“And how about you, Miss Crawford?” Edmund could not resist asking. “Would a scene of rustic simplicity please you? Could you be satisfied to contemplate such a view every morning, or would you prefer to look out at a busy London street, thronged with carriages, wagons, bawling costermongers, pushing throngs? I think I see your eyes brighten at the thought.”
“You must allow there is more variety to be found in the city, Mr. Bertram—more variety of company, more diversions of all sorts—plays, concerts, lectures—and more opportunities to distinguish oneself—more avenues for happiness, in short. Here I see only one avenue—this heavy and respectable line of oaks marching sedately along. The quiet and the peace is enchanting at present, and will do very well, just for the moment that is—not for a lifetime, certainly!”
“Cowper disagrees with you there,” said Edmund, taking a mock-heroic pose and declaiming:
He is the happy man whose life e’en now
Shows somewhat of that happier life to come
Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state
Would make his fate his choice—”
“Fiddlesticks! If the poet really believed that obscurity breeds felicity, he would not have sought fame by publishing his poem! It is in our natures to seek immortality, Mr. Bertram.”
Edmund smiled. “I will concede, the notion that the greatest happiness is to be found in rural simplicity, is a too-common poetic conceit amongst our men of letters.”
“And amongst educated men who ought to—” Mary stopped herself and laughed. “The day is too lovely for quarrelling, Mr. Bertram. Although disputing with you has brought me more pleasure than I’ve known while exchanging compliments with many another gentleman. Why should this be?”
Edmund wondered if she knew how ardently he wished to fold her in his arms there and then, how he wanted to kiss her with passionate intensity. And no wonder cousin Fanny was completely forgotten on her park bench, for quite some time longer!
Ah, well. They had talked and quarrelled and quarrelled and talked for the better part of a year, and then she married him. And then she left him.
In an upswelling of bitterness, Edmund briefly contemplated letting a long silence elapse before he sent his answer, another year perhaps, as long as her silence had been, for it would be no more than she deserved, but of course he had been prompt in composing a reply in his head. He knew his tone was forbiddingly formal, that his letter might almost have come from his father’s pen, but, being himself, he could not write in a cavalier manner on such a topic.
Dear Mary, (he wrote)
Lady Delingpole will be calling on us in a few days, which gives me the opportunity to send my answer through her hands, as you requested. Your recent letter invites me to suggest any means by which we may be reconciled.
A reconciliation would comprise many things—that we would once more be in charity with one another, the errors of the past repented, forgiven and forgotten. We would live together under one roof. We would be of one accord as to how and where to live out the rest of our days. I could desire nothing more—if such a thing were possible.
I can change nothing about my former actions, Mary. Misunderstanding and not malice led to my challenging Henry to a duel, if you could only choose to believe it. My regrets will not restore your brother to you and you have already heard me apologize many times for my part in the tragedy.
As for Mansfield Park—my father feels, as every good man must feel, how discreditable it would be, to place a lesser estate into the hands of his heirs, than the one he received from his father. It is for this reason he and I agreed to make Mansfield available for lease, and for my parents to live with my sister in Norfolk. In my opinion, this economical resolution lends more honour and dignity to the name of “Bertram,” than living in a style that his income no longer justified, could ever do.
However strongly felt my own inclinations are, they must be subordinate to my duties. Julia has no other home, but with me. We have determined it is not appropriate for her to live at Everingham with Maria. And the same considerations which preclude her going to live with my sister, apply to her sharing a home with you.
Edmund threw down his pen.
My g-d! How does a man say to his wife, you have been in another man’s bed, and I know it, as casually as though he were making arrangements for a weekend party in the country, he thought. Mary, what have you brought me to!
He would have paced about his study, but it was too small for the exercise. Already cramped in dimension, owing to Mary’s desire for a larger sitting-room, it had become even more confined when Edmund installed bookcases on three walls, to accommodate his father’s library from Mansfield. Now there was barely room for his desk and two chairs. He instead bounded up the staircase, went to his dressing-room, tore off the Geneva bands which chafed at his neck, and put off the rest of his clergyman’s attire. He splashed cold water on his head, ran his fingers through his curling hair, and pulled on a loose lawn shirt and doeskin breeches before returning to his study and his letter.
...Until Julia is respectably settled in her own establishment, she is my responsibility.
You have upbraided me for choosing a life in the country, contrary to your wishes. I had persuaded myself that when you accepted me, you also accepted the limits my circumstances imposed upon me. Did I surprise or disappoint you so much, Mary, after we had lived together for a fortnight, a month, six months? Was I not the person you thought you had married? And, what do you
