Fanny gave no indication she could hear what had been said but continued sewing placidly until summoned to the little theatre to act as prompter for a scene between the ranting Mr. Yates and the befuddled Mr. Rushworth. She was surprised to discover she was not crying—her eyes were perfectly dry, but there was a strange feeling in her stomach, as though a cold little stone had taken up residence there. Perhaps she should bless her Aunt Norris for helping her to reach a resolution, for although she suspected her aunt of exaggerating the financial peril in which the family stood, she would not stay to be resented.
The next morning, Fanny asked her Aunt Norris if she needed anything taken to her home in the village, or fetched from it. As it happened, the lady wanted her good pair of scissors, so Fanny was dispatched, with the warning, “but pray, don’t make this your excuse, Fanny, to dawdle along the way—you are needed here to help finish these costumes, for I cannot do everything by myself. Don’t suppose that by staying out of sight you can shirk your share of the work to be done.”
Fanny called at the post office and sent her application to Mrs. Smallridge, care of Miss Lee, and then forgot Aunt Norris’s scissors, so stupefied was she at the enormity of what she had done, and was halfway home when she remembered and had to hurry back for them. She endeavoured to be in good time to avoid her aunt’s condemnation by running up the hill and arrived breathless, holding her side.
Edmund met her near the rose garden and gently remonstrated with her— “You have been running, Fanny, you are out of breath! Whatever are you about? You look knocked up.”
“Oh, it doesn’t signify,” Fanny panted. “I have not been out on horseback as often as I should lately, we have been so busy with the theatricals.”
“Bother the play,” laughed Edmund. “I have a tonic for you, Fanny—can you guess what it is?”
Fanny brightened and wondered if there had been a letter from her brother William.
“No, no, not that, but this did come with the post this morning—The British Critic,” and Edmund happily flourished his and Fanny’s favourite gazette, a magazine that listed all the new publications, with reviews and extracts. “Shall we look it over and decide upon those books whose acquisition is essential to the preservation of our happiness?”
No invitation was necessary, and Fanny almost danced beside Edmund as they re-entered the house. With joy did she anticipate that much-loved activity—looking over descriptions of books along with Edmund, discussing them, and making a list of the most desired titles to be ordered, and that followed by the pleasure of receiving the books in the post, and reading and comparing views with her cousin! It was the most complete happiness she knew.
“Stay, Fanny,” called Edmund as Fanny hurried ahead of him to the library, “we are in the breakfast-room. I thought we should be more comfortable there.”
We? Bewildered, Fanny spun about and followed Edmund into the breakfast-room, where sat Mary Crawford, looking particularly lovely, preparing her ink and quill for the list of chosen titles. She looked up and smiled expectantly as Edmund entered.
“Yes, I invited Miss Crawford to join us,” Edmund explained cheerfully as Fanny faltered at the doorway.
“Oh, come in Miss Price,” cried Miss Crawford. “We had despaired of you before Mr. Bertram saw you dashing up the hill.” Turning to Mr. Bertram, she added, “I hope we shall have some travel books! Wouldn’t you love to visit Paris, Mr. Bertram? The Bonaparte has stolen the birthright of every patriotic Englishman and woman—the right to return from Paris to disparage the place of our birth and to compare our food, fashions, and manners unfavorably with the French! It is monstrously unjust! This war seems never-ending!”
The sight of Miss Crawford preparing to perform the office she had always performed, hit Fanny like a blow.
“Why, Miss Price, are you well?” asked Miss Crawford, eyeing her with concern. “You look pale. It is true what your cousin says—any kind of exercise but horse-riding tires you too quickly—pray, sit down, sit down.”
Fanny managed to stammer— “The scissors—Aunt Norris—I must give—” and, backing out of the room, she turned and fled up the back stairs to her own little bedroom, where she gave way to her anguish, muffling her sobs with her quilt.
Sometime later, with reddened eyes and pale cheeks, she found Aunt Norris in the drawing-room and resumed her sewing work, reasoning that Edmund by now had assumed she had been kept behind by her aunt and so could not return to the breakfast-room.
“At last! My scissors!” exclaimed her aunt. “Fanny, I have been looking for you these two hours! And after I particularly asked you to hurry! You are too provoking! You are worse than thoughtless, you must have kept away out of spite and willfulness! I have no patience with you!” And so on, until the two housemaids, bent over the green baize curtain being prepared for the theatre, furtively exchanged looks full of pity for the young lady between their furious stitches.
* * * * * *
Fanny could not know how probable or improbable it might be that a young lady of only eighteen summers would be accepted as a governess, but two circumstances smiled upon her. One was that Mrs. Smallridge, the daughter of a prosperous linen-draper who had been elevated into a much
