Rich Repayment

Rich Repayment:

A Continuation of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park

 

By DeeDee Baldwin

Submitted to the Honors Committee at William Carey College, May 2001
Supervised by Allison C. Chestnut

Background: Frances O'Conner as Fanny Price in Miramax's Mansfield Park. Picture from the Frances O'Conner Web Pages

I-V | VI-X | XI-XV | XVI-XX | XXI-XXV | XXVI-XXVII

 

 

About two hundred years ago, Miss Fanny Price of Portsmouth, a little girl with no fortune and no breeding, had the good luck to be adopted by Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised in the society of her wealthy relations, with all the comforts and consequences of a handsome house and a large income.  Her upbringing was carried out with the strictest care, lest she think herself equal to her cousins, or otherwise entitled to any benefits lavished on them, whether they be in the form of Aunt Norris’ brand of kindness or of the attentions of young men with great estates and open hearts.  In spite of these worthy attempts, Fanny emerged as her uncle’s only comfort.

            Sir Thomas’ elder daughter, Maria, made a splendid match, if a match with an affluent and stupid man may be called splendid.  She forsook this wedded bliss, however, and ran away with Henry Crawford, the rejected suitor of her cousin Fanny, thus bringing upon herself not only disgrace, but also the constant companionship of her Aunt Norris.  Maria’s sister, Julia, also married a stupid man — but one without the redeeming quality of a large income.  Fanny, then, would be the daughter in whom Sir Thomas took pride.  What of Sir Thomas’ sons, the young Mr. Bertrams?  After a rather unpromising beginning, Tom was becoming the future heir his father wished him to be, and Edmund was as steadfast as ever, though in poor spirits following his rejection of Mary Crawford. 

            Those who should be happy were made so, and those led to folly and ruin by varying amounts of heedlessness and vice were left unhappy.  Here “A Lady” left the Bertrams, the Crawfords, and Fanny Price in 1814, and it is here that I continue their story.

 

I

When a lady is determined not to take the trouble to be anything but contented, and her beloved Pug is shuffling restlessly in her lap, and she is occupied chiefly with breathing and napping with such elegance as only a lady can manage, a loose thread is a nuisance that cannot be borne.  But when that lady has a niece, a very thoughtful and obliging niece who may be summoned with the smallest sigh — !  “Fanny,” said Lady Bertram, who was just such a lady employing just such a sigh for just such a niece.

Fanny Price looked up from her book and smiled; any acquaintance of hers might have called it a knowing smile.  “What is it, Aunt?”

            “I fear it is too much trouble, Fanny, but perhaps you have noticed this loose thread on my sleeve?”

            Fanny had not.  “Yes, ma’am.”

            “Does it not seem very vexing?”

            Fifteen-year-old Susan Price, who sat near a window doing satin-stitch, turned her face aside and gave a small cough which sounded much like a laugh.  Edmund, too, might have found humor in his mother’s predicament and might also have enjoyed the book which lay open in his lap, had he not been staring at the wall.

            “Yes, quite,” Fanny replied.

            Lady Bertram sighed again.  “Chapman will have to pull it out for me later.”

            “Would you like me to take care of it, Aunt?”

            “Oh, Fanny, it is too much trouble.  You must not.” 

            Fanny rose and knelt by her aunt, and with a quick twist of her wrist, plucked the thread. As she sat down and lifted her book again, Fanny glanced at Susan, who raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes. She shifted her gaze to Edmund, for whom her concern was growing daily, and was surprised to find him smiling at her warmly.  Only a minute passed before Fanny heard Edmund leave his chair, and she watched over the edge of her book as he paced the length of the room a few times, then finally left. Lady Bertram either did not notice or did not care. Susan watched him, then returned to her stitching with an expression of boredom and resignation.

            Fanny, however, closed her book without marking her place and left it behind her on the chair as she went to find Edmund. He stood right outside in the hallway looking through a window. He leaned towards it slightly, his hands resting on the ledge, and he stood at such an angle that his back was to her.  He seemed to know she was there, however, and said, “Fanny, you have the greatest patience in the world.”

            “Do not say so.”

            “Fanny, I have never known you to discourage speaking the truth!  No, you will be called patient; I shall not take it back.”

            “What makes you think so?”

            “Anyone else would have left the thread for Chapman,” he chuckled. “But I shall be serious.  You are patient in the way you deal with all of us, Fanny.  Especially — especially with me.”  Fanny remained silent. “I have come to the point, you know, that I cannot imagine why I loved her.”

            A pair of laughing eyes flashed before Fanny, and she forced herself to clear her thoughts. She could not tell if they belonged to Mary or to Henry, nor did it matter; they were Crawford eyes, and that was all. “What has brought you to that conclusion at last?” she asked.

            “At last?  Yes, Fanny you have put it properly, for I should have seen long ago that she was a creature of my own making. She cared little for anything but herself” — then  affectionately — “but you have always cared for others, and have always been too good to me.” He smiled and took on a lighter tone. “Now, my dear Fanny, what are your thoughts on our ball tonight?”

            “I look forward to it with pleasure — especially to the occasion it celebrates.” 

            Later that afternoon, Tom would return from an extended visit to town, and Sir Thomas decided to give a ball, both to welcome back his son, and to cheer the rather forlorn residents of Mansfield Park.  He could never forget the fact that his daughters, in whom he had invested so much money but not enough affection by half, were lost to him; but he would not allow the rest of his family to be punished with unwarranted misery.  Did he not have a daughter in Fanny Price, and could they not all be gay again? 

            “Yes, I will be most happy to see my brother again,” Edmund agreed.  “I understand that he has changed so much for the better, and I believe he will make Father proud after all.  He actually went to town for business rather than pleasure, though I dare say he enjoyed his fair share of the latter.  He brings several friends with him tonight.”

            “Really?  Do you know them, Edmund?”

            “I have never met them, but Tom wrote in his four-sentence letter that they are delightful people.  We may judge for ourselves tonight.  Their aunt, Lady Prescott from Derbyshire, happened to be visiting a friend in the county last December, and so attended the ball held for you and William.”

            “Yes, I remember your mother briefly mentioned her name.”  Fanny had carried on a somewhat one-sided conversation with her aunt on the day after that ball, and Lady Bertram had recalled that Lady Prescott had “noticed something” in Fanny, though she could not remember what it was.

            They were both silent for a long time. Fanny watched the gradual emergence of the sun from behind a cloud, and Edmund watched Fanny.  “I must go to my father now,” Edmund said at last. “Good afternoon, Fanny.” He pressed her hand, then walked off, leaving her in a not uncommon state of confusion.

           

II

            Hours later, Fanny descended the staircase at Sir Thomas’ side, wearing a white dress, William’s amber cross on Edmund’s gold chain, and blushes effected by her uncle’s compliments.  Susan came down behind them, all excitement for her first ball.  The ballroom looked splendid, though this affair was not quite as grand as the one held not long ago in Fanny’s honor.  Mrs. Norris would have had some remarks on this unwarranted distinction of Fanny, had she known that Tom’s honor was lacking in any way to Fanny’s. 

            No such uncharitable feelings between cousins, however — “Fanny!” Tom exclaimed warmly when he saw her. He took quick steps to her side and kissed her hand. “May I steal her from you, Father? I have friends to introduce!”

             As Tom led her away, Fanny protested quietly, “Do you think it quite necessary?  They can have no interest in me.  Perhaps . . .”

            “Nonsense, Fanny!  You have no reason to be timid.  My friends are quite civil, I assure you, and very eager to meet you, for I’ve told them so much about you.”

            “But . . .”  She could not continue, as Tom had stopped and bowed before several handsome young people.

            “Fanny, may I introduce my very good friends from London: Mr. and Mrs. Cooke, and her sister and brother, Mr. James Prescott and Miss Charis Prescott.  My cousin, Miss Price.”

            “Miss Price.  How do you do?  Such a pleasure, I’m sure,” came the requisite, polite chorus of voices. 

            James Prescott was the brother of three younger sisters and made his father proud by being “the most responsible, sensible, and unaffected young man in the country.”  His friends, however, valued him more for his charm and endless good humor, which overcame his shyness when he was among those who made him feel at ease.  He stood to inherit Oakbridge, a respectable estate of three thousand a year, which was located near the tiny village of Lambton in Derbyshire.

            Charis was her brother’s closest friend and confidant, a girl who possessed not only the virtue of beauty, but those not insignificant ones of sense and sweetness.  She and James were admired and respected by everyone within a day’s ride of Oakbridge, and claimed steady friendships with the families of Chatsworth, Edgecombe, and Pemberley.  Tom singled her out as his favorite from the start, not only among her siblings, but among every acquaintance he made in London; he made this hasty judgment based on the curl of her hair and the lightness of her step, to be sure, but it may be to his credit that his initial interest lasted not only through their first conversation, but through many more following.

            Martha Cooke grew up nothing like James and Charis in mind, though she shared their handsome features and good hearts,  characteristics which her husband could appreciate enough to marry her.  No people spoke to Mr. Cooke without wondering why, exactly, they were wasting their time with him; he was an amiable man, but could only provide good company until one remembered that he possessed no other traits which made him interesting.  

            One of the Prescotts was missing — a girl of nineteen named Anna, who resembled Charis in every respect but good looks, for some went so far as to pronounce her “ugly” until they knew her, and then she became “rather plain.”  Unfortunately, her sharp mind, thoughtful nature, and ready laugh were undervalued in company, for Charis boasted these same virtues, with the added profit of a pretty face.  Anna had met Tom in London with her brother and sisters, but a prior engagement prevented her from accepting the invitation to Mansfield Park. 

            The Cookes stayed and conversed with Fanny a little while, then moved away to speak with Lady Bertram, who this evening was paying her eldest son the great compliment of standing at his ball. Tom and Charis were soon occupied primarily with each other, for two young people who find each other sensible and witty are not likely to be disappointed in also thinking each other handsome.  Thus Fanny and James were left in each other’s company.

            “My aunt told me much of you, Miss Price,” said James.  “I don’t suppose you remember, but she had the pleasure of meeting you last year.  She always spoke with fond recollection of that ball and the pleasures it afforded.”

            For her part, Fanny could no longer think of the ball with “fond recollection,” owing to the grievous circumstances soon following, but replied, “Indeed, I do remember meeting Lady Prescott, though there were so many new faces that night to frighten me.” 

James smiled.  “Do you live here with the Bertrams, then, Miss Price?”

            Fanny colored a little, thinking of her family and their less than admirable conditions in Portsmouth.  “Yes, sir, my uncle and aunt were kind enough to take me in.”

            “I see.  Well, since you are so familiar with the grounds of Mansfield Park, perhaps you would not mind showing a stranger around the dance floor when the music begins — if I am not very frightening?”  His easy smile would not allow refusal, and Fanny signaled her acceptance with a nod.  “Excellent.  Now what is your verdict on Tom Bertram, Miss Price?”

            “My verdict, sir?”

            “Yes, what do you think of him?”  James grinned as he noticed Tom leaning a bit closer to them.

            “His father is pleased with him,” Fanny replied.

            “Ah.  So his father thinks well of him, and his cousin will not give her opinion.” 

            “He is appreciated by his father and his friends, and that should be commendation enough.  What matters the opinion of a cousin?”

            “It matters a great deal, for perhaps his friends are deceived in him.  It would be a great injustice — do you not agree, Miss Price? — if a young lady knew her cousin’s friend to be deceived in him, and did not enlighten him?”

            “Would it not also be a great injustice if a man, slandered by a cousin, were to lose the good company of his friend?”

            “’Good company’?  I thank you, Miss Price.  Now what do you think of Tom?”

            “I like him very much, though perhaps,” Fanny smiled, “his choice of friends is questionable.”

            “Hear, hear, Fanny!” Tom broke in with a laugh.  “Don’t think I haven’t been listening, Prescott, you scoundrel.  Do not fear, Fanny, I shall take him away from you.  Surely my friend the busybody would like to meet other people.  Lucas is here — you have heard me speak of Lucas, Prescott; and so is my particular friend Davies, whom I met at the races.  Come along.”

            “First dance, Miss Price?” laughed James as Tom led him and Charis away.

            Fanny smiled after them, then jumped as someone touched her elbow.  She turned to see Edmund, who offered her a glass of wine.  “Fanny, you look beautiful.”

            Fanny felt the compliment and accepted the glass from his hand.  “Thank you,” she replied, and, desiring to turn the conversation quickly from herself, she remarked, “What do you think of Tom’s friends?”

            “I cannot say, for Tom has not introduced me to them yet, though they seem like fine people.”  Then, admiringly — “He must think very highly of you, Fanny, to have you meet his friends before his brother does.”

            “Edmund, don’t say such things.  Perhaps he could not find you.”

            “I was standing by the door,” Edmund contradicted with a smile.  “No other explanation will suffice, Fanny, but that Tom thinks very highly of you.”

            “I do not think it is so; he must have wanted to introduce you first.”

            “But the fact remains that he did not,” he replied in good humor, “but never mind that.  What did you think of his friends?”

            “I like them very much indeed, for they seem kind and sensible, but I have not spoken to them long enough to form any sound judgment.”

            “Dear Fanny, when you form your judgment, let me know, for you are never wrong.  How I wish I had listened to you in the past — what your insights, had I heeded them, might have spared me!”  He thought of the Crawfords, and so did Fanny.  With his meaning understood, it was best to find a safer subject.  “Will you dance the first with me?” he asked.

            “I would love to, Edmund, but I have already promised the first to Mr. Prescott. I’m sorry.”  Fanny longed to take back the promise, but knew that it would be too impolite to do so.  How her heart would have been gladdened if Edmund had offered this honor all those months ago, instead of bestowing it on Mary Crawford; yet here he was, making the request she never thought to hear, and she was forced to refuse!

            Edmund glanced over at his brother’s friends and could not help but notice the handsome face and figure of James Prescott, but it was only a dance, after all!  A few minutes later, the music started, and Edmund bowed as James walked over to claim Fanny.

            “Mr. Prescott, this is my cousin Edmund Bertram,” Fanny introduced them.

            “Tom’s brother!”  James offered his hand eagerly.  “A pleasure to meet you.”

            Edmund shook his hand and tried to smile.  “Likewise.” 

            Edmund watched as James led Fanny into the set.  They were a handsome pair, even when compared to Tom and Charis, who stood beside them.  He comforted himself with the thought that Fanny never did care about such things, as proved by her steady refusal of Henry Crawford.  Then again, Henry wasn’t exactly handsome, nor did he have the moral character which might have given him a hope to win Fanny Price.  Even so — !  With these things in mind, Edmund allowed himself to feel concerned about Fanny.  He would not have called it jealousy.

 

III

            It was a wonderful night for Fanny; she had not once felt fatigued, and her conversations with James Prescott only served to make her more pleased with him. Great was her delight, therefore, to learn that they would remain two weeks at Mansfield Park. She was happy for her sister, who appeared quite satisfied with her first ball and eager for her next.  Indeed, Fanny’s only regret as she fell asleep that night was the rather depressed look of Edmund all evening — but to that, she reminded herself, she was much accustomed.

            Breakfast was especially lively the next morning, owing to the additional company, as well as the conversation topics provided by the ball.  Two of the usual faces were absent; Edmund was at Thornton Lacey and Susan was still asleep.  Mr. and Mrs. Cooke spoke chiefly with Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram, while Tom occupied himself with Charis Prescott.  Fanny, therefore, was left quite satisfactorily to the conversation of James, who had already come to like Fanny a great deal and asked her to give him a tour of the grounds.  He discovered that, like himself, she was quiet and timid until she was encouraged and given the opportunity to say what she was thinking.  What some had never learned after knowing Fanny for years, James understood and appreciated immediately.

            He loved listening to her; his breakfast had remained almost entirely untouched.  She spoke with knowledge and enthusiasm on subjects that were important to her, and listened eagerly in return.  James generally confined his end of the conversation to questions, merely for the sake of hearing Fanny talk as much as possible.  When she asked him a question, he made his answer short and waited for her to continue.   Nor could he be insensible of her natural, understated loveliness.

            For her part, Fanny was growing equally fond of James.  In her mind, he was a model of everything that was good in Henry Crawford, and he possessed other characteristics which she found lacking in Henry.  She was glad to have the chance to befriend James, but could not forget whom she really loved.  

            “Tell me, Miss Price,” said James, snapping a leaf from a bush as they passed by, “how did you come to live at Mansfield Park?”

            “My family live in Portsmouth, and are very poor.  My mother being the sister of Lady Bertram, I was invited by my uncle and aunt to come to live at Mansfield Park.  I was but ten years old when I came here.”

            “You are fortunate to have such generous relations, but were you not unhappy?”

            Fanny looked at him in wonder, amazed that he could understand her so completely.  Perhaps it was an easy assumption; Mrs. Norris, with all her speeches about gratitude, was hardly characteristic of the general population.  But Fanny had never been quite reconciled to the fact that her initial misery was natural, and had certainly never been reassured to that end by anyone else. “What would make you think so?” she asked him.

            “Of course, it was kind of the Bertrams to take you in, and your life has changed for the better.  But to take a child — that is, such a child as you must have been, Miss Price — so suddenly away from her family!  To have separated you from William, whom you have told me so much about!”

            Fanny smiled.  “I hardly know how to express my gratitude to you, Mr. Prescott.”

            “Gratitude?” he asked, surprised.  “For what?”

            “For understanding, sir, that my unhappiness was not unwarranted, even in the midst of such generosity.  Could you only imagine how I was scolded for feeling that my situation had not improved, but worsened!  The luxury of my new surroundings could not compensate for the loss of equality and importance and love.  Edmund, I think, understood a little.”

            As they spoke, Edmund himself had just arrived at the park from Thornton Lacey; he greeted everyone in the sitting-room and kissed his napping mother on the cheek, but immediately noticed one particular absence.  “Where is Fanny?” he asked, looking around.

            Tom turned his attention briefly away from Charis.  “She’s out walking with Prescott,” he answered with his usual cheer.

            “Ah.”  Edmund stood a little straighter and went to talk to Susan, who had never liked him. 

            Fanny and James returned a half-hour later, and as soon as Edmund heard them outside the room, his words trailed off and he turned to the door.  Susan gave a small shrug and returned to her satin stitch, not really caring one way or the other about Edmund’s attention.  The pair entered the room and Edmund noted how colored, healthy, and radiant his cousin looked.  He watched every move she made — how she untied the ribbons under her chin, how she removed her bonnet with one hand and patted her hair with the other, how she turned the bonnet slowly in her hands as they stood talking.  Edmund marveled that the others in the room did not seem to notice her unstudied perfection; he envied James Prescott the smile on Fanny’s lips, without quite knowing why he did.

 

IV

Henry Crawford watched rather absently as his brandy glass was refilled — was it the second time or the sixty-fourth? He neither knew nor cared as he stared at a vague reflection of himself in the glass. A month ago, he would not have recognized himself, but he had gradually grown accustomed to the image that mocked him in every mirror.  For the first time in his selfish, indulged life, Henry knew the meaning of regret.  Every morning when he opened his eyes, he remembered that he had thrown away Fanny Price for Maria Rushworth, whom he despised. He hated the stubborn pride in himself that had led him to pursue Maria, and by that folly to ruin his chances with the woman he loved.

            Henry took another drink of brandy and exhaled deeply. He dreaded going home alone; the steady noise of the bar was a blessing compared to the silence that allowed him to think even more, but he didn’t want to drink himself into an oblivion either. He abhorred self-pity, and fought actively against it.  Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a handful of money — he had no idea how much — and laid it on the counter. 

            “Crawford, you’re not leaving already, eh?” asked his neighbor, slapping him heartily on the shoulder.

            Another man spoke up.  “Bet you a fiver he’s got more entertaining company waiting.”

            Henry forced a smile, and for a moment the dashing Henry Crawford of Mansfield Park could be detected, but he disappeared just as quickly. “G’night, boys,” he said in the most light-hearted voice he could manage.

            He knew that he was walking down the street in a straight line, and he knew he was thinking clearly. He must not have drunk much. The afternoon’s rainfall still shone on the ground, and the street was dark. As he walked down Hill Street, Henry studied the stars reflected in the puddles, and as he sloshed through them, he watched as the tiny lights scattered into blurry sparkles.  He reached the door of his uncle’s house and walked in without greeting anyone; his only purpose was to find his room and then his bed.

            On many other nights, he would have gone to visit Mary in Westminster, but this evening she was off dancing at another one of her insipid balls.  There was a time when Henry loved to attend parties and dances, for not many a young man dislikes the sensation of pretty girls breaking their hearts over him — and so the girls did over Henry.  Half of London cried into their pillows every night that Henry Crawford went to a ball and left with his heart and his money unengaged.  Let it not be surmised that Fanny Price had turned Henry into such a saint that he no longer enjoyed flattery and flirtation, for he never ceased to appreciate these pleasures; he had simply come to realize that the praise of some people was to be valued over the praise of others — and London was filled only with “others.” 

 

V

            Anna Prescott did not go to Mansfield Park, having already promised to visit with her cousin Emma Scott.  Anna and Emma had once been very close; Emma was the only daughter of Anna’s uncle and aunt, Sir Howard and Lady Prescott of Oak Hill. They lived within two miles of each other and were born in the same year, and these circumstances seeming favorable, had grown up the best of friends.  After the passing of ten years, it became evident that Emma was more like her cousin Martha in her tendency to be rather stupid. This was unfortunate, as Sir Howard and Lady Prescott were widely regarded for their sense and wit, as was their only son Stephen, the special friend of James and Charis.  Anna had kept up a daily acquaintance with Emma, however, until the latter’s marriage to Peter Scott, a respected London attorney who joined the ranks of men who do not realize at the time with whom they vow to spend their lives.

            Tonight Anna would find herself dragged unwillingly to yet another ball, for Emma loved balls very nearly as much as she loved spending her husband’s money on clothes and jewelry.  Anna could not like London, which seemed to her as a never-ending ball, where she was forced to socialize with people she cared nothing about.  The balls at home were entirely different affairs — they were rare and special occasions which never failed to excite the anticipation of the good friends who would meet each other there.  Anna turned her head to the side and patted her hair, admiring the work her maid had done, then faced the mirror directly again and stared at her reflection.

            “Are you ready, Anna?” came the voice of her cousin from the hall.

            “Yes!” she called back, picking up her fan as she hurried out of the room.

            Emma Scott stood at the door and held her husband’s arm. “Come along, Cousin!” she said gaily when she saw Anna. “Tell me truthfully now: am I wearing the right necklace?”

            “I could not suggest a better,” Anna replied, without glancing to see what she had approved of.  

            The carriage was filled, the horses whipped, and the ball arrived at much too soon.  Anna held back a sigh as she followed the Scotts into yet another ballroom. They all looked the same to her now. Anna placed herself in a comfortable position that afforded her a good view of everyone, and was prepared to sit there most of the evening, for though she was tired of balls, Anna always loved to watch the dances.

            No one ever approached her on these occasions, for she knew no one and had not the beauty which may be depended on to make young men friendly, nor the look of extravagant wealth which could attract young women seeking to raise their own importance by being seen with her.  Tonight, though, she was startled by a hand on her shoulder.  “Pardon me. Do you mind if we sit here?”

            Anna looked up into the face of a beautiful young woman with a lively countenance and unhappy eyes. “Not at all,” she replied.

            The girl thanked her and motioned to another older woman, and they sat down together.  Anna expected that they would politely ignore each other, but the girl soon leaned over and asked, “How are you this evening?  I don’t believe we’ve met — I’m Mary Crawford.”

            “Anna Prescott.  A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Crawford.”

            “And this is my sister, Mrs. Grant.”

            “Do you live in London, Miss Crawford?” Anna asked her.

            “Yes, I live here with my sister,” she replied. “And you?”

            “I am staying with a cousin,” said Anna.  “My home is in Derbyshire.”

            “Ah! that is beautiful country, though I speak with the experience of only one brief visit.  I take the liberty of declaring myself an expert on the subject, however, and my verdict stands.” She laughed and went on, “Now I do not mean to sit here all night as if I were not a desirable partner. I must have a dance.”

            “Patience, patience,” said Mrs. Grant, who could not imagine any young man thinking her sister an undesirable partner. 

            “Do not scold me — you know I’m not serious.”  Mary turned to Anna and addressed her again.  “How long have you been in town with your cousin?”

            “Only two weeks.”  

            “And do you like London?  I myself cannot live apart from it for long.  I have such a gay time that I believe I could not live anywhere else.”

            “Really?  I prefer the country,” said Anna frankly.  “The society is limited, to be sure, and parties are rare, but I do think it is a singular pleasure to meet with one’s old friends on special occasions — much more to be preferred than going out every night to stand among strangers with nothing to say.”

            Mary laughed.  “You are conversing with me well enough, and consider: you would not have the pleasure of my company if you had stayed at home.  Now do not mistake me — I love the country very well indeed — but one grows so hopelessly bored of the same people.”  She sighed.  “I must have a dance.  This is unbearable.”  Mary was obliged to sit only another moment before her wish was granted, and smiling, she stood up to dance with a handsome, amiable-looking gentleman.

            As Anna watched Mary join the set, she could not help but wonder about her, and later pulled Emma aside to point her out. “What do you know about that lady, Mary Crawford?”

            Emma laughed. “How is it possible that you know nothing of Mary Crawford? Everyone loves her, for she is quite charming and very wealthy. Tell me, Anna, do you honestly think I wore the right necklace tonight?”

            “Is that all you know?” Anna pressed, entirely disregarding the questionable jewelry.

            “She has a brother named Henry, but no one speaks of him anymore.” Emma reached up and twisted her necklace lazily with two fingers.

            “What has he done?”

            “Who?”

            “Henry Crawford.”

            Emma’s face betrayed all the pleasure one can feel in relating a scandal.  “I don’t know any details, but common knowledge has it that he ran off with a married woman, a Mrs. Rushworth, once one of the Miss Bertrams of Mansfield Park.”

            “Mansfield Park! Bertram!” exclaimed Anna. Tom had never mentioned — but of course he hadn’t. “Are you certain?”

            “Quite.  I also heard that he killed the lady’s husband and stole a great deal of money, but all of that, I am not sure I can believe.  Do you not think it a little too sensational?”

            Anna smiled.  “Yes, a little.”

            “I am afraid that this dress calls for pearls. How could I not have worn them?”

            “Lay the blame on me for not pointing it out to you before we left, and let the subject be.”

            “If you insist. But now that I think on it, you should have told me to wear the pearls, when I asked you before.”

            Only a few more moments passed before Anna found an excuse to leave her cousin, and she returned to her seat, finding that Mary was back as well. “Miss Prescott! I was just asking my sister where you had run off to. Do you not mean to dance?”

            “If I am asked, I will certainly not decline,” Anna replied as she sat down.

            Mary laughed prettily.  “Oh, I cannot be so passive about it.  If you really long for a dance, you must pick out some gentleman from the crowd — one who looks rich and stupid — and give him a look which says, ‘I am worthy to spend your money.’”

            Anna laughed and was grateful for Mary’s conversation, and the ball passed quickly for her, much to her relief. She was asked to dance twice and found both of her partners pleasant. To further her happiness, she was invited to have tea with Mary Crawford the following afternoon, and so left the ball in the highest spirits, even agreeing to Emma’s suggestion that they exchange necklaces for the carriage ride home. “Now, if only my hair . . .” were the last words Anna heard from her cousin before she was lost in her own reflections.

 

VI

            The next day, Anna arrived at Mary Crawford’s home as planned, and was met with the greatest alacrity.  Mary lived on a fashionable street in London in a fine house, which seemed faultless until one came closer and was able to see the tiny cracks in the molding.  The house served as an honorable residence for a young lady of taste, and its owner seemed well-pleased to welcome guests there.  Anna, the polite visitor, was “so pleased to be there!” and her hostess “even more so, I assure you!”

            Mary led Anna to the small sitting room and after seeing her comfortably seated, asked, “I hope you will not mind if a third party joins us?”

            “Not at all; I would be glad to see your sister again,” Anna replied good-naturedly.

            Mary laughed. “Not my sister — no, no — my brother, Henry.  He lives in town with my uncle the Admiral, you see, when he is away from his estate in Norfolk, and I thought it would not be unpleasant for him to join us, for he is usually quite amusing.”

Anna hardly knew what to think about meeting Henry Crawford; Emma had told her such terrible things about him!  On the other hand, it would be unjust not to give him a fair chance, especially based on Emma’s account. “Your brother?” she repeated rather stupidly.

            “Yes.  If you object, though” (lowering her voice) “I will understand. I know what people say about him.” She did not seem about to contest or confirm the accuracy of the rumors.

            “I would be glad to meet him,” said Anna.

            “Wonderful!” Mary replied, visibly relieved. “He’s been such a dreadful bore lately, without any of his old charm, and I thought it would be good for him to talk to someone besides himself.  Let me summon him.” Mary left her alone for only a minute before she returned with the much talked-of Henry.

            As Anna rose to meet him, she was surprised to find that he was not especially good-looking. After all, it is generally understood that a young man of ill-repute is also handsome; otherwise he would not be so inspirational. Perhaps a truer smile, or a little life in his eyes, might have rendered his face more pleasing, though his demeanor and presence she found immediately attractive, and there could be no complaint with his figure.  For his part, Henry merely surmised that the visitor was nothing to Fanny Price — nor was anyone he met, so this was no significantly critical reflection.

            “Henry, this is my new friend Miss Anna Prescott.  Miss Prescott, my brother Henry Crawford.”  

            “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Prescott,” said Henry with the best smile he could muster.

            “The pleasure is all mine, sir,” Anna replied, judging from his expression that this was so. 

            Mary seemed — or tried — not to notice Henry’s evident desire to be somewhere else; they sat down and she worked valiantly to keep up the conversation.  “I met Miss Prescott at the Allens’ ball last night, Henry; now see what interesting acquaintances you miss by shutting yourself up at home?”  Henry had no comment on the absence of interesting acquaintances in his life, so Mary turned to Anna.  “Tell me more about your family — are they at home in Derbyshire?”

            “My parents are at our home, yes, though my brother and sisters were here with me, for a time.”

            “And who are they?”

            “James and Charis Prescott, and Mrs. Martha Cooke.”

            Mary furrowed her brows. “The names are not familiar. Henry?” He shook his head, and Mary returned to Anna. “Did they share your negative opinion of London, having left already?”

            “Quite the contrary — they enjoyed themselves much more than I can. Martha and her husband live in town, you see, and they invited us to stay with them.”

            “How is it that they are gone, while you are still here?”

            “A new acquaintance invited the five of us (I include Mr. Cooke) to join him when he went home again.  My brother and sisters were eager to accept his offer, as we all had become quite fond of him.” Anna carefully avoided speaking the name of Tom Bertram, for the comfort of both her hosts.

            “But you chose not to go?”

            “I had already promised my cousin a visit, and I was therefore unable to join them.  My cousin is Emma Scott; do you know her?”

            “Oh yes, I have spoken with Mrs. Scott on numerous occasions.  I must say, if you will pardon my taking the liberty, that Mrs. Scott and I do not share the same opinions on many subjects, so that most of our conversations are limited to the weather and our dresses.”

            “Mostly to the latter, I would imagine,” Anna smiled.  “I do not have much in common with my cousin, and understand your meaning, Miss Crawford.”

            Mary turned to Henry.  “Have you nothing to say at all, Henry?  You are not very amusing this morning.”  He did not reply.  “Miss Prescott, you must forgive him.  I don’t know what has come over him. Tell me about the friend who invited you to his home; perhaps I know him.”

            Anna thought it best to say it quickly and then try to move on once it was out; there was also the reasonable chance that Emma had been mistaken.  “A Mr. Tom Bertram.”

            Emma had been correct, however — this, at last, succeeded in provoking a response from Henry, though it came not in words, but in the surprised and pained expression on his face. Both brother and sister colored, and Mary cleared her throat. “T-Tom Bertram. Yes, ah . . . Henry and I are familiar with that family.”  She tried to laugh.  “Are we not, Henry?  We actually had a rather lengthy stay there, Miss Prescott, for my sister’s late husband had the living at Mansfield parsonage.”

            “Your brother and sisters are at Mansfield Park now, then?” asked Henry, unable to contain the curiosity that accompanied his awkwardness. He coveted every minute this girl’s family sat in a room with Fanny.

            “Yes, they are there still.” Anna quickly decided on a safe topic; the mention of a mutual acquaintance might relieve some of their discomfort. “In fact, I received a letter from my brother just this morning. There is one young lady there whom he praises to the skies — are either of you familiar with a Miss Price?”

            Anna immediately realized that she had increased their tension. Mary looked down at her lap, and Henry’s face changed from red to white. “Fanny Price.” Mary spoke the name with some puzzling mixture of reverence and bitterness. “Yes, your Tom Bertram’s young cousin from Portsmouth.  We did have some conversations with her on several occasions.  I believe anyone who knew her would praise her to the skies.” Mary then changed her tone dramatically and smiled broadly, “I am such a silly wretch! I have not offered you any tea, Miss Prescott.”

            Before Anna could reply, Henry said in a carefully steady voice, “Excuse me,” and rose from his seat. “I hope to see you again soon, Miss Prescott — and I hope you will not be offended if a sudden headache forces me away from your company?”

            Henry bowed and left the room and passed Mrs. Grant in the hall as he took quick strides towards the front door. “Henry?” she called after him, but he shut the door decidedly behind him. He would have a little brandy.

            For her part, Anna felt wretched as she bid farewell to Mary an hour later. She had caused both sister and brother pain, and had succeeded in driving the latter away. As Emma welcomed her back with a pressing question about hat trimmings, Anna knew it would be remarkable if the Crawfords ever sought her company again.

 

VII

Fanny heard a knock on her door and looked up from her writing-desk. “Come in,” she said, laying down her pen. As soon as breakfast ended, she had accepted an invitation from James to ride into the village that afternoon, and had then retreated to her room to be alone for a while.  She had grown increasingly fond of James, and looked forward to every opportunity to speak to him.

            The door’s opening, however, gave her Edmund, who was no less an agreeable visitor. “Good morning, Fanny. You look well.  I hope I am not interrupting you — what  were you writing?”

            “A letter to William.”

            “I should have known. I still remember the day I found you crying and helped you write your little letter to William.”

            Fanny smiled at the memory. “You gave me paper — even ruled the lines for me — and I thought it something remarkable that you would have my uncle pay the postage.  Did I ever tell you, Edmund, that it was that gesture of kindness which first made me think I could be happy here?”

            “Nonsense! — do you mean it?” Edmund asked, secretly most gratified at the idea.

            “Of course I do.” She ventured nothing else, apparently waiting for him to tell her what had prompted this visit.

            “Will you accompany me back to Thornton Lacey and stay the afternoon, Fanny?”

            “Do you have more books?” she asked. A fortnight ago, she had spent several days assisting Edmund as he reorganized his modest library.

            He looked puzzled for a moment. “More books?” He seemed to recollect then, and continued, “No, no. Why should you think so?”

            “I can think of no other reason for you to need me there,” she explained, the confession stinging both of them in its different ways.

            “I wouldn’t say need, exactly,” he stumbled. “I simply — I only wanted your company.”

            Hearing this, Fanny smiled with the most sincere pleasure. “Really? I would be glad to go with you, Edmund.  And . . .” Her words trailed off and her smile faded.

            “What is it?” he asked anxiously.

            “Edmund, I’m sorry! I already promised Mr. Prescott that I would ride with him into the village this afternoon. Perhaps tomorrow?”

            “Don’t trouble yourself about it,” he said hurriedly. “It is of no matter. I hope you have an agreeable outing!” With that, he came nearer, touched her shoulder affectionately, and left her alone again.

            James straightened his hat and pulled on his gloves as he stood waiting for Fanny. He heard someone descending the stairs and looked up to see only Edmund. He bowed and smiled shyly, for he knew practically nothing of his friend’s younger brother — only that here was his chief rival for Fanny’s affections.                       .

            “Good afternoon, Prescott,” Edmund greeted him. He paused and appeared ready to start a conversation.

            “I am rather surprised to see you,” said James. “Were you not intending to leave after breakfast?”

            “I altered my plans,” Edmund explained with a shrug. “I understand that you and Fanny are to go on a little outing this afternoon.”

            “Yes,” he replied with a smile. “I am waiting for her now.”

            “I have just spoken with her, and I believe she is looking forward to it with pleasure.”

            “What a cousin you have there, Bertram, if I may presume to say so.”

            “I am never averse to hearing Fanny praised,” said Edmund.   

            “Then you must agree with me that she is the most excellent of creatures — lovely, good, sensible, talkative . . .”

            “Talkative?”

            “Pardon me, I meant it in the best sense,” James said hurriedly, wondering if he had offended Edmund.

            “Oh, I have no doubt of that,” Edmund assured him.  “I was only surprised that you would use that word to describe Fanny.”

            “I confess, you must know her better than I, after ten years.”

            “I should.” For a moment Edmund studied the wallpaper over James’ left shoulder, then both men turned at the voice of Fanny herself.

            “Edmund! You are still here!” she exclaimed, smiling at him.

            He bowed. “I was just leaving, Fanny. Enjoy your outing!” With that, he went abruptly away. Edmund was slowly realizing the foolish mistakes he had made, and repented of them each time he saw Fanny look with admiration at James Prescott.

            Fanny followed him with disappointed eyes until she heard James speaking to her. “You surprised us both, Miss Price. Your step is so light, we didn’t even hear you coming down the stairs. Are you ready to leave?” he asked, offering his arm.

            Fanny checked to make sure that her bonnet was secure, then took his arm.  They went outside, and James helped her up into his barouche; Fanny thought of the visit to Sotherton all those months ago, when both Maria and Julia had wanted to sit up in the box by Henry Crawford.   

            “Tell me about your cousin Edmund,” James suggested as they rode along. Fanny was finding the outing thoroughly enjoyable, and had been sitting in reflective silence for some time as she watched the warm summer countryside roll by.

            “He lives at Thornton Lacey, as I believe you are aware, for though the Mansfield living was to be his, he chose the other. What specifically did you want to know?”

            “The question was not so much out of interest in your cousin; I wanted to hear you talking again.”

            “Oh.” Fanny blushed deeply and turned back to sightseeing.

 

VIII

            Anna reclined comfortably on a sofa in the sitting room, quite content with the stillness and silence as she read her book. Emma sat nearby, pinning flowers on a bonnet; no other occupation could have kept her as quiet.  Anna was disturbed from her reading (and Emma from her matter of Great Importance) by the entrance of the housekeeper to announce a visitor.

            “If you please, Miss Prescott, there is a young man here to see you.”

            Anna marked her place and laid her book aside. “Did he give his name?”

            “Henry Crawford, ma’am.”

            Anna gave no outward sign of her surprise, though she was quite unnerved by such an expected visit. “You may show him into the library, Cassy.”

            After the girl had curtsied and left, Emma laid down her blooming bonnet and whispered, “Henry Crawford! Why are you seeing him, of all people?  Did I not warn you about him the other night, Anna?”

            “I have no idea why he came here, for I met him only yesterday when I had tea with Mary Crawford, and I did not invite him to visit.”

            “Do be careful, Anna,” warned Emma in a solemn tone that made Anna want to laugh out loud.

            “Thank you, Emma, I will,” she managed with a straight face.

            Anna left the room and walked to the library, where Henry Crawford stood waiting.  He met her with a polite bow, but had nothing to say.  She wondered why he should come at all, but greeted him as she would any guest. “Good afternoon, Mr. Crawford.” He answered only with a brief nod.  “Will you sit down?” Anna offered as she took a chair, and he followed her example.  She would say nothing else; he must have some reason for calling on her, and the conversation was his to begin.

            “I realize how strange my coming here must seem to you, Miss Prescott,” Henry said at last.

            “I confess that I am quite at a loss,” Anna told him.  Why, indeed, would a man visit a woman with whom he could not rally his spirits and interest enough to speak the morning before?

            “I will not waste your time by avoiding the subject.  The truth is, I have a request to make of you . . . a request which will seem a trifle odd. You mentioned yesterday that your brother has befriended a Miss Price.”

            “Yes,” Anna replied, surprised that he would choose to introduce a topic so close to Mansfield Park and the Bertram family.

            “While I was visiting . . .” He stopped for a moment and cleared his throat.  “I was once friends with Miss Price — to such an extent, in fact, that I am still very much interested in her welfare.  My request to you, Miss Prescott, is that you let me know how Fa — ah, Miss Price — is faring, whenever your brother should write about her.”

Anna turned this speech over in her mind for some minutes. It was so peculiar; it gave her a powerful feeling that something, perhaps many somethings, had remained unsaid. Even so, she reasoned, what harm could be done in occasionally informing Mr. Crawford that his Miss Price was “well”?

            “Certainly, Mr. Crawford, though I am rather bewildered.”

            “Understandably so. I cannot begin to express my gratitude to you, Miss Prescott.”  He rose, bowed, and seemed about to leave, but Anna would not let him go so easily.

            She stood to face him and said boldly, “Perhaps you could thank me by joining the conversation next time I visit your sister.”

            Henry looked surprised, but could not contain a smile.  “Were you not satisfied with my contributions to the discussion yesterday?”

            “Did you make any contributions, Mr. Crawford?” she returned.

            “I believe I sighed a few times — I am sure I did — were you not paying attention?”

            She returned his smile.  “You will hear of Miss Price at any time I have something to relate — but only if you convince me henceforth that you enjoy my company.”

            Henry bowed again.  “We speak in jests, Miss Prescott, but I admit that I was abominably rude to you yesterday, and now offer you my sincere apology.”  He left her then, and Anna returned in much confusion to Emma, who seemed relieved to find that her cousin seemed as virtuous as she had before. Henry, meanwhile, walked happily home with the knowledge that he had found some way to hear about Fanny.        

 

IX

            That evening the party at Mansfield received word from Edmund that he would have his supper at Thornton Lacey. Fanny often cast a forlorn glance at his empty chair during the meal, though no one else seemed to notice his absence. “I, for one, do not miss him,” Susan whispered to her at one point.

            After they had eaten, Sir Thomas, Lady Bertram, and the Cookes decided to play cards, Susan settled on going to bed as the best relief of her boredom, and Tom mentioned that there was a particular book he wished to show Charis in the library. James and Fanny were therefore left to themselves once again, a situation which neither disliked.  They were both merrier than usual, remembering their drive into the village, for it had been a wonderful day. Together they had wandered in and out of shops, and even stopped for a small picnic on the way home.

            Fanny was happier than she ever had been before. For the first time in her life, someone was doing things purely for her. Her wishes were his only consideration and he genuinely enjoyed her company. To Fanny, James was a perfect mixture of Edmund and Henry, possessing one quality which neither of them had ever seemed to understand.  He treated her as a person equal to him; she was not the frail cousin who must be protected and guided; the young lady whom he must stubbornly pursue; the helpful little niece; the constant irritation who dared to want a fire in her room; the inferior cousin who knew nothing of the principal rivers in Russia. James treated her as William always had.

            When they sat down together, he began the conversation by asking her to tell him more about the Bertrams — besides Tom and Edmund, did they have any other children?

            “Yes,” she replied, “but Sir Thomas will see neither of them. He has two daughters, Maria Rushworth and Julia Yates.”

            “He won’t see them?” James repeated.  “What could they possibly have done?”

            “Pardon me, Mr. Prescott, but I do not feel comfortable telling you; it is not my place.”

            “Forgive me, Miss Price. You are perfectly right; it was rude of me to inquire.  I was just so shocked to hear of a father’s refusing to see his own daughters; one does not hear much of that sort of thing.  Maria Rushworth and Julia Yates.  Maria Ru — oh! I know about one of them.  Indeed, I believe everyone in London knows about her.  But tell me, where are these daughters now?” 

            “Maria lives with my Aunt Norris, and our two households do not communicate.” Fanny almost cringed at the recollection of Mrs. Norris, the woman who had so terrorized her childhood and youth. However, she tried to remind herself, were it not for Mrs. Norris, she would never have come to Mansfield Park. “Julia is now living in town, I believe.”

            “Is she?  My sister Anna is in town.  I do wish you could have met her, Miss Price.  I have never been as close to her as I am to Charis, perhaps because Charis and I are nearer in age.  But Anna is a fine girl, very like you in some ways.  You would like her.”

            Edmund, meanwhile, ate his light supper alone, then went to his library to think — and there was much thinking to be done.  He thought of Mary Crawford, and how he had been completely taken in by her beauty and charm, gradually allowing himself to look over her every fault. She had never been the right woman for him; why could he only just now realize that? And to be fair, he was entirely the wrong man for her. Yet he had wasted so many months trying to win her, trying to convince her that he deserved her. Fanny, he realized, knew all the time that it was Mary who did not deserve him. 

            Having thought of Fanny, Edmund could not stop himself from dwelling on her. Looking back, he could now see and appreciate the quiet strength of Fanny Price. She grew up with two girls who looked down on her and mocked her, who treated her as they would a servant. Yet she was the one who remained still at Mansfield Park, rewarded by her own integrity. She was the pride of her uncle and the comfort of her aunt; time and again she had proved herself their daughter and their anchor.  From the time she came to them, Fanny was hurt and suppressed by Mrs. Norris. She was the pawn, the scapegoat, the whipping-boy — whichever role Mrs. Norris desired her to fill at the time — yet Mrs. Norris would spend the rest of her life in poverty, devoting herself to a selfish young woman who would never love her for it. But Fanny was resilient, and Sir Thomas now sought her advice.  Fanny was the only one of them who recognized the faults of the Crawfords; nothing escaped her quiet, perceptive wisdom. In fact, in her quiet observance, she knew the worst in them all.  Fanny knew what Maria was and knew that Julia was so starved for attention and affection that she would risk her reputation to marry the first man who provided them. She perceived the secret viciousness of Mary Crawford and saw into the mind of Henry Crawford when everyone else — even her own William — was fooled.  Edmund could not leave out his own wrongs. All the time, Fanny had seen his blind self-righteousness and watched him sacrifice his principles on the altar of pleasing Mary Crawford. She had borne all his condescension. He knew he had always behaved towards Fanny with the best intentions, and would never consciously hurt her, but everything he had ever done now seemed backwards and misguided.  Nothing, however, was more amazing to him than the simple fact that despite everything, Fanny loved all of them.

            As he turned these thoughts over and over in his mind that evening, Edmund was finally able to see that Fanny Price was not his fragile cousin — she was a woman in whom strength and gentleness were united into unaffected goodness. He was no longer confused; on the contrary, his thoughts were very clear now — his love for Fanny was something entirely different from what it had been before.

 

X

            “Anna, I have good news for you!  There is to be another ball tonight!” Emma gushed at breakfast.  “You will come with us, won’t you dear?” she asked, turning to her husband.

            “Perhaps,” Peter mumbled.

            “Of course you will.  You have nothing else to do,” Emma reasoned (I flatter her).  “It is to be on ------ Street at 9:00, and oh!  I cannot wait to tell Mrs. Craig about what Mrs. Hardy told me!  I thought at first that I would be unable to go, for I have been lately occupied with my new bonnet, but I may spare the time this evening for such a ball as this is to be.”

            “Are you certain, darling?” Peter asked.  “Have you not more cauliflower and pheasants to attach to your bonnet?”

            “Oh, you do talk nonsense!  Pheasants, indeed!  It is a flower hat, all roses and such.  When it is completed at last, I dare say it will be the envy of every woman in London.”

            “Fancy that,” he muttered, spearing another sausage with his fork.

            “Mr. Scott, you do not appreciate what is involved — the colors to be considered, the arrangement to be settled upon!  It might astonish you.”

            “You mistake me; I would not be astonished at the degree of your mental exertions.”

            Emma looked well-pleased.  “You flatter me.”

            “Indeed, I do not,” he assured her.

            Emma turned to Anna, who had been listening to this exchange with the greatest amusement.  “Is he not the best of men, Anna darling?”

            “Certainly,” she replied, smiling at Peter.

            They were interrupted when Cassy came in with a message for Anna.  Cassy left, and Anna turned over the envelope, which bore in a pretty feminine hand, “Miss Anna Prescott.”  She opened the letter, and her eyes fell on the signature of Mary Crawford at the end.  It consisted of only a few lines — the substance being that Mary had enjoyed having tea with her, etc. and hoped to see her at the ball that night.

            “Well?” asked Emma impatiently.  “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

            “It is only a polite little note from Miss Crawford,” Anna explained as she slipped the letter back into its envelope.  “I shall see her tonight.”

            “Anna, dearest, as your cousin and your friend, I must advise you to be more careful.  Consider the reputation of these Crawfords!  If certain people were to notice you much in company with them, I fear the social consequences, for I have seen many a young lady cast out of fashionable society.”

            “You told me two nights ago that everyone loves Miss Crawford.  Besides, what should I care about banishment from London society?” was Anna’s calm reply.

            “She is not the problem so much as the brother.  And indeed, you should care.  You cannot be so heedless, Anna, and expect to be married to anyone respectable.”

            “No respectable man would avoid me because I associate with the Crawfords.”

            Emma shook her head.  “You don’t understand what consequences can come of the smallest . . .”

            “My dear,” Peter broke in.  “Our previous conversation has made me wonder: do you design your bonnets yourself, or do you look at patterns?”

            “Patterns!  Oh, how can you be so ridiculous!” 

            Much to Anna’s satisfaction and relief, Peter had succeeded in launching Emma on a long speech — such as required no responses — about her particular creative genius; all they need do now was ignore her and finish their breakfast.

 

XI

After his recent revelation, Edmund felt that he could not wait long to speak to Fanny, and rode to Mansfield Park the next day, watching for any opportunity to have her to himself.  His efforts were soon rewarded when Fanny approached him and expressed a wish to walk with him in the garden.  That she should choose his company above the persistent James Prescott’s was a good sign indeed, and Edmund hoped that she would have him, despite everything. He turned to study her as they walked and wondered how he could have overlooked her for so long. “You look happy, Fanny,” he said. 

            “Do I?”

            “Are you?” 

            “More than I have ever been,” she said warmly.  How could she not be, she mused, with the friendship of Mr. Prescott and the daily companionship of Edmund?

            Edmund instantly wondered if James Prescott could be the reason for Fanny’s happiness, then just as quickly pushed his rival from his mind.  “It makes me happy on your behalf,” he told her.  Her only response was a blush, and he continued, “You still owe me an afternoon at Thornton Lacey, you know.”

            “You still wish me to visit?”

            “Why, Fanny, of course!  My library may be finished, but can you really think that I invited you to Thornton Lacey only to help me?  The library is fine indeed, but would be nothing without your company during its making.  We both know that I am a blind fool, but am I so hopeless as that?”

            “A blind fool?  Edmund, how can you say so?”

            “How could I not say so?  You see, Fanny, I am only admitting what you have always known.”  She made no answer, but Edmund stopped and took one of her hands.  “Fanny?”

            She met his gaze evenly.  “What do you want me to tell you, Edmund?” she asked. 

            “Every criticism you have ever wanted to tell me.”

            Fanny jerked her hand away.  “Why should you care now?”

            Who that knows anything of Fanny’s history and character to this point would not have shared Edmund’s baffled expression and inability to put together a coherent sentence?  “What . . .?  I . . .” the poor man stumbled.

            “You have never valued my opinion, Edmund.”  Her tone was not at all angry, but the sadness in her voice was much worse.

            “What?  But I asked your advice on countless occasions, Fanny.  Surely you must remember?”

            “But did it ever matter?” she asked quietly.  “Did it really matter, Edmund, what I thought when Mary Crawford took my horse, or when you decided to act in the play, or when you left me alone at Sotherton, or when I watched you surrender your strongest convictions one by one?” 

            Even as she spoke the words, Fanny was barely conscious of what she was saying, except that this was the outpouring of years of frustration and hurt, and that it felt uncommonly good.  Who can blame Edmund for standing there stunned and immobile as Fanny buried her face in her hands and started walking back towards the house?

            “Fanny, wait!” he cried, returning to his senses.  She would not turn around, and only started walking faster.  “Fanny!” he called again.  Edmund ran to catch up with her.  “Will you not stop?” he pleaded, walking beside her.

            She gave another sob and shook her head.  “Please leave me be.”

            “Then I shall speak to you like this.”

            “No.”

            “Fanny, you were perfectly right. All those things you said . . . they were perfectly right.  Except one.  Shall I tell you what it is?”  Fanny gave no response one way or the other, so Edmund continued.  “When you said that I don’t care.  That I have no regard for what you think.  I have often done a frightful job of showing it, Fanny, but I care a great deal about what you think.  I could hardly blame you if you choose not to believe me, but I do entreat you to give credit to my words.”

            “You must pay no mind to what I said.  I reacted hastily and wrongly with words I should not have spoken.”

            “Nonsense, Fanny!  No truer words were ever spoken!”

            “I did not mean them.”

            He took her hand and finally she stopped walking, though her eyes were still on the ground.  “You meant every word, Fanny.” 

            After a long pause, Fanny turned to face him.  “I did.”

            Edmund couldn’t help smiling.  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

            Fanny returned his smile and shook her head.

            Still holding her hand, he led her to a little bench.  When they sat down, he gave her his handkerchief, and waited as she dried her eyes.  “Now, Fanny,” he said, “I want you to tell me what you think.”

            “Why?”

            “Because it matters to me more than anything in the world.  We’ll start at the beginning.  Tell me about Mary and your horse, and be as brutal as you can be.”

            “I was very hurt that you would allow her to keep my horse for so long, leaving me to the unkindness of Aunt Norris.  It was very . . . very selfish and inconsiderate.”

            “Perfectly true.  Fanny, I am sorry for allowing my selfishness to hurt you in any way.  Now the play.”

            “This is very unpleasant to me, Edmund, and it hardly matters now,” she protested.

            “It matters a great deal, Fanny.”

            Fanny sighed.  “It was wrong of you to give up your principles so easily.  It would have been better for you to say directly that you wanted to participate, than to disguise your motives under the pretense of supervision.  You knew what was due to your father, and you had no regard for it.”

            “You are right.  I’m sorry.” 

            This time Fanny went on without his encouragement.  “It was very wrong of you to leave me alone in the gardens at Sotherton, when you and Miss Crawford went away for so long.  It was most inconsiderate of you, and hurt me deeply.”  He nodded his acknowledgment and she went on.  “When you urged me to wear Mary’s chain instead of yours, and had her feelings in mind more than you did mine . . . I did not want to wear it, but I did it for you.  I wish I had not.”

            “So do I.  Go on, Fanny.”

            “All those months you blindly ignored the faults in Miss Crawford, gradually forgetting your own dearest beliefs.  She . . . she made a fool of you, Edmund.”  He was silent, and his face was grave.  Fanny felt that she had hurt him deeply and said, “Forgive me.  I have said enough.”

            “No, no, I asked you to say these things.”  Edmund was not troubled about the past — he knew his wrongs — he could now think only of the present. His faults were so numerous, how could Fanny ever come to love him?  She deserved a good man like James Prescott.  He allowed himself to hope, however, when she spoke again:

            “But Edmund, it is only fair that I also make sure you understand the things you did right.”  He looked up at her, and she smiled at him reassuringly.  “The fact that I had a horse — that was your doing.  You were the reason I was able to go to Sotherton in the first place.  It was kind and thoughtful of you to buy me a chain that I could wear with William’s cross.  And though you believed I should marry Mr. Crawford, it was from a sincere wish for my happiness, and you took my part with your father.  All the countless times you defended me — you must see that all of these kindnesses make your wrongs entirely unimportant to me.”

            “Do you mean it?” 

            “Of course, Edmund.  No one else cared about me enough to pay me the attentions you did; don’t you know that you were my only friend?  I could not have borne it here without you.”

            “I’m glad that these grievances are no longer between us, Fanny.  From now on, I expect you to say openly, ‘Edmund, you are a fool.’”  He prayed that she would never have an occasion to speak so, now that he realized her importance to him.  Fanny only laughed.  “Promise me!” he insisted, smiling himself.

            “Edmund, you are a fool,” she replied.

            “Quite so, Fanny, quite so.  You know my faults perhaps better than I know them myself, and you see people for what they are.”  He fixed his eyes on her and took her hand again.  What better moment than this, after he had confessed and been forgiven, to tell her what she really meant to him?  “Will it come as a surprise to you, then, Fanny, to discover that I love you?”

            Evidently it did.  She blushed deeply and looked away from him.  “Edmund, don’t say that to me.”

            “Why not?”

            She closed her eyes in confusion.  There had been a time when these words . . .!  Now, however, she felt that she could not give him the “yes” they both wanted to hear.  Fanny wasn’t sure how she felt about Mr. Prescott, she had been hurt by the brief affair between Edmund and Mary, and Henry still nagged at her thoughts occasionally.  “You are almost like a brother to me, Edmund,” she finally managed.  She hardly knew what sentences tumbled out.  “We have always been friends.  You are rather like a guardian to me.”  The words were wrong — all wrong!   

            He released her hand and bowed his head.  Taking it all into consideration, how could she see him as anything other than a guardian or a brother?  “I understand.  Now would be a most opportune time to say, ‘Edmund, you are a fool,’ would it not?”

            “Oh, no, Edmund!  Don’t say that!” she cried in consternation.

            “Forgive me,” he mumbled without meeting her eyes.

            Fanny remained motionless on the bench as she watched Edmund walk away from her. She was painfully aware of how much she had hurt him, but there was no other choice. She loved him — of course she did! She always had. But . . .

            “Are you unwell, Miss Price?”

            Startled, Fanny looked up into the concerned face of James Prescott, the source of her simultaneous confusion and comfort. She realized how she must appear to him, with tears still streaming down her face.  James sat down next to her. “Shall I help you into the house?” he offered.

            “No, thank you.”

            “What is the matter? Can you tell me?”

            “Nothing is . . . nothing is wrong. I was just speaking with Edmund, that is all.”

            James had watched the end of the unhappy scene as he approached them, and knew he was correct in supposing the nature of their conversation.  Despite his sympathy for the two of them, he could not contain a feeling of elation — he might have Fanny Price for himself!  “I know the two of you are close,” he remarked, attempting to make her think of more pleasant things. Not knowing what other response to make, Fanny merely nodded, and James continued. “He’s practically another brother to you.”

            “Perhaps.  Perhaps, yes — a brother.”

            “Two cousins growing up together . . . yes, and I have seen the way he protects you. You could want no other guardian.”  He wanted to emphasize to her that her love for Edmund was of a different nature than the love she would feel — might feel already — for him.

            She flinched as he used the word which had just hurt Edmund so deeply. “True.”

            “Why,” James went on cheerfully, “I would venture to say that he’s as good as another William!  Do you not agree?”

            Another William? Could this really be the nature of her love for Edmund? The idea sounded reasonable to her, and she resolved to give it her special consideration.

            “Perhaps a brief walk would refresh you, Miss Price,” James suggested, rising to his feet and offering his arm.  He was not one to miss a perfect opportunity of recommending himself.

 

XII

            Anna’s mornings in London grew to be something of a tiresome routine.  She and Peter sat at the table and ate in silence while Emma rattled on about inconsequential matters.  This morning’s broad topic was the ball of the night before, and Anna employed the time to think of other things, as Emma’s speeches rarely required more than an “Indeed!” if they required any response at all. 

            “So I told Mrs. Henley, ‘My dear girl, what can you be thinking?’ And she said, ‘I find daisies rather charming, and I am sure I never asked your opinion, Mrs. Scott.’ You can imagine what I felt, Anna. Yes, I can see your offense at the remark. Only imagine how I took it! For I am a woman of greater sensibility than yourself. I held my temper in check, however, and replied in the most cordial way, ‘Mrs. Henley, I am sure that for you, any flower would be rather charming.’ It was the most civil remark I could think to make at the time, and I meant it in the best way, but she seemed rather miffed. She dropped a stiff little curtsy and went on her way. And I turned to Miss Crawford — her brother was occupied with you at the time, Anna — and said, ‘Have you ever seen such rude behavior, my dear Miss Crawford?’ And she replied, ‘Indeed I have not, Mrs. Scott.’ Now there! Wasn’t that a nice reply for her to make? I always told you she was a sweet, pretty girl. If it were not for her brother, I can only think that we should be the best of friends. I think Miss Crawford is . . .”

            “Dear, did you chance to call on Mrs. Stafford?” Peter Scott broke in.

            “Indeed I did. She still looks very ill. Her doctor claims that she is improving remarkably, but I am sure that I see none of it. Were I in the medical profession, I should make things quite different.”

            “I imagine you would,” said he. “Was Mr. Stafford in?”

            “No, thank heaven, for I quite detest him. He had the nerve, one night at a ball . . . oh! just to think of it makes me angry! ‘Mrs. Scott,’ he said to me . . .”

            “Pardon me,” said Cassy, coming into the dining room. “There is a caller for Miss Prescott.”

            Anna looked up, relieved.  Her head felt particularly achy, and even Peter’s ironic insertions could not entertain her this morning.  If the caller was the one she expected, this would be an even more welcome excuse to leave the table.  Emma paused from her tirade against Mr. Stafford to instruct Anna.  “If it is Miss Crawford, Anna, pray give her my very warmest regards. If it is anyone else, wish her a good day.”

            Anna laid her napkin down on the table and followed Cassy out of the room. When the door was shut behind them, she exhaled deeply. “Good heavens,” she murmured, and Cassy smothered a giggle with her hand. Anna learned from Cassy that her caller was indeed Henry Crawford, and that he was waiting for her in the sitting room.  She reached into her pocket and pressed some coins into Cassy’s hand. “For your discretion,” she said.  “I should never hear the end of it otherwise.”  Emma was well aware that Henry called on her cousin, but Anna knew that if she realized how often these visits took place, the lectures would never cease.  Anna took a quick glance at herself as she passed a mirror, then entered the sitting room.

            Henry removed his hat and bowed. “How do you do, Miss Prescott?”

            “I am very well, thank you, sir. Will you sit down?” she asked as she took her own advice.

            Henry sat and studied her as she picked up her sewing. Every time he met with her, she seemed less and less plain. Her figure was pleasing, and her smile most becoming. “Have you heard from your brother since last I called?” he asked.

            “I have indeed,” she answered. “Everything is well at Mansfield. He informs me that my sister will soon, in all probability, be engaged to Mr. Bertram.”

            “I am happy to hear it. Tom is an excellent fellow. And does your brother write of Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram, or Edmund? And Miss Price — what has he to say about Miss Price?”  He cared not a straw for anyone but Fanny, but felt that he must mention the others.

            “Much of the latter,” Anna smiled.  She knew where his real interest lay, and was not one to waste words.

            “Really.”  Henry should have felt jealous, and was surprised that he did not.  Besides, he reasoned, how could he hear about Fanny if James Prescott did not write much of her?

            Anna realized that Henry might enjoy some particularly good news about his friend, and a letter from James that morning had provided her with the intelligence to provide it.  “Since you are such a good friend of Miss Price, I would suppose that you especially will be glad to hear my brother’s news.”

            Henry guessed what the news would be, and prayed that he was wrong.  He had found the loss of Fanny to be somewhat bearable, as long as he knew that no other man would have her. Selfish, certainly, but Henry had never flattered himself to be otherwise.  “Pray tell me the good news at once, Miss Prescott,” he said with forced levity.

            “Nothing is quite definite yet, of course,” she replied, “but my brother confides to me that he is quite in love with Miss Price, and intends to propose to your friend within the next day or two — as soon as he has an opportunity.”

            “I see.”  The news was neither good nor bad, but Henry knew that soon it must be bad, with both Edmund and this James Prescott pursuing Fanny.  Henry tilted his head to the side and studied Anna.  “How much longer will you stay with your friends in town, Miss Prescott?”

            “I hope that my time here is nearly done.  I have been sitting ‘like patience on a monument,’ longing to be home again.”

            Henry smiled at her.  He stayed much longer than he had intended, and did not completely comprehend, as he walked home, that he was thinking not of Fanny’s possible engagement, but of Anna. 

 

XIII

            Susan Price sighed as she set her sewing down in her lap and looked around the room in boredom. Only Fanny and her aunt were in the sitting room with her, the former reading and the latter occupied chiefly with breathing.  Pug jumped off the lap of his mistress and went to Susan, who scooped him up and began scratching his ears.

            “Fanny,” said Lady Bertram, wakened by Pug’s desertion.

            “Yes, Aunt?”

            “I do not wish to trouble you, my dear, but . . . I do need your help.”

            Susan gave a wry smile to her sister, but Fanny was looking at their aunt. “No trouble. What is it?”

            “Pug left a few hairs on my dress here, you see.”

            Brush them off! Susan cried in her mind. But she knew that Fanny would say no such thing.  Susan dreaded the day that Fanny left, for then she herself would have to wait on her insufferable aunt.

            “I see,” said Fanny. She left her seat, brushed off the dress, and sat down again.

            “Thank you, dear. You are so good to me.”

            The door creaked open, and Pug wiggled away from Susan to return to Lady Bertram. A servant entered with a message for Fanny, and Susan watched as her sister thanked the messenger, looked at the envelope, and colored.

            “And who sends you a message, Fanny?” asked Lady Bertram.

            “It is from Edmund, ma’am,” she replied as she opened it. “I am sure . . . he must need more help with his library . . . I believe.” Susan estimated it to be not much more than a note, judging by how quickly Fanny read it. It said, in fact:

           

            My dear Fanny, forgive me for so unsettling you two days ago. I hope to make you           amends. Will you join me this afternoon at Thornton Lacey? You did promise me an     afternoon here, and we shall be as we were before.  I sent my carriage to accompany this          note, and hope you will take advantage of it. Yours very truly &tc.

 

            “Yes,” Fanny continued in a voice Susan strained to hear. “His library.”

            Lady Bertram smiled. “Go to him, then, Fanny.  You have not been to Thornton Lacey in several days, and I suppose I might spare you this afternoon, as I have dear Susan here with me.”

            Oh dear, thought that generous niece.

            The door opened again, and Susan looked up to see who was joining them this time, hoping that it would be someone more interesting than a servant. Her hopes were answered when James Prescott appeared, for he was a man she liked very much, and she was pleased to notice his constant attentions to Fanny. Perhaps now Fanny would leave off adoring that pitiful Edmund so much, and attach herself to a man who deserved her! Susan was very gratified at the thought.

            “Good morning, Lady Bertram, Miss Price, Miss Susan Price,” he greeted them.

            “Please join us, Mr. Prescott,” said Lady Bertram. Pug gave a little bark and Susan stifled a giggle.

            “Thank you, ma’am,” he replied with a bow, “but I was just going out for a turn in the garden. Perhaps Miss Price would join me?”  Susan smiled broadly as Fanny set aside her book and walked out with Mr. Prescott.

            “It is a fine morning,” Lady Bertram commented when they had gone. “Were I not so busy here, I should venture out myself.” 

            Fanny stopped James out in the hall.  “Forgive me, sir.  I am just now going to Thornton Lacey to visit Edmund.”

            “I see.  Another time, then — but would you not like some company on the way to Thornton Lacey?  Let me take you in my barouche, for there is something — something very particular — I want to tell you.”

            Fanny was too distracted to realize his meaning.  “At any other time, Mr. Prescott, I would appreciate your company, but Edmund has already sent his carriage for me, and my head is so full right now that I would rather go alone, if you don’t mind.”

            “Not at all,” he said with a bow.  James watched her, frustrated, as she walked away from him.  Now that he had decided to declare himself to her, every minute seemed wasted — especially these minutes, in which she was going to Edmund!

            The day was beautiful, and the eight-mile ride was pleasant, but Fanny could not enjoy herself as much as she normally would, so occupied was her mind.  What could she say to Edmund?  Her fears were unfounded, however, for Edmund came out to meet her with a friendly smile, talking to her as if nothing had happened.  Had she known the extent of his effort to mask his hurt with nonchalant chatter, she would have been proud indeed. 

            “I hope that my aunt was not too disturbed by your leaving.  But then, she is rarely disturbed by anything,” Edmund rattled on as they walked into the house. 

            “Susan is with her,” Fanny