And for Fanny, Mrs. Butters left four thousand pounds. With the careful superintendence of Mr. Orme, Mrs. Butters had arranged matters so that her daughter-in-law would have no legal grounds for contesting her last will. But no power on earth could have prevented Cecilia Butters from feeling and declaring herself to be very ill-used. The machinations of Miss Price, in stealing her mother-in-law’s money, was a theme warmly expatiated upon by Cecilia Butters for the rest of her life.
This testament of the old lady’s affection gratified and consoled Fanny. As welcome as this gift was to her—for she immediately began to think upon how she might best assist her mother, her brothers, her sisters—the greatest, the most valuable legacy from her benefactress was not four thousand pounds, but what Mrs. Butters had done in the way of fortifying Fanny’s character.
At this time, Fanny often fondly recalled the circumstances of their first meeting—their conference in a dining room at an inn at Oxford—and she wondered how it was that Mrs. Butters had discerned something more, something of merit, in the timid, shrinking, submissive girl she had once been.
She knew herself to be loved and valued by Mrs. Butters, loved like a daughter, and she knew Mrs. Butters trusted her to handle her money wisely, and for the good of more than herself.
* * * * * * *
The news that Edmund Bertram was returning to Mansfield—had returned—was at last in residence in Mansfield Parish—was greeted with the most intense interest by his neighbours and parishioners. The farmer who was the first to spy his carriage, the villager who was the first to see him alight from it, the servant who was the first to greet him, were eagerly applied to for their impressions.
Aunt Norris was of course the first person he called upon in Mansfield, and he brought his children with him. There was little about that lady’s appearance or manner which could endear her to young children, but Thomas, Cyrus, and little Anna Imogen hoped to find in her, a kindly old aunt. They were too young to understand they were to be disappointed in that regard, for now the old lady fussed over them a great deal, and fed them gooseberry tarts, and exclaimed over their beauty and cleverness.
She made no enquiry—or perhaps she dropped the merest hint—concerning Edmund’s absent wife. But the toil and difficulties of setting up his new household, and the unlikelihood that his servants could manage any of it without her guidance, made it a self-evident proposition to Mrs. Norris that she would act as a sort of chatelaine for the parsonage. “My own trouble, you know, I never regard,” she said, “when I can be of service to you and your dear children, and on that head, it seems only right I should give you a hint, Edmund, against engaging Christopher Jackson’s son for your manservant, for I think he is a most encroaching young man, and too clever by half.”
Edmund was both swift and firm in urging her to spare herself all such exertion. “This is the only way, aunt, in which I could not wish to see you at the parsonage. I have no idea of burdening you in such a fashion. Though I refuse you as a housekeeper, please come to me as an honoured guest.”
Thwarted as regarded the parsonage, Mrs. Norris’s thoughts ventured further afield. “And I suppose you will no longer require Mr. Owen’s services in Thornton Lacey?” she enquired.
“On the contrary, aunt,” answered Edmund. “I intend to assign him a life-interest in Thornton Lacey.”
“What!” Mrs. Norris exclaimed, “Generosity run mad!”
“I am very surprised to hear you say so, aunt,” came the reply. “For I meant only to emulate the example of my father, when he gave the living here to your husband. My father was happy to be able to bestow a living upon his friend, and Mr. Norris had, as I understand, very little income besides—rather like my friend Richard.”
Edmund went on, as his aunt endeavoured to recover from her mortification: “It would be blameable, perhaps, if prejudice on behalf of my friend was to the disadvantage of the parish, but such is not the case. Mr. Owen is an excellent minister.”
Here was a happy escape, for Mrs. Norris could take up the subject of how her late husband was also an excellent clergyman, in every way superior to his successor Dr. Grant, and as for Mrs. Grant’s management of the parsonage compared to her own—heavens!
Indeed, Mrs. Norris wanted to examine the parsonage as it stood today. She had of course been there as a guest of the Grants, but she longed to open and inspect every cupboard and lament every extravagant alteration, with a freedom she could not have done when Mrs. Grant was in residence.
“Dear Edmund, I suppose you have observed that the Grants left their enormous great wide dining-room table behind,” she said. “My housekeeper, who is sister to your upper house-maid, told me of it.”
This table had long been a grievance with Mrs. Norris. “Dr. Grant and his wife always lived in a most presuming and vaunting style, always wanting to appear above themselves,” she went on, “and while no-one, I am sure, would presume to say the table is too good for a Bertram—no-one would think it too fine for my nephew—it is still too large by half for that dining room. If only Dr. Grant had been content to buy my dining-table from me when I came away from the parsonage, as anyone in their senses would have done! But he would always have things his own way!”
When his aunt had exhausted everything she had to say about the table, Edmund pronounced himself convinced and greatly obliged for her good advice. The first wish of his heart was to select a less
