I accordingly volunteered to call upon you and to write up your own account of your recovery. May I visit you tomorrow afternoon and bring you some reading material (no Paine, I promise!) to entertain you while you recover your strength?
Your servant,
Wm. Gibson
She paused, affectionately, over his sprawling signature, tracing it with her finger. Then she thought about letting him see her, as she then appeared. Alas for female vanity! She pulled the little mirror from the drawer in her bedside table, and looked at her butchered hair, the dark shadows under her eyes, the hollow cheeks, the pale, chapped lips, and the dozens of small scabs on her face, neck and limbs.
Mr. Gibson would have to wait.
* * * * * *
Mary Crawford made a show of unhappiness when her brother climbed into the box seat and took the reins from the coachman for the first stage of their journey to Portsmouth, but in truth she did not object to having the barouche to herself because she wanted time to think.
First, she was better reconciled to her exile to Thornton Lacey after her marriage because of what Henry had told her of the parsonage there: I never saw a house of the kind which had in itself so much the air of a gentleman's residence, so much the look of a something above a mere parsonage-house. With some simple improvements, you may give it a higher character. You may raise it into a place. The residence of a family of education, taste, modern manners, good connexions. All this may be stamped on it; and that house receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the great landholder of the parish by every creature travelling the road.
Her brother had sketched for her some ideas for alterations to the house and changes to the surrounding plantations, to which she had happily assented before consulting her husband-to-be.
Then, her parting from Edmund had been so tender, so delicious. There was something glorious in feeling her power over such a strong, upright man, to feel the way he struggled to control himself when she slipped into his arms and turned up her face for a farewell kiss. Their wedding day—and night—was less than a month distant.
The one aspect of their farewell which displeased her not a little was the fact that his thoughts seemed to dwell upon his cousin Fanny too much for her liking. She carried with her a little parcel from Edmund for Fanny—and Edmund’s parting words had been to remind her to tell his cousin, could she be found, of his love for her and how he missed her.
But both she and Henry were in snares of their own making—Fanny had been Henry’s excuse for delaying any talk of a wedding with Maria, and he had promised to find her. And unless Mary could keep Fanny and Edmund apart until after she married him, the fact that she intercepted her farewell letter to him would come to light. She intended to call on Mrs. Price while in Portsmouth again, and enquire if any letters had been found, but surely to do so would raise even Mrs. Price’s curiosity—why was it so important to retrieve letters when the writer and the recipient would soon be reunited in any event?
Perhaps she would be unable to persuade William to reveal where his sister was to be found. However, she doubted that he would disoblige his own parents, and surely they would demand to know, and faced with betraying a sister’s confidence or obeying his parents, what would any young man do?
“I wonder if young Mr. Price resembles his sister?,” she called out to Henry.
Henry turned and smiled over his shoulder. “I have yet to meet a modest, retiring sailor, I believe.”
Mary laughed. “Imagine, if his temperament were the same as his sister’s, and his captain were to ask him to climb the rigging—I’m so sorry, you must excuse me, indeed I cannot!” They laughed together.
Well pleased with herself and the world, Mary wondered if the time had come to set matters aright between Edmund and his cousin Fanny. Could she bring herself to confess that curiosity led her to open the note from Fanny, that only the lack of time then and jealousy of Fanny subsequently, had prevented her from doing what she now regretted? What man, Edmund being no exception, would fail to be flattered by knowing that his lover was jealous of everyone who held a place in his affections? Would it not be better to confess all now, and enter upon marriage with a clear conscience, than to take her vows with this secret—this secret which must, after all, come to light—weighing upon her? She pictured what she would say to Edmund, how she would explain herself—this would definitely be an occasion for some tears—and how she would lay to rest her guilty secret once and for all!
How lovely Mary looked now, as her soft rosy lips parted with a little smile and her dark eyes sparkled at the thought of dropping the veil of deceit which stood between her and the man she truly esteemed and loved! All of blooming nature around her seemed to be in harmony with her thoughts, the very daffodils in the meadow nodded their heads in approval, the rustling leaves of the trees were like a thousand little pairs of hands clapping in gentle acclamation of her greatness of spirit. She clasped her hands together as the warmth of her feelings animated her heart, and discovered she was still holding on to the little parcel entrusted to her, by Edmund, the present he had chosen for Fanny.
It was to the credit of her willpower, she thought, that she resisted opening the parcel for at least an hour. She untied the ribbons, pulled off the paper, opened a neat
