At this, the understanding crept into her face, her furrowed brow, the tightness of her lips. Her wrists had gone limp in his grasp.
“I cannot believe that.”
“It is so.”
“You do not have a choice!”
“I most certainly do.”
“The maid saw us embracing!”
“She saw us standing in a hallway.”
“She will know what it means.”
“It means nothing.”
“It will not mean nothing to my husband and his mother.”
“She is a servant. She will not approach Rushworth or his mother. And who can credit what gossip servants spread amongst themselves? Wait respectably at home for your husband and speak of this no more.”
He took his leave from Wimpole Street abruptly, with no intention of seeing it or its inhabitants again. If his uncle had not required Henry’s signature on some documents, he would have gone directly from London that moment.
Everingham had seldom been his home—until recently he preferred to travel and visit, returning to the estate only long enough to handle whatever business his manager, Pollard, could not—but this morning he found himself yearning for the estate. The crisp air that came with being so near the coast. The coolness of the surrounding forest. The wide expanse of lawn surrounding the manor house, peppered with well-tended gardens. He wished to walk those garden paths with Fanny Price—no, Fanny Crawford—on his arm, to hear her ideas on how to improve the kitchen garden and whether he should leave the old oak in the southern field.
He needed to get out of London where the air stifled, and eyes intruded, and the noise never ceased. Where temptations lurked and lured.
No one must know.
* * *
Henry quickly ate a breakfast of cold meats and toast in his chambers and dressed himself before going downstairs.
“Harding, is the carriage—” Henry called from the top of the stairs; the words caught in his throat and his legs froze as Maria pushed past his uncle’s butler.
No one must know.
Henry was overcome, dizzy with ire that was soon eclipsed by horror that she would risk ruin by coming unescorted to this house. It would be enough to draw the scorn of the society that she would turn up at the home of a gentleman—even with a chaperone during calling hours. But at his uncle’s home, where the man kept his mistress! Alone! And even before breakfast! Her actions were unconscionable.
His legs began to move again and he all but ran down the stairs, absurdly thankful the hour was so early that they were not likely to encounter the admiral or his mistress. His first instinct was to shove her out onto the street and close the door. He knew he could do no such thing, however, as the longer she stood on the step, the more likely her chance of being seen.
“Dammit, woman, what are you thinking? You know you cannot be here! If you were seen—”
Maria stood proud and tall, her hair perfectly coiffed, her day dress a brilliant green. Her skin glowed, her eyes shone, she was all smiles and gaiety. The beautiful Mrs. Rushworth did not risk ruin; she courted it.
“Did you take any care for secrecy?”
“Why should I have? There is no need now.” Her expression was triumphant. She was disconcertingly composed for a married woman who had been discovered in another man’s embrace.
Cold understanding seeped through him, like the damp of mud through thin boots—slowly, unrelentingly. In the panicked moments after the maid rounded the corner, Henry had little attention to spare for Maria as he struggled with his own shock and dismay. Recalling the events of the evening before, he realized she had not been surprised. There was only the maid’s gasp and Henry’s curse. Maria did not start, shriek, jump away, nor betray any amount of unease. She stood still.
Henry knew for a certainty that Maria had orchestrated the maid’s discovery.
She would take a husband for money, knowing she did not love him, and heap upon him abuse for her own poor judgment. Then, presented with a handsomer option, she would renege on her vows, throw her family’s good name in the gutter, and maneuver to trap a gentleman into marriage.
She was the worst sort. Unsatisfied, thoughtless, and spoiled. Worst of all, changeable. The kind of woman who leapt carelessly from one fancy to another, always assuming someone would catch her and spare her from suffering. Maria Bertram Rushworth had never felt an unpleasant consequence she could not slither out of and foist upon another.
As he stared at the smug, shameless woman in the foyer, he felt a chill down his spine. In recognizing her meanness, Henry could not avoid confronting the man he himself had been. Worse than a cad. Worse than a rake, self-absorbed and vain. Flippant. He had been cavalier with the most precious thing he had ever known—the esteem, and perhaps love, of a good woman. He was, in fact, very like Maria Bertram.
He chased Maria for her beauty. First out of boredom and later out of vanity, out of an unwillingness for a flirtation to end on someone else’s terms. She had been a prize—a toy—never truly a person in her own right to Henry.
Alarm made his words sharp. “There is every need for it now. You cannot be here.”
No one must know.
“Well, we certainly cannot stay here. I can send for my belongings once we arrive at Everingham.”
“I will escort you home.”
Her laugh was higher than usual, edging on hysterical. “Home? I have left Wimpole Street.” There. A small spark of panic in her smooth exterior. So, she did feel the precariousness of her position after all.
But Henry would not argue the wisdom of her abandoning her idiot husband. “To Mansfield, then. I will take you home to your father.”
The cold fire in her eyes conveyed all he needed to know about her willingness to return to Mansfield. He enjoyed a brief vision of dragging her bodily from his carriage and dropping her soundly on the gravel drive at Mansfield Park before flying off to Everingham and purging himself of her influence. But, he was a gentleman, though he admitted to himself he had not behaved as one of late. He determined to change his course. Henry would not expose Maria so unfeelingly or make her situation worse than she was determined.
Rather than take his advice from the night before, she had overthrown all good sense and intended to force herself upon him. She did not care whether he wished for an alliance or not. She would not act to stifle rumors and prevent discovery. No. Likely, she had contrived all this. Their conversation that preceded their first real tryst played in his mind.
“You ought to have a care, Mrs. Rushworth. You know how the gossips will talk if you are continually sneaking off.”
“The gossips are already talking, Henry. Have you not heard what they say?”
“I don’t usually listen to the gossip.”
“Well, I do. And if they are already saying we are lovers, then what is there to stop us?”
His palms began to sweat as he realized how deftly Maria had laid the trap for him.
She would leave her husband’s home, in broad daylight, and turn up on his doorstep for all London to gawk. She left him no choice. Thankfully, Harding had the carriage ready for the long ride to Everingham. He would not take her to his home. But he could get them away from London, from the gossip rags, and far away from her family. If she insisted on pursuing this mad course, she would have no comfort, no ease from the Bertrams.
But he knew he would have no peace either.
OCTOBER 5, 1809, EVERINGHAM
. . . and truly, the fault can only be my own.
I wonder how I ended up in Maria’s arms. Again. I wonder how I even came to love you? Sweet, kind, Fanny Price. I did not think I had enough goodness left in me to even attempt to answer your expectations for what a human must be.
Having been influenced by that goodness you stirred within me, I wonder more how it is that I cared so little about what was good for Maria, what was due to you, what was right for me, that I threw it all away for a moment of pleasure. I won’t even call it joy,
Fanny, for I had never felt joy in a woman’s touch. Not until you first laid your gentle hand on my arm. And none since.
My Fanny, if you knew, truly knew, my deficient upbringing—not deficient in wealth and comfort, but in those things, I know you value, and I now know are vital: morality, humility, consideration, generosity, selflessness. If you were aware of the shameless failure to teach morality—and often the intention to devalue morality—then perhaps your heart would take pity on me.
If I had known how devastating and dangerous were the lessons of my youth, perhaps I would have put them aside sooner.
LONDON 1799
Eighteen-year-old Henry had been mortified when his uncle saw him noticing the ample bosom and general loveliness of a popular singer during an evening at Sadler’s Wells. The Crawford men were mingling in the foyer of the theater after a performance when Miss Eva Moretti appeared to accept the adulations of her audience. Her face and chest were still flushed from the exertion of her performance, her eyes sparkling, one hand holding a glass of champagne, the other trailing along the arms and shoulders of her admirers as she moved through the crowd. Henry was transfixed by her easy sensuality and could not look away. Not even as she glided towards him and Admiral Crawford, her hips swaying.
The admiral extended a hand to Miss Moretti, which she accepted as she leaned forward to kiss his cheek. The admiral chuckled and, Henry assumed, attempted to introduce the singer to his nephew, but Henry heard only a high-pitched ringing in his ears as the voluptuous woman placed a hand on one of his cheeks and a kiss on the other. The heat of her ungloved hand, the softness of her lips on his skin, the heady scent of perfume and woman that surrounded him only exacerbated the sudden and uncomfortable arousal her proximity created in young Henry.
A short while later in the carriage, Henry was reliving the moment and trying discreetly to find a comfortable seat when his uncle mentioned his obvious admiration of Miss Moretti. Henry only stammered, embarrassed.
“No need to be shy about it, lad!” The admiral guffawed.
But Henry most definitely was shy about it. How many times had his uncle turned a serious eye to him during the course of an instruction on finances or estate management and said, “A man must always be about men’s business. Never let a woman distract you from your duty.” In those moments, young and eager only to impress his powerful and respected uncle, Henry could not imagine why he would need such an admonishment. Seeing Miss Moretti tonight—feeling Miss Moretti—her full breasts straining against the rich purple silk of her bodice, Henry understood.
“A female’s beauty is for noticing, her body for touching.”
Henry colored at these words, embarrassed that his uncle so plainly had seen Henry’s desire and spoken of it openly. He had seen his uncle’s cavalier behavior towards women and had overheard bawdy conversations among his uncle’s acquaintances—the admiral never tried to hide those interactions. But the admiral had never before discussed women with Henry. Henry yearned to be a part of his uncle’s circle, to have those experiences, and enjoy the camaraderie of sharing exploits. Even at that moment, Henry felt himself still a child to the admiral. The admiral’s words tonight opened a new world for Henry. He was a man. He could have his own women.
“There are no ‘ladies,’ my boy. That’s the biggest lie this society ever sold us men. A woman is for pleasure. There’s not a one of them who don’t want it, Henry. Don’t you forget that. If her looks excite you, she can be yours.”
Henry thought again of Miss Moretti’s kiss on his cheek and what it might be like to feel her lips on other places.
As if reading his mind, the older man said, “But no, Henry. Not that Eva—she’s a bit more than you could handle—let me tell you!”
The admiral’s exclamation was punctuated by a gentle rap on the knee with the older man’s walking stick. “Here, drink up, lad.” He pulled out a flask and handed it to Henry. “It is time, my boy. I see that I have let it go too long and that we’ve somewhere else to be this evening.”
The “somewhere else” turned out to be a bagnio in Covent Garden. Young Henry marveled at the ease with which the admiral entered the establishment, as if it were something done as a matter of course. Or as a matter of right.
Henry followed, overwhelmed by the new experience, but determined to show the maturity and restraint his uncle had emphasized over the years. He had heard stories of brothels. Several of his classmates bragged of their debaucheries. It was their tales of rooms full of naked women lounging on settees, drinking whiskey, smoking cigars, engaging in wanton acts—with each other and whatever man should be within arm’s reach—that had his breath coming fast, half from arousal, half from nervousness.
Their stories, though taken for God’s honest truth at the time, seemed completely fantastical outside the respectable-looking house. He and his uncle passed through a perfectly ordinary door, with a perfectly ordinary brass knocker, and into a perfectly ordinary foyer attended by a perfectly ordinary footman, who took their coats and hats in a perfectly ordinary manner.
Henry had not gained his bearings before a petite woman with gleaming golden hair piled in curls on her head, jewels glinting at her throat and wrists, greeted his uncle familiarly.
Her painted mouth lifted into a seductive smile. “Charles. You only ever get more handsome.” She spoke in a lilting French voice. “Come.” She took his arm and led him deeper into the house. “Come hide away with me before my girls see you and they spend their night sulking for want of you.”
They were led through an empty parlor decorated in the usual fashion—no wanton women draped over furniture beckoning ravishment—and into a library. Their hostess sat on the expansive desk that dominated the space, which clearly was her dominion. She leaned slightly forward, her hands resting on either side of her fine figure. He could hardly keep his eyes on hers. They strayed from her delicate, ungloved hands to her hips, shrouded tightly in a rich gown, to the glistening ruby, nestled like an apple between her ample, and barely contained, bosoms. The room was dimly lit and more masculine than he would have expected of this glittering woman. It smelled familiarly of leather, cigars, and port.
“Madame Marchand, may I present my nephew, Mr. Henry Crawford.”
Before Henry could offer a bow, her high, tinkling laugh filled the room as she clapped her delight. “Oh, Charles, you have brought me such a treat!” She hopped off the desk and gestured to a long deep leather sofa near the fireplace. “Do rest here, Charles. I shall return for you. Claudine will be in presently with refreshments.” His heart raced with building panic as she reached her lovely hand towards his, limp and clammy, hanging at his side; he was nearly torn in two between embarrassment and desire. Her fingers intertwined with his and she pulled him from the room. “I have just the thing for you, my dove.”
Henry was speechless and terrified. He followed her, wide-eyed, through the corridors, and heard other inhabitants in the house. Women’s laughter and snippets of conversations from behind mostly closed doors. Servants scuttling about with trays. The splash of water as a bath was filled. Most curiously, low moans and vaguely animal sounds from recessed spaces and darkened parlors. Finally, Madame Marchand led Henry into a game room where several men sat at cards, each with a woman beside him or on his lap, and still more men clustered around a billiards table. The women, Henry was astonished to find, were all dressed exquisitely, and fully.
“Arabella.”
A slender and lovely, young, red-haired nymph rose from a seat near the billiards table.
“Yes, Madame?” Her voice was high and clear as a spring, a stark contrast to Miss Moretti’s low and sultry purr. Where the opera singer was lush and curvy, Arabella was slender and willowy. She seemed to float across the room, never taking her eyes from Madame Marchand as she approached the doorway. In the dim game room, Henry could not tell the color of her eyes and he silently begged her to look his way. Though her eyes did not leave her madame, she stood directly before Henry.
He was having a difficult time breathing and wondered if she could hear his heart beating as loudly as it seemed to him.
“Mr. Crawford, this is our Arabella.” The young woman lowered into a graceful curtsy, offering Henry the opportunity to admire the graceful lines of her neck and shoulder that led to a clear view of her lovely breasts, with the hint of the dusky rose of her nipples disappearing beneath the thin silk of her gown. As she rose, she finally, finally looked into his eyes and smiled. His breath caught. Gray, was all he could think as she slowly lowered her dark lashes over her storm-colored eyes.
“My pleasure.” Her mien was demure, but her emphasis on pleasure stopped his heart.
Somehow, his good breeding held fast and he made her an elegant bow. “The pleasure is mine.”
“Arabella, would you take Mr. Crawford to the suite and make him comfortable? I’ll be entertaining Admiral Crawford in my study.” With a wink, she left Henry with the beautiful Arabella.
With a coquettish smile, Arabella took young Henry by his hand and led him through shadowed corridors. He trailed behind her in a daze, his senses overwrought in his aroused anxiety. The carpets beneath his feet felt thick as winter clouds and no more capable of supporting his weight. As they ascended a highly polished staircase, the candlelight from the wall sconces made the fabric of Arabella’s skirts shimmer and undulate like a mermaid’s tail, the motion making his head swim. He tried to imagine what would occur when they reached the top of the stairs but he could not think past the ringing in his ears. The throbbing in his breeches matched the pounding heartbeat in the palm of his hand, wrapped so lightly in her soft, cool fingers.
The hall at the top of the stairs ended at a heavy mahogany door. The room beyond smelled of a fresh wood fire and a blend of garden herbs and flowers. The fireplace threw a soft, orange light over the undraped bed in the center of the room. Arabella did not let go of his hand as she shut the door.
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