* * * * * *
As expected, the court-martial was a mere formality, as the Admiralty did not wish to advertise the fact that the crew of the Solebay—two hundred and fifty souls—had been sent on their mission in an old, unseaworthy frigate that tore apart like a rotten burlap sack when she was grounded on a Senegal sandbar. No one was to blame for her loss, least of all the gallant captain and the crew, and William was granted four weeks’ leave.
Fanny then took an affectionate farewell of Mrs. Butters and William Gibson, with a promise to him to renew their long-delayed scheme of a book discussion club by correspondence. Mrs. Butters and Mr. Gibson left for Bristol, while Fanny, William and Susan embarked in high spirits for the trip to Northamptonshire.
Fanny then learned another lesson—we are apt to be unreasonably disconcerted when discovering that those we left behind have carried on with their own pleasures and pursuits, and have made their own alterations and improvements in our absence, rather than being, as she had imagined, frozen in amber, and not altering in the least. Mrs. Grant had planted a small rose garden at the Parsonage, Fanny’s favourite old oak had been struck by lightning, and Sir Thomas had, at his son Tom’s repeated urging, installed a new billiard table. Fanny had fully expected to take her place in the little room in the attic, and found to her gratification that her trunk was delivered instead to Maria’s former bedchamber.
Other aspects of life at the park were just as she remembered them; Lady Bertram still reclined in the same spot, and so did Pug; Baddeley and all the servants she knew and remembered, including Christopher Jackson, were pursuing their usual tasks even though Mrs. Norris was not on hand to superintend and direct them, for the greatest alteration of all was that her aunt was still staying on in the London townhouse.
Lady Bertram was excessively pleased to see Fanny again after so many months, and, as she had barely comprehended all of the disappointments and unexpected reversals relative to her children, Fanny and the Crawfords, Fanny found that her Ladyship had few enquiries to make, and only exclaimed, now that Fanny was home, that ‘now I shall be comfortable.’
Of the younger Bertrams, only Julia was there to welcome her Price cousins. The cordiality with which Julia greeted her cousin Fanny surprised and gratified her.
“Fanny, whatever the world may suspect or say of your false marriage,” Julia confided in her as soon as they were alone, “I shall always defend you. I know that you acted for the best, when you tried to prevent Maria’s marriage to Mr. Crawford. Based upon what you knew then—what you knew of him then, you were quite justified in believing that she ought not to marry him—you knew his deceitful character, and—it is not your fault, for as upright as you are, you could never have suspected that both Maria and I were so weak as to….” she trailed off, seeing Fanny’s surprised and horrified stare.
“No, no, Fanny, I am not—I am still—I did not lie with him. But I will confess that I allowed him, privately, to take many liberties with me. I am so ashamed to recollect it now!” Julia crossed her arms protectively across her bosom, as though she could now, by doing what she ought to have done then, erase the memories which shamed her. “How easily he tempted me into hearing words I ought not to have listened to, and receiving attentions I should have repulsed! How readily I agreed! It was only a matter of time before he would have succeeded with me. But when I understood that he was pursuing Maria in the same way—I finally saw him for what he was.
“It hurts me to confess all this to you Fanny, but I want to tell you—I know that your intentions were for the best. I know you wanted to protect Maria. It was very great-hearted of you, especially as, I own, we were not always as kind and sisterly to you as we ought to have been…” This and similar conversations served to bring the two cousins into the greater confidence and sympathy, and Fanny also told Julia of her belief that Henry Crawford, had he lived, would have reformed himself.
Most precious of all to Fanny’s feelings were the quiet moments she spent walking and talking with Sir Thomas in the shrubbery, during the warm autumn afternoons; she, apologizing for having interfered in his daughter’s private affairs, and he, acknowledging her good intentions toward Maria, and absolving her of any guilt or blame as regards the outcome.
He assured her as well that Maria bore her no lasting ill will, for Maria was candid enough to acknowledge that it was her own actions, her folly in meeting with Henry Crawford in secret, which had led to her crisis.
“And, Fanny, I cannot but acknowledge, painful though it may be, that perhaps none of these untoward events would have occurred had I not absented myself in Antigua during such an interesting time in my daughters’ lives—the time when they were of an age to fancy themselves in love and to think of marriage. Even upon my return, I was too taken up with business to give domestic matters all the attention they deserved. But worse than that, I fear,” he
