In her dream, freed from the stifling air and restricting walls of their small home, invigorated by the ocean breezes and the cries of the seagulls overhead, the children larked about freely. William challenged Fanny to a race to the Union Jack, and he kindly curbed his own speed so that his little sister could reach the flagpole just before he did. Breathless and laughing, she looked behind her and saw her younger brothers John and Richard, having thrown off their mother’s hands, running to catch up. Little Richard stumbled and fell to the paving stones, but William ran swiftly to him and scooped him up with a laugh and a smile, and Richard, who had opened his mouth and drawn a deep breath in preparation for sobbing, forgot and joined William and Fanny in the general laughter.
She awoke with a start, and fearfully wondered whether her family would be called to account for her abrupt departure from Mansfield Park. Over the years, Sir Thomas had done what he could for his wife’s sister’s plentiful family: he assisted Mrs. Price liberally in the education and disposal of her sons as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit. John was now in London and Richard was serving on an Indiaman. Would Sir Thomas put a veto on any future benevolence to Sam, Tom and Charles, the brothers still at home, to punish them for the actions of the sister? No, no, that could not be, she thought. I think too well of my uncle to believe he would show resentment toward innocent persons.
Recalling William’s cheerful, blunt, confident manner, so different from her own, Fanny felt solace. She believed that, no matter what she did, and no matter what the consequences, William would be kind to her, support her and encourage her.
Fanny smiled to herself and drifted back to sleep, moving ever farther away from her past and toward an unknown future. Until she had a new home, she could not send William a direction to write to.
* * * * * *
To make some small amends for all that Edmund had endured, and would yet endure, in arranging matters between Maria, Julia and the Crawfords, Tom Bertram, accompanied by Mr. Yates, had volunteered to ride to the village and confirm that Fanny had indeed travelled on the mail coach, as they surmised. When they returned, with the certain intelligence that she had boarded the morning coach to Oxford, they found a reduced party gathered in the sitting-room. Maria and Julia had gone up to their bedchambers after tea. Edmund and Miss Crawford were talking intently by the fireplace, and his mother was lying on the settee, obviously in a fretful mood, stroking her pug dog for comfort, while Aunt Norris plied her needle with energy.
“Why has she gone away?” exclaimed Lady Bertram, still struggling with her puzzlement. “When I retired to my bedchamber last night, Maria was engaged to Mr. Rushworth and Fanny had promised to tack up my new dress pattern. I wake up to learn Maria is engaged to Mr. Crawford and Fanny has left us. How I wish your father were here!” Mrs. Norris, who had returned to the Park to support her sister in this time of crisis, had not yet reconciled herself to Maria’s throwing Rushworth over, although, as Maria was her decided favourite, it would take but the operation of time for her to discover that Crawford was to be preferred and that she had both foreseen and approved the match. Her censures, therefore, were directed to Fanny. “Why indeed, Lady Bertram? She was met with nothing but kindness here.”
“We opened Fanny’s letter to father,” replied Tom, “as he authorized Edmund and I to do with all his correspondence in his absence. Here is the letter, aunt,” he added, offering it to Mrs. Norris with a significant look. “Perhaps you would like to read it to my mother.”
Mrs. Norris took the letter reluctantly and read the following:
To Sir Thomas Bertram,
Honored uncle, dear sir,
This letter will surprise you and, I greatly fear, injure me in your esteem. Allow me to thank you for making Mansfield Park my home for these ten years. I am now 18 years of age and, as I am not entitled by birth or fortune to live as a Bertram, nor ever presumed to be other than who and what I am, I have resolved to return to my own sphere. I will ever remain,
Your grateful niece,
Fanny Price
PS—please give my respectful regards to my Aunt Bertram.
A thoughtful silence passed, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire in the grate. Tom waited for either of the ladies to recognize in Fanny’s letter an allusion to the unkind words spoken by Aunt Norris. Then—
“But why has she gone away? Why?” from his mother, and “Humph. No mention of me, I see, although I superintended her upbringing as much as anyone. Ungrateful girl!” from his aunt.
Feeling that any remonstrance would be both futile and disrespectful, and feeling as well that his own callous treatment of his young cousin could ill bear scrutiny, Tom retrieved the letter and made no remark upon it, referring only to what he had discovered in his trip to the village.
“There
