“By heaven, that’s so,” agreed Henry. “But, you see, if it was put about that Mrs. Crawford had not had her wedding clothes made in London, then all my acquaintance would wonder what sort of wife I had married. Any woman taking the name of Mrs. Henry Crawford would expect nothing less—and in addition, new livery for the servants and a carriage for herself.”
Fanny knew not how to dispute with this line of reasoning, so she fell silent, resolving to let as little money as possible pass through Mr. Crawford’s fingers on her account, and trembling at the thought that by some accident, she might spy Edmund or his sisters coming out of a shop. What could she say? How would they look? How could Maria greet her as ‘Mrs. Crawford’? It was past imagining.
Henry Crawford was in the highest spirits as the carriage sped along, loudly singing,
A North Country maid up to London has strayed
Although with her nature it did—not –agree.
So she wept and she sighed and bitterly she cried,
“Oh, I wish once again in the north I could be.”
For the oak and the ash and the bonny ivy tree
They all grow green in the North Country.
“By the bye,” he added presently. “Would forty pounds be suitable for you? Could you manage on that sum?”
“To—to pay for the servants, and the victuals in Everingham? And what about candles and, and—”
“No, you little ninny. For your pin money. Your new bonnets and your gaming stakes and your trinkets.”
“Oh! More than amply, I’m sure. I don’t spend twenty pounds in a year, so I wouldn’t know how to spend forty.”
“A year!” More roars of laughter. “You will have forty pounds every quarter, my frugal little bride. Be as miserly as you like with it, but don’t expect any more than forty.”
Fanny was stupefied at the thought of commanding such sums. She knew that Christopher Jackson was paid thirty pounds a year by Sir Thomas, and according to Aunt Norris, was very generously paid indeed. And she would have more than five times that amount to spend on bonnets and trinkets? She sat quietly, looking out the window, thinking of her family and the poor and needy of Mr. Crawford’s estate, and how materially she would be able to help them, and thus fortified, was able to travel to London as the acknowledged wife of Mr. Henry Crawford without resorting to much use of her handkerchief.
Chapter Nineteen
Mary Crawford had pressed for an early marriage, arguing that her fortune made caution and delay unnecessary. Living as she had been, as a guest of her friends and her sister, she had saved the greater part of her yearly income, and she proposed to use those funds to pay for some alterations, which Henry called ‘absolutely essential,’ to be done at Thornton Lacey. The farmyard was to be cleared away and re-located, and trees planted to shield the house from the blacksmith’s shop; the principal rooms would all be altered to face the east, a new portico would be built on the east side, and finally a new garden would be planted behind the house. Edmund Bertram had left London, at Mary’s bidding, to go to Thornton Lacey to direct the commencement of the work, and knowing that she had a horror of living among half-finished alterations, mud and disorder, he was happy to acquiesce.
Thus confident the two cousins would not meet before she was Edmund’s wife, Mary Crawford called on Fanny at her hotel.
“Fanny, Henry tells me you refused him when he wanted to give you a gift of some jewelry,” she began. “And I am sure your disinterestedness does you great credit, but how shall you wear your brother’s amber cross without a chain?” And as she spoke she was undoing a small parcel. Fanny acknowledged she had no means of wearing the cross, except for a simple ribbon, and she was answered by having a small trinket-box placed before her, and being requested to choose from amongst several gold chains and necklaces. In the kindest manner Mary now urged Fanny's taking one for the cross and to keep for her sake, saying everything she could think of to obviate the scruples which were making Fanny start back at first with a look of horror at the proposal.
“You see what a collection I have,” said she; “more by half than I ever use or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing but an old necklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me.”
Fanny found herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride or indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest reluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She looked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable, until Miss Crawford felt she could wrap her hands around Fanny’s little neck and shake her head until it wobbled off. She exclaimed with some irritation, “For the love of heaven, Fanny Price, will you force me to attend on you all morning while you make a parade of your humility? Why must your modesty take such a tiresome form and be such an imposition on others?”
Blushing with shame, Fanny quickly chose a necklace more frequently placed before her eyes by Miss Crawford than the rest. It was of gold, prettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and plainer chain also laid before her, she hoped, in fixing on this, to be choosing what Miss Crawford least wished to keep. Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to complete the gift by putting the necklace round her, and making her see how well it looked. Fanny had not a word to say
