“I had no idea you entertained any serious notions, Mary. He is a good enough sort of fellow, but will you throw yourself away on a second son? He is to be ordained this winter, is he not? Do you yearn to become a clergyman’s wife in a little country village? Without even a Mansfield Park nearby to provide society and amusement? You know yourself better than that.”
“He is not yet ordained.”
“Oh, well then. You stay on with our sister and her amiable husband, exercise your charms on Mr. Edmund Bertram. He, by the by, knows nothing of the… epilogue to the play that Maria and I performed last night. Out of charity to you, I will never breathe a word about it to him, and I’m sure my lovely Maria will likewise remain discreet. Julia may need some wise counsel from you.”
“Yes, I can point out the two paths she may choose—she could expose you and share in Maria’s disgrace, as no respectable man would marry into the family, or she can pipe a tear at your wedding, accompany you and Maria on your bridal journey and enjoy the season in London, under the chaperonage of Mrs. Henry Crawford.”
“If you were a man, you could have a brilliant career at the Old Bailey, dear sister. Now, whilst you are arranging your future with Mr. Earnest—pardon me, Mr. Edmund—I shan’t do anything to bring the wrath of Sir Thomas down on my head. Let me know when Sir Thomas returns. Send me a line when he desires a conference with me. From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be, I will return from any place in England, at an hour's notice. I won’t publicly deny that there is an understanding between Maria and myself, but I will try to dance just out of her reach—for a time.”
“When will you make your adieux?”
“This morning.”
And so it was that both of Maria Bertram’s suitors were gone from Mansfield Park before Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris appeared in the breakfast-room. It fell to Edmund’s lot to apprise the ladies of the rupture between Maria and Mr. Rushworth; Lady Bertram was perplexed and very near to agitation, her older sister was stupefied to learn that the engagement was dissolved, on which she had concentrated all her guile and energies, and which in her own imagination would serve either as a welcome-home offering to Sir Thomas on his safe return, or the family’s consolation should he perish on the homeward journey. Because his mother and aunt could not understand why so eligible a match had been broken off, Edmund was compelled to unfold the further news about Maria and Crawford.
So astounding was this revelation, that the further disclosure that Tom had rung down the last curtain on his amateur theatre, before the said curtain had even been hung, was received with submission, even by Mrs. Norris. The curtain in question, over which she had presided with such talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she happened to be particularly in want of green baize.
The last member of the theatrical company to appear in the breakfast-room, enquiring dolefully for coffee, eggs, and ham, was Mr. Yates. Of all of the members of the late theatrical troupe, surely he was the most to be pitied. His ambitions were once again to be annihilated on the eve of his public triumph as an actor. It was with more obduracy than politeness that he proposed to summon two or more of his particular friends to Mansfield to take over the roles abandoned by Mr. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford. Even Tom grew weary of his friend’s tenacity and was truthfully not sorry to hear Yates speak of shortening his visit among them to merely another fortnight or two.
The inhabitants of Mansfield Park, each with their own wishes, regrets, and cares, were not assembled together until dinner was laid upon the table. The silence that enveloped the gathering was complete. Maria was wrapped in her own reflections of her parting from her beloved, who had insisted, as he embraced and kissed her, that it was almost fatal to him to leave her, but his solicitude for her honour would permit no less.
Julia was not speaking to most of the members of her family, and her looks proclaimed she would entertain no sallies from Mr. Yates. Mary Crawford contented herself with sending speaking glances to Edmund, wishing to ascertain within herself that his undoubted anger toward her brother did not extend to her. Lady Bertram was anxious and confused, and Tom Bertram was struggling with remorse, a feeling he hoped to overthrow tolerably soon as it was a d—ned uncomfortable state. It was only when the first course was being served that Edmund, looking around, enquired:
“But where is Fanny?”
Chapter Five
Fanny was at that time, miles away on the Oxford Road, sharing a seat with a friendly but generously proportioned lady from St. Albans. The curtains were partly drawn against the morning chill, but what little she saw of the landscape was not worth craning her neck for—it was October, clouds stretched from horizon to horizon, as though smothering her flight in secrecy, and a persistent light rain fell all around. She had taken the reverse journey almost ten years ago, when a timid child, and she had travelled under the protection of the coachman until delivered up, at Northampton, to her Aunt Norris, a first meeting she still vividly remembered. Let me never frighten the children in my care as my Aunt Norris frightened me! May I always be patient and be not quick to find fault! And concerning Aunt Norris, may I learn to forgive and, so far as I can, forget! Fanny prayed to herself.
At times waves of doubt and remorse washed over her, and she trembled guiltily at the
