Mary was preparing to depart when she suddenly recollected another matter: “Oh, Fanny! I was coming out of a shop on Jermyn Street and there, on the pavement, was none other than the Baron von Wildenhaim himself—Mr. Yates, that is. He has heard the news of your marriage and asked me, rather impertinently I thought, when you and Henry might receive him at Everingham?”
“Oh Miss Crawford, must I entertain guests at Everingham?” cried Fanny anxiously.
Mary shrugged. “Depend on it, my dear, you will receive many enquiries of this sort. I have heard it said of Mr. Yates, particularly, that once he has arrived at your home, he will ignore all your hints that it is time for him to depart.”
Fanny began to pace up and down, wringing her hands. “Miss Crawford, I do not think I can do this. I cannot impose this lie on the entire world. I had thought I would be left alone at Everingham.”
“There, there,” Mary soothed her. “They are unlikely to travel all the way to the wilds of Norfolk without your invitation. Do you have some writing paper? Allow me to dictate a letter to you. With some slight variations, you can send this reply to all enquiries.”
Fanny sat down at the desk and wrote as Mary dictated:
Dear Sir:
Many thanks for your kind remembrances of the pleasant times we spent together at Mansfield Park.
It would be my pleasure to welcome old friends to Everingham, but, as my husband will be called away on business shortly after my arrival there, and my new obligations and duties will necessarily occupy my time, I must regretfully await a future day when he and I, together, can welcome guests to our home.
I am, obliged, etc.
F. Crawford
“There. No one will fail to understand your sentiments and yet it is polite enough, I think, for the likes of Mr. Yates. I will give this to him for you—we meet tomorrow afternoon at Lady Delingpole’s reception. Do not make yourself uneasy any more, Fanny. As you see, I will do everything in my power to assist you.”
Fanny entreated, and Henry Crawford assented, that their sojourn in London be as quiet as possible—that she not be introduced to any of his acquaintance, nor go to any public places. Thus, although this was her first visit to the great city, Fanny denied herself the pleasures of the theatre, or parks or even the book shops. In the evening she rested in the room Crawford had engaged for her, and the five days they spent there were largely taken up with the business of ordering new clothes, shoes, headdresses and bonnets and having her portrait taken, all of which was tiring enough.
The mantua-makers of the great London warehouses were not kind in their appraisal of Mrs. Henry Crawford, and did not scruple to express their surprise that Mr. Crawford, well-known about the town, should have settled on such a demure little bride. If Mr. Crawford and his bride had made a love match, how to interpret the smiles, the glances between Mr. Crawford and his wife’s lady’s maid? And the seamstresses were not called upon to disguise a growing thickness at the waist, as sometimes did occur in their profession, so that could not explain this strange marriage.
Mrs. Crawford was at best, only tolerable-looking, with only youth and gentleness of manner to recommend her. If she was of noble birth, why did she speak of visiting a younger brother who toiled as a clerk in Wapping, and if she was an heiress, why was she not dressed as one?
Still, the groom was undeniably a charming gentleman, and one with a good eye for lace and muslin and silk. His daring taste was wasted on Mrs. Crawford, however, who blushed as red as a beet root at some of the sheer night gowns he laughingly held up for her approval.
The mantua-makers did conclude that pink was her best colour, she looked dreadful in mustard—although it was the fashionable colour that year—and she was in fact correct that simplicity and modesty suited her best. She had little in the way of embonpoint to show off, but her décolletage could be cut to emphasize her delicate collarbones, and her neck and arms were not contemptible. The high-waisted gowns of the day were made for slender frames, such as hers, but she lacked the height, the assurance, the carriage, which would mark her out as a leader of fashion.
* * * * * *
Lady Bertram was reclining in her usual place when Sir Thomas entered with a letter and a small parcel in his hand. “This has just arrived, my dear, from Mr. Crawford in London. He may have some intelligence of our little Fanny.”
Lady Bertram sat up and pushed her sleeping pug to one end of the sofa with an alacrity which startled Sir Thomas no less than the animal, and invited her husband to sit. They read the following:
My dear Sir, the letter began,
I trust that this letter finds you and all your family well. I know that you, and especially Lady Bertram, have been very solicitous on our account, so may I assure you that my sister and I are both well, and that we were fortunate, for the most part, in the weather and the roads during our travels in search of your niece. But I will sport with your patience no longer—I take the greatest satisfaction in informing you that she has been located and she is well.
We discovered your niece toiling as a governess for a respectable family near Bristol. I should assure you that she had not revealed herself to be a relative of Sir Thomas Bertram. My sister and I likewise, wishing to spare you and your Lady any indignity, did not mention
