When the stage lovers were done exclaiming over the similarity of impulse, the conformity of thought, and the delicacy of the motive, which had prompted both of them to seek Fanny’s help, Edmund proposed that they rehearse together, and Fanny was wanted only to prompt and observe them. With exquisite self-consciousness then, on the part of all the parties, they rehearsed the dialogue:
Amelia. I will not marry.
Anhalt. You mean to say, you will not fall in love.
Amelia. Oh no! [ashamed] I am in love.
Anhalt. Are in love! [starting] And with the Count?
Amelia. I wish I was.
Anhalt. Why so?
Amelia. Because he would, perhaps, love me again.
Anhalt. [warmly]. Who is there that would not?
Amelia. Would you?
Anhalt. I—I—me—I—I am out of the question.
Amelia. No; you are the very person to whom I have put the question.
Anhalt. What do you mean?
Amelia. I am glad you don't understand me. I was afraid I had spoken too plain. [in confusion].
Fanny quite correctly imputed the warmth of Anhalt’s responses to Amelia as more than play-acting, and while she could not answer for the sincerity of Miss Crawford’s affection for Edmund, she was in no doubt that Miss Crawford did not object to Edmund’s being in love with her.
At last, she was left to herself again, and Fanny found herself retrieving the letter from Mrs. Smallridge and perused it once again with swimming eyes: If Miss Price is able to Arrange her own conveyance to the Raleigh Inn, Oxford, on the 22nd inst., she will be Encountered by one Mrs. Butters, viz, Aunt to the Undersigned, who will conduct an Interview and, should Miss Price’s answers and Appearance prove all that is Satisfactory, the said Aunt will Convey her from thence by private carriage thither to Keynsham Hill.
Although the language of the letter hinted at an aspiration, on Mrs. Smallridge’s part, to greater elegance of epistolary style than she might actually possess, this insight into her future employer’s capabilities gave Fanny no alarm. The letter gave directions for writing to Mrs. Butters to confirm the arrangement, a rendezvous in Oxford now only two days hence. Fanny’s despair made her reckless, and in the most daring act of her short life, she determined to be in Oxford at the appointed time.
She had received, over the years, gifts of pocket money from her aunt and uncle for birthdays and holidays, but unlike Maria and Julia, who made a habit of exceeding their allowances, Fanny always saved more than she spent. Apart from small acts of charity and the purchase of some books, Fanny was building a nest egg against the day she and William could at last settle in their own cottage. She possessed sufficient funds to travel to Oxford by mail coach and a little further besides.
Even as she told herself that her proposed course was rash, dangerous, and worst of all to a temperament so sensitive as hers, ridiculous, she found herself already calculating in her mind what, if anything, among her few possessions she might be able to carry away from the household without detection. She would take several of her plainest gowns, and perhaps a second pair of shoes—but alas! —she would leave her beloved little library behind, as she had not the strength to carry all her books with her to the village. As she looked about the East Room at the pictures and gifts she had received over the years, she felt a fresh sensation of guilt and humility. The table between the windows was covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes, all gifts from her cousins at different times, principally by Tom. All must remain, and as she contemplated these kind remembrances from her family, her Aunt Norris’s accusations of ingratitude struck her as forcibly as they had ever done.
Her alternative was to continue as a silent witness while Edmund courted Mary Crawford, and if, as Fanny devoutly hoped, Miss Crawford ultimately rejected him, it was after all only a matter of time before he fixed upon another woman as his wife. Fanny knew that the woman Edmund Bertram married could style herself, in all rationality, as the happiest and most fortunate of creatures. Fanny did not condition for happiness. At eighteen years of age, she sought only peace of mind as the best that life could offer her. Despair had given her the courage to do what once had been truly unfathomable.
Her little stock of sealing wax was exhausted, and Fanny descended to the main floor and slipped into her uncle’s study to obtain some more for her letter of reply. She tiptoed through the billiard room, where the scene painter was putting the finishing touches on the painted stone walls of Frederick’s prison cell, while a young housemaid watched in admiration as she pretended to be dusting the woodwork. The room smelt pleasantly of fresh-sawn lumber and oil paint and turpentine. Fanny had just reached the door of the hallway when her Aunt Norris, looking into the theatre, called for her.
“Come, Fanny,” she cried, “these are fine times for you, but you must not be always walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at your ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself till I can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without sending for any more satin;
