* * * * * *
The sound of hammer and saw drew Tom Bertram from his unhappy meditations over his morning coffee, and hastening to the billiard room, he found Christopher Jackson hard at work, as directed, building the proscenium arch. Jackson was abruptly dismissed, with orders to return later that day and “take the whole d—ned thing apart —take it away and burn it.”
The scene-painter was also dismissed, having spoilt only the floor of one room, ruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the under-servants idle and dissatisfied.
Tom then retreated to his father’s study, where, with his head in his hands, he recollected his brother’s objections to the amateur theatricals, and his correct representation of his father’s disapproval. In fact, the denouement had been worse than Edmund’s grimmest predictions.
Maria appeared before him, pale but determined. “Have you spoken to Henry this morning, Tom?”
“No, I have not spoken with our amiable guest and if I were to do so, it would be to inform him that Edmund and I have agreed to defer the question of your marriage to our father, upon his return. You shall not have long to wait, although waiting for matrimony is clearly a trial for you.”
Maria’s features contorted in ugly passion. “How dare you, brother, stand in judgment over me. How dare you! You, who have had had the freedom to ride and roam all over the United Kingdom, you who have been away to school, to Oxford, to Bath, to London, to every fashionable resort and race track, you who have poured out our father’s money, on gaming, and drink and—and—other forms of pleasure, which are too foul to be named—whilst I—” Maria’s tears were flowing freely now, “Whilst I have stayed here at home, doing my needlework, playing the pianoforte, unable to go anywhere, or meet anyone. You dare preach to me? You cannot know what it is to be buried alive, to awake every day to the same companions, the same routine, the same evenings, and the day after that, and the day after that. I dared to follow my heart for just one day—just one night—and I am threatened with ruin, and disgrace and exposure for all my days. Where is the justice in that?”
“Maria, it is not I who condemns you, it is the World, it is Society, it is the established modes of our religion—”
“It is one rule for men, and another for women! I defy you all! Tell me that you, Tom, have never, ever—”
“The world is unjust, Maria,” her brother acknowledged. “But recognize who your friends are. To publish the news of an understanding with Crawford, immediately after dissolving your agreement with Rushworth, would only expose you to malicious speculation.”
Maria started, her lips quivered as though to say something more, but she quit the room.
A little while later, another conference was in progress in the breakfast-room, which the Crawfords had to themselves, the appetites of all the younger Bertrams being so disordered as to make it impossible to contemplate pork chops, eggs, or kippers with equanimity.
“Am I to congratulate you now, brother?” Mary enquired. “Is this the end of your flirtations and intrigues? Mr. Rushworth has been seen off, I understand.”
“Mary, you are being very charitable to refrain from saying ‘I told you so.’ Had I listened to your warnings, I would have given up the game with Maria Bertram and left this place weeks ago. Now I’m in a fairly delicate position. However, I take pleasure in informing you that I’ve obtained a stay of execution—we await the return of Sir Thomas. Perhaps he will conclude I am not good enough for his daughter.”
“Maria means to have you, so in the eyes of the world, you are in honour bound. Ah, what a picture the wedding will be! Maria blushing in bridal lace, eyes downcast, I as one of her attendants, and Julia as the other—oh! my poor Julia! What did Benedict say of Beatrice? She speaks poniards, and every word stabs! Beware you turn your back on her, Henry, especially if she is holding a sharp instrument! So what do you propose to do while waiting for Sir Thomas’s verdict?”
Henry yawned and stretched. “Life here is too hectic for me. I yearn for the tranquility of a fox hunt. And you? Can I convey you anywhere?”
“You mean to avoid the Bertram sisters for now?”
“Shall Maria Bertram, so lately, so publicly engaged to Rushworth, become the acknowledged bride of Crawford? Tongues would wag, insinuations would be made. I could not stand idly by and allow the honour of the fair Maria to be besmirched. T’ were better if there were some time and distance between us.”
“She will be anxious until your return.”
“Ah well, as the Butler says in our play:
Then you, who now lead single lives,
From this sad tale beware;
And do not act as you were wives,
Before you really are.”
“But Henry, if you refuse to marry Maria, then…. then consider how it places me. You know that I have
