Sir Thomas could not be provoked. “Still the same anxiety for everybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,” was his answer. “But indeed I would rather have nothing but tea.”
“Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night.” Baddeley appeared almost instantly, but instead of bearing a tea-board, he brought a letter, addressed to Edmund Bertram, to whom he delivered it, with the apologetic remark: “Pardon me, sir, but I judged it best, to interrupt you now with this letter, rather than reserve it with the other letters of business.”
Edmund saw the direction and excusing himself, opened the letter, expecting to read a note from his aunt Price with another letter from Fanny enclosed within. Instead he held a single sheet of paper, with what appeared to be a smear of butter and jam on one corner and a small sketch of a cat, drawn by a childish hand, on another. He read:
Dear Mr. Bertram:
My Apologies for not replying sooner to yours of the past week, but since your Letters informed me that Fanny was coming to stay with us, I have been Waiting for her these four days. And I have been too occupied with the cares of my Household to have the Leisure to enquire why my daughter did not Write to me herself, while you have Written repeatedly, for I expected that Fanny would Explain all when she finally did Arrive.
But I have got yet another Letter from you, telling me positively that Fanny is with me in Portsmouth, and several Letters from Mansfield addressed to Fanny besides, and rather than continuing to Pay for all of these Letters, I send you this note to Inform you that Fanny is not here, at least not at as I Write this.
I don’t know what to make of this Affair. I was going to enquire of Fanny if you had cast her off, and I feared that she has Disobliged you in some particular, but I cannot satisfy my curiosity for she is not here. However, Sir, if you and my sister Bertram both believe Fanny to be here, then she most assuredly is not there at Mansfield Park. And if she is not with you, nor with us, then where is she? Please Advise,
Your much-obliged aunt,
Frances Price
p.s.—I instructed our Servant to bear this letter to the Post Office three days ago, and Discovered it this Morning in the entry hall. My daughter Susan is taking it to the Post directly. We still have no Word of Fanny, and yet another Letter from Mr. Edmund Bertram!
A brief cry escaped Edmund’s lips—his countenance told of utter calamity—there could be no withholding this shocking intelligence. His father held out his hand, Edmund surrendered the note, which Sir Thomas read silently, once, twice and three times.
“What is it, sir?” “What’s the matter, Sir Thomas?” came the anxious enquiries. Finally, Sir Thomas looked up, and his response was all the more startling because of the uncustomary brevity with which it was delivered.
“Fanny has gone missing.”
Chapter Eight
All of the interest of the Smallridge household now centred on the new little visitors. The twins had been consigned to a wet-nurse and were kept in their own separate nursery. Mr. Smallridge, it was said, was extremely pleased to have fathered twins, for all that they were both girls, and he made an handsome present to his wife of a pearl necklace and earrings upon his return from Bath.
Although Caroline and Edward were vaguely aware that their parents did not bestow as much attention on them as heretofore, before the advent of their younger sisters, their growing affection and confidence in their governess helped remedy the loss. For Caroline, Miss Price was a friendly confederate who could sew the prettiest dresses for her dolls with the tiniest of doll-sized stitches, and she had Edward’s respect because she could name all the sails on a man of war.
Fanny was tolerably cheerful and busy every day and it was only when dusk settled over Keynsham Hill that she found herself fighting a tendency to lowness, to having to suppress a sigh, and preventing herself from idling away an half-an-hour gazing out the window as the shades of night closed around the house. Had she been at home, the family would be gathering in the parlour, with Fanny making and serving the tea, while Edmund read aloud to them. In her imagination it was always just their little family circle, with no unwelcome visitors from the parsonage!
Fanny might have passed all the gloomy afternoons of November in solitude in her little room, her mind miles away with thoughts of Northamptonshire, except for the fact that Mrs. Butter’s lady’s maid, Madame
