As for returning to live in Mansfield Park, she disliked the idea, as being a falling back, a withdrawal from the world, and a return to too many things she had fled. She and Sir Thomas had yet to meet, and she must await his invitation and his forgiveness, should he be inclined to extend it, before she could enter his halls again as a visitor. She looked to time, and Sir Thomas’s sense of justice, for a reconciliation.
The bequest from Henry Crawford might be enough, with careful management, for her to live modestly, in independence and obscurity, a prospect as beguiling to her as a palace would have been to many another. But in the varied scenes of the future that her fancy painted, there was always another one living with her; sometimes it was Susan, sometimes William, perhaps even Miss Lee, retired from her labours, some congenial person with whom to talk and walk. For the present, Mrs. Butters did not speak of Fanny ever leaving her side, and Fanny was grateful to remain with the kind old widow.
* * * * * *
Mary Bertram, clad in the deepest mourning, lay prostrate on the sofa, her lovely eyes red-rimmed. The old Admiral, whom she had always detested, had proven to be her staunchest ally in the catastrophe, and to her surprise she found herself inviting him for tea a few days after the funeral so that she could once again review the disastrous events of the past year. She could not think of enough bad things to say about her husband’s family. Who would have thought that the meek little Fanny Price could have authored such devastation? She must have brazenly lied to Edmund about being deceived and seduced by Henry, and her brother was dead in consequence.
Even as Mary spurned Edmund and refused to answer his messages, he was all she could think about, and she realized that she longed to feel his arms around her again. She could not bear the company of her old friends, such as Mrs. Fraser. The Earl of Elsham had sent flowers and his card; she was at home to nobody. Yet, she hated being alone. She wanted desperately to feel as secure and loved as she had when she was first married. “Tell me again of my husband, uncle. What did he say to you after the funeral?”
“Very little to the purpose, child, he bowed and stammered and said he was sorry. The pious fraud. I gave him a piece of my mind, you may be sure!”
“Thank you, uncle. When I think of how that wretched Miss Price connived against us—my brother in his death agonies, our family estates stolen away from us!”
“Mr. Stanhope said that Miss Price would not leave your brother’s side.”
“Yes, so as to keep him prisoner until he could be forced into marriage with Maria!”
“Aye, and the grieving widow has already hastened to Norfolk to seize control of Everingham.”
“And what of Edmund’s father or his brother—did they dare to show their faces at Henry’s funeral?”
“Sir Thomas, I believe, is hiding away in his estate. As for his elder brother, that reminds me, I’ve significant news for you. This morning I had it on good authority—
“—by ‘good authority’ I know you mean that woman who lives with you, yes?”
“Sneer if you will, but Sophia is very reliable. I have never known her to be in error in her information. The older Bertram son, the one they call ‘Tom,’ but whom I will call a— (and here the Admiral used a string of colourful naval epithets that made Mary wince) —fled to Liverpool on the morning of the duel.”
Mary frowned. “The duel wasn’t actually fought, was it? Why would Mr. Bertram need to evade the law?”
“Ah, he is not fleeing from the law. He is fleeing from his life, don’t you know. He has set sail for America where he plans to breed horses. But he’ll breed nothing himself—if what Sophie hears of him is true, he will make no heir, so your husband will be the heir presumptive. Or, if you have a son, Mary, he will be a baronet one day. That ought to please you. What a revenge that will be for losing Everingham! Please promise me you will cuckold him.”
Mary sat bolt upright, alarm in her eyes.
“Uncle, what did you say to Edmund after the funeral? Tell me everything.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“We have a proposal for you, Fanny,” said Mrs. Butters in her direct way, one morning at breakfast. She had yet to explain who ‘we’ were, but Fanny knew the rest would follow shortly. She and Susan exchanged glances—and Susan took the precaution of selecting another muffin and buttering it well, in preparation for whatever news befell them.
“My relations—not the high and mighty Smallridges—I mean the Blodgetts—those folk who sell fabrics and lace in Bristol—you have been to their shop with me, haven’t you, Fanny?”
“Yes, ma’am. You and I and Madame Orly, last winter.”
Mrs. Butters leaned forward confidingly.
“They have plans, Fanny. Plans to expand their trade to London.”
“I see.”
“Not yet, you don’t. I have yet to explain. We shall also be opening a dress-maker’s shop and engaging the most skilled mantua-makers. Our scheme, as
