“Only for the pleasure of abusing Lord Delingpole to me. I think not, Henry. Not now.”
Miss Crawford soon excused herself to retire for the night, which seemed to signal a general break-up of the party; Maria Bertram made her adieux, Mr. Rushworth yawned and took his leave, and Henry Crawford slipped away quietly. Only Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates remained behind.
Mary Crawford paused at the second floor landing and stood at the tall windows overlooking the path which led down the hill past her temporary home at the parsonage. For the past four months, the young Bertrams, her brother, and she had come together almost every day–walking, talking, riding, dining, reading, singing, laughing, and flirting. But, should her brother make good on his promise and leave them on the morrow, she feared the immediate effects of such a change. She saw herself isolated at the parsonage. The sisters, while professedly her friends, had not truly formed an intimate tie with her, clearly preferring her brother’s company to her own. And while not disliking the Bertram sisters, she was, it must be confessed, only interested in being on an intimate footing with them as it brought her into contact with their brother Edmund. Henry’s removal would make this fact, disguised by the frequent comings and goings of both households, all too evident.
After some moments of calm deliberation, Miss Crawford quietly glided along the passageway to Julia’s bedroom, and found Julia awake, still dressed, also searching for solace by gazing out the window.
“How now, Julia!” she cried. “Shall I call your maid, or can I assist you? I promise you, the world will wear a better aspect tomorrow morning, after a good night’s sleep.”
“A good night’s sleep!” Julia exclaimed scornfully. “They say that a troublesome conscience keeps one awake, but in my experience the opposite is true. I have not wronged anyone, I have not deceived anyone, and I cannot close my eyes. But she sleeps soundly at night, after making a fool of her future husband before his very face!”
“As for sleeping soundly,” Mary said with meaning, “Just now, I went to your sister’s bedroom to wish her goodnight, and there was no answer. The door was slightly ajar, so I peeped inside—her lady’s maid was sitting there asleep by the fire, but of Maria, there was no sign.”
“Where is she then? With the others?”
“No, she was not in the dining-room when I left. And,”—with an earnest look— “and—neither was my brother….”
Further hints were not necessary. Julia took a candlestick from her dressing table, slipped out of the room in her stockinged feet and glided down the stairs.
The servants had banked all the fires and retired for the night, save for a solitary yawning footman who stood at attention in the pantry, ready to serve Mr. Bertram and his last remaining guest. The clocks were striking eleven and Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates were still holding high revel in the dining-room, having opened their fourth bottle of wine.
Yates was half sitting, half lying at his ease across several dining-room chairs, entertaining himself by flicking playing cards at, but seldom into, the upturned hat of his Baron costume.
“This is what happens when I go out shooting, drat the luck,” Yates took another long sip of wine. “My aim is atrocious. Not like Charles Anderson. D’you remember when Anderson shot the cork off a bottle of champagne at twenty paces in the old Duke’s gallery? Shame about the bust of Diana, of course.”
“Nonsense, Yates. That statue wasn’t an antique, but once Anderson took her nose off she looked like she had been dug up out of Pompeii. Did the Duke a favour.”
“Gave it that very… veritable… verisimilitude… in vino veritas,” Yates was cheerfully assenting, when a strange commotion arose. A woman’s voice, raised in anger, another’s in alarm, followed by a deeper— “Hold your tongues, both of you! You’ll bring the entire household down upon us!”
“I will NOT hold my tongue, you—you—blackguard! You cur!”
That was clearly Julia, and the argument seemed to be proceeding from the theatre.
“They’re not still rehearsin’, are they?’ Mr. Yates queried, the wine cup half raised to his lips. His host exclaimed something in an undertone, and bidding his guest stay where he was, Tom ran to the billiard room.
There, in the dim light of a solitary candle, a desperate situation met his eyes—Maria en dishabile, her limbs exposed, reclining on the pile of green baize curtains, Henry Crawford in the act of pulling up his breeches, his shirt tail untucked, hopping across the stage toward Julia who, like an avenging virago, stood poised, one hand holding her candle aloft, with the other hand pointing toward her guilty sister. Tom Bertram, hearing more footsteps in the corridor, closed the door firmly behind him.
“Is everything all right, sir?” Through the door came the sleepy voice of the butler.
“We won’t require you any further tonight, Baddeley,” said Tom. “T’was only a—”
“Only a play?” suggested Julia scornfully. “Only playacting? ‘Tis too true, isn’t it, Mr. Crawford? Tell her that you were only playing a part. Did you vow undying love? Did you tell her you would perish unless she gave herself to you? Let us have a repeat performance!”
“Good night, sir,” came from the other side of the door. Baddeley retreated.
Henry Crawford’s eyes met those of the brother of the girl he had seduced. “Bertram, my friend, what can I say? You’re a man of the world, aren’t you?”
The effects of two bottles of wine evaporated and Bertram felt himself to be fully sober. “Crawford, you and I shall speak in my father’s study. Julia, you shall assist your sister and escort her upstairs as swiftly and quietly as you can.”
“No! I shall not! I shall never speak to her again so long as I live!”
“Come with us then, let me
