It was not to be wondered that her thoughts were all for Edmund during that long night. She had never felt so utterly alone, and it was all her own doing.
* * * * * *
Warming himself by the fire after his walk across the Park, Edmund wondered at the coincidence of Fanny leaving the household on the same night that the others had been preoccupied with Maria’s affairs. Had she known of the intrigue between Henry Crawford and her cousin? Hadn’t she, in fact, once hinted about it to him, and hadn’t he dismissed the possibility? What else had his quiet, watchful cousin observed that he had not?
And again, why no note, no final word to him, whom she had always acknowledged as her best friend, her supporter and protector? Had he given offence somehow? Was she vexed with him? He had seen Fanny in tears on more occasions than he could count, he had seen her frightened, or worried, or nervous, or uncertain—had he ever seen her in a temper? Her letter to her uncle—while its language was calm, while there was neither accusation nor complaint, its brevity alone was a reproach to Sir Thomas and all the family, and its firmness of tone was so unlike Fanny that, if he did not recognize her handwriting as well as his own, he would have denied it could have come from her pen. Did he know his young cousin as well as he thought he did?
Ah well, he reflected. Another few days would bring a reply from Portsmouth. And so a long, miserable, uncertain day drew to its close.
Chapter Six
Leaving word at the inn for Mrs. Butters, and leaving her portmanteau in the care of the landlord’s wife, who, busy and harassed though she was, was not unkind, Fanny left the inn, intending to walk all the morning. The light rains of yesterday had given way to fresh sunshine and the city beckoned. As she made her way along High Street to Magdalen College, she began to discover the curious elation that comes on the traveler who has left behind anyone who knows ought of them. She had never walked along such a busy street; she had never looked through shop windows like a little vagabond child while eating warm gingerbread purchased from a street vendor. She had never had such freedom of choice in her life before, and perhaps the ability to make choices would lead in time to a more discerning, more confident Fanny Price. She prayed it would be so.
Fanny was a little light-headed, not merely from lack of sleep or proper food, but from the intoxication of actually seeing the spires of Oxford and all the well-known buildings of which she had heard so much from her cousins. She thought with reverent wonder of the antiquity of the great colleges, the brilliant scholars who had studied there—who had, perhaps, walked where she was herself walking, until the many sensations flooding her breast threatened to overpower her.
She was craning her neck to look upward at the handsome tower of the Church of St Mary the Virgin when to her mortification, she collided with a well-dressed gentleman who, after the initial surprise, seemed not at all discomposed by the accident. He silenced Fanny’s profuse apologies with an eloquence and an assurance of address that Fanny had never before encountered—he was delighted to meet someone as enchanted by the beauties of Oxford as he. He had spent the happiest years of his life studying here. But surely the young lady was being neglected by some errant brother who was coming to meet her?
“No, indeed sir, that is…. my cousin is, that is to say, my cousin was….” Fanny could barely stammer a reply.
Without knowing what happened, she found the stranger’s arm supporting her own, and herself being guided away from the main thoroughfare. “William Elliot, madam. At your service. And I have the honour of addressing...?”
An inner voice whispered to Fanny: Governesses do not walk arm-in-arm in the street with strange men. She pulled her arm away as though she had been scalded. Mr. Elliot raised an eyebrow and smiled; a most engaging smile. “Forgive me for my presumption. Your scruples do you great credit, but please be assured that I offer myself as your guide and protector.” Once again her arm was pinioned against his side. “Did you know that you are standing only a few steps away from where the great martyrs of our faith were burnt at the stake? We shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out. Pray, allow me to show you the way.”
His eye was so mild, his tone so reasonable and his manner so agreeable that Fanny briefly wavered, but again her inner voice counselled her: If you do not have the self-assurance to tell this man to desist, then you must get back on the coach and return to your refuge in the East Room. You have not the courage, nor the presence of mind, to be a governess.
“Sir! Thank you, but I must decline your offer. We are not acquainted and—and I have pressing business.”
“Only a little further this way, and then you can decide if you wish to appoint me as your guide or no.”
“If, sir, you are a gentleman, you will release my arm immediately.”
Fanny had never addressed anyone in such a fashion in her life, and she prayed that Mr. Elliot could not feel how violently she trembled as she spoke. The stranger stroked her arm, feeling the slenderness of it, insolently running his fingers down her forearm, to firmly hold her delicate wrist. Fanny grew truly alarmed; he felt her pulse fluttering under
