Yet how much more shall I be accused of ingratitude now that I leave you all without making my farewells in person! But I am a coward, as you know, and could not endure a conscious parting. Please give your dear mother my apologies and my heartiest wishes for her continued health and happiness. Beg her pardon on my behalf, if you can! I enclose a note to your father, but again, I implore you to speak on my behalf, as I am unsuited to speak for myself. I am greatly grieved if I have caused any offence.
Satisfied that Fanny’s letter contained no damaging intelligence concerning her brother and Maria, Mary hastily began to fold up the letter, even as she perused the final postscript.
Farewell, my dear cousin. The memory of your kindness, your guidance and instruction, will be all I need to sustain me in the future. We may not meet again for many years, so may I say in parting, as your happiness is dearer to me than my own, I implore you, do not bestow your affections on anyone who is not worthy of you! Please remember those misgivings of which I have hinted. I cannot say more. God bless you.
Mary froze in surprise. There could be no doubt that Fanny was referring to herself, Mary Crawford, as being unworthy of Edmund Bertram. A wave of vexation overtook her and a hot flush stained her cheek. Who was Fanny Price to presume to call her ‘unworthy’? The poor relation, the daughter of nobody, whom she, Mary, had graciously flattered and befriended. What was that kind and elegant compliment she had recently bestowed—oh yes, ‘she fancied Miss Price had been more apt to deserve praise than to hear it.’ She thought Miss Price had been happy, even honoured, at the notice Mary had condescended to take of her. And instead, behind those modestly lowered eyes, that mild countenance, Miss Price was finding fault with her and confiding her thoughts to Edmund? Here was a most unexpected enemy!
If Mary Crawford was not worthy to marry Edmund Bertram, then who, pray, was worthy? A new suspicion darted into her mind just as familiar footsteps in the hallway announced that Edmund had followed her to the East Room. There was no time to re-seal the letters. With a rapidity of thought and gesture perhaps only possible for a Mary Crawford, she tucked the letter in the folds of her shawl and regained her composure just as Edmund crossed the threshold.
“There, Mr. Bertram, there. On the table.”
“What! —a letter from Fanny to my father? Does this mean that Fanny has left home? And alone?”
“The letter will confirm the fact, I fear. But perhaps she has gone no further than the village, or your aunt’s house.”
A swift exchange of knowing glances proclaimed without words how unlikely it was that Fanny would have taken refuge there.
“Then I will lay you any odds she has returned to her family in—where? Some seaside city, as I recollect.”
“Portsmouth.”
“Oh yes, Portsmouth. I would have looked into her bedroom,” continued Mary, “to see if her clothes were gone, but I didn’t know where her room is.”
“Yes…. Yes! How quick-thinking you are, Miss Crawford! I admire your composure and presence of mind more than I can express. This is what a true Englishwoman should be! Julia is weeping again, I fear. Would you be so kind—could I ask you—could you speak to her, endeavour to calm her, while I search Fanny’s room?” And without waiting for a reply, he snatched up the letter intended for his father and ran for the stairs to the servants’ quarters.
So, Fanny was placed in the attic with the servants, Mary remarked to herself as she hastened to the main staircase, tucking the letter to Edmund in her bosom. As she was evidently so little regarded by the family she will be soon forgotten, I fancy.
She had not spoken; she had not confessed, and she now reckoned it was impossible, without exposing herself to embarrassment and recriminations, to return the letter to Edmund without acknowledging that she had opened it. Even if she re-sealed the letter, she could not replace the note to Sir Thomas within it.
An unpleasant thought froze her in mid-step. Fanny had said “I enclose a note to your father,” in her letter to Edmund. What if Fanny alluded to her letter to Edmund, in the note to Sir Thomas? But, the message to the uncle was but a single piece of lady’s writing paper, much shorter than the letter to Edmund. Fanny had been brief—she could not have aired any doubts or accusations.
But what if? —what if Fanny had more guile than Mary had ever given her credit for? Was she running away only to be pursued? Was Fanny foolishly hoping for a reunion with Edmund, and a tender eclaircissement? Viewed through the lens of jealousy and resentment, Mary now considered her interception of Fanny’s letter as fully justified, even providential.
It had been the work of an instant, of impulse, but Mary had prevented Edmund from receiving what she now regarded as a declaration of love from Fanny, and she resolved that he should never know of Fanny’s true feelings for him.
* * * * * *
As every mile put more distance between herself and Mansfield Park, Fanny was able to drift into a light sleep, her small neat head sometimes resting against the plump shoulder of the genial Mrs. Renfro. She dreamt of her brother William, of playing and running with him along the ramparts overlooking the sea in the days when she lived with her family in Portsmouth. William’s smiling face was before her, her older
