Edmund nodded. “But, my Mary, this is a privilege reserved to womankind, and not to a man of honour. The understanding between Henry and my sister was of some months’ duration.”
“Or so we believed, we who approved of the match. But—were they engaged? Didn’t your own father withhold his consent?”
Edmund took her hand, in acknowledgement of the point. How could this beautiful creature be so bewitching, so feminine in all her ways, and be withal so clear-sighted, so intelligent, so discerning, so unsentimental and practical when confronted with difficulties? There was simply not another such a woman upon the earth—and he had won her.
Mary intertwined her slender fingers with his broad, strong ones, and stood very still, looking up at him, willing him to kiss her again and change the subject from his cousin Fanny. But his mind still ran upon his cousin.
“My love, did Fanny like the necklace I got for her? Did she have some message for me?”
Mary’s face fell. “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry to tell you this. From the time that we first found her in Keynsham Hill she evinced the most complete coldness toward your family. I spoke to her of your affection, how the entire family regretted her absence and wished her to return with us. I recall how shocked we were at her reply, ‘I do not desire to return to Mansfield Park. This is the new life that I’ve chosen.’ And, when I placed your necklace before her, she would not take it.”
Edmund’s countenance bore testimony to his sorrow, surprise and disappointment. “Ah. Well, you may keep the necklace for yourself, my dear. And did she leave me no note, no message?”
With every show of reluctance, and a little sigh, Mary handed him the note intended for Mr. Yates, whom, in fact, she had not seen on Jermyn Street, or anywhere else. She watched his face eagerly as he read it, hoping to see such resentment as would lead to a final breach between the two. Instead, he appeared perplexed and saddened. He read it carefully, then slowly folded it up and put it in his breast pocket.
“There is a double breach between our families now, and who knows what evils it will produce! Your brother will not attend our wedding, nor will Maria, and, it seems, his new wife wishes to turn her back on all of us! I hope that you can help me to plead my case with Fanny. I am at a loss.”
“Perhaps you should forebear for a time, dear Edmund. And, of course, when the time is right, I will do everything I can to restore the good understanding you once had with your little cousin.”
She watched him as he paced up and down, deep in thought. Then: “No—this is madness. I know Fanny too well—it is inconceivable that she should be so estranged from me. Where is she? I must speak to her today.”
“No, that is not possible, I’m afraid. They are on their way to Everingham now.”
* * * * * *
Henry Crawford had been alternately amused and perplexed by Fanny Price, as though he had suddenly been handed an exotic jungle animal, or a wailing infant, that he knew not how to care for, and the challenge of keeping the creature fed and happy; of learning, by trial and error, what it liked and disliked, what frightened and what pleased it, sufficed to entertain him for a time, but the novelty of travelling, day after day, with a girl who was so easily disconcerted, yet so stubborn on the smallest points, who preferred to read books rather than converse with him, a girl entirely indifferent to fashionable dresses, or jewelry, or his routine gallantries, had long since worn away, and he was counting the hours when he could resume his accustomed habits.
She was, for example, gravely perusing some grim-looking pamphlets while they were baiting the horses at Cambridge, so he entertained himself by flirting with the serving-girl, a bonny redheaded charmer.
For her part, Fanny tried to ignore her companion, but she could not help glancing up now and again, wondering what a real bride would say to her groom if he conducted himself before her in public in such a fashion. Here was again a want of delicacy and regard for others which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was again a something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated before. How evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity where his own pleasure was concerned; and alas! how always known—
“By heaven, Mrs. Crawford,” Henry broke upon her thoughts. “You were worried that you would not be able to act your part, but I assure you, you give a perfect impression of a married woman! No one, seeing you, could doubt your complete indifference toward me. I believe you have not addressed three words to me this entire morning! What ghastly thing are you reading?”
“It is some abolitionist literature given to me in Bristol. It is most affecting, but more than that, I think it is well-argued, from a theological and moral point of view, that we English must lead all the other nations in halting the trade in human beings.”
“Sugar plantations in Antigua being excepted?”
She looked up at him calmly. “I do now comprehend, Mr. Crawford, that much of that ease and comfort which surrounded me in Mansfield Park, was owing to the sugar trade. I have not seen my uncle since I was sixteen years of age, but when I meet with him again, I will endeavour to better inform myself as to his sentiments on the matter. In my youth, he was an advocate for what was moral, and upright and just—his sense of honour is so strict,
