* * * * * *
My dearest Fanny,
For dear you will always be to me, although we are, unaccountably to my mind, estranged. Fanny, I miss you more than I can express.
We have been friends for ten years now, by my count, since that day I found you weeping on the staircase, for homesickness and love of your brother William. Little did I expect that in befriending my little cousin, I would be doing such good for myself, for as you grew, you became my most loyal friend and confidante. How often have we sat over the same books together, or admired the same stars in the night sky! Can you have forgotten, cousin, what simple pleasures we enjoyed together as we grew up? Is it nothing to you now? I know your tender heart too well—you have not forgotten me, and although some misunderstanding or resentment has arisen between us, I swear before Heaven that I have the warmest affection for you, my little cousin, and would consciously do nothing to cause you pain. Please, break this cold silence and speak to me!
I have also to express to you my best wishes on your marriage to Mr. Crawford. May he always cherish you as he ought, may he always listen to your counsel and become the man he could become, with Fanny by his side to guide and support him! May he always understand that he is the most fortunate of men in having Fanny for his wife!
As a married woman now yourself, you perhaps have reflected that as we all have our own faults, we ought to choose our partners in consideration of which faults we can tolerate and which faults we cannot. It seems that I can tolerate those little faults which I still see in Mary because I love her—I must love her, she is the only woman I could love. She has a tendency to speak lightly of serious matters, but of her essential kindness and sympathy, I have no doubt—as you yourself can attest, for she travelled across the country to find you! How happy you must have been to see your good friend! I wish that I could have witnessed that reunion!
Now, when I consider my many, many shortcomings—notice I do not nominate my own faults as ‘faults,’ but shortcomings—my shortcomings, as I said, which Mary must tolerate in me! I do not know how to flatter or court her, I am not ambitious, nor witty, nor lively, and can only sit and admire her as she brings grace, joy, and life to everything she touches. My father, in particular, delights in his new daughter-in-law. In one week—but one week more—I will escort my new bride to Thornton Lacey, there to begin our lives together as man and wife. You know how I barely allowed myself a hope of making her my own. I cannot find words sufficient to express my felicity.
Only one thing would complete my happiness—to repair my friendship with you, Fanny. Pray, let me know how you are. I think of you daily. With love, I am always,
Your,
Cousin Edmund
“Edmund, I am sending a parcel to Fanny—the last of her trousseau which has now been finished. I can send your letter with it.”
“Thank you, my dear Mary.”
* * * * * *
Tom Bertram still harboured the guilty secret of Crawford’s seduction of Maria on the night of the dress rehearsal of Lovers' Vows. He hoped that Julia had remained discreet, and that Maria could escape from the debacle with some credit. The event, at least, had revealed the truth of his own sentiments to him—he dreaded the day when he must assume headship of the Bertram family, and be responsible for the happiness and prosperity of all its members, the honour of its daughters, the credit of its sons. Although he tried to reason himself into acceptance of his responsibilities as the first born, in truth, he wanted no part of such burdens.
Tom arrived at Wimpole Street to a house in virtual mourning. The Bertram girls, so lately the ornaments of London society, were now ‘at home’ to no one. There was no question in Mrs. Norris’ mind as who was to be charged as the daemon of the piece—it was Fanny, Fanny Price, who had somehow tricked Maria’s intended husband into marriage. This idea she seized on with tenacity, while admittedly at a loss to understand how it could have come about, for Fanny was no rival for the beautiful Maria.
Tom thought firstly, that if his aunt truly cared for Maria and her sufferings, she would refrain from canvassing the subject, again and again, before her niece, and secondly, exercise his imagination though he might, he could no more picture Fanny as a seductress than he could picture his own mother riding to hounds. He gave a hurried glance at Maria, who sat huddled in a shawl in a corner of the sofa, apparently insensible to all that was being said on the subject, before replying to his aunt.
“It is astonishing. Crawford has taken Fanny for her hand alone—not a word about wanting any monies settled on her. When he might have had Maria and ten thousand pounds.”
“Well then,” his aunt retorted, “she must have more of her mother in her than we knew, more imprudence and less self-command, for how else could she have beguiled Mr. Crawford?”
“At least, my father is now relieved of her support, which must have been a prodigious
