Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  There is nothing I would not do to unwind time and retreat to Everingham, as you so wisely counseled, rather than return again to London. My sister begged me to stay in London. No man can refuse our Mary’s wishes, and I had ceased trying to resist. I flatter myself that I now have a firmer resolve— No. I shall not flatter myself or others. It was flattery that landed us here, was it not?

  There must only be honesty between us.

  I admit my first thought of renewing the acquaintance with your cousins piqued my interest. I could tell you I did not intend to seduce, or be seduced, but instead wanted only an easy cordiality with your family in the hopes they would soon be my family as well. This I told myself as a reason to stay. I will not call it a lie because it was at least part truth. In my heart, Fanny, I was yours. Would be yours once you consented to have me. But, if we are to be honest, I must also tell you that flirtation was on my mind. Truthfully, I did not intend for what happened between Maria and me. I more slipped into sin than designed it. But once I had . . .

  SEPTEMBER 1809, THE DARK HORSE, TROWBRIDGE, WILTSHIRE

  Henry woke to the sounds of wardrobe doors being flung open and slammed shut. For the first time since spring, he felt a spark of hope. Dragging himself from bed, not even bothering to smooth down his hair or find a shirt—anything to further shock or dismay that woman—he leaned in the doorway between his sleeping room and the suite’s sitting room. Maria, as perfectly put together as ever, was throwing gowns and hats into chests and boxes.

  He yawned loudly, stretching his bare arms high above his head. Her head snapped up to glare at him. He knew he cut a fine figure. That Maria’s gaze did not stray from his face told him precisely her state of mind. Any other day, her eyes would roam over the planes of his muscles. The spark of hope grew a bit brighter.

  “I am done with this charade!” Every word rang with anger. Her eyes burned. Her face contorted into a scowl the likes of which he had never seen.

  At last. Relief flooded him as he recognized in her countenance the same hatred he had felt towards her for weeks. “I trust you’ve enjoyed your holiday.”

  Maria cried out sharply, like a startled hen, twisting the silk gown in her hands. Henry laughed out loud at her explosion of fury. She complained nearly daily about the boredom and indignity she endured being sequestered in the inn and would beg often to be taken to Everingham. The society was no better at his Norfolk estate. Indeed, there was even less at his home to keep a young, lively woman entertained. The travelers who came through the inn brought with them their own dramas and histories, and Henry’s only enjoyment in recent weeks came from conversing with them at dinner or around the fire with a brandy. Maria seldom left their rooms.

  Henry suspected that it was more the lack of an enviable standing in society that grated on her. Back at Mansfield Park, she held reign over all as the eldest Bertram daughter. As Mrs. Rushworth, she had an idiot husband and household to rule with thousands of pounds at her disposal to convince others of her value in society. But here, in The Dark Horse, Maria’s continued residence only raised questions amongst the locals, forcing her to steep in the scandal she so clearly desired that morning in early May when she appeared on Admiral Crawford’s doorstep demanding to see Henry.

  She was not one to suffer consequences with grace, Henry found.

  He had no intention of ever allowing Maria Bertram Rushworth to breathe the air at Everingham. Henry had chosen this esteemed, venerable inn in Wiltshire to keep her as far away as possible from his home without having to spend an unbearable amount of time in a carriage with her when they left London. With every complaint, he would point out that she could leave under her own power at any time—to which Maria would spit back that she had nowhere else to go. The satisfaction he drew from seeing her suffer was bitter indeed when coupled with his misery at being in her presence.

  Anger colored her cheeks a flattering pink. Her bosom swelled prettily with each quick breath. A single curl had escaped from her loose coiffure as she had tossed her clothing about. It brushed at the gentle curve of her slender shoulder and graceful neck. He stared at that curl, remembering how his lips had been just there when his world tilted, upending his plans and destroying his happiness.

  He wondered at what drew him to her so many months ago at Mansfield Park. Henry could not fail to recognize her beauty, even now, but he could no longer help but see past it to the creature beneath: the callous, selfish woman who was incapable—or unwilling—to consider anyone but herself.

  Despite what Maria had promised that day at his uncle’s home, there had not been a single happy moment together once they left London. Henry did not intend to be happy with her and would not allow for her happiness with him. He intended for them both to be quite miserable. While all the world would see Henry as the scoundrel who ruined a gently bred woman, Henry could only think of Maria as the vixen who willfully parted him from his love. Many times, he was tempted to saddle a horse and leave her at the inn to find her own way out of the muddle she created. Henry would own a great many failings of character, but he was not so callous as to leave a woman without protection. Until she grew tired of their games and decided to leave, or her family came for her at last, Henry was stuck in this Wiltshire purgatory.

  Upon learning that knowledge of his and Maria’s absence was widespread, his first instinct had been to ride immediately to Fanny, to bare all to her, to let her goodness and kindness absolve and cleanse him. Half his impulse, he knew, was to vex Maria and remind her that she was not wanted, not preferred, would not be his wife. He had not smiled at her since she displayed herself in that garish gown at Hill Street in May, when she took away any power he had to free himself from her. He would not take meals with her and seldom returned to the inn before she slept. When he did return to find her awake, he would silently take her to bed—or on the divan, or by the fireplace—wherever he found her. There was no tenderness or passion between them any longer, yet Maria never once turned him away. Henry marveled at her brash hopefulness in those moments when nearly every night he could hear her crying herself to sleep.

  Knowing that inconsequence was worse than hatred to Maria, Henry would not let his elation at her imminent removal show. Instead, he affected boredom as he lifted a pastry from the breakfast tray. “When do you leave?”

  “Immediately.”

  Henry was silent as he stuffed the morsel into his mouth. He watched her as he chewed. For just a moment, her chin quivered, betraying her unreasonably tenacious love for him. His chest tightened for a single heartbeat. Anger he could counter—tears were more difficult to resist. There was no joy for him in hurting another, but he could not soften or she would sense it, and then they would become locked in this cycle of never-ending misery.

  He licked the sweetness off his fingers as they watched each other.

  “My aunt Norris has arrived for me. She is waiting below.”

  Henry wondered that her father or one of her brothers had not come. Lucky, I suppose. He did not relish the thought of the posturing and accusations that would be involved in a meeting with her male relatives. He had never fought a duel and intended to keep that record clean. Edmund did not worry him, and Tom was not often sober enough to hold a pistol. But he was a gentleman, and Fanny would not like it.

  He grabbed two more pastries from the tray. “Give her my best,” he called over his shoulder as he shut the door to his bedroom.

  He perched on the edge of his bed, tense, listening to the sounds of her packing. Muffled sobs reached his ears but not his heart. He felt no regret at her leaving, no emptiness at the loss of an admirer. He felt, for once, whole within himself. He was enough and did not yearn for another’s adulation and attention. Awareness crept over him, the understanding of what it means to be a steady man, reliable, and self-possessed. To be the man a woman like Fanny needs and deserves. The irony of his situation was not lost on him.

  Henry waited until all noise from the adjoining bedchamber ceased and he
was certain Maria was gone, truly gone, before moving to his writing desk.

  M—

  The pigeon has, at long last, flown with the old crow. I am coming home, my sister.

  H.C.

  OCTOBER 5, 1809, EVERINGHAM

  . . . but once I had, I seemed powerless to stop. The heady intoxication of secrecy, the delight in being wanted was too much to resist.

  Why could you not want me, Fanny?

  “The affair was a mistake, Mary.” Henry traced his finger along the slightly frayed edge of the paper and his thumb along the neater edge of the bottom, where it had recently been trimmed to size. At once soft and able to cut. He stilled his hand and looked to his sister.

  She gazed out of the window and did not stir at his words. The wind picked up outside, swirling the dry oak leaves fallen in the avenue. The sky beyond the eastern hedgerow was a deep, brilliant blue, barely visible through the far window of the sitting room. Behind Mary, the low, autumn sun burned orange and red through wisps of clouds. The oak limbs swayed, their stark lines black against the fiery sky.

  “I should not have stayed at the Frasers.”

  “There we have it.” She turned, the sunset glinting red on her curls, silhouetting her against the fire as if she were one of the oaks beyond the glazing. Placed for beauty, tended for gracefulness. Unable to do more than thrash about in the buffeting wind. “Your misfortune is my doing? What of my misfortune?” Her eyes were narrowed, furious.

  His heart hurt for his sister’s disgrace. And not by her own doing. She suffers because of the actions of men, those of us who should have been protecting her. “Mary. Of course not. That was not my intent. How could you have foreseen such mischief?”

  “I know you, Brother. How could anyone not have foreseen such mischief?”

  Henry colored at his sister’s bite. She has every right to remain angry. It was my scandal that drove away her Edmund. And my uncle’s scandal that drove her into my inept protection. Henry did not think he would ever live to see the end of his shame over how he had failed his beloved sister.

  “Let us not quarrel. All we have now is each other.”

  “Nonsense. You’ll be forgiven in a blink and none will consider your misstep again. Men are always forgiven—forgiven their indolence, their vanity. It is the women who suffer the ill effects, even for something so small as wanting happiness. Society will always welcome a young man with an independence.”

  “Society can hang.”

  Mary sighed. He could tell she was in no mood to spar. “You have been haunting these halls like a ghost for a month, which gives me no choice but to do the same.” Her voice was weary. “I feel that we are in exile.”

  “Do you not have some needlework that needs doing?”

  “Ha!” Her laugh was short but genuine. Even if she lived into an aged spinsterhood, he doubted Mary would ever take up a needle. He was glad to see her humor had not left her entirely since leaving London. Since losing Edmund.

  “Why do you while away at that letter? Even now you cannot lay aside your vanity.” Her humor was not gone, perhaps, but more short-lived than before.

  “It is not vanity that keeps me at this letter, Mary.”

  “She’ll not have you now.”

  “It is not hope, either.”

  Mary turned back to the window. The sky beyond had cooled, the darkening gray spreading from the east, pushing the last light below the trees and out of the day.

  “You cannot send it to her.”

  “I know.”

  “You are selfish, Henry.” He winced at her softly spoken words. “You are selfish to write her this letter. To have seduced Maria. Refused to marry Maria.”

  “I could not marry her and be happy.”

  “And what of my happiness? I could have been happy with Edmund!”

  Henry froze at the anger in her voice.

  “Perhaps you should be writing your own letter.”

  She nudged one of his discarded attempts with the toe of her slipper. “No. I think not.” Her eyes were hard and dry, but he could see the anguish behind them. She huffed in irritation and moved past the escritoire.

  “Mary.” Henry caught her wrist, his word and touch gentle. She turned, her features still rigid. He pressed her hand affectionately, hoping she could read the remorse in his eyes, his yearning to be at ease again with his sister. She smiled sweetly and gave him a playful pat on the cheek.

  “Of course, Brother. Selfishness always must be forgiven, you know. We Crawfords can have no hope of a cure.” He released her and she left quietly.

  Mary’s insistence on his selfishness unsettled him. He had long thought of himself as generous and affable. Exactly the sort of young man sought after for balls, house parties, and card games. But, he could not shake the truth he heard in his sister’s words. Selfish. Vain.

  No. It was not just his happiness that mattered to him. Fanny’s happiness was paramount. And he had tried to make her happy, tried to give her a full and easy life. He had only fallen in Maria’s trap after Fanny continued to evade him.

  We could have been happy. Could we not? If you would had but accepted me.

  Why would you not have me, Fanny? Why could you not have given in at Portsmouth as I saw you wanted to? Mary, as is often the case, is quite correct once more—none of this would have befallen the lot of us if you had just put your prideful sensibilities aside and surrendered to the desires of your heart. But you are too moral to give over to vanity, to passion.

  If I had been given even the smallest bit more encouragement, I would never have pursued her acquaintance again. And it might have been you here with me this evening, and Mary at the parsonage with her Edmund. Precisely where neither she nor I would have expected to land but without a doubt where we most wanted to be in the end.

  Alas, I know I will only ever see your pretty frame gliding through the halls of Everingham in my dreams . . .

  FIVE MONTHS EARLIER…HILL STREET, LONDON

  The last thought before he fell asleep was not of luxuriating in the hands of a beautiful woman or the shame at having carried on an affair with a married woman—when he himself was all but engaged. No, his only thought was of the potential unpleasantness of exposure. And that would be handily avoided by removing himself from Maria’s reach. Deciding on a course of action assuaged much of guilt and uneasiness.

  He woke early, a light breakfast tray already set out in his room. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, eager to be gone from London and its temptations.

  His uncle had always loved London for those very temptations—the women and the gaming, the theaters and soirees. So many opportunities for pleasure, the admiral would say, smirking. Henry had learned his uncle’s vices and, for a time they were his own weaknesses. Pretty women and flirtations, cards and billiards, races and boxing. His time with Fanny had taught him differently. Or so he had thought.

  He wanted Fanny for a wife, his love for her exposing the lies in his uncle’s words, the maxims that poisoned his youth. “You are a man,” his uncle had told him on many occasions. “Men have their needs and must tend to them. Women know this. They accommodate with purposeful blindness or purposeful wantonness. If you find one who will give you both, consider taking her for a mistress. Once a wife, they will never accommodate.”

  Henry shuddered at the bitterness he could still feel in his uncle’s remembered words. Bitterness he failed to notice years ago as the lessons took root in his mind. A coldness he mistook for wisdom and experience. Such a contrast to the hopeful warmth he felt spreading through him. Everingham. Fanny. Marriage.

  The risk of exposure with Mrs. Maria Rushworth was like a bucket of ice dumped on his head. He was now startled into alertness, as if a fog had lifted, showing him finally what his behavior had been. The day before was all frivolity and fun. How could there be any consequence when all was done with a light heart and his four thousand a year?

  Seeing the maid round the corner the night before, his hand
in Maria’s curls and lips upon her neck, jolted him into seriousness. He felt himself instantly filled with shame at his willingness to push aside thoughts of his intended to satisfy a fleeting physical desire and vain hunger. He had told himself for weeks that his only desire was for a life with Fanny Price, yet there he was. Entangled, in all senses of the word, with his beloved’s cousin. Dread followed the dawning awareness that their affair, if known, would ripple ruin through several families.

  No one must know. His first coherent thought since hearing the maid’s gasp. It remained his mantra through the next hours. This need for secrecy led him to decide to leave London, to escape the exposure and scandal that would surely follow. And would surely tie me to Maria.

  Her glee at being discovered by the maid alerted him to the extent of the danger in which he had ignorantly placed himself.

  “Oh, what a relief to have the matter settled!” she had nearly sobbed with evident joy.

  “What can you mean? Settled?” For the first time, Henry wondered what her motivations for the affair had been, and he was forced to come to a rather distressing conclusion.

  “It is all but done now, my Henry! Rushworth cannot overlook it further. We are found out.” She laughed, her head tossing back. “Do not you feel it? I never expected such a relief as this! Nothing can be worse, I am sure, than playing at love with a man I despise. I will have no such hardships at Everingham.” Her hand slid up his arm.

  “Maria.” He had brushed her hand off his shoulder, stepping away. “Mrs. Rushworth. You are married. I have not the ability nor the intention to relieve you of your chosen condition.”

  “The condition I choose, most assuredly, but not with that stupid fellow. But when we—”

  “You are not hearing me, madam.” As she reached for him again, he took her by the wrists, holding her hands between them. “There cannot be a ‘we’. I am sorry you believed our assignations to be more than a . . . diversion.”