Mansfield Park the Crawfords' Redemption

by Kirsten Bij't Vuur

connected to his own to get their lease. And we had a few moments of mutual enjoyment of the sea views and some natural beauties.'

  Now, Edmund gave him an encouraging smile and said: 'And there you may have found the way into her heart. I am certain you can win her, and I am certain you could be happy together, once you proved you were not the unprincipled flirt she holds you for. She told me she remembers you sporting with my sisters' feelings, and that Miss Crawford confirmed that you had done that before. I cannot give you instant gratification, Crawford, I can only tell you that if you show yourself well-principled and not too spirited, you still have a chance at gaining her love. But it will take time, and you must prove yourself worthy with great consistency.'

  Relief caused Henry to be more forthcoming than might be strictly decorous:

  'I want to make her happy, Edmund, she is hardly alive right now, I want her to taste all the finer arts, really good music, good, serious acting, I want to accompany her on horseback, enjoy nature together. I want to give her the consequence she deserves, but I also want to sit with her quietly in the evenings, reading to her, being able to touch her and have her touch me.

  She is not doing well in Portsmouth, her health is failing, and I feel so incredibly useless not being able to save her from its deprivations. I want to take her back to the country, and protect her from harm and unkind people, but she denies me the power to do her any good.'

  This feeling plea was even more powerful to Edmund because it showed him how much influence his cousin already had over his lively friend. His feelings for Fanny clearly did run very deep, and he wished he could intercede for Henry, but that was impossible: time and consistency were his only allies. He said as much to his friend, and assured him he would tell his uncle all about Fanny's need for the country to improve her health.

  This was what Henry had set out to hear, he would have to think of what Bertram had told him in private, but so far it confirmed his own hopes, so he ended with fulfilling his promise to Fanny: 'Oh, and your cousin pleaded me to ask you to write to her as you had promised. She seemed really eager to hear from you.'

  This message gave a very strange reaction in Edmund, his usually so steadfast countenance became restless and even disturbed. Henry tried to look encouraging, to give him a chance to speak his mind as readily as he had listened, but it was clear Edmund's decorum would not allow him to talk to the brother about his wishes for the sister.

  It was up to Henry to encourage him to relieve his feelings: 'Was Mary all right when you dined with the Frasers? I have not seen her these last four days.'

  The disturbance became more clear, Edmunds emotions rose and at last his resolve at discretion broke: 'She introduced me to her friends, and she seemed in perfect health. Her manners were different in their house, she was in high spirits and not in the mood to exchange personal information. I must admit I felt out of sorts by her reception, after having been so close to eachother at Mansfield Park.'

  Henry now said soothingly: 'She told me she did not look forward to the visit as she had expected to, that she would have much rather remained with her sister. She may have been nervous to meet you amongst her fashionable friends, for had they not taken to you they would have said things about you in private that she might have been pained to hear.'

  That was a distinct encouragement that even Edmund should feel. And so he did: 'You think it would pain her if her friends were down on me? Two weeks ago I felt sure of having managed to created some affection with her, but now I felt she despised me and would ridicule me if.. I just don't know what to do.'

  This was it, the big moment that might secure the future of all four of them, brother and sister as well as cousins. 'Though Mary has not confided in me, my friend, I have known her my whole life, and I know her really well,'

  Henry told his friend, 'I cannot totally guarantee a good reception, but I dare encourage you to take the plunge, because the chance of success materially outweighs the risk of disappointment.'

  It was done, and now Henry could only await the result. But there was one more subject that pained his friend, that he might offer some relieve on:

  'What's up with your brother, he didn't look so good.' And in the spirit of the moment, Bertram decided to come clear totally, and he said: 'My parents have no idea what is going on, I have just found out when I arrived, a few days ago, and have tried my best to influence him for the good a younger brother can do, but it is to no avail. He is set on being entertained all night, and suffer the consequences all day. There are spirits, loose women, gambling, everything designed to ruin a man in both body and mind. Even our father cannot check him.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that, I kind of liked him at the time of the play, though he never felt so much as a brother to me. I hope he sees the error of his ways before he does himself or his family serious harm,' Henry observed, fond of

  amusement himself, but all in good measure.

  They talked some more about sports, and Edmund wanted to know more details about his visit to Portsmouth, about Fanny's family, and how badly Henry estimated the risk to Fanny's health.

  Soon after, they retreated to their own chambers, where Henry spent another hour contemplating what Bertram had said about his dear Fanny, about the best possible way to win her heart.

  Tomorrow, Henry would drive to his estate, check on his steward and start to show some interest in his own business-affairs.

  It was time he grow up and know enough of his own property to recognize when he was taken advantage of, time to start caring about other people besides himself and his family. Time to be worthy of the affection of someone with the moral superiority of an angel.

  And when he had settled his business, he would write his beloved a letter, a long letter, detailing his actions and describing some point of beauty on his estate. It would be nice for her to have some distraction, from whomever it came, and there were worse ways of getting into the good graces of a young lady than emulating the good habits of the brother she adored.

  Chapter 3

  Who can describe the surprise of Fanny three days later, when she received a letter from a gentleman, but not the expected and dreaded letter from her cousin, but a totally unexpected letter from Mr Crawford that offered no embarrassments, but only pleasure?

  It was a full two pages long, in a neat and flowing hand, and totally proper in its address and tone, directed to Miss Price, and dated the day before yesterday. This meant Mr Crawford had only overnighted in London, and gone straight to Everingham to settle his dispute with his steward.

  As modest as Fanny was, she could not but feel the compliment in both the fact that he had indeed done what was right instead of staying in London to amuse himself with his sister, and that he had taken the trouble of writing a long letter to the woman he professed to love passionately, so soon after having arrived at Everingham himself.

  There were no embarrassing allusions to his love for her, or to her future residence at his estate, just a faithful account of his actions, and a statement of the reason for his writing. He told her he had done it for her amusement, to give her some news from her acquaintance, and of course to give her the satisfaction of having induced him to take up his duties as he knew he should have done much earlier in life. He also complimented William for setting the example of writing long letters, for he said he found it quite entertaining to do, and would try to practice the art more often, to his sister as well.

  Mentioning William was always good for a thrill of goodwill with tenderhearted Fanny, of course, and Mr Crawford's letter did give her half an hour of amusement reading it, and another hour of satisfaction during the rest of the day, from contemplating how properly and gently it was written. It was not all business, though, for the last two paragraphs contained a beautiful description of a valley belonging to his estate, as seen from the top of the hill upon which the house stood, in the soft light of a spring evening, with the trees budding, and the grass turning a lush green once more, and the smoke curli
ng from the cottages beside the winding stream. It was really well-done,

  and it reminded her of the few good moments she had spent with Mr Crawford, always associated with either the beauty of nature, or literature.

  These paragraphs combined them.

  Of course Fanny did realize that having inspired Mr Crawford to write a long letter, it obligated her to return the favor, and though her common sense protested against that as inciting his preference even more, her righteousness would not let her escape the duty. Writing a return cost her more hours than the half hour that reading the original had taken her, and it afforded less pleasure for she was afraid to write something that could be interpreted in the wrong way.

  But she found it was a stimulating way to spend her time, her mind was engaged with other subjects than her cousin's imminent engagement, and writing kindly but without any encouragement of Mr Crawford's professed affection for her, was forcing her to think every sentence through very carefully. She rather enjoyed it.

  And to top off the letter she included a description of her favorite view in Portsmouth, in her best prose, of which she was rather proud when she was done. It took her two days to finish the letter, and with a bit of embarrassment she wrote his name and the address of his estate in Norfolk on the envelope and walked to the post-office with Susan to mail it.

  He would probably be in London already when it arrived, she didn't think he was ever at his estate longer than a few days in a row, but she had written the letter out of propriety, and though she had been well-entertained writing it, she did not mind the idea that he would not yet see it for weeks, in fact, she very much preferred he would.

  But here she underestimated the anxious expectations that his trust in her excellent principles inspired in Mr Crawford. He knew she would feel obliged to return his favor, and though of course he could have left instructions to forward any private letters to his London address, the Admiral's town-house, he felt it wiser to stay at Everingham a little longer, for he knew from Edmund that his eldest sister Mrs Rushworth was giving a party which he would be pressed by Mary to attend if he were in town.

  So the expected letter from Fanny became the consolation he promised himself for staying another full week alone on his estate, riding from farm to farm and from village to church to mill, getting to know his own property and the people who lived and worked there, as he had promised himself he would.

  And with the week nearly passed, the party over and done with, his prize lay before him on the breakfast table, an envelope, addressed to himself in a rather girlish hand. It was satisfyingly thick, and with a thrill of passion he opened it, even before he poured himself a cup of coffee.

  It was two pages, like his, and it was clear his adorable Fanny had spent a lot of time on it, for though it was very sweet and amiably written, there was not a sentence, not a syllable in it that could be interpreted in any way as a sign of affection, let alone any higher feeling. It was calculated to satisfy propriety by returning his favor of writing, and nothing more.

  It started with a commendation on his decisive action, and on taking the effort of writing a long letter to a lady of his acquaintance, hoping he would indeed honor Miss Crawford with a similar epistle and imagining her joy in receiving it. Then it detailed the bustle of a sea port and the things one generally saw in them, after which she conjectured how spring would have transformed Mansfield Park by now, and lamented just a little how she had not heard of Edmund yet. She praised his prose and his description, and ended with a similar description of one of her local favorite sights, a view on the port with the lighthouse in the background, and expressed her hope her own prose would be found on a par with his. It was quite good, she had spent some time on it, he could see that.

  The letter ended with an account of her health, stating it as good, which he remembered having demanded in every letter she wrote to his sister to prevent him from coming to fetch her to Mansfield Park instantly. Though he guessed she was exaggerating her health a little bit, he read good spirits in the whole letter, and keen observational powers, which he supposed she would lose if her situation was deteriorated. Still he planned to visit next week, finding an excuse as soon as he came to London.

  Half an hour of reading saw the end of his letter too, but his contemplations of it were not limited to an hour, as it put him in a state of optimism that he had not known since the day the love of his life had refused his offer of marriage.

  This was indeed the way into her heart, and he nearly grabbed a sheet of paper to write again straight away. But he would see her next week, and forcing her into intimacy by writing was as bad as doing so in person, so he resisted the impulse and re-read this one, imaging her sitting down and writing it, mending her pen, writing the address with a bit of embarrassment,

  as if she were seeking contact with him.

  After his breakfast he sent for his steward, and clearly delivered his detailed instructions for the running of the farms and the mill. He believed he had made it quite clear who was in charge now, but he would check, and if needed he would replace the steward with a more tractable man, which the current man understood perfectly. Then he ordered his carriage and left for London, mind filled with love and prose, and a healthy dose of curiosity whether Bertram had dared propose to his sister and if so, whether he had a brother by now.

  Meanwhile, in Fanny, the anxiety about Edmund had been rising steadily, and she could hardly eat for fear of the mail. For three days after she had sent the letter to Mr Crawford, no letter from Edmund came, but this was not a relief to her. Her cousin had never before sent her one, and she could easily imagine him forgetting to write her even if he were engaged by now.

  As far as she could tell, spring was now arrived in full force, temperatures were rising, but hardly any signs of it could be seen in Portsmouth. She missed Mansfield Park even knowing her cousin was not there, though she had formed quite a good bond with her sister Susan by now, and would certainly miss her if she were to return to Mansfield Park.

  Rebecca came in and interrupted her reverie, saying: 'There is a gentleman to see you, Miss Price.' Fanny thanked her and went down the stairs trembling, hoping it to be Sir Thomas, come to fetch her? Or Edmund, bringing his horrible news himself? She had to cling to the railing to prevent her falling, and couldn't hide her disappointment when it turned out to be Mr Crawford.

  He saw her reaction, showed a fleeting look of hurt disappointment of his own, then schooled his expression back to that of a bringer of good news. She vaguely hoped he had permission to bring her back to Mansfield Park, but then he held out a letter to her. He looked around and said: 'Shall we take a walk towards the wharf, so you can read your cousin's letter in peace?'

  She agreed and they walked together, Fanny unsteady on her legs through nervousness. She saw Mr Crawford eye her suspiciously, he clearly thought her unsteadiness due to worsened health, and he observed, worriedly: 'Miss Price, have you been totally honest with me in your kind letter? You wrote you were fine but you seem much worse than last week, you tremble and can hardly stand. Will you please take my arm for support?' Fanny did, because

  she needed it, and she managed to reply: 'I'm not that much worse, I'm just dreading the news Edmund might send me.'

  He clearly didn't comprehend this, and she could not explain of course, so she kept quiet and concentrated on walking, as he told her about his week of getting to know his property, and of finding his tenants pleasant, hard-working people. By now they had reached a little public lawn, with a bench which was fortunately empty. They sat down and with trembling hands, Fanny opened the letter, somehow knowing that what was written in this letter was the end of all hope for her. Still, she needed to see it, Mr Crawford was still watching her with sincere worry in his expression, keeping a tight hold on himself not to touch her in a sympathetic gesture.

  The letter was open, and she started to read:

  My very dear Fanny,

  I'm very sorry that I did not write earl
ier, Crawford told me you were waiting for news from me. But I didn't have any news for you until now. You will be glad to hear that I finally worked up the courage to ask Miss Crawford to marry me, and she accepted. We ….

  Fanny didn't read the rest, first the characters started to spin, then the entire world, and then she was delivered from her mental agony by a blessed nothingness.

  Chapter 4

  Henry was watching his beloved Fanny in a pale, tremulous state, opening the letter as if it were her death warrant, starting to read it with obvious fear.

  After what could not have been more than two or three lines, her hand fell, letter and all, and her slight body toppled where it sat.

  He was just in time to catch her, or she would have fallen face-first into the dirt. And there he sat, the love of his life in his arms, out cold, himself shocked into the extreme and aware of the indecency of his holding her in such a public place. He decided quickly and picked up the letter, put it in his pocket, then picked up Fanny almost as easily, she weighed next to nothing, and he took her to his hotel instead of to her own home.

  He might be sorry for it later, but his main concern was Fanny, and she needed a doctor, not her uncaring parents or their indifferent servant. She would not be missed, except maybe by her one sister.

  He soon reached the hotel and ordered a doctor to be sent for, and a private room with a sofa. The butler showed him into a room, and told him a boy had been dispatched to get the best doctor in town, for now, one of the servants, a matronly lady of middle age, came in to assist him.

  To say that Henry was worried was an understatement, he was nearly in a panic, keeping calm only through extreme self-control. What was in that letter besides the happy news of her cousin's betrothal to Mary? Something had her in an anxious state even before she opened the letter, and she had told him it was the news that she feared.

  Had she feared to hear of Bertram's engagement?