No one of Fanny’s tender disposition could abscond from home with the intention of hiding herself forever from her relatives. She calculated, however, that those at the Park would assume she was headed to Portsmouth and, once it was discovered she was not with her mother and father, she would be safely arrived at her destination. If she successfully entered the Smallridge establishment as a governess, she would send word to her family, and trusted that no one could, or would, oppose her. She had never been legally adopted by Sir Thomas, so he had not the authority of a parent over her, and her own father, she felt tolerably certain, would not be so angered by her removal from one place to another, as to demand that she return to a home which by all accounts had no room for her. She had never received a single line directly from her father in ten years, and had only received an unsatisfactory and infrequent correspondence from her mother, whose letters always spoke of haste, and duties which called her ‘to conclude her message,’ more than of love or longing.
The one family member on whom she could rely to return her affection equally was her brother William, currently in Gibraltar, and not expected back in Portsmouth for another month or more. William’s approbation, indeed, meant a great deal to her and she trusted that her modest earnings toward their future home together, painstakingly acquired at a governess’s rate of pay, would contribute to his future comfort.
Fanny attempted to leave off worrying about what she left behind her, by contemplating what lay ahead of her. She revolved in her mind a passage from Miss Lee’s last letter: The governess is neither a member of the family, nor is at the level of the other servants, although a well-judging, competent housekeeper is no mean companion. A governess exists between upstairs and down, and therefore might hear or receive the confidential remarks of both servant and master. The most essential qualification for being a governess, in my estimation, is an ability to endure a solitude of mind, whilst being occupied from morning ‘til night. Do you understand me? I think, Fanny, that you can.
She calculated to herself as every mile or half-hour passed: ‘by now, they will have missed me, by now they will have looked through the house in search of me, by now they will have found my letters…. will they be angry? Will they be worried on my behalf? Will he be worried?’
* * * * * *
Neither Maria nor Julia were in spirits to wonder at anything that did not concern themselves, and not even the unexplained absence of their cousin could rouse them from their seats, but Mary Crawford instantly volunteered to help find Miss Price. She first went, naturally enough, to the East Room, where she fully expected to find Fanny sitting morosely by the fire. But the grate was cold—in fact was completely bare, as though no fire had been lit during the whole course of the autumn—and there was no Fanny. Mary descried a letter lying on the school table. She snatched it up and saw in Fanny’s neat, elegant hand, the inscription: “To Cousin Edmund.”
Mary was instantly convinced that Fanny had left Mansfield Park. The letter would provide some explanation, but what if—what if that explanation involved her brother Henry and his unguarded behaviour toward Fanny’s cousins? Fanny had often sat in the theatre and acted as prompter for many of the rehearsals between Maria and her brother. What if the silent and watchful Miss Price, had, like Julia, been a witness to the indiscretions of her brother and Maria? Mary herself had left her uncle’s home in London in disgust last spring because he had chosen to live openly with his mistress. Would not Fanny Price, the exemplar of female rectitude, quit the house rather than live with a cousin whose passions were stronger than her virtue? What if the letter contained a condemnation of her brother Henry’s behaviour with Maria? Fanny’s testimony could only further damage the successful conclusion that Mary Crawford now sought to bring about.
These speculations took less time than it has taken to relate them—the seal was broken—the letter opened—another, smaller, note addressed to “Sir Thomas Bertram” fell out, which Mary set aside, giving her full attention to the letter addressed to her “dear Cousin:”
You, who have always been my chief friend, advisor and protector, will defend me again I know, if any defense for my conduct can be made. I have tried to do what I thought was right, and if my judgement has erred, you will still understand my motives and my sentiments. If anyone can understand why I have left Mansfield Park, it must be you, dear Edmund. Upon your candour I must rely.
The time has come for me to recognize “who and what I am.” I am not a Miss Bertram, and I vow before Heaven I have never had any expectation of assistance from your uncle beyond all that he has generously provided to me, ever since I was sent to live amongst you.
I always have been—and should I remain at Mansfield, always will be—accused of ingratitude! Can it really be so! My faults are many—faults of weakness, timidity, and foolishness, but Edmund, I am not sensible of ever feeling less than the purest gratitude to your family for sheltering and educating me. Gratitude I do feel and will always feel, but I must confide this to you, that I can no longer endure being accused of not feeling, or showing, sufficient gratitude. I would rather put an end to this burden, this debt that is impossible to satisfy, than to continue as I am.
“Ingratitude indeed,” murmured Mary. “Baited and scolded for
