Mary was pleased that her companion had stored a casual remark she had dropped in his memory, and even more pleased that he did not list jealousy of herself as the reason for Miss Price’s departure. He seemed to be entirely unaware of his cousin’s regard for him. She shivered delicately, as though she required protection from the cold night air, and hung upon his arm even more closely. “You know her best, of course, Mr. Bertram. I think her a dear, queer, little thing, in some respects like a child of eight, in others like an old woman of eighty, but very unlike the young ladies of eighteen that one ordinarily encounters! Recall her raptures over the trees of Sotherton, her quaint way of talking: ‘to look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment’!” She began to laugh, then checked herself.
“While I can say nothing in defense of her mode of leaving your household, it may be for the best—yes decidedly it is for the best—for her to spend some time amongst her own people, of her own class, wouldn’t you agree? As direct as your dear aunt can be, she spoke the truth—Miss Price is not one of you, not by birth, or fortune, and while the education and manners she has acquired under your roof may help her attain a station in life above her expectations, it would be cruel to allow her to think that she could win the affection of any gentleman of consequence.”
“Are you speaking of matrimony? Fanny married? In my imagination I always pictured her residing here with my family. But now that you broach the topic, I must say that the man who sees Fanny’s worth, and takes her for his wife, will have chosen wisely.”
Miss Crawford stumbled a little here, and Mr. Bertram placed his arm around her waist, briefly, while she steadied herself. She looked up at him, slowly, and his breath caught in his throat.
“Do not imagine such a thing—yet, Mr. Bertram. She is still very young, and younger still in knowledge of the world. I wish her a safe and speedy journey to Portsmouth! But I cannot judge her too harshly for leaving you as she has done, as selfish and thoughtless as it was. Her yearning to see her own family is very natural. Having lost my own parents at an early age, I can imagine no greater felicity than being with those I love, knowing that I belong to them and they belong to me!” This last was uttered in such low, thrilling tones that Edmund might have spoken there and then, had he not recalled that the great dispute between them—his determination to become a clergyman—had not been resolved.
* * * * * *
Fanny had paid for a fare to Newbury, in an attempt to convince any pursuers that she was proceeding on to Portsmouth. It was late afternoon when the coach reached Oxford, and Fanny alighted, her limbs stiff and her spirit subdued. She bid a quiet farewell to Mrs. Renfro and, carrying her portmanteau through the cobbled streets, walked for about half an hour to find the Raleigh Inn where she sought the landlord to enquire after Mrs. Butters. Oh yes, he knew the lady, and she travelled through twice a year at least, but she was not there, and yes, this was the only Raleigh Inn by that name in Oxford and if the young lady had no more foolish questions he would go about his business.
Fanny was at a loss, and she felt the familiar tears stinging in her eyes. Sighing, and resolving to compose herself, she found a quiet corner in the inn’s dining-room and pulled out her letter from Mrs. Smallridge to confirm the name, date, time, and place, everything she had read above fifty times before. Putting up the letter, Fanny reasoned that Mrs. Butters might have been delayed in her journey from London, and that she, or some communication, might appear on the morrow.
Fanny forced herself to consider the possibility, however, that she had fled her home to meet with a woman who might never appear. What ought she to do? She attempted to steady her fluttering heart with deep breaths, retreating deep into the hood of her travelling cloak to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze. To return to Mansfield would be ignominious. To find other employment in a strange city where she could not give a good accounting of herself, appeared utterly daunting.
She finally concluded that, supposing she never heard another syllable from Mrs. Butters, she would continue on to Portsmouth and visit her family. Perhaps they would have some use for her, or help her to some employment. However, she resolved, at the very least, to spend the following day in Oxford, and walk about the ancient city as a tourist in the place where her beloved cousin had attended college. Having made her resolution, she composed herself enough to walk outside again, past the high courtyard walls of the inn, to watch the setting sun, as it finally emerged through the rain clouds at the end of the day and lit up the spires of the chapels and colleges, until an enveloping dusk fell over all.
She didn’t know the price of a private room for the night; she was too timid to enquire, too modest to share a bedroom with strangers and afraid of being laughed at. But by observing the other guests, she learned how to place her request for some ale and pigeon pie, which in turn bought her the right to remain where she was. She spent her first night in the great world, nodding
