“Mary, why did you think I could be so easily imposed upon? Do you think me a simpleton, easily flattered, easily misled?”
Alas, Margaret could not distinguish Mary’s softer tones in reply.
“Does Lady Delingpole know of this?”
“No—no—Patrick, of course not. No-one knows of it. Can you not forgive me? Can you not understand?”
“I should have known that a woman who would deceive her husband, would also deceive her lover.”
“Patrick, I do regret it.” Mary’s voice grew louder, she had lost her composure, an unusual thing with her. “Please do not betray me—if my husband should ever learn—”
“He shall learn of it—from me.”
“No, dear Elsham, I beg of you. You would not be so cruel as to expose me publicly. It will kill me, I swear it. You would not take such a terrible revenge against—”
“Mary, see to it. Tell him yourself. I will not wait forever.”
Margaret heard Mary begin to weep, and Lord Elsham made an impatient noise.
“Well, then. Well then, madam. I think you understand me. Good day to you, then, madam.”
And Margaret softly scampered away for fear of detection.
* * * * * * *
Fanny accompanied Edmund, at his invitation, for long rides to explore the countryside around Thornton Lacey. Julia generously gave her new horse over to Fanny as often as she wished.
Although Fanny had grown up at Mansfield, she had seldom been included in the frequent exploring-parties in which the young people had indulged in the past, even though she was better formed to enjoy and profit from such excursions, having a keen eye and a fund of poetry and prose at her command to bring forward when a new vista, or a secluded spot, brought to mind some favourite encomium on nature. Therefore, everything that Edmund showed her was new to her, though all in the environs of Mansfield, and no detail was too small or prosaic to capture her interest. She entered into his concerns, approved of his projected plans, and sympathized with his little vexations.
“Here, Fanny, here is the boundary of our parish—my little empire is not very extensive, but I hope that I have helped to materially improve the lives of the villagers here. My glebe land is more productive, thanks to the reforms I have instituted, and some of the younger farmers have undertaken to follow my example. We have planted fruit trees, and have got up a committee to improve the roads, and another to bring relief to the poorest of the cottagers.”
“You are doing just as you said you would do, Edmund—living amongst your parishioners, showing yourself to be their well-wisher and friend, and they, knowing you, and knowing your good conduct and principles, are the better for it!”
Edmund smiled. “That is to say, everybody knows everybody else’s business here in the country. It is no small advantage to the churchman, for in addition to his own remonstrances, when a man drinks too much and neglects his labours, or a woman is too harsh to her children, the malefactor knows that all their acquaintance have discussed and condemned their behaviour, and it is human nature to want the approval of our fellow-creatures. If a man chooses a wife from this village or the next, and treats her unkindly, he must consider what her brothers might have to say about it, or if a son fails to assist his widowed mother, all the other mothers will tell him of his fault.
“But,” he concluded, “living in each other’s pockets, as we do here, is not a congenial mode of life for everyone, we must allow.”
“I can imagine no felicity superior to this!” Fanny answered. “To live in such a lovely spot of countryside and to know that you have done so much for your fellow creatures! We cannot cure all the sorrows of the world, but, as Voltaire said, we can cultivate our own garden, and avoid evil and vexation. Oh, cousin, who would not--” and she broke off, conscience-stricken, as she recalled that Edmund’s wife so despised country life, that she had done the unthinkable and left her husband.
Edmund smiled sadly. “Fanny, I know what you are thinking. Of whom you are thinking. It should not surprise you to know that I think of her every day, every morning and every night. And I haven’t forgotten, either, that you tried to warn me that she was not what she appeared to be. But I was too readily seduced by my wishes—by what I wanted her to be.”
He turned to look at her, and Fanny thought that he had never looked so handsome as he did now, with the rays of the late afternoon sun lighting his face.
“Fanny, I fear that I must leave Thornton Lacey, before long.”
“What! Leave! Why? Is Dr. Grant retiring? Are you returning to Mansfield?”
“No. I received a letter from Mary, asking me for a reconciliation.”
“You intend to—to take her back?” Fanny managed to stammer, her breath catching in her throat.
“Yes, Fanny. Irrespective of my inclinations, I believe it is my duty to redeem her, if I can. She is my wife. It must begin with my forgiveness.”
Fanny looked away, unable to meet his eye, unable to speak, as a sickening feeling stole over her. She could never forgive Mary—not for winning Edmund’s heart, not for breaking it. He must still love her, in spite of her treatment of him. He was still bound to her.
Fanny attempted to push down her own feelings and force herself to attend to what Edmund was saying:
“...I have contemplated this question many times and always end up with this conclusion. But there are many difficulties in our way. It is impossible that she return here. It would not be
