Henry Crawford knew that Miss Price was always on her guard when in his presence, but her habitual reserve fell away as she read the letters and to his pleasure, he beheld a vivacious, happy, girl. She never looked prettier than she did at that moment and she even thanked him, profusely, for what he had done. Such a girl, lively, intelligent, with colour rising to her delicate complexion, might be plausibly presented as the wife of Henry Crawford, whereas the drab, disapproving governess would certainly perplex all his acquaintance. His own vanity required that Fanny Price be kept content, if she were to be introduced to any of his friends in future.
Fanny’s raptures also helped her through the farce that was to follow—indeed, if it were not for her pleasure and pride over William’s promotion, it is doubtful whether she could have sustained the deception long enough to bid farewell to the Smallridges and walk from the front hall to a post chaise, where the coachman, two postillions, a manservant and a lady’s maid, all waited to serve her.
Mr. Crawford charmingly apologized to the Smallridges for depriving them of their governess, and he had so ingratiated himself with the mistress of the house, that Mrs. Smallridge was impulsively moved to propose that the wedding be held there, in Keynsham Hill, with a special license. Fanny had time for only one thrill of horror, before Mr. Crawford gracefully declined the offer, explaining that his relatives were anxious to witness the sacred ceremony in their dear old village church, of which he spoke so tenderly and with such veneration that Fanny could hardly contain her indignation.
Fanny’s little portmanteau was placed in the carriage, and Mr. Crawford kissed Mrs. Smallridge’s hand, and fixed her with a look she would long remember, particularly when alone in her bath, then shook hands with Mr. Smallridge, and escorted Fanny to the carriage, placing his bride-to-be inside as carefully as though she were made of cut glass. Fanny’s eyes were indeed streaming when she left.
(This was the first, but not the last occasion, when the Smallridges had difficulties retaining a governess. Something remarkably similar would happen again in five years’ time, and their friends remarked that if a poor girl sought a rich husband, she need only engage herself to the Smallridges!)
“Well, it’s too bad, Honoria, you must look for another governess,” Mr. Smallridge consoled his wife as the carriage pulled away. “But Miss Price forgot to ask for her half-year’s wages, so you are ten pounds to the good.”
No sooner had the carriage cleared the sweep, than Henry Crawford sat back and laughed uproariously until tears came to his eyes. Fanny wondered if she would have to remind him that no one was to suspect they were not an engaged couple, when he finally collected himself, still chuckling, and wiping his eyes, exclaimed softly, “That was capital! Capital! You played your part very well, Fanny –” then seeing her stiffen at being so addressed, added, “Oh, very well. Miss Price. Now, let us calculate the days—how long would it take to travel from here to Gretna Green, and back again, at my usual rate of speed? How long before you will permit me to address you as ‘Mrs. Crawford?’ We shall spend the intervening days in Portsmouth and London, actually. I thought you might like to visit your family, and see William before he ships out.” And he fell to laughing anew as his bride’s countenance changed from frost back to sunshine, as she expressed her raptures at the prospect of seeing her beloved William, her parents and her younger brothers and sisters.
But even the best news in the world could not sustain Fanny’s spirits forever, even the prospect of seeing William in his lieutenant’s uniform, and knowing that it was her own doing, was still not enough to prevent her from worrying about the rash step she had taken and whether she had one one-hundredth part of Mr. Crawford’s audacity sufficient to pull off the imposture.
Fanny’s eyes brimmed over again, as she thought about deceiving her own father and mother, although she tried to weep silently. Her eyelashes were still wet when she composed herself to sleep, and as the late afternoon sun filtered in through the coach window, Henry Crawford found himself speculatively evaluating her—as any young man in the full prime and vigor of life will adjudge the worthiness of any female old or young enough to come within his observation, in terms of being a possible bedmate.
She was, in point of figure and height, not to be compared to the Bertram girls, who possessed the type of beauty that he favoured. They were full-figured and fair, and either one could be an artist’s model for a statue of Britannia. Miss Price was slender and delicate, and somewhat less than the middle height. Her short hair, curling about her forehead, was brown—simply brown, not chestnut or light brown shot through with golden strands, and he could barely recollect the colour of her eyes, now closed, but thought they must be blue. But as she lay sleeping, her head thrown back against the seat, he could acknowledge that, taking her all in all, she could be considered pretty enough. The nicely arched little eyebrows for example, and the neatly formed head with its close-set ears, the delicate lines of
