There were some disapproving murmurs in the crowd and angry looks directed toward Edmund and his companion. He removed his hat and bowed again, deeply.
“Sir, I very much regret the circumstances of the accident which claimed your nephew’s life. As to the rest, sir, time and Providence must be my judge.”
“Don’t ‘providence,’ me, you black-robed jackal! My niece, married to a clergyman! G-d help us all! By g-d, if I had you on one of my ships, I would lash you to the gratings and flog you to the bone! I’d flog you, just as your father, the honourable Sir Thomas, flogs his slaves, you sanctimonious prating hypocrite!” The Admiral’s voice raised to a crescendo, the false teeth nearly slipped out and were retrieved, and the crowd now completely surrounded the old Admiral and the object of his hatred.
“Sir, we all regret the mischance that befell your nephew, but it is not in my power to—”
“Mischance! You pharisaical whoreson! Give me my nephew back! And you may go to the devil, with all of your tribe of vultures!” The Admiral raised his cane, but just as Edmund lifted his arm to ward off the blow, the angry old man spun around abruptly and scuttled away as quickly as he had come, leaving the murmuring crowd to discuss whether the impudent b-st-rd ought to be hung from a lamppost or merely pelted with the dung from the streets.
Mr. Anderson seized his arm and hurried him away before the crowd could decide on the correct course of action. “By my faith,” Anderson panted, “I thought the apoplectic old fellow would drop right there on the pavement and you’d have the death of another Crawford on your conscience! What a final oration, though, begad! Not since Antony has a man stirred up a crowd like that, eh?”
“There is enough truth in what he said to discompose me and enough clever falsehoods to illustrate the malignity of the mind that invented this version of events. And yet, is it invention, or do the Crawfords regard this as a true history? How wonderful are the workings of the human mind when the desire arises to justify oneself to others!”
“A little less philosophy and a little more velocity would be to the purpose, Bertram,” cautioned Anderson, looking over his shoulder. “We haven’t shaken the last of the Admiral’s claque yet.” And a clump of horse dung caught Edmund squarely between the shoulder blades. Still, he refused to run.
* * * * * *
Several evenings of quiet retirement at Mrs. Butter’s fireside, and several days devoted to long walks in the park, were needed to tranquilize Fanny after the events of the past fortnight. She had elected to remain in the peace of Stoke Newington, now that the alarms over her brother and Mr. Gibson were got over; they were known to be safely in Portsmouth, and she felt she could know neither good spirits nor good health in her parents’ house, nor in the Crown Inn, for any tolerable length of time. Mrs. Butters had promised to escort her and Susan to Portsmouth in plenty of time for the court-martial, and after that ordeal was over, she knew not where she would reside—and yet, that question, which ought to have occupied her the most, concerned her the least.
She was still very much inclined to blame herself, not the principals themselves, or the vagaries of chance, for the sufferings of Maria and the tragedy of Henry Crawford’s death. She prayed for him earnestly, believing that his courage and steadfastness in doing right by Maria, undertaken at a time of such physical suffering as made her weep to recall, was eloquent testimony that he intended to be a better man. Had he lived, she firmly believed, he would have become a better—if not perfect—husband and father, a good landlord and master. The admiral had snatched his broken body away, but he could not hang on to his soul—he was lost to his family, to his uncle, before his death—he had awakened, he was beginning to turn his back on all that was reprehensible in his past. That was why the old admiral was so vicious, so unreasoning in his anger.
Fanny wrote long penitential letters to William, Sir Thomas, and Maria, explaining how it had come about that she had pretended to be married to Henry Crawford, and the considerations that had impelled her to do it. She shrank from the task—she would far rather that someone, anyone, speak on her behalf, but Mrs. Butters firmly urged her to be her own advocate.
Her cousin Edmund was gone, escorting his sister Maria to Everingham. The family’s old nursery maid, Hannah, was with them as well, to give Maria the comfort of a familiar, loving face in her new home. Fanny was grateful that she was not to be of the party, for she admittedly had not the courage for the ordeal of explaining to the vicar, or to Mr. Maddison and the rest of the servants, why one Mrs. Crawford went up to London in August and a different Mrs. Crawford, now a widow, came back in September.
It was impossible to keep any part of the affair from the newspapers, a circumstance that filled her with shame, most particularly when she considered Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram, and yet, the provision of a home for Maria and a name for her child was a happy resolution unlooked-for by the family only a week ago. Maria herself, Fanny had been assured, had courage and spirit enough to assume her new role as mistress of Everingham, and sufficient tender feelings subsisting for her late husband to raise his child so as to honour the memory of the father.
Everingham was uncongenial to Fanny, but Thornton Lacey was forbidden to
