“And you suppose that I would rejoice to see you miserable and thwarted at last, because I once harboured a foolish little liking for him! Believe better of me than that, Maria! If he is to be my brother, I will learn to love him as a brother, but as for—as for thinking of him as I did last autumn, that is all over and done with.”
“It is not the delay which frightens me, it is the disdain our father now shows him,” Maria confessed. “Henry is a proud man—why should he not be proud? Why should he not resent our father’s unwillingness to give his blessing?”
“A sensible man would put it down to a father’s affection for his daughter. Is any man worth the name to be frightened away by this little difficulty? Why then, you are stauncher than he, for you know that Admiral Crawford despises marriage and will not even attend your wedding, when it takes place. Why should the disapprobation of his relations be less of a hindrance than the reluctance of yours?”
“Men are more proud, that is all,” Maria replied simply. She could not confess the whole—they had quarreled, she had behaved like a common fishwife—or so she supposed, for she numbered no fishwives among her acquaintance—she and Henry had parted coldly and in silence, and now he was gone.
At first she had been so angry that she thought of ending the engagement, despite the humiliations attendant on throwing over two fiancés in the space of half of a year! As she would not be the first to yield, so it followed that it was Henry’s duty to yield and to ask for her forgiveness.
But a week had passed with no word from Henry, other than through his sister, who wrote that they were off in search of Fanny again—as though Henry cared two figs where Fanny was, or what she did. And now Maria did wish to write to him, desperately, but as usual, she did not know where to send the letter, for the Crawfords had left no directions. Wherever he was, she suspected, there was a lady looking at him with admiration, laughing and smiling at his sallies, and he was being his most charming self.
* * * * * *
Henry Crawford was a little disappointed that he would not, after all, need to knock on the door of every stately home outside of Bristol, in search of Miss Frances Price, the governess. It would have suited his sense of drama, but, thanks to the information from William, he and his sister knew their destination, and with a little trouble—chiefly because he preferred to race along the lanes at top speed in his carriage and often missed the turnings—they found their way to the neighbourhood of Keynsham Hill.
“Have you considered what we will say to Miss Price when we find her?” enquired Mary. “Her family in Portsmouth—and Edmund—both expect us to produce her for them. What if she has fallen in love with the master of the house, as governesses often do, we are told, and refuses to leave him?”
“I have been pondering how we may best get her away,” Henry replied. “The simplest expedient, of course, would be to tell her that Sir Thomas is dying, and he wishes to see her before he expires. She will leap into the carriage and we can undeceive her at our leisure.”
“Lady Bertram’s imminent death would serve even better,” sighed Mary. “I believe Miss Price is quite fond of that silly woman. But, for my own ends, I would rather see her in Portsmouth, away from Mansfield Park, until after my wedding. A meeting, or even an exchange of letters, between Edmund and his little cousin before the marriage would be exceedingly awkward for me. She will attempt to dissuade him from the match and represent matters in the worst possible light, I know it. Keep her away, keep her silent, for only one month more!”
“Let us offer to convey her to Portsmouth, then, to see her beloved brother. And we shall not mention your upcoming nuptials, so she will have no alarms on the subject.”
* * * * * *
Mrs. Smallridge was feeling the weight of an empty afternoon hanging over her. With no particular talents or pursuits to occupy her mind, she was sitting in her best drawing-room, the tall windows open to the broad lawn before, her white curtains gently moving in a warm spring breeze, her needlework lying neglected in her lap. The day and the scene were tranquil and beautiful, but she was feeling restless and dissatisfied, a mood that can sometimes befall even those whose lives appear to unite the brightest blessings. Her role as chatelaine of Keynsham Hill sometimes seemed a dreary and empty one, as there was usually no husband or relative to share it with. What did it matter if she arranged the flowers in the vase with a skillful hand, and for whose benefit did she complete her daily toilette?
But then something occurred which was to furnish material for her correspondence for some time thereafter. First there was the unexpected sound of a carriage entering the sweep, and after a suspenseful pause, the butler appeared with two cards to announce the arrival of Henry Crawford, Esq. and Miss Mary Crawford. Mrs. Smallridge was surprised and gratified at the appearance of two young people of fashion who united both ease and elegance in their manner. Introductions were made and accepted, early tea was spoken for, and the Crawfords were invited to take a seat.
“Ma’am, please forgive this intrusion on your household,” Miss Crawford began, while her brother contented himself with eyeing his handsome hostess with some complacency. He recognized instantly that Mrs. Smallridge was restless,
