Julia was in love with Henry Crawford and had believed he was falling in love with her. Why should she not believe it, when his eyes, his gestures, his whispers, had proclaimed his devotion? Now that the conviction of his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it without any alarm for Maria's situation, or any endeavour at rational tranquility for herself. Henry Crawford himself had attempted to soothe her through flattery and re-doubled attentions—she scorned them, and him, and he soon gave up the effort.
Nor was Julia in any humour to acknowledge the elaborate attentions and gallantries of her brother Tom’s house guest, the foppish Mr. Yates, who, hailing her as “the divine Miss Julia,” made a point of sitting by her at breakfast, fetching her morning dish of coffee, declaring his raptures over her dress and shoes and the arrangement of her hair, and soliciting her approval of his own choice of cravat and jacket. She knew not how, but she could not discern in his assiduous gallantries any true symptom of a lover. Her brother Tom acknowledged the unserious nature of Mr. Yates’ attentions, although in terms she could not understand.
“Gentlemen must pay their due tribute to beauty, Julia, but I would be sorry to see you take Yates seriously. I was at Eton with him and……” he coughed. “Your estimable governess never taught you much classical literature, did she? Any Latin? Hadrian and Antinous? Zeus and Ganymede?”
Julia shook her head, bewildered.
“No matter. The point is, these pleasantries between ladies and gentlemen are all part of the game, don’t you know, you mustn’t believe Yates is falling in love with you.”
“I pay no attention to Mr. Yates at all, Tom, except that he is your friend and our guest. Now go along and practise your rhyming Butler. Ask Baddeley to help you,” Julia returned scornfully.
* * * * * *
Fanny retrieved Miss Lee’s reply a few days later at the post office. Although Miss Lee was surprised to receive Fanny’s enquiry, she did not attempt to dissuade her former pupil. The old governess was a well-judging and discerning woman, and she reckoned that growing up in Mansfield Park had rendered Fanny too genteel to resume the rough-and-tumble life she had left behind in Portsmouth. Going out as a governess would allow Fanny to continue to live among the same set of people, and in the same style, to which she was accustomed.
Miss Lee refrained from counselling Fanny as to the wisdom or imprudence of her proposed course but did inform her that Mrs. Smallridge, a cousin by marriage of Miss Lee’s own employers, was looking for a young lady of unexceptionable character to undertake the charge of their daughter, who was not quite six years of age, and their son, who was old enough to start learning his letters and sums. Miss Lee offered to forward Fanny’s application to Mrs. Smallridge, with her own testimony as to Fanny’s good character.
To be the tutoress of very young children appeared to Fanny to be the most probable circumstance to suit her talents—which she rated as very low—as well as her inclinations. She composed a careful letter to Mrs. Smallridge, describing herself as a gentlewoman, the daughter of a lieutenant of Marines, but raised principally by an aunt, the widow of a country parson—this last a reference to Mrs. Norris, who, it could truthfully be said, had more to do with raising her than any other adult at Mansfield Park, for it was the admonitions and scowls of the aunt that had rendered a timid and awkward young woman from a shy and retiring little girl. Fanny felt it was best to sink Sir Thomas and his family into oblivion, as she reasoned that Mrs. Smallridge might wonder why the niece of a baronet sought employment as a governess. Fanny had never dissembled so much in her life before but had observed from Maria and Julia the art of withholding information without actually stooping to deceit.
The letter was composed, folded, and sealed, but Fanny trembled at the thought of making a private visit to the post office. The bare fact of engaging in secret correspondence filled her with shame and guilt, and to act secretly, to plan to depart Mansfield struck her like a species of treason, particularly when Lady Bertram was kind to her, or when Edmund had time to talk with her.
Although Fanny had disclaimed any talent for acting, her relations would surely have been astonished at the secret she kept to herself whilst preparations went forward for the production of Lovers' Vows. Fanny found, before many days were past, that it was not all uninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and each having their own concern, were frequently blind to the concerns of others. Everybody began to have their vexation. Edmund had many. Entirely against his judgment, a scene-painter arrived from town, and was at work, much to the increase of the expenses, and, what was worse, of the éclat of their proceedings; and his brother Tom, instead of being really guided by him as to the privacy of the representation, was giving an invitation to every family who came in his way.
Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only listener at hand, came in for the complaints and the distresses of most of them. She knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant dreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that
