Chapter Fourteen
All of fashionable London was supposed to be gathered at the fortnightly receptions in the palatial London mansion of Mrs. Stanhope, so Edmund had searched, from one end of her drawing-rooms to the other, but he had not seen the light and graceful form, nor heard the enchanting laugh, of Mary Crawford. He had hoped he would, that very afternoon, be reconciled with her, would see in her eyes and in her face and in her voice, a supplication and a relenting as would answer his fondest hopes, but she was nowhere to be found.
He was disappointed, but he was not entirely downcast because against all probability, hope had been reborn in his heart.
He was now a clergyman; the bishop had blessed him and pronounced him fit to perform the offices of the church. He could marry, bury, and christen, and could preach the gospel every Sunday—according to an elegantly scribed parchment he had received. But he had undergone the ceremony with his spirits in such perturbation, as humbled and confused him, and rendered him, as he then felt, unfit to think of himself as a leader of the faithful, or even as a dispenser of common wisdom. How could he preach to his new flock that “virtue was its own reward”? His reward for being a dutiful son was to perform more duties. His reward for taking the cloth was to lose the one woman he could rationally and passionately love. He acknowledged to himself that, however much he had intended to forget Mary Crawford, she would not be forgotten, and for some time, the pain must be severe.
He felt as a man at the dock, sentenced to spend at least three purgatorial months in London, escorting his sisters, acting on behalf of his father, before he could gain his release and bury himself in the countryside. He anticipated that he would see Miss Crawford repeatedly, would see her in company, laughing and surrounded by her admirers, belonging to them, and to everything that was glittering and bright and unlike himself. This was to be endured, and more besides. He did not seek to lessen his pain by reflecting uncharitably on the prize he had lost—on the contrary, in his recollection her faults had dwindled to nothing, and while he was naturally of a calm and sanguine temperament, it was at times a desperate calmness, as he contemplated the aridity of his future.
Then he learned that while he was away, Mary had spent many mornings in the parlour at Wimpole Street; there, she had spoken of him often, and with warmth and affection. His aunt related how assiduously, how respectfully, Mary Crawford had waited upon her, how intelligently the young woman had plied her with questions about the proper manner of running a parsonage—lessons indeed, which she could never have learned from her own spendthrift sister, whose expenditures on wages for her cook, on meat and butter and brandy and claret and asparagus and artichokes, must severely drain Dr. Grant’s purse. He nodded his acquiescence at all that was said upon the subject of the Grants, while his heart fluttered with joy. The intelligence received from his aunt provided assurance, almost as reliably as though he had heard confirmation from Mary’s own lips, that, by some miracle, she had consented to become a clergyman’s wife.
On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples of his integrity, were all done away, nobody could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were equally got over—and equally without apparent reason. She had made her preference known as clearly as a well-judging and intelligent young lady could, and he was wild to speak to her again. She was not to be found today, but found she would be, and soon, and he would not hesitate to put the question to her, once and for all.
“Pardon me, sir, but aren’t you Mr. Edmund Bertram?” said a voice at approximately his elbow. He broke from his reverie, looked around and then down, and saw a young lady who appeared to be no more than one or two-and-twenty addressing him. She was well below the middle height, inclining to plumpness, with dark heavy brows which rested incongruously on her round, rosy face. She alternated between looking up at him imploringly—and how she had to crane her neck back to do it—and furtive glimpses around the room.
“Edmund Bertram, at your service, ma’am. Whom have I the honour of addressing?”
“I am Margaret Fraser. I believe you are acquainted with my step-mother. She is the intimate friend of Miss Crawford. May I speak to you for a moment, sir, in privacy?”
Edmund instantly extended an arm and escorted Miss Fraser through the French doors to a small interior courtyard where she sought out a stone bench supported by little carved cupids and screened by tall palms.
“Miss Fraser, shall I presume that what you have to say to me, concerns Miss Crawford? Because, if so, please understand that I wish to hear no communication which would betray a confidence.”
Miss Fraser rolled her eyes, impatiently. “I think you do wish to know what I know, although I have hesitated to tell you. My step-mother will be so very angry with me, should she hear of this! It concerns your sister, Miss Maria Bertram.”
With a wrench, Edmund pulled his thoughts away from Mary and recollected that Mrs. Fraser had indeed extended many invitations to both of his sisters, but principally to Maria. “Yes, I understand from my aunt, that my sister has been much in your mother’s company this spring. Are you acquainted with my sister?”
“Of course. You have supposed her to be a guest in our house very frequently, have you not?”
“Not less often than once a fortnight, I should say.”
Miss Fraser looked down at her feet as
