“Mr. Crawford,” she whispered, and turned ashen white. Edmund stepped forward to catch her as she began to faint away. He gently led her back to the sofa. Concealment was impossible, but how he despised himself for being the one to bring the news to Crawford’s wife.
“Is it so?” asked Fanny in a faltering voice, sick with horror, “my cousin? Where is she?”
“Truly, Fanny, I think only my brother Tom and my father know where she resides, but I believe it must be north of London. They both visit her on their way between London and Northamptonshire. There is a conspiracy within the family to shield my mother from all knowledge and, so far as possible, to spare each other the grief of canvassing this matter. I believe she will have her child in October.”
Fanny closed her eyes and thought, Maria, I only meant to help. I only meant to protect you. What have I done? And she burst into tears. She had succumbed to the temptation of telling a falsehood—and not only had it nearly brought the death of her brother, she had brought disaster upon Maria. How bitterly did she regret acting in concert with the likes of Henry Crawford! She recalled Julia’s contemptuous words from last winter— ‘Have you never succumbed and done what you knew to be wrong? No? I tell you why. It is not because you are more virtuous than the rest of us—though I know you think you are. It is because nothing tempts you.’
She had denied it at the time, but she had thought herself better than the others, until tempted to do something she knew was wrong, to help her brother. Never, never, could she think herself better than others!
It was some moments before she was coherent and rational again. She raised a tear-streaked face to Edmund and said, “There is only one thing to be done. Henry Crawford must marry her. Don’t you agree? He must marry Maria so that the child may have a name.”
“But Fanny,” Edmund gently took her hand. “How can this be? It cannot be done expeditiously, and you would destroy your own reputation to save hers. Crawford must accuse you of adultery and then obtain an Act of Parliament before he can marry again—”
Fanny shook her head desperately. “It was all false. All falsehoods!”
Now it was Edmund’s turn to grow pale. “What do you mean, Fanny? In the name of heaven, what are you saying?”
Fanny could not hold back her tears, her face a picture of contrition. “Oh, cousin, how can I bear to tell you? I am not married to Henry Crawford. We were never married. It was a deception. He—he told me...” She could not speak more, she was overcome with sobs of remorse and she buried her face in her hands. With what arrogance did I propose to arrange the destinies of others! She thought to herself. I allowed myself to believe Mr. Crawford when he said that Maria would forget him and marry another. I have destroyed Maria’s life—she has been in agonies these—how many months? Thinking me married to the man she loved, while she carried his child! I am abominable!
She remained for a moment, almost insensible, when the sound of a door being slammed shut, caught her attention. She stood up and ran to the window and beheld Edmund running down the front steps while putting on his jacket and jamming his hat upon his head. And he was gone, pacing briskly down the street.
Fanny stood at the window, unable to move. She knew not how much time elapsed until the door creaked and a gentle cough caused her to turn around. The butler, not meeting her eyes, said apologetically, “Is there anything I can do for you, madam?”
“Where has Mr. Bertram gone?”
“He enquired of me about the Four-in-Hand club, madam. That is all I know.” Fanny resumed looking out the window.
Another gentle cough.
“Pardon, how may I assist you, madam?”
“Is Mr. Bertram here? Tom Bertram? I fear something terrible is about to happen.”
“He is at his private club, I believe, madam. We could send our footman to him with a message.”
“Please, please ask Mr. Bertram to come immediately!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
In only a few minutes’ brisk walking, Edmund reached Cavendish Square, where a row of a dozen brilliantly decorated open carriages, all painted yellow, and each harnessed to a handsome team of four horses, were lined up in the street. The pavement was crowded with admirers, with more watching from the windows of the houses overlooking the Square—some spectators were there to admire the teams and the equipage, and others to admire the young men preparing to drive them, and still others to admire the fashionable society beauties in attendance, for this was a special meeting of the Four-in-hand Club, preparing to set out for their procession to Salt Hill, twenty-four miles away. Edmund quickly scanned the young drivers, lounging, laughing and chatting with each other and with the throngs of spectators. He soon spotted the man he was searching for. Henry Crawford was at his gayest, standing proudly next to his barouche, while the groomsmen held the reins of a splendid team of four matched bays. The horses and the equipage were the best that money could buy, and Crawford himself was proudly sporting the blue and yellow striped waistcoat that only members of Mr. Buxton’s driving club were permitted to wear.
“When will you start for Salt Hill, Mr. Crawford?” one of the young ladies asked coquettishly. “It will be frightful if we must be the last in the procession.”
“As the newest member, my dear Miss Campbell, I shall take my place at the rear, or wherever
