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Mansfield Park, July 29
My dear sister Norris,
Do not be alarmed at the receipt of this letter, even though it is not a fortnight since I last wrote you. But I have some news to impart, which I make no doubt, will surprise you. Edmund has informed us that Mary has extended the lease on the townhouse in Wimpole Street, and intends to live in the city, at least until the alterations are finished at Thornton Lacey. Mary has assured me their home is quite intolerable because of the alterations now in hand, so I will defer my visit to Edmund’s new parish until all of that is done with.
Edmund has given his consent for Mary to do as she wishes, and he will divide his time between city and country, travelling up to London at least twice a month. I am not a little astonished at this—what think you, Sister? I own that I cannot help reflecting, I would never have thought to go abroad without Sir Thomas by my side.
It is almost a full three months since you have been living in Portsmouth with our sister Price and her family. I am sure you are very often thought of here at Mansfield—yesterday I overheard Baddeley remark to one of our footman, who had chanced to drop a plate, that he was sure you heard the sound of the plate shattering on the floor, all the way in Portsmouth! Although your hearing is remarkably acute, especially for your age, I fancy he was speaking in jest.
In the absence of yourself, Fanny, and my oldest daughter, I remain quite desolate for want of company. Speaking of hardships, I trust that you are completely recovered from the dreadful calamity that befell you last month, which I shudder to recall.
The weather continues remarkably fine, and Pug and I have sat outdoors more than once this month to enjoy it, when it is not too hot. However, I greatly fear that you cannot say the same, living as you are close by the docks with all of their dreadful odours. I remember how I used to dread the summer months in Huntingdon! Heat disagrees with me terribly.
Please give my love to my sister Price and her family. How many of them are still at home?
Yours affectionately,
M. Bertram
Mrs. Norris had not allowed the ill-temper of her sister Price to dissuade her from directing and managing the children and servants of the Price household—mere peevishness from her hostess would not prevent that worthy lady from carrying out what was most evidently any Christian woman’s duty—but after three months among them, Mrs. Norris felt that she had done all that one woman could do. To the unfeigned relief of the Prices, Mrs. Norris took the unprecedented step of travelling from Portsmouth to London at her own expense, in anticipation of returning to Northamptonshire in her nephew’s carriage—after a pleasant sojourn with Mary Bertram in London. The new bride could undoubtedly benefit from the advice of an older and wiser head. She arrived at Wimpole Street in early August with all her luggage, in good time to dress and then join her nephew and his wife for dinner.
Very pleased at being back in the fashionable world, Mrs. Norris was merrier than usual over her wine, and spoke confidingly to Mary, as though the two of them shared a private joke.
“Mary, I believe it is only a year ago last month that you and your brother first came to Mansfield Park, is it not? And how long was it after that, when Edmund made you a proposal?”
Mary smiled at Edmund, who replied, “I asked Mary to become my wife only last March, Aunt Norris. Mary and I are not advocates of long engagements!”
“But you two had an understanding long before that, did you not?” And she nodded meaningfully at Mary. “Last autumn?”
“I am fortunate that not everyone has your penetration, ma’am,” Mary exclaimed. “I had thought, last autumn, that the depth of my regard for your nephew was known only to myself.”
“And I ardently wished for Mary to be my wife from that time,” added Edmund, “but lacked the courage to declare myself.”
“Oh, no need to be so coy,” said Mrs. Norris. “Many persons form an understanding upon a few weeks’ acquaintance. It was not, of course, the case with Mr. Norris and myself. I had known him for many years before determining upon marriage with him. But, truly, I have a romantic nature at heart, and so, when I discovered your letter to Fanny—”
“My letter, ma’am?” asked Mary, her smiles vanishing.
“Yes, your letter which I found in that den of disorder which my poor sister Price calls her home. Before I left, you may be sure that I saw everything scrubbed and scoured and set to rights, from cellar to garret. I found some letters in the attic, including some letters to Fanny, one from my sister Bertram, and one from you, Mary,” she nodded to Mary.
“Ah, I think I recall the letter you speak of. We thought Fanny had decamped to Portsmouth but she had in fact, deceived everyone on that point. I had written a few lines to her at Portsmouth. What became of that letter, ma’am?” asked Mary, in indifferent tones.
“Why, as the seal was broken, I read it myself and I must congratulate you, Mary, on your perception. You saw through Fanny’s machinations, as no one else has.”
“Oh, please say nothing of it, ma’am. Will you have some more ragout?”
“No, there is
