Mansfield Park the Crawfords' Redemption

by Kirsten Bij't Vuur

  She merely rested her head against his, and caressed his chest-hairs gently, stroking them, curling them around her fingers, and then his muscles again, slowly and very gently.

  A whole week left until he would have the right to touch her, it seemed like eternity. But compared to the situation little more than two weeks ago he had gained the world, so he would accept every intimacy his Fanny was prepared to give him, but he would not try to touch any part of her bare skin unless it was that of her hand. Somehow there was a distinct difference between a lady touching a man, or the reverse situation. He could wait, and waiting would make the moment in which she surrendered herself to him even sweeter.

  His excitement waned, but the satisfaction remained, and he relaxed ever more until he finally dropped off again, and this time she let him take his nap, for he had deserved it with his diligent driving.

  Meanwhile, Edmund and Mary were well aware that something was happening to Henry, though they did not observe him closely, due to their own attempts at intimacy and a determination not to see slight indecencies.

  But they could see his changing expressions from the corner of their eyes, from shock, to fire, to schooled laziness, back to shock, and finally to acceptance and real fatigue. They looked at each other and managed not to laugh.

  Fanny must be very forward without it being visible to their glances. Edmund

  said: 'Can you believe how my cousin has changed? She was so shy and so timid, and now she is giving your brother some really uncomfortable moments, though he seems to be enjoying them too.' He did more than speak however, for whilst he had already been holding her hand, he now ran his other elegant hand through Mary's hair, and she shivered with feeling, taking care to show him clearly that it was feeling that caused her to shiver, not disapproval.

  How he would ever be able to think she might disapprove of anything he did surprised her still, for she thought she had very clearly shown him she trusted him in everything, her conviction that he would never do anything inappropriate. Secretly she wished he would do something indecent, to show her he might, but she had known who he was for a long time, and she really valued him for his uprightness, even more so after hearing him preach.

  Though he had been destined for the church before his character was even known, he was very much suited to it, born to it maybe.

  Her thoughts went back half a year, when she had not understood this, and had resented the thought of him taking orders very much. It had almost disgusted her, until his steadfast attentions and his consistent goodness had spoiled her for anyone else, resigning her to her fate, leaving her anxiously awaiting his proposals. He had shown every sign of being in love with her for a long time, she clearly remembered her frustration then, why didn't he come to the point?

  Noticing her reverie, Edmund really put an effort in forgetting his upbringing and his natural delicacy, and he kissed her ardently. Her thoughts returned to him immediately, and she answered his kiss with fervor, unable to keep herself from holding him, her hands in his hair, eyes closed in bliss. Her touch excited him even more, and he thought of Fanny's recurring memory and allowed himself to crush Mary against him and kiss her again, with real heat this time.

  He relished the ability to feel the heat, and he didn't suppress it but allowed it to grow, feeling Mary's hands on his chest now, stroking the bare part where his shirt didn't reach. Their kissing intensified even more, Edmund supposed Mary was feeling the excitement too, and he also realized the passion was not taking over, he was sure he could quell it instantly if needed.

  This was such a relief, he had been so afraid he'd lose control and behave like his brother, that even Mary could feel him letting go of his fear. She stopped touching him so intently and asked: 'What happened?'

  He replied, in a low voice: 'I realized I was very afraid to be overcome by my urges and turn into my brother.' Mary took his beautiful, manly face in both her hands and said: 'You are nothing like your brother, Edmund, don't you think you could ever do something vicious to anyone, not even in the throes of lust.' He said bluntly: 'I broke Fanny's heart.' This sobered her face for a second, for how could he blame himself for something he hadn't even known about when it happened? But she said lightly: 'Don't look now, but does she appear to you as having a broken heart?'

  He did indeed look at her, from the corner of his eye, and saw his cousin lying against Henry, and though he couldn't see really well, he distinctly suspected she had her small, pale hand stuck up his friend's shirt, and was fondling his chest without showing the smallest sign of self-consciousness or shame. Henry was almost asleep, eyes closed, face almost innocent in his happy state.

  Looking back at Mary he whispered: 'No, she does not. But she was very unhappy.'

  And Mary whispered right back: 'My brother was very broken-hearted too, do you blame Fanny for that?' Of course, Edmund could only reply: 'No, she had never asked for his love, nor did I ask for hers. But he had the means to do something about it, which she hadn't. Still, she is certainly very happy now, and I need to let go of my guilty feeling and kiss you again.'

  Which he did, calling up the heat again, and again realizing it was under his control, not the other way around.

  The next thee days were filled with wonders, not just to Fanny, but to the others as well, for though they had been to town often, they had never before seen so many accomplishments of humanity, as they walked through beautifully cultivated gardens, saw paintings and statues from modern artists but also from ancient times, and even superb examples of magnificent art out of the darker ages of their own isles. It was a rare pleasure to be allowed entrance to the relatively new museum, but somehow Henry had managed it.

  In the evenings they generally dined at the Bertrams' house, to prevent especially Fanny's senses from overloading on too much society. She had never been out much, and dining out in public might have been too much excitement for her after a whole day of amusements and a night of them still to come. And a quiet dinner at home also afforded them the chance to be intimate for a few moments, and in mutual agreement and with the staff looking the other way, they retreated for an hour after dinner to one of their

  own rooms, where they would snuggle and kiss to their hearts' content, staying within what their own consciousness told them were the boundaries of propriety before they were married.

  It can be expected that Edmund set his boundaries a lot stricter than Fanny did, the Crawford's almost automatically leaving that moral standard to be decided on by the upright cousins. And it was as natural that Fanny would allow herself greater freedom in her attentions to Henry, than Edmund was prepared to let himself go towards his lady, for the same reason that Henry still did not allow himself to touch Fanny half as intimately as she touched him.

  In the privacy of their own room Fanny had encouraged him to kiss her until they were both out of breath, and to hold her as tightly as he had done a few times before. Touching her bosom with her dress and corset still between his hands and her flesh had been almost as much as he could bear, and it had taken some time for him to control himself after that, which clearly excited her to no end. They were going to have such a splendid time once they were legally wedded.

  Wide awake again, and in high spirits, they would all emerge in their best attire, to enjoy the evening's entertainment, a rendition of Shakespeare's Hamlet in a splendid modern theatre on the first night, and on the second night, a heart-rending Italian concert in a private home, that Henry had heard of via his uncle the Admiral, and had managed to secure admission to on that gentleman's advocacy.

  But Henry's real triumph came on the third evening, when he had kept their destination secret, and he had taken them, dressed in their best, in the carriage, to a part of town where they would normally not visit, it was not exactly seedy, but decidedly below their own class.

  Even Mary expressed some doubts as to the propriety of their being seen there, but Henry assured them they would have the night of their lives. The carriage stopped
in front of an ancient theatre, barely respectable, and with a livid painted sign above the entrance advertising a play that didn't strike them as one of the classics, nor one of the modern pieces that were starting to be appreciated in some of the London theaters.

  But Henry, gallant and showing some of the liveliness that had disgusted Fanny so not even half a year ago, led them to the entrance, having told the driver to be back by ten. The carriage left, and the manager of the theatre, a funny character with a very red complexion and excessively humble manners,

  led them through the faded glory of the entrance hall, up a narrow stairs covered in red velvet, to a private box right above the stage. They were provided with drinks by a girl in a uniform, and set to take a good look about them.

  The view they had over the theatre hall proved it to be of some grandeur, though past its prime. Fanny mused how once the lines of Shakespeare must have resounded here, putting a thrill in the hearts of many a young maiden in those days. But it was clear to her that nothing of the sort was going to unfold before their eyes tonight, for the decor was garish and very explicitly scary: a graveyard, with tumbled tombstones, creeper vines, and lording it over everything, an expertly painted full moon.

  Nipping their drinks, very much excited, even Edmund and Fanny, they waited until the lights in the hall were extinguished and those on the stage were lit. The tale was ludicrous, overly dramatic, with murders happening every five minutes, and blood flowing in gallons. But it was great fun, with explosions occurring, and people disappearing and re-appearing suddenly, and the language the actors spoke was not even that bad, their flowing lines could please Fanny's literary taste, if not her sense of morality. But she had decided to live life to the full, right after she heard of Edmund's engagement, now ages ago, so she let herself be entranced by the spectacle and grabbed Henry's hand and clutched it to her breast in fear whenever the heroine was chased by monsters, or seduced by a villain.

  Edmund was scandalized at first, looking at the ladies in alarm, but when he saw Mary's easy laughter at the more shocking scenes, and Fanny's evident enjoyment of the visual spectacle and stunning special effects, he caught Crawford's eye and got a big wink in return. He knew it was a hint from man to man, and after a moment of observation he got it, moved a bit closer to Mary and took her hand, surrendering himself to the experience of the lower-class amusement whilst enjoying a certain intimacy with his excited intended.

  When everyone had died, the play ended, and they were led out of the theatre by the owner without having to mingle with the crowd. The carriage was already waiting, and once inside they laughed and talked about this hilarious evening. Henry was delighted with their praise and admitted: 'I was a bit afraid you two would be shocked and insulted, but I decided to take the chance. I've always wanted to visit one of those plays, and after the overdose of high culture I thought we had earned some baser entertainment.' Even Edmund agreed, and they ended their lovely night, and their lovely trip to the

  city, with a bottle of excellent red wine from the Bertrams' stock.

  Chapter 18

  That night in bed, head still spinning with all the impressions she had gotten the last three days, Fanny reminisced about how she had changed from the timid dependent niece to a self assured young woman on the brink of marriage. Henry had certainly delivered on his promise to help her conquer her grief, and her loneliness, he had given her consequence and his undivided love. And now he had given her an insight in city life, and a wonderful time as well. She had never in her life seen so much of her cousin, with him in such good spirits and with so little pain or embarrassment attached to their togetherness. Edmund was so much happier as well as herself. And did she dare say it was all thanks to Henry?

  Not all, for Edmund had chosen his marriage partner himself, but Fanny had not been inattentive to the hints going from Henry to Edmund from time to time, looks and gestures leading to intimacies and certain gallantries that would be very appropriate and welcome at certain times. Fanny was sure it had helped Edmund to feel more secure in his relation with a fashionable young woman.

  Be it as it may, Fanny felt no regret in not having loved Henry earlier in their acquaintance, but she was certainly very happy to love him now. Her life had improved manifold, and it was on the brink of getting even better.

  She remembered his pride when she wore the new dresses in public for the first time. She had felt like a queen, never having owned such pretty clothes before, her figure and new bloom were shown to real advantage, her upright posture and gentle manners, now enhanced with self-assurance and faith in the world, turned heads in both men and women wherever they went.

  Of course Henry was thrilled, he had known Fanny would look great in brighter colours and a more modern pattern dress, but the result stunned even him. He had nearly sunk to his knees to worship her, and only the knowledge that she would abhor such a gesture had made him battle his inclination, and instead kiss her hand with fervor. He'd try to kiss her neck later, whenever they would have a little time to themselves.

  There were three new dresses, one for every night, and every night Henry had the pleasure of walking beside the most beautiful woman in the assembly, at least in his mind. But it must be said that he was only slightly blinded by love, Fanny was in fact one of the better looking women everywhere they went.

  Driving towards Mansfield Park with their minds elated and their bodies still tired from their intense three days in London, they had plenty to talk about.

  The last three weeks had caused them to become very close to one another, helped of course by the fact that they had each already been very close to at least one of the party. Fanny found such comfort and welcome in their little group, that she regretted the break-up that would follow their respective marriages. But unless Henry would find a living for Edmund on his own estate, or he would lease Everingham and hire a manor closer to Thornton Lacy, the separation would be inevitable. Still they made the most of the time they had left together, and before they knew it they were approaching Mansfield Park once again.

  They received a warm welcome from aunt Bertram and Sir Thomas, aunt Norris didn't even show up, which no-one in the party rued. And who can describe Fanny's incredible surprise when saw Susan standing behind her uncle?

  It was his surprise for Fanny, to have her sister present at the wedding.

  Discussing the wedding with Sir Thomas, Henry had mentioned Fanny would want her sister to be with her, and Sir Thomas had remembered and sent for her. Susan had already acquainted herself to Mansfield Park and all its inhabitants, and she had made herself very useful to her aunt Bertram, who really did miss Fanny's attentions a lot.

  Being engaged would mean that her bond to Susan could never be as close as it had been in Portsmouth, but Fanny still saw opportunities to help her improve her life and her prospects, having a home of her own soon she might receive her sister there, if Henry agreed. But before she could ask him, aunt Bertram revealed her own intentions: 'Susan and I have taken a great liking to one another, and Pug adores her, so I have asked herself and Sir Thomas if she can stay after the wedding, as a companion to me, and they have both agreed. If I cannot have you, Fanny, I'll be glad to have your sister around.'

  That was even better, Fanny had worried about leaving her aunt, and Susan was in no danger of letting herself be bossed around, her life in a large family practically assured that she was well-able to defend her own rights. And of

  course Fanny could occasionally invite her over for amusements either in town or in the country. She liked the idea, and she was especially happy to have Susan over for the wedding, since William couldn't be there and it was good to have someone at her wedding who came especially for her.

  After the first joy of their greetings, Sir Thomas asked all four of the young people to join him for a moment in his study, and they followed him to that impressive place, where Fanny still found it difficult to forget her memories of her fear of her uncle, though she had since come to under
stand that he loved her very much, and just had difficulties to express that love.

  They all sat down, and with a grave face, Sir Thomas said: 'When you were away in London, I have had several serious conversations with Tom, about his behavior in general, and on his behavior towards Fanny in particular.

  I'm sad to have to tell you that though he is very eager to apologize to both Fanny and Mr Crawford for his misdeed, I have a strong feeling that he still doesn't see the wrong he has done. He is only afraid of the consequences thereof, and he doesn't see the evil his abject habits in London have done to him either.

  Somewhere in his youth, I must have made a bad mistake in his upbringing, for he has never had the slightest regard for anyone but himself and for anything but his own comfort and amusement. He has excellent manners when he is sober, and can conduct himself like a true gentleman, but he has no control over his urges whatsoever and he has no empathy for any living thing. To make long and short of it: my eldest son is not suitable to hold an estate nor a baronetcy.

  He would squander the resources of the property, bleed it dry to fund his own amusements, reducing his mother and sisters to poverty and dependence on you, Edmund or even you, Fanny. He would drag the name of Bertram through the mud with his whoring, his drinking and his gambling. And he would neglect and even abuse the people who depend on him, his tenants, the household staff, they would all suffer. No more.'

  Here, Sir Thomas had to stop for a while to collect his feelings, he was as distraught as both Fanny and Edmund had ever seen him. No-one spoke. Sir Thomas went on in a feeling voice: 'Yesterday, I have sent for my lawyer and we have re-drawn my will, disowning Tom and designating Edmund my heir to Mansfield Park and the baronetcy. I should have done that years ago, as soon as his vicious streak became apparent, but I chose to settle the disputes

  and hope for improvement. It will not come, his attack on Fanny's honor was the final blow.