Mary was left alone with little Betsey who continued to regard her with fascination. Mary smiled prettily and whispered to her, “Now be a good girl. Here is a shilling for you if you can give me any letters that came for your sister Fanny.” Betsey understood her only imperfectly, and eagerly ran in and out of the parlour, bringing Miss Crawford every piece of paper in the household, including letters from their midshipman son, a laundry list, and the demands of the greengrocer that his account be paid, but despite Miss Crawford’s fervent hopes, no letter from herself to Miss Fanny Price was ever produced by the willing child.
After an interval of some minutes, Mrs. Price returned from the kitchen, followed by a trollopy-looking servant with a tea tray, just as Mary heard her brother’s carriage pulling up without. With polite reluctance, Miss Crawford made her farewells, barely stifling a shudder.
She was just stepping into the carriage, and consoling herself that in such a household, the letter would in all probability never find its way to anyone, when the maid came running out, begging her pardon, but here was a letter for Miss Price that the mistress had just found on the mantelpiece.
Miss Crawford took the letter, and recognized Edmund’s strong, elegant hand. “No other letters, then?” she enquired, endeavouring to appear disinterested, but there was no one to hear or reply, for the servant had gone in, slamming the door behind her.
In the privacy of her hotel bedchamber, Mary read over the following, composed shortly after Fanny’s disappearance.
My very dear Fanny,
You cannot conceive of the anxiety your departure has caused me and all the family. Had you told me you wished to visit your family in Portsmouth, I would have conveyed you there myself. Your leaving in this manner, and your letter to my father, can only suggest that you were very unhappy living among us. Had I known of your sorrows, I would have done everything in my power to assist you. Can you doubt it? Do you not know of my regard for you? I have told you that you are one of the two dearest creatures I love upon this earth, and Fanny, I must own myself hurt and surprised that you did not confide in me on this occasion.
Please write to me, if only a line, to assure me of your well-being. But Fanny, please, in remembrance of the many happy hours we have spent together, open your heart to me. If you have been offended by something or someone, please explain the cause and I will work to remove it. If you bear some secret sorrow, please share it with,
Your affectionate cousin,
Edmund Bertram
Then Mary held the letter over a candle and watched it burn to ashes, not without some regret, because it contained an avowal of Edmund’s love for her.
Having intercepted first her letter to him, and his to her, and knowing that a meeting between the two cousins would bring her actions immediately to light, Mary was haunted by the necessity, the absolute necessity, of marrying Edmund Bertram before Fanny returned to their midst. Although she felt assured of his regard for her, she could not deceive herself about his reaction to any hint of escobarderie on her part. He would not be complacent about being thus practised upon—he would condemn her actions and she might well lose him forever. All because she had not the time to enclose Fanny’s letter to her uncle within the letter to Edmund, and re-seal the whole, and place it back on the school-room table, before Edmund entered the room! And now it was far too late for excuses and apologies. A half-minute would have made all the difference, and she would not be forced upon the path she now trod!
Mary resolved to return to Mansfield, to finally make the acquaintance of the redoubtable Sir Thomas and try her charms upon the man whose word and will had such sway with all of his children. If she had the love of both the father and the son, perhaps a way forward to marriage could be contrived.
* * * * * *
The regularity of her new life, her assured place in the household, as well as the encouragement of Mrs. Butters, all did much to help Fanny overcome the timidity and shyness which had always afflicted her. Her employer, Mrs. Smallridge, though tending to be aloof, or so Fanny thought, was not unkind to her, and in fact, Fanny was as free from slights, snubs, neglect and insults, as she had ever been in her short life.
With the Smallridges, Fanny was not expected to fetch or to carry, or to drop one task, such as untangling needlework, to take up another at the whims of her aunts. She had the dignity of a title, and in fact was in a position of authority, in charge of the welfare and education of children. When she looked at her reflection in the little mirror in her bedroom every morning, as she smoothed her hair and prepared for a new day, she thought she saw a new composure and assurance dawning there.
Fanny had also worried that her strength would not be equal to her responsibilities, but her health appeared to be unimpaired. At Mansfield Park, she had taken regular exercise on horseback and it was believed that nothing was so efficacious for her. But for the time being, her exercise consisted of chasing after little Edward. Being placed in charge of her own small sphere, though only fifteen paces from door to door, animated Fanny to a degree which surprised her.
After the birth of her twin daughters, Mrs. Smallridge had briefly, very briefly, basked in the sunshine of her husband’s praise and affection, but that was now forgotten and he had resumed his usual habits—careless and indifferent when at home, and more
