever repay you? How to surrender this duty to you, how can I watch you put your own life in peril, to spare me from the consequences of my own folly?”

  “Of course, I will attempt to settle the matter without recourse to a duel—but if needs be, I will take
on the responsibility of protecting the honour of the Bertram family—just this once. I may fall, and if I fall, I will atone for much. If I live, watch to see how completely and utterly I relinquish those duties and expectations which are the lot of the first-born son. One hazard in exchange for the life I want to live. I will wager everything on those odds, gratefully.”

  Edmund, who lately had only been able to view life as a series of duties, was dumbfounded at the apparent insouciance with which his brother was able to walk away from title, estate, and family. Finally, he croaked, “But you are a Bertram. Can you truly ever forget it?”

  Tom smiled, “And, if I never mentioned it, I’m proud to be your brother, Edmund Bertram. Let us not pretend that our dear father doesn’t regard you as the steadier character—and who, in all candour, could disagree with him? But I do not harbour any resentment against you on that account. I wonder if he will be proud of me for this night’s work—what a novel sensation that would be!

  “You cannot know for how long I have struggled with this dilemma. It is not merely that I have the greatest antipathy for the responsibilities and restrictions attendant on becoming Sir Thomas Bertram, the baronet. There is more. I think, Edmund, I think you know that I am a confirmed bachelor. Our father will never cease urging me to enter into matrimony, and the thought of deceiving some poor innocent girl, tricking her into marriage, for her to spend the rest of her days feeling unloved and disillusioned, sickens me. You know I have always been interested in horses—”

  “—and the handsome young fellas who ride ‘em—” put in Hedgerow.

  “Shush, Hedgerow. As I was saying, the plain truth is that horse bloodlines interest me more than perpetuating the Bertram bloodline. So, from tomorrow, it’s up to you, brother.”

  “Hear, hear! Up to you, Edmund,” from his friends.

  “But to leave your family, Tom, to leave us all and go to Virginia. We may well never see you again.”

  “So please don’t be hurt when I say I can barely wait to be off. My horses are stabled near the Liverpool dockyards and as soon as I’ve taken my shot at Crawford, I will bolt across country for my new life. A life where I can breathe free air and follow my own pursuits.”

  “And,” added Yates helpfully, “in Virginia those pursuits are not capital crimes, as they are here in England. Only one to ten years’ imprisonment!”

  Edmund blushed at this open reference to Tom’s propensities, which he had suspected since their school days. “Tom, I trust you know that your family loves you.”

  “Of course they do. I am a lovable chap. Who would not love me? If anyone had cause to hate me, however, it would be you. I owe you my deepest apologies, for all the debt I ran into a few years ago, so that father had to give your living to Dr. Grant. That was unspeakably selfish of me. At the time, I was unhappy and confused, and tried to lose myself in drink and at the gaming tables. I promise you, our father will never have to pay my debts again at your expense. He has generously given me, the prodigal son, the funds to start my horse-breeding venture, and what remains of the family fortunes will henceforward be in your hands, Edmund. You may keep the fatted calf, with my compliments—do not worry that I will come back to claim it.”

  Edmund yielded, and added, sadly, “Then, friends, please untie my right arm so that I may drink a toast to my brother.”

  His wish was obeyed, the port was poured and the two brothers toasted each other.

  “God bless you and keep you, Tom.”

  “The same to you, Edmund. I wish you a long and happy life, with many little Bertrams clustering about your knees, and a never-ending procession of disgruntled tenants and dissatisfied servants to bother yourself with. You cannot know how I feel tonight, having finally shrugged this unwanted weight off my shoulders.”

  “I will pray for you, brother.”

  “Oh, of course you will, dear Edmund. I will let you know if anything transpires as a result.”

  And he was gone, with Anderson as his second. Edmund heard the clatter of hoofs in the courtyard, then silence.

  “What shall we do, chaps? Cards?” asked Yates.

  “No, that will not do,” said Sneyd, with a sidelong glance at Edmund. “Let us just keep vigil, and watch and wait for news of our dear friend Tom.”

  “Gentlemen,” answered Edmund, “Do not think I would assume that you feel less than I do on this occasion, should you choose to relieve the suspense of this night with a game of cards. Please, do as you wish. It occurs to me that it might not be appropriate for a clergyman to spend the night bound to a chair in a private gentlemen’s club, but something tells me I may rely on your discretion, just as you may rely on my sympathy and friendship.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bertram,” said Yates, refilling Edmund’s glass.

  * * * * * *

  The candles burning in the windows at Mrs. Butters’ house in Stoke Newington testified to the fact that someone in the household was awake and keeping vigil. Fanny was in an agony of soul as she had never before experienced. Her failure to explain herself to Edmund haunted her grievously. She imagined only one returning alive—then condemned herself for wishing it were Henry Crawford that lay dead, rather than Edmund; then she imagined Edmund dead at Crawford’s hand, she imagined them both mortally wounded, and she powerless to do or say anything. She hoped that Tom had found Edmund in time, she prayed that cooler heads could prevail at the last moment and return them both home unscathed, for only then could she attempt to set right the wrongs she had done against Maria and persuade Crawford that the path of honour and duty would ultimately be the path to peace, tranquility and happiness. Fervently she prayed, silently she wept, ardently she hoped, aware of Mrs. Butters’ sympathizing presence but too overwrought and too ashamed to seek comfort from any earthly counsellor.

  The first glimmers of dawn appeared in the east; she imagined the combatants meeting—oh, if she only knew where!—she imagined Edmund removing his jacket, nodding tersely at his opponent, trying not to shiver in the cold; she saw the smile play across Henry Crawford’s face, jesting and laughing to the end, the two of them pacing out their steps, then turning and—she covered her face with her hands and trembled with horror. Her heart pounded furiously, she sometimes had to jump up from her knees and pace back and forth on the hearthrug, she rubbed her temples, she wrung her hands, then glanced at the window again. It was lighter! It was surely dawn now! Undoubtedly, the contest was about to commence and a few more moments would decide it all! But how long, alas, how long before someone could bring word to her?

  * * * * * *

  “I say, it is beautiful here, isn’t it, Anderson?” asked Tom Bertram, surveying the open glade of the West Meadow through the rising mists of early dawn and taking a deep breath of the fragrant woodland air.

  “Certainly. Makes you glad to be alive, doesn’t it?”

  Both men laughed aloud. “Gad, I will miss you so much, my particular friend—with your particular sense of humour,” said Tom, embracing his friend one last time.

  They stood silent for a few moments, listening to the birds awaken and call to each other in the trees, as they had ever done and would ever do, whether Tom Bertram would be alive to hear them the following morning or not.

  “D’you think he will send his second ahead of him, to offer to make amends?” Anderson asked.

  Tom wrapped his cloak more firmly around him. The cold morning air bit into him and he was chagrined to discover he was shivering. “He is a proud fellow, Anderson. And further, we cannot take him at his word, even if he were to swear to marry my sister. He may need a pistol in his back to get him into the church. In fact, like me, he may prefer to take his chances in a duel, rather than submit to a life he doesn’t want.”

  “Still—healthy, wealthy, and married to your beautiful sister—I do not think that Henry Crawford would be an object of pity.”

  “Nor am I, yet— “Tom broke off, laughing. “You might be surprised to know, how much solicitude I am feeling for
myself, just at this moment!”

  Another long silence. Then Tom sighed. “As a rational man, I know myself to be very fortunate. The world we live in can essentially be divided into two classes, those who do not empty their own chamber pots and those who do.”

  “And, I suppose, those who empty the chamber pots of others.”

  “Three classes, then. And I, Anderson, I have been to Antigua. I have seen the slaves who work so that I may enjoy comfort and ease. Dante missed out on one level of hell in his damned book—there is a place called a sugaring-down shack, where the cane liquor is boiled down—this is in tropical heat, mind. The cane is fed into mills and the slaves toil there for twelve hours a day—the overseer and his whip keep them at their posts, but sometimes they are so exhausted that they fall into the vats or are crushed in the rollers that extract the liquor of the cane. So many die, in the shacks and in the fields, that even though every white man there, who is so inclined, takes his pleasure upon any slave woman he fancies, there are not enough babies born on the island to maintain the slave population.

  “I have seen this, and more, and now, when I contemplate the manner in which I threw away the sums earned by such toil and misery—with gaming and drinking and idle spending—I suddenly find the question of whether there is an eternal judgment, to be more than an academic one.”

  There seemed to be nothing more to be said, so the two friends stood companionably, watching through the openings in the trees which encircled the glade where they stood, for some sign of an approaching carriage.

  “What shall you do if he does not meet you, Tom?” Charles Anderson began to wonder, then squinted into the pale light of dawn…. “stay, is that his yellow barouche?”

  It was indeed Henry Crawford, who, having spent the night with some good friends and, affecting nonchalance about the coming meeting with the Bertrams, had elected to delay his departure until the last moment. He fully expected that Mr. Stanhope would speak for him and make a contest unnecessary, and that the marriage articles and promissory note to Miss Price he carried in his waistcoat pocket would convince the Bertrams that he was at last in earnest. But, having left himself very little time to reach Hampstead Heath, and suddenly fearing that his late arrival at the dueling grounds might be attributed to cowardice, he pushed his horses to greater efforts. The fresh, invigorating night breeze, the empty roads, and his conflicting thoughts all led to a kind of elated frenzy, and he unrestrainedly pushed his team to their uttermost limits, as though signifying to himself: this is my last moment of freedom before I must put on the yoke.