Posted on: 2012-09-09
Fanny Price would not have cared that Henry Crawford had no intention of staying with Maria Rushworth. Be with Maria or not, it was all the same to Fanny. It would have been indelicate to tell Henry there was only one man she would ever want to marry, and it was not he. So, she would not have said that, but she might have shaken her head and given him a clearly disapproving look at the imprudence he and and Maria were showing.
Henry swore to himself that Fanny would never know about this escapade, even as the horses' hooves first landed upon the cobblestones rushing the carriage away from the fine house on Wimpole Street. They had barely gone two miles before his fear of consequences became too great. Or, perhaps it was purely his conscience. "Maria, I must take you back to your husband. You know how much he adores you--he will forgive you anything."
"Oh, that boring, stupid fool," Maria spat contemptuously. "Do you think I can bear to spend one more minute with him, especially after you have shown how it could be? Do you think I could ever return to him?"
"I offer you very little, Maria. You must know that. I love Fanny and I will marry her."
"Are you so sure she will have you?"
"She will agree, eventually. I know it!"
"Then perhaps it is you will who will change your mind," Maria said as she threw her body against his and wrapped her arms as tightly as she could around him, as if she would never let him go.
Desire can be a powerful aphrodisiac. Unused to denying himself any pleasure, untrained in discipline despite his better instincts, Henry gave into the moment. Like him, Maria had been spoiled by the experience of plenty and had learned that all things are possible, all things are given. She expected to she could have whatever she wanted.
In that sense, they were perfect for each other. Locked together in a passionately greedy embrace that held back nothing, they forgot where they were. They did not notice the fast-moving carriage was beginning to shake. It probably made no difference anyway because even had they seen it coming, they would not have time to react. The carriage hit a particularly deep hole in the road, flew momentarily upward into air and then smashed fiercely against the earth. The force of the impact tore it apart. Just an instant before, the two lovers had neared an apex. Although their bodies were thrown apart in the fatal carriage accident, the last thing either remembered in life was an ecstasy that was like a little death. They never felt a thing after.
Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of.
Had Maria and Henry lived, their ill-advised act of running off together would almost surely have been reviled and hated. But they died, and their kinsmen had room only for a deep sense of loss. Society also gave the Bertrams and the Grants sympathy rather than scorn. There were whispers about the Henry and Maria, but tragedy trumped scandal. Some people even charitably surmised that the couple had been heading for Mansfield Park, so that she could be at her ailing brother's bedside. Her husband had been out of town and Mr. Crawford was helping a friend.
Edmund rushed to Mary Crawford's side. She was chastened and quiet in her grief. For once, she had no lively wit or double-edged puns. She had nothing. He mistook it for wisdom and principle. He could not leave her now, not when she had lost so much.
In Portsmouth, Fanny waited for a servant to come and collect her in her uncle's carriage in order that she would be present for the interment of her cousin. Much as she had looked forward to returning to Mansfield Park, this was not what she could ever have wanted. Much as she wanted to return to the countryside she loved, much as she hated this narrow and confining city, she did not want to have her wish granted under such circumstances. Added to all, she hated leaving behind her younger sister Susan. She had forged a bond with the fourteen-year old girl that rivaled only her love for their brother William.
When she heard the carriage outside, she had to force herself go out to greet it. But it was not from Mansfield. Instead, when the door of the large, handsome vehicle opened, out stepped James Rushworth.
"Sir!" she squeaked out.
"Miss Price, I am at your service," he said in his grave and heavy way. "I spoke with your uncle and assured him I would bring you with me for the trip to Mansfield Park. My mother refused to attend the funeral --"
Here, his voice broke and he was momentarily unable to continue. Mrs. Rushworth had hated Mrs. Rushworth in life. Perhaps the older lady also blamed herself somewhat for her daughter-in-law's death, or perhaps death only sharpened the hate. Whatever her reason, Mrs. Rushworth was firm in her refusal to have anything more to do with Mrs. Rushworth. For a son who had always relied first upon his mother, and then his wife, to direct him, it was more than disconcerting. It was nearly devastating. He needed someone he could depend upon, someone who would tell him what to do.
As soon as was respectable following the burial of his late wife, he asked Fanny to marry him. She flatly declined. It was out of the question.
Over the next months, he would not give up. Once he pled, "I need you. I am alone now and you were always so good to me during that awful play. I have not forgotten it. Sometimes, with Maria, I used to wish she had half your kindness. She used to call me stupid."
Few other women would have been touched by a statement like that. Still, even she was not touched enough each to say yes. She knew she could never feel the desire for him that still sang through every nerve of her body when she looked at her cousin Edmund. The only sensation stronger than desire was the pain she felt at seeing him with Mary. Mary Bertram, his wife.
Months sped by. She continued in her customary role of reading to her Aunt Bertram. Before her eyes, Mary and Edmund were living out a glorious honeymoon that seemed it would never end. Not meaning to hurt her, Mary would gush to Fanny, "Have you ever seen such a handsome man - such air he has, much more than anyone in London. Oh, I wish I could get him to spend more time there. But he refuses to press his father for money - why shouldn't he? Oh, how I wish he was the elder son."
"Are you sorry you married him?"
"Not for a minute. Oh, Fanny, I cannot speak of this to you, of course, but your cousin is . . . well, let us just say that money and London are not everything. Your cousin has certain charms that make everything else less important. Oh, I love him so!"
Over time, thankfully, Mary stopped hinting of the pleasures she and Edmund found together. They seemed to settle more into the marriage, into the habits of life and the fiery glow of those first days burned off. But even so, Fanny felt an impatience that came close to rage and a rage that came close to murderous.
Everything about Mansfield Park began to irritate her, not just her Aunt Norris. To see the man she loved and know he would never be hers--she had thought she understood and accepted it. But it was not like before. In times past, she would will herself to be patient but she was having a hard time doing that now. Marriage was such a final state.
It did not help that James Rushworth kept coming around, with his sorry lack of conversation and his helplessly insipid remarks. She could not help blaming him for being too weak to keep Maria from Henry. She knew that was not fair and that he perhaps suffered more than anyone else.
Edmund saw how Rushworth aggravated her and he shared her feeling. He advised, "You should tell him once and for all that you will not have him, cousin. He is not worthy of you. He was barely worthy of my faithless sister, but you would waste yourself on him."
"I appreciate your thinking of me and caring for me. Thank you."
"I would not be able to bear seeing you with him, of all men. Imagine how bored you would be. You know what I always said about him and it is still true. If the man did not have twelve thousand pounds a year, he would be generally known as a very stupid fellow indeed."
Fanny nodded thoughtfully. "You are probably right, cousin, as you usually are."
She married James Rushworth a month later and left immediately for Sotherton. He was so easily led that even her gentle touch was sufficient to guide him. He could never be called bright or a particularly good conversationalist, but the marriage of the Rushworths had all the quiet dignity and reliable stability of that of Sir and Lady Bertram. It was nice to have her own home, where she could bring Susan and invite her other siblings for long visits.
Fanny surprised herself by becoming quite good at estate management. She had a much better head for it than her husband, who, as time went on, spent more of it lounging upon the sofa and being read to by various of their nephews from the Price side of the family. James and Fanny had no children of their own.
Neither did Edmund and Mary. She eventually left him for a younger man, a lieutenant in the navy who made her feel young again. She could relive those early days she had known with Edmund. By this time, Edmund had known her long enough that he did not regret her leaving him. He never sought a divorce, although he could probably have won one easily given his wife's behaviour.
Edmund Bertram died one day before James Rushworth.
Endnote: The quote is from Emma, and yes, I really do like Edmund, this story notwithstanding. I love the way Mansfield Park turns out and I think there are a number of worse alternatives, this story probably being one of them.