“Oh yes, she arrives at our house, but more often than not, she does not rest there.”
“My aunt, Mrs. Norris, is always informed if your step-mother escorts my sister and Miss Crawford to a concert or some other outing. I believe what you are telling me is not unexpected, Miss Fraser.”
His companion shook her head. “No, no, you misunderstand me. Your sister—when she says she is visiting my step-mother—she leaves—she goes—she goes to see—” a deep breath and then—”M-Mr. H-Henry Crawford.”
Edmund flushed and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, but he forced himself to respond calmly, almost indifferently. “Miss Fraser, are you speaking from your own knowledge? Are you quite certain of where she goes?”
“Oh yes, for she talks of it openly. And when she comes back to our house,”—Miss Fraser’s chin began to tremble, and she struggled in vain to keep her voice even— “she speaks of ‘Henry this’ and ‘Henry that’ and how they are to b-be married.”
“You say this has occurred more than once.”
Miss Fraser nodded solemnly, still looking down at her shoes. “And last w-week, when your sister was invited to accompany my step-mother to Richmond, in reality, she went to Twickenham, where Mr. Crawford’s uncle has a small c-c-cottage.” This last declaration evidently awakened such painful thoughts, or such bitter memories, that Miss Fraser fell silent, struggling to hold back her tears.
A short thoughtful pause ensued and Edmund reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, which he pressed into the young woman’s hand. She dabbed at her eyes, obviously agitated, perhaps with more to reveal, but she remained silent.
“My sister went to visit your step-mother only yesterday, I believe.” Edmund ventured. “I think my aunt spoke of escorting her there.”
“Yes, and my step-mother isn’t even at home. She is still in Richmond. She will be away for a fortnight.” Having made the communication, the young lady appeared relieved, and began to speak more rapidly. “I wanted to tell you this before, but I had no opportunity—I am always with either my step-mother, or with Miss Crawford, but today I came away with my aunt.”
“I am obliged to you, Miss Fraser, and if our conversation has caused you any pain, or will expose you to any difficulties at home, I am most sincerely sorry. But please be assured of my gratitude. If I may presume to offer reassurance on the propriety of confiding this information, you have done as you thought was right, and your judgment did not err.”
She nodded, still doubtful.
“May I ask, if your step-mother was not at home to receive my sister during this last visit, who was there? Yourself?”
“Yes, I saw her…. and Miss Crawford was there, of course,” the girl answered simply, with a helpless shrug of her shoulders.
A dozen anxious questions came to Edmund, but he saw that Miss Fraser was trembling with suppressed feelings, he guessed, of anger, and relief, and worry, and he did not wish to expose her before such a multitude as were collected at Mrs. Stanhope’s mansion. “Let us take a turn around this courtyard, Miss Fraser, and then rejoin the others. I trust you are not too cold without your wrap.”
“You won’t tell anyone I told you, will you!” The tear-filled eyes flashed their alarm.
Edmund reassured her and walked with her while she dabbed at her eyes and then blew her nose. It is not an easy thing, he thought, to be in love with someone when there is no hope of a return. But whether or not Margaret Fraser has acted out of motives of revenge, I believe her.
* * * * * *
Fanny had lost count of the days and nights, but it was later reckoned as the sixth day, when Caroline’s fever at last subsided, and she began to cry to be loosed from her restraints—for, the children had been wrapped firmly in torn bedsheets so that they might not scratch themselves, and Anna said that her old Scottish granny had always used an oatmeal poultice for soothing the skin, and the satisfaction of being able to do something for the children which brought them present relief, and the joy of seeing them return slowly to their rational selves, called forth more prayers of thanks from their grateful governess.
The children were sleeping a sweet peaceful slumber, and the crisis was passed, when Fanny allowed herself to leave their bedsides and go for a walk outside, singing silent hosannas as she breathed the fresh air of the park. The green lawn, bathed in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun, had never looked lovelier. It was good to be alive, it was wonderful that Caroline would live to see more sunrises and sunsets, and perhaps grow up and fall in love and marry…
Fanny thought, unaccountably, of placid Lady Bertram, who seemed untouched by any knowledge of true calamity or sorrow. Life, love, marriage, childbirth, childhood, all had their risks. Had Lady Bertram been afraid when brought to her childbed four times? She was blessed with four handsome adult children—had she ever knelt in anguish over a sickbed? There was hardly a family in England that did not know the misery of losing a child, or a mother dying in childbed; there were children left orphaned, like her friend Mr. Gibson, who had been brought up by a puritanical uncle. And yet, for all its risks and sorrows, life was a miracle, it was glorious just to be alive at that moment, to smell the grass beneath her feet and hear the raucous cry of the peacocks in the garden.
At moments like this, when she was carried away by the sublimity of nature, she thought of Edmund. He was with her every time she arose to a particularly beautiful sunrise, she could hear his voice when she re-read
