“Don’t tease me, my love—we have been engaged these three months.”
“I never read anything about it in the papers. Are you sure?”
“But Henry, you cannot mean, we are not engaged? Did you not vow that you loved me?”
“‘Lovers' vows’? Where have I heard that before? I may have said something of that kind, but my dear,” Henry yawned and stretched, “in my defense, how could any man keep his head when in your company?”
He opened one eye and watched, amused, as the colour drained from her face and she scrambled out of bed, wrapping the bedsheet around her.
“Henry! I gave myself to you. You must make me your wife. What is to become of me?”
“My dear, if you had not spent your life mewed up in your father’s house, then you would know the words of that French fellow are true— ‘hypocrisy is the homage that vice pays to virtue.’ Did you honestly believe that healthy young people in the prime of life, in the pride of their beauty, wait until marriage to sample the delights that you and I have known?” Henry was on his feet now too, and deftly sliding his shirt over his head.
Many gentlewomen would have fainted at this point, but Maria Bertram had more spirit, which he rather admired. He had to grab her wrists to keep her from clawing at his face and her strength surprised him.
“My g-d, Henry! By heaven, how could you do this to me! As g-d is my witness, I would never have lain with you if you—if you –”
“Well, not to quibble over a trifling point, my love, but I never offered you marriage. As for the rest, d’you not expect me to take what you so freely offered to me?”
Another attempt to scratch his eyes out and Henry changed his tactics slightly. He was feeling generous. He had enjoyed her thoroughly, wished to enjoy her some more, and perhaps, possibly, she would be the woman he would marry, and he supposed that he would marry, one day. He knew of no one he would prefer to marry, that he could recall.
“My dear Maria, calm yourself. I did not say that I would not marry you, only that I had not yet proposed to you—but how can a man go down on his knees when he is in danger of being blinded or scarred for life?”
That was better. He might regret his impulsive actions on some future day, but for now he reveled in his power over her—the proud, the elegant Maria Bertram, naked and weeping before him, begging him for a word of comfort…. he embraced her and gently led her back to bed to pass a delightful afternoon.
* * * * * *
Edmund’s hopes of feeling secure enough in Mary Crawford’s affection to ask for her hand had received a material setback since they had both taken up residence in London. He had first made her acquaintance in the country, with few other admirers to contend with, but now she was returned to her native element, like a gaudy tropical bird returned to the wild jungle, surrounded by swarms of loud and assertive young men and women, all rapidly firing their merciless wit upon any of their acquaintance as chanced to be absent. His quiet, droll asides, which used to amuse her so greatly when they walked or rode out on horseback, went unheard in the crowded drawing-rooms of London.
He was more admired by the other young ladies at these gatherings than he was perhaps aware of, for though he did not put himself forward, his height, air, and handsome countenance drew many eyes, and had he been an heir, and not merely a second son, he would have won yet more attention. But his eyes were all and only for Mary.
For her part, Mary was woman enough to want to show Edmund how admired she was, but not so much of a coquette as to wish to dishearten him entirely. She wanted him to be as seduced by her world, as he had been seduced by her, so that she might lure him away from his resolution of becoming a clergyman. But nothing availed to alter his determination on that head.
Mary asked Henry to invite Edmund to dine with their uncle, the Admiral, in the hopes of strengthening the ties between the two families, and speeding the day when Mary Crawford became Mary Bertram and Maria Bertram became Maria Crawford.
Mary and Henry, orphans from an early age, had been raised by this uncle and his late wife. The aunt had been almost a second mother to Mary, and her unhappiness in married life with the Admiral had rendered Mary more cynical than most young women concerning matrimony, declaring it to be ‘of all transactions, the one in which people expect most from others, and are least honest themselves.’
Mary had left the Admiral’s roof and gone to live with her half-sister, Mrs. Grant, when, after the death of his wife, the Admiral began living openly with his mistress. However, her brother Henry continued on very good terms with his uncle, who in turn loved him better than anyone.
On the appointed day, therefore, Edmund Bertram was presented at Hill Street by a jovial Henry Crawford. It was to be a bachelor’s dinner—the admiral’s mistress did not descend from her private apartments to be introduced and Edmund of course did not enquire.
Admiral Crawford was a shrewd, bluff man of five-and fifty with a booming voice and a choleric colour that suggested a fierce temperament. He provided, as Henry had promised, an excellent dinner with very good wine, but the coarse expressions of the host caused no little discomfort for the honoured guest.
The Admiral was also
