“May I take your card in, madam?” he replied, for of course it was not Baddeley, but a total stranger to her.
“Oh—I have no card, but could you please inform them—that Fanny is here. I mean, Miss Price. I mean, Mrs. Henry Crawford.”
The butler started slightly, then recovered his composure and bowed her in to a small but elegantly appointed entry hall. “Please wait here, madam, if you please.”
Fanny stood in terrific suspense, not knowing who, if anyone, would appear and acknowledge her as a relative. She heard some low murmured voices, and then she thought she heard a commotion, as though a chair had been scraped back suddenly—even knocked aside—she heard a firm rapid footstep, a man’s voice saying, “No, I shall greet her myself,” a door opened and there appeared—
“Cousin!” she exclaimed.
Edmund approached rapidly, looking at her carefully. He saw an elegantly dressed little woman, looking up at him with joy on her face. It was his own Fanny whom he had last seen the previous October but oh, how the intervening months had changed them both!
“My Fanny!” He watched her countenance carefully for some signs of the disdain which his wife had assured him Fanny felt for him and all the Bertrams. She stepped up lightly to meet him, and to his infinite relief, she embraced him and laid her head on his chest.
“Thank goodness! Fanny, there is so much to explain, so much I need to apologize for—”
She stepped back, startled. “Apologize? You, cousin? I rather think I need to apologize to you!”
“No, never, Fanny, for you could never do anything harmful to anyone. Please, please, come in and sit down. You cannot know how comforting, how wonderful it is to see you again. Please come and talk with me.”
Edmund took Fanny by the hand, led her to the sitting-room and closed the door behind them, with the warmest affection on his countenance.
“Fanny, I need not ask you if you have been well, you look very well indeed.”
They had not met for three-quarters of a year, and Fanny had altered from a girl to a fashionable young woman in that space of time. Her hair curled charmingly under her stylish little bonnet, coral earrings dangled from her neat little ears and the high collar of her burgundy jacket set off her pale, slender neck. But was she still his friend, still his greatest confidante in this world? With an eagerness which bespoke the warmth of his affection, he begged her to tell him all of her story, from the day of her early morning departure from Mansfield Park.
“Fanny, please, I must know one thing—did you leave a letter for me when you left the house?”
Startled, Fanny replied, “Yes, of course I did, cousin!” and to her astonishment Edmund sat back abruptly, then leaned forward and buried his head in his hands. “Fanny—Fanny, I never received that letter.”
Fanny sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then ventured— “why then, you must have believed that I disappeared without a word of explanation to you and the family, and the first news you had of me was my letter from Bristol? How sorry I am! You must have wondered and worried—But stay—no, cousin—Miss Crawford—that is, as she was then, when she found me in Bristol, she told me that you had read my letter and you were very angry with me…..” she trailed off in perplexity.
Edmund sighed. “I cannot explain…. wait…… no, Fanny—with you I can have no reserve, particularly if these horrible misunderstandings and blunders are to be set aright, I must explain, I must tell you the truth. Believe me, only my desire to do right by you compels me to cast aside all reserve, all decorum, and all the discretion which I ordinarily uphold as every person’s duty toward those whom they are bound to honour. You will understand my reticence, and all of the motives which would enjoin me to silence. I am not proud of confessing what you will soon perceive—how matters stand with me and mine! At least I will obtain some comfort, some solace, by confiding in you. And so I will be direct, and trust upon your generosity and candour.
“We did have your letter to my father, on the morning you left. But, Fanny,” he added, speaking with obvious reluctance, “only recently did I learn of the existence of your letter to me, and that it was kept from me by….. by she who is now my wife.”
A long silence ensued. Edmund sat gravely, looking down at his hands, and Fanny studied him carefully, while her feelings of tenderness and compassion for him threatened to overpower her. He looked older, somehow a little harder, and there were lines about his mouth and on his brow which had not been there before. She now saw the sorrow and disillusionment which had placed those lines there. She was not surprised, and certainly not triumphant, in knowing that she had been correct as to the hidden venality of Mary Crawford’s character, while Edmund, once deceived, was now……
Tears arose to her eyes. Though she remained perfectly silent and still, he nevertheless felt the full force of her sympathy, though he could barely endure to glance at her during the next part of his confession.
After a time, Edmund sighed and continued. “Fanny, I want so much to hear your voice again, but allow me to explain a little of what happened. When we discovered that you were not—not amongst us, my wife—then Miss Crawford—went to the East Room, in search of you. It cannot be denied that she found your letter to me and removed it; she gave me only the letter for my father. I believed that you had left without leaving a word for me, she allowed
