Posted on: 2012-07-02

"Oh, my dear! You are so lovely," the older woman said, shaking her head and clutching her hands together in front of her face as she stared at the reflection of the woman in the mirror. "That dress fits perfectly after the few little tucks I made. Not that I had to do much. You have not really lost so much weight, after all." She smiled and nodded too eagerly, the desperation of her gesture giving lie to her words.

Maria knew. She had lost more than "a little" weight, and her clothes tended to now hang limply on her wasted flesh. And lovely--if great round bags under her eyes, outlined in dark shadows, could be called lovely, then she certainly was. She thought she looked tired and far older than her years.

"You will be the belle of the ball. As you always are."

"Always, Aunt? I daresay, I doubt very much that anyone here will take notice of me."

"Of course, they will. How can they not? You are so beautiful, my child."

Maria stifled a sigh and bit her lip to keep from replying. She bickered far too much with her doting aunt and it would be a fine thing to have an evening free of strife. She was learning lately the value of being quiet and letting her aunt ramble on.

Tonight was the first night in the five years that she and her aunt had lived here that she would venture out to a public assembly. Those gathered would be petty gentry at best compared to the company she had used to keep, both in London and before that, in her father's home. These would be the sort of people Maria Bertram or Maria Rushworth would have disdained to associate with. When she had first arrived here with her aunt, Mrs. Norris put out the story that the recently widowed Mrs. Smith was still grieving. Neighbors pitied them and did not hold their reserve against them. They were not above their company, rather, just exceedingly sad. After awhile, people gave up and left them on their own.

Maria welcomed the bliss of anonymity. She turned away overtures to friendship in fear that someone might ferret out her secret. Thanks to a letter from an old friend that she would have been quite happy not to receive, she knew that even recently her name was still raising eyebrows and eliciting snide laughter in London. Newer gossip had supplanted her adulterous escapades on the tips of wagging tongues, but the memory of her behaviour was a classic cautionary tale. This is how the mighty can fall.

Townspeople here, in this tiny community so far away from civilization, always took less note of London doings and scandal sheets. Perhaps had they known her name, it would have meant nothing to them even when the story was fresh. Still, her aunt thought they could not be too careful. Despite the remoteness of this place, they would not risk letting the locals know that such--in her aunt's phrase--an illustrious lady lived among them.

While her aunt nattered on, Maria thought, hah, belle of the ball, indeed. Will she ever stop living her life through me? Most likely not, not until she takes her last breath.

That thought gave Maria pause because she knew it was unkind. She did not truly wish her aunt dead, merely--quiet. Could she just stop talking for five minutes? The woman's mouth stops moving only when she sleeps. Even when she eats, it seems she manages to get in a word between every bite. She frowned at her lack of charity because she knew her aunt had given up her life to take care of her. I wish I could ask her to leave. But Father would probably be disappointed if I turned her out, and I have already disappointed him enough for a lifetime. He would not allow me to live by myself, I am sure, and it would be insulting to her to ask for a paid companion instead--and an extra expense to my father. There is no guarantee that a stranger would be easier to live with.

"Now you must be careful whom you dance with. It is a public assembly, of course, and there will be a few men you will know slightly, and of course, they will ask you. Others, too, will flock to you, I am sure. You must be careful in selecting and not be too moved by kindness to say yes. You must remember who you are."

"Aunt, I do not think I will dance at all."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I only wanted an evening out of this house. We spend so much--" She saw her aunt's surprised expression and waved her hand as if to dismiss what she had started to say. "I plan to find a bench where I can sit and watch the others dance-- and I will listen to the music. That is all I wanted. It's been so long since we have heard music . . ."

"We should ask your father to buy you a piano. It is the least he can do for you. He owes that and more to you."

Maria firmly shook her head. When they had first moved here, her father had offered to do exactly that, but she had spat out her refusal. "You exile me to this hell and think you can buy my complaisance with a piano? No! I will not accept it or anything else from you. Leave me, since you and my whole family have decided to desert me. Why would you need me when you have your dear, dear Fanny? Why does anyone need me when they have Fanny? Well, I do not need you!"

He had winced at her profanity but did not argue with her further or point out again, as he had on several occasions, the errors in her behaviour. But, even as she blistered her father with her words, she knew her true object was Henry Crawford. He was all she could see or think of as she screamed and cried at everyone else. Henry, who had refused to marry her in spite of being her partner in adultery, still wanted Fanny instead. Months later, when her anger finally cooled and she found it in herself to write humbly begging her father's forgiveness for her outburst, she could not bring herself to add that she would like a piano. She felt too ashamed, and she noticed he did not offer again.

Mrs. Norris's grating voice demanded her attention. "My dear, you know I do have some money of my own. Let me buy you a piano. It would my greatest joy. Please. After all, who else do I have to spend my money on?"

Maria pulled in a deep breath of air through her mouth to stave off a feeling of suffocating. When she did not speak, her aunt repeated the plea. Maria muttered that they would be late for the assembly and added, "We can discuss this later." She turned quickly to pretend not to see to see the old woman's downcast eyes or to hear her whining, "I only want to make you happy, my dear. Really, that is all I want."

Maria recalled saying similar words to Henry as he was walking out the door that final time.