“My brother and I are lately residents of Mansfield, in Northamptonshire, and we are—we are distantly related to your governess. That is, we believe that you employ a Miss Frances Price in your household?”
“Indeed, Miss Price has been with us since the end of October.”
“As we were travelling through to Bristol on private business, we felt it only fitting that we pay Fanny—Miss Price, that is, a brief visit, and we ask for your indulgence.”
Mrs. Smallridge was only too happy to oblige her elegant visitors, and after another moment’s consideration, invited them to dinner on the morrow, an invitation politely declined at first, but after being urged and urged again, accepted with pleasure.
“I suppose as I should summon Miss Price, and retire so that you may have your reunion.” Mrs. Smallridge pondered aloud, for it somehow did not suit her sense of propriety that a governess should have the best room in the house in which to entertain her visitors, but on the other hand, the Crawfords were the most elegant persons Keynsham Hill had ever sheltered. Henry Crawford, sensing her hesitation, and correctly divining its cause, disclaimed any wish to inconvenience his hostess and declared himself perfectly willing to be led to the nursery, or the offices, or wherever they could greet Miss Price without disturbing the household arrangements. The elegance of his language, his graceful air, and the fact that he seemed to admire her exceedingly, combined to make the decision an easy one: she would not hear of asking them to remove to another room, Miss Price would join them and they could all take their tea together. She was happy to do this for Miss Price, who was a veritable treasure.
Mrs. Smallridge withdrew, told a footman to fetch the governess to the best sitting-room, then retired to her bedchamber where, to pass the interval, she summoned her lady’s maid to re-arrange her hair.
Fanny thought only that her mistress wished to see her, and the unexpected summons was in itself cause for some apprehension. The footman did not inform her that someone else awaited her, for he had assumed that the visitors in the sitting-room were the guests of Mrs. Smallridge, and so, when Fanny entered the room and unexpectedly encountered the two persons she could least wish to meet again, she was almost overpowered. She had not the presence of mind to avoid Mary Crawford’s outstretched arms as she exclaimed “Dear, dear Miss Price! How can this have come to be? Were you abducted? Thank heavens we’ve found you!”
Led by Miss Crawford to the settee, Fanny at the last moment resisted being pulled down beside her, and instead took a nearby chair. “How—how, how did you find me?”
Fanny could not have asked a question that Henry Crawford was more ready, nay, eager to answer. The entire escapade, the skill and address of the search, with some embellishments and omissions, was soon laid before Fanny, from the following of her trail at Oxford, his careful reading of her letter, his researches at the coffee shop; in short his dogged pursuit of every clue that could lead to her.
Fanny grew increasingly perplexed but knew not how to pose the question. At last: “But why? Mr. Crawford, why have you been to such pains on my behalf? You must have been travelling these four months!”
Fanny noted a quick glance between brother and sister, and Mr. Crawford’s slight, almost imperceptible, smile.
“Our esteem for your family, of course,” responded Miss Crawford brightly. “We have grown close…. so very close since I came to live at the Parsonage.” She coloured becomingly and looked down at her lap. “Of course your cousins are also very anxious about you. But Mr. Bertram and Mr. Edmund Bertram have responsibilities, for example, supporting your mother and father, which Henry and I do not.”
“My uncle! When did he return? Is he well?”
The Crawfords were the last people from her old life that Fanny wished to feel beholden to, not even so far as to be obliged to them for providing information she sorely wished to know. Her reluctance to appear too effusive before them prevented her from asking many little details which she longed to learn, and she had to content herself with such news as occurred to them to give. Still, much had transpired since she left the family—she was relieved to hear that everyone at Mansfield Park was well, happy to learn that her uncle had returned safely from Antigua, that he had taken a house in London for the season, and surprised to find that Maria and Rushworth were not going to be married, but no explanation for the breach was offered, apart from a sneering reference to Mr. Rushworth’s dullness. The matters which most occupied her, Edmund’s ordination and his plans for the future, were not mentioned by Mary and she could not, would not, bring herself to ask, lest her voice betray her, or she hear news about her cousin which she felt unequal to hearing.
“But, my dear Miss Price, look at you! You are wearing your hair à la Titus! How daring! And how slender you are! Have you been well?”
“I am well, thank you, Miss Crawford,” was all Fanny would allow herself to say, self-consciously touching the short curls at the back of her neck.
“You look like a little waif, a heroine in a play!” Henry laughed, and, filled with high spirits and self-congratulation at the success of his quest, he struck a dramatic pose and declaimed: “‘Having fled from her cruel family, brave little Fanny trembled to recall the wicked Sir Thomas— ‘”
“Oh, pray, no!” Fanny clasped her hands together in dismay. “Did you tell Mrs. Smallridge about Sir Thomas and the Bertrams?”
Mary raised an eyebrow.
