One evening, when Fanny was not in the parlour and Mr. Smallridge actually happened to be reading the newspaper, he saw a small item amongst the Notices.
“Honoria! Where is Miss Price from? What country?”
“She is from Portsmouth, my dear. She has one or two brothers at sea, I think. Why do you enquire?”
“There is a notice here in the paper for a ‘Miss F.P.’ It reads, “The friends of Miss F.P., formerly of Northamptonshire, would be greatly obliged if she would contact them by post, signed ‘E.B.’”
“Ah. That could not refer to our Miss Price, then.”
* * * * * *
Henry Crawford finally returned to London, after repeated urgings from his sister, and from that time forward the Bertram sisters sought separate amusements. It was Maria’s first object to go where Henry went, as it was Julia’s desire to avoid him whenever possible. It fell out somehow, without any conscious discussion, that Mrs. Norris was Maria’s chaperone, and Edmund was Julia’s. Maria was the acknowledged favourite of her aunt and further, when Mrs. Norris felt herself to be too occupied with looking after the house or visiting some of her own acquaintance, Maria could safely be entrusted to Mrs. Fraser, the friend and protectress of Mary Crawford. Maria had only to mention that Mrs. Fraser had invited her to do such-and-such, and her aunt would happily give her consent—the grandeur of the Frasers, their wealth and consequence, and the connection with the Crawfords, were the only recommendation Mrs. Norris required to suppose that Mrs. Fraser was an appropriate chaperone for a young lady.
Although Henry Crawford was not eager to marry Maria Bertram, he was exceedingly eager to find some means of being alone with her again, a fact which surprised him, because in his experience the pleasure to be derived from arranging a secret assignation with a young lady from a good family did not repay the time and trouble it took to bring about. One had to first overcome their reluctance, of course, and that was pleasurable in itself, but then one had to get the girl away from duennas, mothers, jealous sisters, and trickiest of all, prying servants. And in the end, married ladies, such as Mary’s friend Lady Stornaway, were to be preferred, being both more experienced and discreet.
That Henry Crawford worked diligently to obtain his pleasures, none could deny. He had first come to Mansfield last July and had stayed on with his half-sister and her husband in the parsonage far into late October, save for a fortnight at his estate during the hunting season, during which time his chief occupation had been to assiduously court and charm both of the Bertram girls; by turns flattering one and rousing the jealousy of the other, then turning to placate the jealous one; so that by September he had both of them in love with him. To seduce both at the same time would have been an unparalleled triumph, but his hand had been forced during the casting of the play Lovers' Vows, when both sisters expected to be chosen for the part of Agatha, and he had favoured Maria. Blessed by nature with an optimistic temperament, he did not entirely despair of serving Julia in her turn, for so long as she showed resentment she was not indifferent to him. But he had always preferred Maria, and the delicious amusement of making love to her in front of the stupid fellow she was engaged to marry happily occupied the month of October.
But for all of his efforts, and the long weeks invested at Mansfield Park, and the slow patient progress from gallantry, to insinuation, to long, intense looks full of meaning (and he believed that no man was his equal in this art), to stolen kisses, to quick grapples in the shrubbery or behind the draperies, he had had only three opportunities to be alone with Maria Bertram. At Sotherton, the estate of the unlucky Mr. Rushworth, he and Maria had slipped away into the park, and matters were in a fair train until they had spotted Julia in hot pursuit of them; after the rehearsal of Lovers' Vows, he had given in to temptation, only to be interrupted once again by Julia, who almost brought disaster on them all, and finally on the day he met Sir Thomas, his daring was rewarded with a brief and delicious encounter in the breakfast-room. Maria was ripe and willing, he was hungry for more, and it was deuced difficult to stay away from her, even though he was threatened with matrimony.
Being Henry, he hit upon a solution, and with the cheerful connivance of his sister, put his scheme into action. He took a room at one of London’s most elegant hostelries. Mary, in Mrs. Fraser’s name, sent Miss Bertram an invitation for a weekend visit. Mrs. Norris escorted her to Mrs. Fraser’s door, then bid her a complacent farewell. Then Mary summoned a sedan chair to carry Maria to her rendezvous with Henry.
They embraced, he removed her cloak and heavy veil, she started to speak, and he silenced her with a kiss.
“No, no. Don’t speak my love, my angel,” he whispered fiercely, pushing down her sleeves to bare her lovely shoulders. “I am dying for you. I must possess you, now. Don’t deny me.”
And this is where he finally reaped the reward of his patient effort—the conquest of Maria Bertram was not simply the work of the present hour, or a day, or a week. Maria had been thoroughly seduced, and his to command, for weeks before.
Later, when Henry was drowsily calculating how much time would elapse before he would be able to start the dance again—very little time indeed, in fact—his partner raised herself up on one elbow and, brushing her hair back from her face, whispered softly,
“Henry, Henry, when shall we be married?”
“Married, madam?”
