The following morning, he told Fanny he was off again, adding that the lady’s maid would accompany him, as she had decided she did not wish to live in so remote a place as Everingham. Fanny did not regret this in the least as the maid was a singularly clumsy and vulgar woman, and in answer to Fanny’s enquiry about engaging a new lady’s maid, Mr. Crawford had cheerfully told her she was the entire mistress of the place and could hire and dismiss as many servants as she wished!
During their brief stay together in Everingham, he had been as good as his word in every respect—he treated her with the liberality and good-breeding of a gentleman, she retired to her own bedchamber at night unmolested, he made no overtures or insinuations, he left her with generous funds and, as though she were truly his wife, instructed the steward, housekeeper and butler to obey her every command. The fact was that Everingham sorely needed a mistress, as was apparent to Fanny from her first night, when she could not help comparing the quiet and smooth order of Mansfield Park with the bustle and confusion of Everingham, and the ensuing days did nothing to win her approbation.
She noted the cobwebs that festooned the chandeliers, she saw the unpolished furniture, the sooty fireplaces, she lightly partook of the greasy meals laid before her, but, unaccustomed to command, and moreover, intimidated by the housekeeper, who clearly resented her presence, Fanny kept to her room in those first days and ate her fatty pork and syllabubs in solitude, sighing for some plain biscuits and cheese and apples. She was exhausted by her recent illness, the abrupt change in her fortunes and her rapid travels, and she trembled at the rashness of the step she had taken. At least her bedchamber was comfortable and, after several nights’ good sleep, she resolved within herself to think only of the benefit to her brother William, and the ancillary good she might do to her family and the tenants of Everingham, instead of tormenting herself over having succumbed to perpetrating a falsehood. But no matter how she tried to put such pictures out of her mind, she was tortured with anxiety about Edmund’s reaction to the news of her marriage. He would undoubtedly be surprised and curious, but would he be censorious like his father? But greetings from Edmund, alas, never came, and Fanny was too timid to write without having first received a letter from him. She interpreted his continued silence to mean that he disapproved, probably for Maria’s sake.
Fanny spent much of her time walking alone through the beautiful parks and gardens of the estate, which were reasonably well maintained, and she admired, despite herself, Mr. Crawford’s taste in designing them. She wondered that a man of such intelligence, talent and ability should be so abandoned in character.
She felt very alone at Everingham, if being surrounded by three dozen curious, gossiping servants can be called being alone.
After nearly a fortnight spent in this manner, the mild weather and the peace and solitude restored something of Fanny’s health and spirits. She had not been called upon, as she had feared, to entertain neighbours, as the estate was truly secluded, with few in the surrounding villages claiming the rank of gentleman.
With some temerity, she decided to occupy her time by trying to learn if she, at not quite nineteen, could manage a country home. Fanny thought too lowly of herself to resent any lack of attention and deference on the part of the servants, but she did disapprove of idleness and waste, as she regarded it as a species of theft, and so gradually and then more pointedly, she began to question the housekeeper, visit the offices, inspect the stores, ask for inventories of the plate, linen and etc. Her talents of observation served her well, as did her memories of the smooth, orderly harmony of Mansfield Park. She saw many shoddy practices in her new home, and many wasteful doings to be investigated and corrected, and sometimes laughed aloud to think that what she had observed of her Aunt Norris over the years, would aid her more effectually than any example set by her Aunt Bertram, who seldom troubled herself over any part of the management of Mansfield Park.
Her memory being excellent and her manner gentle, she soon learned the names of everyone who attended her, their duties and their histories, which endeared her to many, if not all, of her servitors. Those among her servants who would rather serve in a well-run house rejoiced at the advent of a mistress, and those who preferred to skulk in corners and cadge what they could, showed their resentment more pointedly. It was these last that she daringly thought she might dismiss when their year of service was up.
She learned from the steward, Mr. Maddison, who was all smiles and complaisance, about the neediest of Mr. Crawford’s tenants, and directed that those in want of food and fuel be supplied from Everingham. She also finally steeled herself to go abroad, making her first appearance on Sunday morning at the village church. The townspeople marveled that for the first time in twelve years, a Crawford was in attendance in the family pew, and Fanny was, as she feared she would be, of more interest to the congregation than the sermon!
Then came some news which drew all of Fanny’s solicitude back to her friends in Bristol and London—Mrs. Butters wrote with the shocking intelligence from her Bristol correspondents that William Gibson had been press-ganged. At first, his friends did not know what had befallen him—he had failed to return to his lodgings one evening, and almost a fortnight elapsed before the news escaped from an unfriendly quarter, that he had been seized by the press. His friends had applied to the local magistrates in great indignation—Mr.
