Julia took a deep breath and was on the point of screaming her defiance when her brother seized her by the shoulders and shook her roughly.
“Have a care, Julia. If you bring ruin and disgrace upon your sister, you will ruin yourself as well.”
“I bring ruin. I?” Julia hissed, shooting a look of pure venom at Mr. Crawford. “Serpent! Cad!”
“Will everyone please leave me?” Maria asked, in a tone, Tom thought, more imperious than ashamed. Julia set down her candle and allowed Tom Bertram to pull her across the stage and through the door into his father’s adjoining study, where Henry Crawford followed. The only light was from the faint crescent moon and the three could only see each other in silhouette, Julia’s heaving breast giving testimony to the fierce passions that contended within.
“Well then, Bertram,” offered Crawford coolly. “I am at your disposal.” Julia gasped and moved to place herself in front of him, but he pushed her aside.
“If you are hinting at a duel, Crawford, don’t be ridiculous. I find, when it comes to the point, that I’ve no wish to risk my life for my sister’s honour—not when she has chosen to fling it away. But you will oblige me by telling me, how do you propose to dispose of yourself, Crawford?”
The door from the billiard room opened and Maria, hastily dressed, with her hair tumbling down her back, flew into the room and flung her arms around her lover.
“I see,” said Mr. Bertram. “Very well. Julia, I promised you some brandy. Crawford, you will oblige me by staying out of my sight until I ask for you. I am not inclined to discuss this matter further tonight and I want in particular to consult my brother.”
“I surmise that your brother will not be as... philosophical about this turn of events as you are, Bertram.”
“Do not underestimate us, Crawford. Do not insult our understanding, after you have insulted our honour. All Edmund—or anyone save ourselves—need know is that Julia and I have seen, shall we say, undoubted proofs of affection, between yourself and Maria. And—” he looked sternly at his sister, “Maria, tomorrow morning, Mr. Rushworth will be informed that your understanding with him is at an end—unless you can bring yourself to look him in the face.”
“I can look him in the face if I am assured it will be the last time I must ever do so,” was the rejoinder, and Crawford felt Maria’s arms tighten around him further.
Julia’s outrage had subsided to wracking sobs which she muffled with her handkerchief; her bearing now spoke more of defeat than of anger as she allowed her brother to lead her away. The guilty lovers parted in the hallway, but not without a fond caress and a whispered “My Henry! My own!”
Mr. Yates remained, forgotten, in the dining-room, addressing another bottle of wine. After waiting some three-quarters of an hour for his host to return, he finally took a bottle with him to his bedchamber.
Fanny, lying in her garret bedroom, awoke briefly. She thought she had heard a quarrel but perhaps it had only been part of a dream. She had been dreaming of Henry Crawford, seeing him in prison, as his character Frederick was in Act Four of the play. Maria, as Agatha, pleaded for his release, but it was to her own father, Sir Thomas, that she pleaded in Fanny’s dream. Fanny hovered on the edge of sleep, listening to the household clocks strike midnight, then one, then two, waiting for the hour of four o’clock, when she would arise.
Chapter Four
It would be hours yet before anyone by the name of Bertram, or any of the guests sheltered under their roof, required hot water, or hot chocolate, or curling tongs, or breakfast, or a morning paper, yet the corridors and offices of Mansfield Park were by no means deserted, even before the first hints of dawn. Fires were laid, chairs dusted, and all was set in order for when the household should come to life. Unnoticed amongst the underservants, who scurried to and fro on their duties, there passed a slight figure, muffled up in a dark green travelling cloak, wearing a close bonnet and carrying a small portmanteau. No one challenged Fanny as she left the house through the tackle room and detoured around the stables, where she was unlikely to be noticed from the house. It was an unseasonably cold morning, and Fanny’s breath mingled with a morning fog which enveloped the park and gave a ghostly aspect to the bare trees. Frost lay thick on the ground, and the shallow puddles in the rutted lanes were covered with a thin dirty film of ice.
Had she been able, Fanny would have paused to turn around and take a last look at the beloved house, and she longed to go into the stables and take affectionate leave of Edmund’s gentle little mare, the one he had bought specially for her use, but fear of detection prevented her from doing so.
Fanny was passing carefully behind the outbuildings, when Christopher Jackson, driving a cart pulled by a reluctant old pony, overtook her.
“Why—Miss Price? What are you about at this hour, Miss? Are you going to the parsonage or to town? You had best climb up here with me, don’t be walking through the dews and the damp like that.”
Fanny had no choice but to comply and climb up beside the tradesman.
“What brings you abroad so early Miss Price?” Jackson persisted. “Is anything amiss? Are you a-going to the White house? Is your aunt unwell?”
“My aunt Norris is in good health, I believe.” Fanny countered. “Mr. Jackson, please do not trouble yourself on my
