“No, ma’am. If you please, ma’am, I can instruct Mrs. Smallridge’s daughter in her needlework—I can make lace, netting, fringe, filigree, do carpet work, and embroidery and cross-stitch of all sorts.”
Fanny had had the forethought to bring with her a cunningly made little housewife, covered with ornate embroidery, as an example of her skills with the needle, which she presented to the widow. “And I am adept at plain sewing also, ma’am. If you would care to examine the hem of my handkerchief, you will see the evenness of my stitches.”
“Now here is a useful talent.” Apparently satisfied with both her dinner and Fanny’s answers, Mrs. Butters slowly rose from the table, followed with rather more alacrity by Fanny.
“Your youth is against you, or rather, your youthful appearance. Do not think I resent your youth! If you were attired in grey bombazine perhaps you would look more the part. But we are not expecting to engage an Oxford don for children barely out of leading strings. The boy, of course, will go away to school when he reaches the proper age. Caroline will be your charge alone. English, history, geography, natural history, some arithmetic, penmanship, dancing, needlework, and, when she is a little older, French. If you feel you can undertake this much then perhaps we will take you on trial. You may share a room tonight with my lady’s maid.”
Fanny was so astounded that she forgot—in fact it was a matter of days before she recollected—she hadn’t asked about the wages the Smallridges would pay.
* * * * * *
After her brother’s hasty departure from Northamptonshire, Mary Crawford was anxious to visit the Bertrams but she judged it best, given her brother’s indiscretion and the folly of Miss Price, to remain quietly at the parsonage for a few days, and make no calls unless invited to return. Without Edmund’s grey mare at her disposal to ride, she was confined to taking many a turn in the garden beside the house, an exertion that suited the revolutions of her mind. She felt tolerably certain that her brother would acknowledge his duty to marry Maria Bertram in due course, but would Edmund undergo ordination before the tie between the two families became permanent? He had announced his intention to take the step with a friend of his, around Christmas-time, which was just over six weeks away. The thought filled her with something approaching disdain but she could not contrive an alternative, however many times she paced around the shrubbery. She and Edmund had canvassed this point before—he was too old for the Navy, expressed distaste for the law and soldiery, there was no interest to get him a seat in Parliament, but he must have some profession as a second son, as an unjust Providence had ordained that his brother Tom, and not he, was the heir to Mansfield!
When she thought of Miss Price, Miss Crawford’s uncertainty gave way to resentment and jealousy. She had never heard Miss Price venture an opinion on anything much beyond the weather or the beauties of the shrubbery. To find herself held up by this mere nobody from Portsmouth as actually unworthy of Edmund Bertram—when in fact, any candid observer would have said the opposite—that a second son with no independent fortune was presumptuous to aspire to the hand of an heiress and acknowledged beauty such as she—this was not to be borne. Some remonstrance was called for. Miss Price should be warned, should be reproved, should be corrected, for her own benefit.
Mary recollected how Fanny tended to agree with anything Edmund said, how her big blue eyes followed him around the room. The two of them were undoubtedly very close. The more Mary thought of it, the more resentful she grew of all the past confidences that Edmund had no doubt shared with his cousin Fanny. How often had they talked of her?
She was called out of her reverie by a visit from Maria Bertram, who sought her out that morning as the only person who could discuss the anxious topic of Henry Crawford with anything resembling sympathy or approbation.
As soon as she had reached the age of reason, Maria had taught herself never to wish or expect anything of consolation or advice from her own mother, because Lady Bertram could barely be made to attend to anyone for more than a few moments before her attention wandered, and at best would murmur absent-mindedly, “is it really?,” or “poor dear,” before her thoughts would completely revert to her own cares and idle occupations, an habit which, while not designedly unkind, had the effect of further depressing the spirits of her children who went to her hoping for someone to take a warm interest in their distress.
Aunt Norris had always praised and flattered her, and for that reason, Maria was as indifferent to her praise as she was to her censure—and for now, Aunt Norris was still angry at her for throwing Rushworth off. Her sister Julia’s vexation had subsided into sullen grief; Julia spent her waking hours at the pianoforte, playing “Dido’s Lament” over and over again. They were not even speaking to one another.
With no one at home, therefore, to calm her spirits, Maria went to Henry’s sister at the parsonage.
“Miss Bertram? Or, may I at last call you Maria? How good it is to see you! You are wondering, perhaps, if I have had a letter from my brother. Do not punish this messenger who has no message to deliver!
“I recollect that you have said your brother is no correspondent,
