Prologue

Posted on Saturday, 11 May 2002

"But, Fanny, if your heart can acquit you of ingratitude -"

I was already crying before my uncle said those words, but once he did I burst into loud tears, and he did not push his argument further. My heart was broken by such a picture of myself as my uncle saw me. Self-willed, obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful; he thought me all of that! What was to become of me I did not know.

"I am very sorry," said I, though I was not sure he would be able to make out the words, "I am very sorry, indeed." All the while I was praying he would let me alone and not press this any further. I was scared of what more of those words might do to me.

"Sorry!" he declared. "Yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will have reason to be sorry forever!" I was still crying hard, but I managed to look up at him. I had never seen him so angry; I was never more terrified in my life. He was going to do something, and I knew it would not be pleasant to me. "I am going to give you a choice, Fanny, and think it through carefully if you do have any common sense in you. Mr. Crawford is offering you an opportunity that you shall never see again. Take it, or be sent back to your family without anything ever coming from me again."

I gasped, not comprehending that this was truly happening to me. My uncle continued, "I am very serious about this, Fanny. If you refuse him, you will pack your things at once and shall be off to Portsmouth by dawn, and never to return to Mansfield. Mr. Crawford will not likely want you after hearing about your behavior. It is your choice, Fanny. Accept the most advantageous match someone of your standing could ever find, or be condemned to Portsmouth forever. Your family shall still receive aid from us, but you shall not. Think of how much you have to lose from your youthful and misguided ideas."

The tears had stopped flowing, and for the first time in my life I felt my uncle was being too cruel to me. Never before he been anything like this! He may have always been distant, but never this cold! But he was the authority and this was his decision, and I had to decide what I preferred to happen at once. My uncle never liked indecision and hesitation with such important choices.

I confess that my life here has been very difficult and tried my strength many times, but I was certain my family loved me. Well, perhaps not Aunt Norris, and I was never sure what Maria and Julia thought of me, but I was certain that the others all loved me, each in their own way. Edmund most of all. Oh, how I would miss him if I had to go away! And he would surely miss me; even ... even if he has someone else on his mind.

Mansfield Park has been my home for eight and a half years; the place is dear to me. The Parsonage has been an uncomfortable place for me to go near, let alone step into, but every other place is simply lovely. I have ridden all the lanes, walked much of the grounds, and seen the Park through so much change. Maybe it would be fine to be away from Aunt Norris and to have some distance from Edmund for the sake of reasoning myself into a better state, but to be torn from this home and from those here who love me!

But to be married to Mr. Crawford! Oh, it was impossible to imagine! The man has made me uncomfortable ever since he arrived with his sister. I must be forever grateful that William is a lieutenant, but that does not mean that I had to marry the man who obtained the promotion for William. Mr. Crawford had sported with the feelings of my cousins, and had been trying to do so with me. I had seen too much of his character and principles to ever think well of him, but the rest of my family was exceedingly blind to his faults.

Wait ... Maybe had I not been so attached to Edmund I might not have been so able to refute Mr. Crawford's meaningless gallantries. So therefore I must be glad for my feelings; they have protected me, and I hope they shall continue to do so.

Of course, then I might not be in this situation; he would have considered me as conquered, and have moved on. I wonder what would have happened had I pretended to fall immediately in love with him. He might have lost interest sooner, but, then again, it would been a trying thing to keep up such a deception.

How could I explain my way out of this mess? I was already thought of by my uncle as selfish; if I tried to tell him now about what Mr. Crawford did, he might think I was lying and trying to find a way to have all that I wanted. He would never believe it. And why should I make his opinion of his children worse than it may already be? There was no point; it would do nothing to help me; it would only cause more hurt and disappointment to my uncle, and that was the last thing he needed at the moment. And it is my duty to stand by Maria and Julia; women are supposed to protect each other; it is our only protection against the world.

Oh, I did not want to go! But the alternative...

For one moment, I attempted to imagine what being married to Henry Crawford would be like. I was overwhelmed by thoughts of his imposing himself on me in more ways that I would ever wish to imagine, him continuing his old ways, taking a mistress, and making me miserable. I remembered overhearing a conversation between Maria and my aunts before she married Mr. Rushworth. They were advising her on what married life would be like and what the wife's duties were. I was as horrified as Maria looked; I can only imagine how she feels now given what I think her feelings toward Mr. Rushworth are. And the idea of Mr. Crawford getting that close to me scares me.

Those thoughts made me shiver and hold myself tightly; my whole being drew back in repulsion. Then I knew I could never consider marrying Mr. Crawford as an acceptable option. I could never accept the man; I could think of many less horrifying ends to my life. If that meant I had to give up Mansfield Park forever, then that was the way it had to be. I could do nothing else.

With a heavy heart, I knew what I had to choose; it was the lesser of two evils. I wiped my eyes and face of the tears, and had to take several deep breathes before I felt ready to give my answer.

At last, I looked up. "I shall return to Portsmouth; I cannot trust him or like him. My family would not wish me to marry such a man." I hoped that was the case; while I was uncertain of how the rest of my family would think about this, I knew William could never wish such a marriage upon me!

My uncle was deathly quiet at first; I was uncertain if he heard me correctly until he took one step closer to me. He leaned towards me a little, and then said, "Pack your things at once, Fanny. Do not come downstairs until dawn. The carriage will be waiting for you. Do not make us or Wilcox wait." His voice, filled with anger as it was, was under control. Then he left calmly, even closing the door behind him softly.

My heart was already broken, but I felt some calm and relief. No matter what happened to me in Portsmouth, it had to be better than life with Mr. Crawford. I knew that I might never see or hear from Edmund ever again, and my heart felt ready to break again; my only hope as I slowly stood to pack was that he would not be the dupe of Mary Crawford for much longer.

And yet even that prospect seemed unlikely. What would make Edmund decide not to marry her? Certainly none of the rest of the family is against such a union, and I could not raise an objection to it even if I had wanted to. With my not being at Mansfield anymore, than it was very likely that they would have each other very soon. They would surely talk of this, and that alone was likely to bring them closer to marriage than before.

I shook my head. I had to do something to help clear my thoughts. And I had a lot to do.

Chapter 1

Posted on Saturday, 11 May 2002

The first thing I did was empty the drawers one by one. I went by sections of the room, starting from the door and moving in. Luckily for me, there was already a trunk in the East Room for my use; so I opened it.

My face felt swollen from the crying, but my tears were dried; I did not think I would be able to hold myself together if I cried like that again. I needed to hold myself together; I had less than a day to be ready to leave.

As I pulled items out of their storage spaces, I sorted them by three piles: keep, keep to sell later, and will not keep. Most went into the first pile, which I cleared into the trunk or a bag on my bed. But soon I came across something I wished to forget about: the case and necklace from Miss Crawford.

I opened the case and touched the necklace, recalling my feelings on that day. How I had been surprised by Miss Crawford's offer, how I felt before I suspected anything, my shock when I started suspecting, how I was pushed into accepting it, and how I felt obligated to wear it to the ball. Then I was not sure, but the look in Miss Crawford's eyes was something I did not like; yet then I knew that had I then been more certain that something was amiss, nothing could have induced me to accept the necklace. I closed the case and placed it in the pile of items to sell in Portsmouth. I did not want any reminder of either Crawford, the gift was questionable in its propriety, and it was likely worth a great deal. Making that decision gave me no small amount of comfort. The moments after I came home were even more painful. I shall never forget my mortification at Edmund's words; I do not think he was even listening to what I said.

Worse was how Mr. Crawford looked at me when he noticed the necklace. I had only suspected before, but that look was enough to convince me that Miss Crawford had played a cruel trick on me. It made me all the more eager to be rid of the necklace.

It was then that I thought a little about what my uncle said. Having already cried took much of the sting out of his words, and allowed me to see them clearly. It struck me that it was not quite right to take such a view given one circumstance. But I knew my uncle was used to having his way; surely no lady had stood up to him like I had; none of my cousins ever did. I quickly felt myself well on my way to thinking ill of him.

I had never understood why Miss Crawford had spoken so disrespectfully of her uncle; whatever faults he had (and he obviously had many great ones), he had given her and her brother a home and raised them; she should have shown more gratitude. Now I could understand. I could see that if your guardian had done something that hurt you or someone you cared deeply about, it might be difficult or impossible to speak well of him. Though it would have been better for her to have said something more neutral.

Come to think of it, I still do not understand what her comment meant. Perhaps that is a good thing; I am still rather young.

My packing took me a long time, as I knew it would. I wanted to pack carefully; I needed to fit as much as possible into the fewest things. I became so absorbed in it that I barely noticed the noise of a strong discussion downstairs.

Within an hour of my thoughts of Miss Crawford's words, I was surprised by a tray of food carried by Mrs. Chapman up to me, ordered by my Aunt Bertram, and she was followed by my aunt herself, who burst towards me. "Dear Fanny! Dear Fanny!" exclaimed Aunt Bertram as she embraced me as tightly as anyone ever had.

I felt my eyes become clouded by tears again; this was the most emotion Aunt Bertram had ever shown in all the years I had known her, and more proof that I would be greatly missed. She was moved enough to get off her favorite couch and come to me. I would miss her greatly.

She ended the embrace, but placed her hands on my shoulders as she looked at me with what I knew was maternal tenderness. "Fanny," said she in her usual soft voice, "I have tried to convince Sir Thomas to relent, but he is adamant." She looked uneasy, but she pressed forward. "I have always believed that it is every young lady's duty to accept an offer such as Mr. Crawford's."

My heart sank at that. Was she against me?

"But if you believe you cannot trust him, then I cannot reproach you for refusing him. You must trust the man who takes care of you for the rest of your life. I shall not reproach you for your choice. But I wish I could persuade Sir Thomas to relent. It is so unfair that you shall be gone."

My relief was so great that I could not speak above a whisper. "Aunt, I promise I shall write to you; that is, if I will be allowed to communicate with you. My uncle was so angry with me."

"Oh, no, my dear," she soothed as she took my hands into hers and held them close to her face. "That was the one thing he would not forbid. I reminded him that you will not be able to say goodbye to your cousins unless you write them, and I would be a wreck without hearing from you as often as possible."

By then, Mrs. Chapman had set out the food on the table, which happened to have been just cleared before they entered. "Well," said Mrs. Chapman, "do you have any more use for me, Lady Bertram?"

"Oh! yes! Are the items I requested available to bring to Fanny?"

Items? What could she have for me I did not know.

"Almost. I shall check on them at once. I should be back shortly." Aunt Bertram nodded, and Mrs. Chapman curtseyed and nodded to each of us before she backed out of the room and closed the door behind her. Once the door was closed, I could not resist asking my aunt what she meant.

"I have some things that I want you to have. Some belonged to your dear mother," that was said with a sad smile, "before she married your father, and I think it is time to return them to their rightful owner. I also cannot allow you to have no resources to draw from, nothing to help your family with."

"My uncle said he would continue supporting my family."

"But not you." She brought my hands together, stroking them like I had seen Mama do for William when I was still at home. "So I cannot allow you to leave without some sum to support you." She glanced back at the door, and then lowered her voice so much that I had to lean in to hear her. "I shall not say how much I am giving you now, but suffice to say that I am glad I have not been using my pin money for some time. And I shall send you more through my letters and through bundles sent to your family. And I am not cutting you out of my will; I was firm on that score with Sir Thomas. I told him I would not do that to you; you are my niece and I want you to have something."

Despite all that I was going to lose, I smiled. My aunt was supporting me! Even to the extent of giving me some income to use without my uncle's knowing! I felt that it was a little much, but I was in no condition to argue with her; I would likely need the help. I did not ask what she planned to give me, and she did not seem inclined to tell me. Not that I wanted to know; I wanted her to have a long life.

We were silent, taking delight from this last moment alone together, when Aunt Bertram noticed that I had not touched my food. She was convinced I needed to eat it, and I own I was hungry, but I could not go downstairs, per my uncle's order. It was a simple mid-day meal: a nice, small beef dish, some bread, and a little wine. It was truly delightful, and I thanked my aunt for sitting with me while I ate; she was content to sit and talk about how much I would be missed.

I had just finished when there was another knock. Mrs. Chapman announced herself and two other servants. Once they entered, Mrs. Chapman cleared the table, and Aunt Bertram began showing me old belongings of hers and my mother's. I was surprised at the little miniatures of them when they were girls; I would not have been able to tell which belonged my mother and which belonged to my aunt without the names on them.

I was so engrossed in seeing what my aunt wanted to give to me that I did not notice a fire had been started until I felt slightly warmer. My uncle had been displeased to see I did not have a fire, but that was before I disappointed him. I assumed that he was so angry at me that he forgot about the lack of a fire in my room. "I shall not let you be cold," said my aunt. "I want you to have everything possible at your disposal for your last night here," she concluded with sadness.

Her eyes were so downcast that I had to reassure her. But a knock stopped me, and then the door opened. Elis, Julia's former maid, stuck her head through the opening. She came to alert the other servants that "they might want to hurry to other places; Sir Thomas might be asking for them shortly." Mrs. Chapman quietly directed the other two, and spoke to Elis while Aunt Bertram stood, with more to say.

"Now, Fanny, here is Elis to help you finish packing. She shall guide you to the guest room later for a bath. Make sure you do not pack your traveling clothes; you shall need them tonight." She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes full of love and sadness. Then she embraced me again.

But that had to end for too quickly. "I would stay here longer, Fanny, but I must quickly return downstairs; I do not want to make Sir Thomas any angrier than he already is. But rest assured, I shall be there to see you off." She held my hand a little longer even as Mrs. Chapman urged her towards the door, and she did not let go until she had to. But before she left, she left me with an urging to write a letter to each of my cousins before I left.

Elis had to be told what each pile was for, but once she was told the packing went much more swiftly. I almost forgot the emptiness I would feel for some time. Elis gave me advice on how to get more into a trunk than one thought possible. I found her ideas invaluable. I hoped the servants serving my family would be at least half as helpful as Elis was to me.

I had lost track of how long we had been packing when Elis began commenting on what would happen tomorrow. "Well, Miss Price, the master, the lady, and Mrs. Norris shall all be there to send you off."

That I was not looking forward to; Aunt Norris was the last person I needed to see. And I was not sure I wanted to see my uncle; yet did I have any choice in the matter? When had I ever had any real choices to make in my life until then?

Elis saw my discomfort. "Many of the servants think you have been imposed upon by Mr. Crawford, but I shall admit that what I have seen of his behavior since yesterday suggests that he truly does seem to want to marry you. But the man is not husband material. I hope you shall never forget that."

"How can I after what I have seen of his behavior?" said I as I folded a dress in half. I did not realize what I had said until a few seconds later.

But Elis spared me from any blushing. "I know what he did to Mrs. Rushworth and Miss Julia. I saw some of it, and I overheard Mrs. Rush ... then Miss Bertram ... talk to herself about her luck in finding a man such a Mr. Crawford." She shook her head as she placed the dress I had folded into the trunk. "It is a disgrace. I can only imagine how Sir Thomas would feel if he had any insight into what happened during those awful months."

I did not wish to discuss it, but once again a knock saved me from responding. I bade the person entrance, not thinking about who it might be. Fortunately it was Mrs. Chapman, with a letter in her hand. "Pardon the intrusion, Miss Price, but this letter has arrived from the Parsonage. Mr. Crawford delivered it."

Nothing could have stopped the heavy sigh that escaped my lips. This was yet another thing I dearly wished to not have to deal with; yet I was not so cruel as to not even read the letter, even if it was obvious that Mr. Crawford had some motive in delivering the letter himself. But why was he pressing his suit when I told him no and am being thrown out for saying that? I accepted the letter, and I was surprised when Mrs. Chapman took over what I had been doing. "Read your letter while I finish here," said she. "Your bath shall be within the hour, and I am sure you would want hot water."

I had totally forgotten about the bath by then, and needed no further urging to get this out of the way. So I sat at my desk, and opened the letter. This was what was written:

My Dearest Fanny,

What is this I hear? You have refused Henry? That you would rather return to your family in Portsmouth than marry my brother? Surely you must be joking! You cannot be serious in refusing him. I am sure you must mean to make him want you even more, and that you have every intention of accepting his offer when he renews it either tonight or tomorrow before you attempt to leave. Yes, if he does not hear from you tonight, he shall come to press his suit before Sir Thomas's carriage takes you far away from those who love you.

Yes, my brother really and truly loves you with all his heart, and I am convinced that he shall love you forever. You cannot imagine how shocked he was when he returned yesterday with no answer and this morning with news that you had said no and were being thrown out tomorrow. You cannot be so cruel and sad as to break the heart of one who has been shot at by many! Oh! if only I could take you to London so you could see the extent of your triumph. You would see all the ladies who are (and in some cases have, for a long time, been) dying for Henry. My poor friend Janet Fraser will wish me remain in Northamptonshire when she hears about Henry offering for you. Her step-daughter Margaret has been dying for Henry, and Janet is wild for him to marry Margaret. You have no idea how many questions I shall have to answer! But were I to attempt tell you of all the women whom I have known to be in love with him, I should never have done. It is you, only you, insensible Fanny, who can think of him with anything like indifference. But are you so insensible as you profess yourself? No, you cannot be! You are such an excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything shall take its course, and I know we are destined to be sisters one day. If it does not happen soon, it shall eventually. But, gentle Fanny, please do not be so cruel as to send yourself away to destroy your pretty looks. The sea always made my poor aunt ill, but my uncle did not believe her. Do not stay away from us too long, but please write to me if you really must go.

Yet I shall not end my part of this note on a sad note; that upsets me. Instead, I shall close with a plea to you to send him home tonight a happy man, and end this nonsense of you going away forever. You have not yet had the chance to thank him for his attentions at the ball, or for the necklace. Oh! you received it just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I remember it perfectly. Fanny, I see you asking, with your gentle modesty, if Henry knew of the necklace beforehand? To that I give you this answer: Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I am ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted to act on his proposal for both your sakes. He was so happy to see you wearing it at the ball, and it made him all the more in love with you, even though you used your cousin's chain to wear your brother's pretty cross. Please thank him properly for all that he has done, and send him back to us very happy, making us all happy in the process.

Yours affectionately,
Mary

You may imagine my anger at begin addressed as such, but that was not all the letter contained. This was the rest:

Dearest, loveliest, gentle Fanny,

I cannot believe that you were, when I proposed, truly caught unawares. You must have been aware of my intentions towards you. I have been admiring you for some time now, and have been in love you ever since the ball. Your modesty must be what is speaking right now, but do not let it put you into trouble. I am convinced that you are simply very scared right now, and perhaps afraid to be away from your family (be it your family at Mansfield or at Portsmouth). Or perhaps you simply mean, "not yet". Let me take a little time either tonight or tomorrow to assure you that you have nothing to fear and that I shall never be so cruel as to take you away from your family. Let me renew my proposal in such a way as to show you the full extent of my love.

I do not think you know your heart yet; I am sure you must have some love for me already. It is impossible for you to not have any feelings for me. Yet if you insist on acting as if you do not, then I know it is only a matter of time before I will have the felicity of forcing you to love me. One of your gentle nature could never have the heart to resist or refuse me after a long period of courtship. You are infinitely my superior in merit; that I know. You have qualities that I did not think existed in a lady; you have touches of the angel about you. But I am not frightened. My conduct shall speak for me; absence, distance, time shall speak for me. They shall prove that, as far as you can be deserved by anyone, I do deserve you. It is not by quality of merit that you can be won. That is out of the question. It is he who sees and worships your merit that strongest, who loves you most devotedly, that has the best right to a return. There I build my confidence. By that right, I do and will deserve you. I am that man, and I shall ensure that you get everything your heart desires. You shall want for nothing.

Let me see you tonight, dearest, sweetest Fanny. Allow me to make you the happiest creature that ever lived. Allow yourself to make me the happiest of men by being your husband.

Your most devoted servant,
Henry Crawford

I was very angry by the time I read that part. How dare he address me in a way that I have not given him permission to! The vanity and arrogance of the brother! The sister shared in all of that. The impropriety of the necklace business! Whatever gave her any inkling that I even liked her brother? I never gave her permission to call me Fanny; yet she took it and used it as if we were already close! His calling me by my given name was unbelievable! They were both most mistaken if they thought I could ever wish to be connected to either of them! Oh, how I prayed that Heaven would defend Edmund from marrying Miss Crawford! Neither deserved the other! He deserved so much better than a woman who is often thoughtless, careless, and even selfish.

I stood to look out the window near my bed. I allowed my eyes to go over the grounds of Mansfield, relaxing at the familiar sights and sounds. What I should write to Miss Crawford I needed to think about. I did not want to think too hard about the letter, however. I did not wish to burst in anger; I had no idea what I was capable of in anger and did not yet want to know the answer.

Mrs. Chapman and Ellis glanced at me. I could feel their gazes on my back, but they continued with the packing. I knew that no matter how much the servants supported me, they could not afford to be bold in their support; who knew what my uncle would do if he knew any one servant was actively aiding me. I turned back towards them, and saw them look up with sympathy. I smiled, thanking them silently.

But then I felt I needed a little advice on how to phrase my response. I had a strange urge to show anger in the letter, and I had never felt this way before. However, I had never been so put upon before.

I walked over to Mrs. Chapman, who looked back up, and asked if she would give me an opinion on how to respond to the letter. I handed it to her, also asking if I would be justified in letting a little anger show in my response. She understood that I wanted the advice of an older woman, and Ellis moved closer to see the letter, folding a garment all the while.

Ellis stopped folding within a few seconds, and she looked at the letter in disbelief until she came to what had to be passages by Mr. Crawford. Then she looked aghast. Mrs. Chapman maintained a calmer expression, but when she folded the letter upon finishing it, she was shaking her head. She extended the letter and said, "Write what you want to write, Miss Price. I have no idea what to say to that letter that would be acceptable under the rules of conduct and make your message clear. Oh," she added, "your bath should be ready very soon."

I took the letter from her, thanking her for that time and the reminder, and slowly walked back to my desk. An answer was forming in my head, and I felt it was time to release some anger; after all, at that point I had nothing to lose. Maybe it would even make him go away forever. My answer went as follows:

Miss Crawford,

You and your brother assume far too much. His intentions towards me were always evident; he wished to trifle with my affections, just as he had with others in this household over the summer and fall. What he did to those others has made a lasting impression on me, and his attentions to me have only strengthened the bad opinion of him I gained from the events of last summer. I can never think well of him, can never trust him, and, above all, can never love him. If he thinks he can force me to love him, then your brother is vain to the worst possible degree! I would go so far as to say that, now, I truly hate him. And you, Miss Crawford, are not behaving properly toward me either. The necklace was a worse than unfair trick, and no lady obeying the rules of propriety would ever allow a man to write in her letters to another lady. I cannot write to you under such circumstances.

But then I decided that if my refusal yesterday had been so disbelieved it would take something stronger to make them realize I am perfectly serious and know my heart. I was even willing to risk insulting them; after all, what did I have to lose by letting them know what I really think of them? So I continued:

If the above is not enough to convince you and your brother that I am serious, then let me reiterate: your brother never will succeed with me. When I said no, I did not meant "not yet," as your brother believes. I meant no as in, as Shakespeare put it, "never, never, never, never, never!"* Perhaps you would like me to explain this further.

He and I are so totally unalike, we are so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways, that I consider it utterly impossible we ever could be even tolerably happy together, even if I could like him. I cannot fathom two people more dissimilar. We hardly have any tastes in common; I am tempted, given how often I have seen your brother claim to like something and then turn around and say he does not like it, to say that we have not one taste in common.

But it is not merely in temper that I consider him as totally unsuited to myself, though, in that respect, I think the difference between us too great, infinitely too great; his spirits often oppress me: but there is something in him which I object to still more. I cannot approve of his character. I did not think highly of him when he came, I thought very poorly of him at that day at Sotherton, and I have not thought at all well of him since the play. If I thought his behavior at Sotherton was bad, during the play I saw him behaving so very improperly and un feelingly - I may speak of it now as it is all over - so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him by paying attentions, very marked attentions by any astute observer's eyes, to the then Miss Bertram. In short, at the time of the play, I received an impression which I shall never be rid of.

I am also convinced that your brother does not think, as he ought, on serious subjects. His desires are what guide him, and I have not seen him think of another's needs and wishes above his own, with the possible exception of his family, in all of the time I have known him. Even William's promotion was done for selfish reasons. Your brother has much to do to be worthy of any woman, and no woman with any sense would try to take on the task of making him a better man; he must do that himself, and not for the purpose of catching someone. I do not think that he has the will or the desire to do so.

As for you, Miss Crawford, I should have thought that you must have felt the possibility of your brother's not being approved, not being loved by someone of your sex, regardless of the claims that you seem to think he has. It is not set down that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself, or think he likes. But even allowing your brother all of those claims, how was I to be prepared to meet him with any feeling answerable to his own? He took me wholly by surprise. I had been convinced that his idle notice of me had no meaning, and surely I was not to be teaching myself to like him for that. In my situation, it would have been the extreme of vanity to be forming expectations on your brother. I am sure you and your sister, rating him as much as you do, must have known that his attentions meant nothing. How, then, was I to be in love with him the moment he said he was in love with me? How could you have expected me to have an attachment at his service the moment it was asked for? You should consider me as well as him. You and I seem to think very differently on the nature of women, if you can imagine a woman so very capable of returning an affection, as you seem to imply.

Let me make this plain, Miss Crawford: I want nothing more to do with either you or brother. Do not protest on either of your behalf. I can only remember one act of genuine kindness you did for me: when my cousins, my Aunt Norris, and your brother were pressuring me to join in the play, you made them all back down. I thank you for that, but your subsequent behavior has given me an unfavourable opinion of you, and now that I know you are as blind to my true feelings and desires as your brother is, I only wish for the conclusion of our acquaintance.

And so this is farewell, Miss Crawford. I hope that you may learn from this, and find happiness, respect, and love in marriage. As for your brother, I hope he learns that he cannot ever be faithful to one lady, and that he leaves other women alone.

I remain to you forever, etc.
Miss Price

I was tempted to say that I hoped our families would never be connected, but I held back on Edmund's account. I still do not know why given what I had written. I gave Mrs. Chapman instructions to simply hand the letter to Mr. Crawford and tell him to give it to his sister.

I had a much needed bath to take.

Aunt Bertram was right: I would want one. I did not ever imagine being pampered like I was that night. It was not entirely on my aunt Bertram's orders, but I am not saying that every maid who approached me that night spoke of how they thought I was right in my refusal, that they thought I was being abused by my uncle, and that they would ask my aunt Bertram for news about me. Do not think those who did were thinking of being disobedient to my uncle. They merely wanted me to know they supported me. Most of them expressed their support in looks rather than words. Only a few ventured to say what they thought of the situation, but no one other than Mrs. Chapman and Ellis were bold enough to say anything beyond that.

I felt so refreshed after that long bath. I have no idea how long I was in it, but it must have been a while; my fingers were wrinkled when I got out.

Elis and Mrs. Chapman got me dressed, and then Elis did my hair. She spoke to me about all the times she did that for Julia, and the different styles she wore over the years. If only I could have known all of this sooner! I have never felt closer to my cousin than I did then.

Dinner was brought up to me, later than the rest of the family got theirs. The cook had given me a special version of what those in the dining room were having. I liked my steaks differently than the rest of my family: a little less cooked; I could hardly eat the steaks in Portsmouth. It seemed that Cook was sending me a farewell special. While eating it and enjoying the white wine that another kitchen worker had selected for me, I learned that Mr. Crawford was indeed a dinner guest. He had, much to my relief, taken the letter with a fairly calm look, not demanding or requesting anything further.

After that, Elis led me back to my room. She said the rest of my clothing would be dry by morning, and that she would come and pack it herself. She asked if there was anything I wanted to pass the night. I asked if I could read Twelfth Night. She happily got it for me, and it was from then on that I was alone for the night in a nearly empty room with one big trunk, one smaller trunk, and a bag. They containing all I had. The only exception was a small container of wine that Aunt Bertram had thought might help me sleep.

I could not reach sleep that night; my mind was far too filled by memories of Mansfield Park and thoughts of what I was to do. I could not calm myself enough no matter what I tried. The book, while it soothed my mind, did not help. In my mind, I said farewell to every room in the house; it was the closest I could come to having the liberty to leave Mansfield as I wanted to.

It was about half past one in the morning that I realized that I had not written to any of my cousins. I gasped and hurried as quietly as possible to my desk. I opened the drawer, and pulled out four sheets of paper, the ink, and the pen. The candle I had been using had to be put out; the wax was melting too fast. But I lit another first.

I had one sheet all ready when I stopped, wondering what I could possibly say to my cousins. How would they react? And then there was the matter of how to explain my refusal. My reasons were founded largely on the events of last summer, and I did not know how each person would feel if I even hinted at them. Edmund I knew would be upset on my behalf, but what would he do? I knew that if Miss Crawford's recent behavior was anything to go by, she would be giving Edmund every encouragement from now on, and I knew (very painfully) that Edmund was very close to marrying Miss Crawford. So he had an interest in a union between myself and Mr. Crawford; it would make marriage between himself and Miss Crawford all the more likely. I confess that I would have tried stop such a union if I could, but what could I have done? I had my doubts about even Edmund believing my account.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I knew I had to get started. I chose to begin with Tom. I addressed the outside with the direction of Sir Thomas's London house, and then wrote the following:

Mansfield Park
January 6, 1809

My dear cousin,

When you receive this letter, I shall be gone from Mansfield; I leave after dawn this morning. For how long I shall be away I do not know. Perhaps forever. My uncle has ordered me to leave. The grounds? I refused an offer of marriage from Mr. Crawford.

I had hoped that a clearly decided dislike would be sufficient to convince my uncle to decline Mr. Crawford's requests; I could not say to my uncle why I distrust the man without revealing events that I would wish to forget. Alas, my hopes were in vain. My uncle spoke of how I would live eighteen years and never receive an offer like that again, and that he would make me leave if I did not agree to marriage with the man. Pardon me, Tom, but I would much rather end an old maid in Portsmouth than marry him.

Tom, I hope you can understand my doing so. I simply cannot allow myself to be forced into marriage; I must be able to chose my husband myself. I do not want a man who will claim that I gave him "as much encouragement as a young lady would allow herself to give" when I gave none at all. I do not want a man who imposes upon me with his presence, and whose manners oppress my spirits. My uncle does not seem to understand that; he only thinks of the material gain the family would have from such a marriage. I must think of whether or not I could spend the rest of my life with any given suitor.

I do hope this is not goodbye forever. You were always kind to me, and I hope you may find a wife who will not only make you very happy, but whom you can make happy. But if this is farewell forever, then please have a long, healthy life.

Your cousin,
Fanny

I sealed that one, not quite believing my openness, and then wondered which one to write then. I settled on writing to Julia. I believed that she was well over Mr. Crawford and so my letter would not distress her as it might Edmund or Maria, but I could not be sure. I had to think carefully about that letter as well, but words came to me at last. To her, I wrote:

Mansfield Park
January 6, 1809

My dear cousin,

Once you receive this letter, I shall be gone from Mansfield, and I do not know if I shall ever be able to return. Why I am I going to be gone? Because for reasons I cannot fathom, Mr. Crawford proposed to me. I refused him, but I could not admit to all of the reasons for my refusal, and my uncle, now believing me to be willful, gave me a choice: marry the man, or be sent back to Portsmouth.

I chose the latter; marriage to Mr. Crawford is impossible. He has imposed upon me with his attentions, and with the manner of his proposals. Yes, he proposed four times, in one form or another. But not once did he think of my feelings or wishes.

I hope, Julia, that you are not hurt by this. I remember what he did to you and Maria, and that alone gave me such a decided dislike of Mr. Crawford that I can never think well of him, let alone consider marrying him. I felt so sorry for you when you were slighted; no lady deserves to be treated like you and Maria were.

I do not know what else to say; this may be goodbye forever. I leave a few hours from now. Know that I shall remember you and cherish the good times we had together. If this is truly goodbye, I wish you a very happy life with a husband with whom you shall have mutual love and respect.

Your affectionate cousin,
Fanny

Perhaps I could have said more, but I thought it was best not to mention those dreadful months any more than I already had. I felt that what I had written would be enough. Then I had the more difficult choice to make: write Edmund first, or write Maria first. I thought about it, and chose the former. I needed more time to think about what to say to Maria. Not to say that Edmund's letter was any easier to write; it brought forward many unpleasant thoughts about the future. That letter read:

Mansfield Park
January 6, 1809

My dear cousin,

I know not when you shall receive this letter, but I have to have the chance to say goodbye to you. Yes, my uncle was ordered me to leave Mansfield later this morning (it is long past one). Why is this happening to me, you ask? I can hardly believe the events that led to this. The short of the story is that I received a proposal of marriage from Mr. Crawford on Wednesday, and I refused him. My uncle came to me yesterday, having been told that Mr. Crawford had received all the encouragement a modest young lady could allow herself to give. The truth is that I never gave him any encouragement, and I had told him no repeatedly.

My uncle was shocked when I told him that I had refused Mr. Crawford. I know my manner is usually very gentle, but I had thought that my saying "no" many times was enough to tell Mr. Crawford to leave me alone. I was wrong. My uncle, not comprehending my dislike of the man, ultimately gave me a long lecture on how disappointed he was in me, and then told me to marry Mr. Crawford, or be sent away from Mansfield (to Portsmouth) forever. I chose the latter; I know I shall be happier there.

With a heavy heart, I must bid farewell to you, my dearest cousin Edmund. I thank you for all you have done for me, and all that you have taught me. As I once told you in a lesson before Uncle Norris died, "I shall remember your kindness till the last moment of my life." You have been one of the greatest influences in my life, and I shall always remember you, my other cousins, my aunt Bertram, and Mansfield Park. I feel so sorry to say that I cannot say that about my uncle and my aunt Norris; I cannot believe that my uncle can simply dismiss his former opinion of me based on this refusal, and I fear that I can no longer like Aunt Norris despite that she was the one who brought me to Mansfield.

I wish you very happy in life and in marriage. You deserve such happiness. I doubt my happiness will come from any quarter other than my family at Portsmouth. Take good care of the family at Mansfield for me; I know my Aunt Bertram shall need support since I have to leave.

Your affectionate cousin,
Fanny

Three down and one to go. I muttered that as I came to the hardest part: finding the right words to say to Maria. I was certain she still held some feelings towards Mr. Crawford, so I had to be careful with my letter's contents. But I had little clue as to where to start. I stood and began pacing a little; it sometimes helped my calm down and think better. What could I say to a woman who had decided to go through with marriage to Mr. Rushworth only after being disappointed by Mr. Crawford?

As I paced, a tiny knock disturbed my thoughts. I whispered, biding the person to come in. It was Ellis with the remainder of my clothes. I thanked her as she packed those clothes and closed the large trunk. She noticed the time, but did not ask why I was not sleeping. She only said that I should finish my letters soon; the departure time was closing in on us. With that, she curtsied and left me to my thoughts.

I glanced at the clock, and saw that it had taken me three hours to write the other three letters. That pushed me back to the desk, and I began writing the best things that came to my mind. Still, it took some time for the whole letter to form.

Mansfield Park
January 6, 1809

My dear cousin,

I hardly know what to write to you given what happened last year, but I felt you should know the story from myself as well as my uncle; I want you to have the whole story.

Later today, I must leave Mansfield forever; I refused an offer of marriage, and my uncle decided to send me back to Portsmouth if I continued to refuse him. I had to refuse; being an old maid in Portsmouth is a better ending for than to marry the man. And who is that man, you ask? (You shall not like this.) Mr. Crawford.

I can imagine your surprise; I know you were very disappointed by him. But, Maria, let me say this much: I refused him on the grounds of his character and principles. I am deeply grieved that your (and Julia's) feelings were sported with from when he arrived to just as my uncle returned. When he returned here after the wedding, he began attempting to sport with my feelings. I could not believe that his attentions were sincere; his past behavior said that they could not be.

However, I could not say any of this to my uncle; I would have had to tell him about the whole theatre business. I could not say anything without describing the behavior of yourself and Julia, thereby dragging your names into the mud; my opinions are based on events I witnessed between him and both you and Julia. Maybe had you been in my place you would have said something, but I did not feel it was right for me to say anything given my position in the household.

But I must conclude now; soon it shall be time for me to depart the place that I have called home for the last eight and a half years. Yet, Maria, please treat Mr. Rushworth very well. I know he would never hurt your feelings, betray you, or injure you physically. But you must do the same for him; it would be unfair to all of the family if you did not.

And so this is farewell. I hope we may see each other again. I shall miss you; you were kind to me as I became used to Mansfield Park.

Your affectionate cousin,
Fanny

I was just finishing that letter, surprised by my boldness and uncertain of how Maria would view it, when light from the sun began to appear. I could see it well because my room was the East Room. I had already sealed the latter when a knock came. I thought that it was the one I was dreading once again. And yet it was not man-servants to take my things down to the carriage; it was Mrs. Chapman again, this time with breakfast. She sat with me as I ate it. As I finished, she looked at me fondly and said "I am going to miss you. Remember, if it is any consolation to you, know that I, and many of the other servants, think that you did the right thing in refusing Mr. Crawford. I know what he did to our two other dear girls. I only hope Sir Thomas will realize that one day and forgive you."

As saddened as I already was, I could not keep from crying again. She embraced me like a mother embracing a child; it felt so wonderful; I had never gotten anything like it as a little girl or even now.

Then the man-servants came. I learned that my uncle knew of what my aunt sent to me, and had not opposed it; I suppose he wanted me to have one last chance to change my mind. As Mrs. Chapman gathered the dishes together on the tray and the man-servants began moving my two trunks downstairs, I came to realize that my uncle was a very flawed man. Maybe he would never see the faults of either Crawford and maybe he would never forgive me. But I began to wonder if maybe I might actually be better off away from him. Maybe I would feel stronger in Portsmouth. Maybe my family would be more supportive. Maybe I could do more there than I could at Mansfield.

I stood, and grabbed the one bag still left in my room. Another maid came to collect the tray. Mrs. Chapman walked out with me, but not before I took one last look at the room I had called my own for nearly three years. I found more tears still unshed.

Many servants were along the way to the front door, all to wish me good luck and show their support of my decision. Again, it felt wonderful to know that your choice is supported even if it means you must leave the place and people you love.

At last, I was exiting the place I had come to call home. My uncle and aunts were waiting for me. I looked Aunt Norris in the eye, but I suddenly no longer feared her. Knowing that she was worse than my uncle ever could be (though perhaps she did not think she was being cruel whereas my uncle knew when he was being harsh) and that I would likely never have to deal with her again was quite a relief. I hid those thoughts well; it would not be appropriate, and my emotional state was too heavy to be happy about anything.

Before I could make eye contact with my uncle, Aunt Bertram rushed to me the moment I stepped off of the last step. The embrace I received held as much emotion as I had received from her last night, and I cried at the depth of her love for me. "Oh! poor Fanny!" whispered she.

That confidence and support was strengthened by a whisper from her that she would write often. I would depend on those letters from news and descriptions of how Mansfield was! How many times can a girl's heart break in one day? At least the source would know what information would give me comfort; she also promised not to mention anything about the Crawfords (unless it was news that would please me) if that was what I wanted, and would convey news of me to any servant who wished to hear about me. I whispered back that that was indeed what I wished for.

Aunt Bertram sadly brought me to my uncle, who was standing with Aunt Norris next to the carriage. He looked at me as I stopped next to the open door. I could not tell what his thoughts were, but I was also convinced that a girl my age did not want to know them; they could be about such things that I would never want to know about. His gaze held mine for longer than I can say, and then he said, very simply, "goodbye, Fanny," and started to hand me into the carriage.

"Wait!" Mr. Crawford. I could hear him running towards us. My face warmed as I tensed, clenching my hands into fists and not realizing then what I was doing. Neither of them got the meaning of my note, it seemed. I turned to face him, keeping an expression of neutrality towards him, if only for my family's sake. My uncle stepped aside, and inquired, "She has already shown a lack of gratefulness, and will not give a reason for her refusal other than a claim that she cannot like you enough to marry you. You had best better let go of what hopes still remain with you, Mr. Crawford."

Mr. Crawford did not look daunted. "Sir Thomas, I wish for one more chance while she is still here. I believe I can persuade her."

The arrogance of his voice made me frown. My uncle looked at me, as if in hopes that such a meeting would make me come around. "Well, Fanny, listen to the gentleman for a moment. But in case he cannot move you, this conference will take place here, so we can send you on your way."

The smile on Mr. Crawford's face, suggesting he was confident that he could keep me at Mansfield and accept him, made me nervous, and glad that there were plenty of strong males around to pull him away if need be. So I handed my bag to Mrs. Chapman, who placed it into the carriage, and then I turned my attention to the man who had already wasted much of my time in the last few months.

I shall not begin to say what he said. It was nearly identical to what was in his part of last night's note. His vanity still made him believe I did not know my heart, but I forced him to acknowledge that I did know my own heart. Yet then he was convinced that he would ultimately make my heart his. He again used the words "force you to love me," and despite the tone of most of his speech, I felt angry at him; he was still ignoring my feelings, even after his sister had obviously let him see my letter.

So I decided to tell him exactly what I thought of his manners towards me, even though my uncle was present and I knew that I would be rather rude in my remarks. "Sir, you are not being considerate of my feelings or wishes. You were imposing on me with attentions that I did not want, you imposed on me with the necklace (violating more than one rule of proper behavior), you imposed on me by proposing right after telling me about William's promotion (clearly playing upon my emotions, if you ask me), you imposed on me by not listening to what I said to you when I refused, you imposed on me by going to my uncle and forcing me to leave here to escape you, and you are imposing upon me now with your arrogant belief in your powers of persuasion. I never saw any indication that you were serious about me, and your past behavior is something I cannot forget. You do not think seriously about important subjects, and you allow yourself great leeway on many others. I do not trust you, and can never love you. Your kindness to my brother is greatly appreciated, but I owe you nothing for it. From almost the start of our acquaintance you have impressed upon me the firmest belief of your being the vainest and most selfish man I have met, and that you had the greatest hubris in any person I have ever known. I had not known you for four weeks when I knew that you are a man whom no woman should ever be stuck with for a husband. If you seriously think that you shall succeed with me, then you should be confined to Bedlam, where your behavior would get you properly punished. You, sir, are not one of the last men in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry. I could never be convinced to marry you."

He was rather pale by then, showing he was capable of shame, something I thought he was seriously in want of. Before he could say anything else, I curtly nodded. "Farewell, Mr. Crawford." The way I spoke left him with no choice but to nod, bow, and back off a few feet. I sensed rather than saw my uncle's displeasure as one of the footmen helped me into the carriage, and closed the door.

I did not look at either man when I heard my uncle order Wilcox to drive on. I could barely hear Aunt Norris reproaching me for being such a bad girl. I only saw and heard the goodbyes of Aunt Bertram, Mrs. Chapman, and other servants. My eyes began to moisten as I watched every part of Mansfield go by me: every stone, every tree, every home. Tears slowly came down my face as I watched everything I held dear pass by me; I did not have enough left to cry as hard as I had yesterday. I knew I needed to release what little tears I had left; otherwise I would never make it through what I knew would be a long and difficult journey.

How I was to start life anew I did not know. All I had left was what little belongings I could call my own, William's love, and hope that somehow I would eventually find peace, comfort, love, and happiness. That was what I hoped for, but I only expected to find them from being with my family once again.

Once I had passed all of the land belonging to Mansfield Park, I found myself crying harder. "Farewell, everyone, farewell," I whispered as I buried my face into my cape, leaning against the back.

* Lear, King Lear, Act Five, Scene 3, line 307.

Chapter 2

Posted on Friday, 10 May 2002

I had lost all track of time since the final cry near the Mansfield border. I only noticed when the carriage had to stop to chance horses, and when I said farewell to Wilcox and my uncle's carriage. I could barely count the number of changes; they all blurred together. I do recall passing by Oxford, where Edmund studied at, but not getting a good look at the place.

The novelty of traveling, and the happiness I knew would come when I saw my family again, was enough to raise my spirits to a tolerable level. I do not even recall where I spent the night. By then, three man-servants of my uncle were still with me, and would accompany me to my father's house.

By the time I got there, I was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. Would they love me after all? What would they say when I told them why I was back with them? I hoped that William would listen to me, at least, but I did not know what the rest would say; I knew my uncle had one of the servants take a letter to my parents, explaining why he had ordered me to leave.

As the three man-servants started pulling my things out of the back, the driver helped me down. Then a trollopy-looking maidservant opened the door of the house. "Yes," asked she.

I took a deep breath, and said, "I am Fanny Price, the eldest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Price. Are they in?"

The maid, startled by my introduction, started to show me in, saying that her name was Rebecca. I looked around the very small abode, and braced myself to the fact that this would be my home for some time again. Rebecca brought me into what they called the sitting parlor, where nearly all of my family still living together (the exceptions being my brothers John and Richard) were sitting. My two youngest brothers, my father, and William were not there yet.

No introductions were needed between me and my mother; she recognized me, even as a grown lady, at once. She set down her work to come forward to embrace me. Then she pulled back to take a good look at me. "You have grown a woman!" said she with a smile. Then the smile faded. "But what are you doing here? I was certain you would still be at Mansfield with my sister Bertram."

I sighed; I would not be able to hide all the reasons for my being here. That was certain once William returned from the dock, where I learned he and father were. But before I could be introduced to all my siblings, the door burst open, and my two youngest brothers entered. Both had dirty faces, and were greatly surprised to be introduced to their long-gone sister. Charles, the youngest boy, had been born after I had left, but I had helped mother nurse Tommy (that is what I called him as a baby, but he did not seem to like that name anymore; too childish for his taste), so I could see bits of the baby I knew him as over eight years ago.

Mama decided to go ahead with the rest of the introductions. Susan, now fourteen, had grown into a fine, beautiful, and forward girl. Sam was now eleven, and about to set off on his first tour of duty in the navy. He was bright, loud, and eager. Betsy, the youngest child and the first girl mother really thought about, was now five, and looked like a girl who might get into mischief. Tommy was nine, and Charles was eight. I do not need to say how much trouble boys that age can get into; I trust you know that yourselves.

By then the menservants of my uncle had finished bringing my things inside. The oldest one, Maxwell, apologized to my mother for the lack of notice and handed her the letter that I knew my uncle would write to my parents. I was settled by then into the chair vacated by Betsy, who was sent to fetch me a cup of hot tea. Mother asked the servants, as they would have to take lodgings in Portsmouth for the night, to remain in the house long enough for her family to hear the story and write a reply to Sir Thomas. The men agreed.

None of my siblings attempted to get me to tell what happened, and when Betsy came back with my tea, my father and William had arrived. Father's loud voice preceded both of them, and then William's voice came into notice. Father talked to William about The Thrush as they entered the parlor. That was when William noticed me.

He was in shock, and hurried to embrace me. "Fanny! I cannot believe it. What are you doing here?"

Father than took notice of me, before William could start asking the questions I knew were on the tip of everyone's mind. Father hugged me warmly, commented on what a fine lady I had grown into, how I would soon likely be in want of a husband, and only then did he realize that I had not told them why I was there without any notice.

As I sipped my tea, I allowed the whole story to come out; I needed them to know what really happened before they read my uncle's letter. I talked about what I had seen at Mansfield starting from when the Crawford's arrived. I talked about how he had mistreated my cousins, the attentions he had been paying to me, and the proposal that led to my having to leave. I managed to talk about that dreadful confrontation with my uncle without being too upset about it.

There was a long silence after I finished my tale. I looked up, and saw the menservants looking at me in sympathy (seems they had not heard the whole story), and all of my family looking either at me in shock, or, as Father and William did, stare at a corner of the room in anger. The only exception was Mama. She was looking straight into my eyes, and had an odd look on her face. "Mr. Crawford comes from where?"

"Norfolk, Mama. His estate is called Everingham."

"And is his father in the navy?"

"No, his uncle. It was through him that William got his promotion. Mr. Crawford's father is deceased and was never in the navy."

Mama let out a long sigh. "That blasted man and his family have once again caused mischief to mine! I wonder if he has any idea that I am William's mother."

"What are you talking about, Mama?" said Susan.

"If he is who I think he is, then I give you even more credit, Fanny, for not agreeing to marry the nephew. My father and a good deal of the rest of my family pushed for me to marry the then Captain Crawford. But I saw every proof of his being the most hateful flirt and unfaithful man imaginable. He flirted with countless girls in the village, fooled nearly everyone with false charms, made my sister Anna (now Mrs. Norris) in love with him, and then decided that since I would not have him to make me love him. I thought he was going to give up because I would not give him even one smile, but instead he asked for my hand in marriage! Anna was forced soon after to marry Mr. Norris, and many thought he deserved better than her. But, before I was forced into a marriage I did not want, I met your father. It was rather quick courtship, and we eloped for freedom." Her eyes turned away from us, looking out the window at, seemingly, nothing. "I never got to speak to my father ever again."

I wanted to know more, but then Tommy (I must help you remember the difference between my cousin and my brother) and Charles started making noise for dinner. Mama promised me, Susan, Betsy, and William the rest of the story later that night after the others were retired for the night. However, first she opened the letter from my uncle. My father asked the youngest of the three men to fetch his glasses while my mother read the letter. I grew alarmed at seeing my mother's whole being tense while her face turned red with anger. She handed the letter to Father, who appeared to read faster, but looked far more dangerous when he had finished. I dare not repeat what he said before Mother pulled him over towards the writing table to compose what I knew would be an angry letter.

No one, not even my youngest siblings, said a word for fully five minutes. That was how long it took for my mother to finish the note. She and Father seemed calmer having had the chance to let some of their anger be freed. Mother handed Maxwell the note, and we all thanked all three for bringing me home safely and for waiting. Mother, William, and I walked with them back to the carriage. I gave each of them, and the driver, some coins in repayment for their wait. The driver had come from one of our stops, so a little thanks was enough. But I had to say particular farewells to Sir Thomas' servants. Maxwell, who had been with Mansfield for over twenty years, had been one of the few people kind to me when I first arrived at Mansfield. Smith, who had run errands to the village, had arrived two years after I did. And White, who had served drinks at the ball, had been at Mansfield for only two years. Each bid me a fond farewell as they boarded. We stayed outside, waving, till the carriage had gone out of sight before going back in. I was glad that a good fire had been started in the meantime; it was getting quite cold.

Dinner was worse than I had remembered it ever being. Yet it was edible enough; hunger is the best sauce. The dishes and utensils were not really clean, and I was just starting to hear how noisy my family could get. It made me slightly grateful that John and Richard were both away; the former at sea, and the latter in London for a clerk position provided by my uncle.

But just as dinner ended, the noise level quieted. It seemed my parents decided that since I had been mistreated by my uncle I would be given every bit of attention and support they could give me, and my younger siblings were told to quiet their noise for my sake. I shall not repeat what my father said about Mr. Crawford and his uncle; I did not think any of it right to be said in front of me, let alone the younger children.

I was placed with Susan in her room, where I used to sleep. It took a while to get the boys to bed, and to wait for father to decide to retire for the night, but once they were all upstairs, Mama got the rest of us together for the full details of the story of Captain Crawford. I was stunned at the similarities between the uncle and the nephew; there was no mistaking that the two were related.

At last, it was time for the rest of us to retire for the night. The bed was nowhere near so comfortable as even the White Attic bed, but I could make do with it. I did not even think about how long I might be at my father's house.

By morning, the food had not gotten much better, but I did have the pleasure of attending church with my family. We were also able to take a long walk that day, which I knew I would need often to keep healthy here.

I got into the habit of helping with chores once again. It was a good distraction from my own worries and thoughts. I was even teaching my younger siblings. Betsy seemed so impressed by her "elegant sister" that she wished to be more like me. Teaching her to not be afraid of the alphabet was another matter. I tried to convince her that reading opened the door to knowledge and places you will likely never be able to go to. My brothers were easier to convince; they wanted to read pirate stories. Even Sam took lessons from me in both English and French (to my surprise at first, but I suppose it is wise to know the language and ways of one's enemy, seeing as we were at war with France). Susan was also learning French from me. I subscribed to a circulating library, which allowed me to obtain plenty of books for the siblings, and even my parents, to read. Aunt Bertram's money was helping a lot, but I tried to save as much of it as possible. My uncle had sent some aid to my family, and, as I knew his letter would say, none of it was for me.

I never saw what my mother wrote to my uncle, and my parents would not tell me the particulars; they thought it best for me not to see it. Perhaps they were right.

By the time Aunt Bertram sent her first letter to me, which reached me on Tuesday, I was starting to feel at home with my family. There is nothing like having had an experience similar to your mother to bring you closer together than ever before. Aunt Bertram's letter, which included half a guinea under the seal, read:

Mansfield Park
January 7, 1809

My Dearest Fanny,

I miss you greatly. Mansfield is not the same without you. More servants are now supporting you, but some remain silent. I hope you find this half a guinea helpful towards making the lives of your family and yourself better.

The Crawfords are expected to be gone for London by a week from Monday. There is no saying if and when they will return, but I think you are safe from any contact with either of them for some time. Miss Crawford has been making attempts to learn your direction, but I have been keeping my letters and book of directions hidden. However, I believe that Sir Thomas or Edmund, who I am sure is the more likely of the two to provide her assistance, will provide her with it. I can tell you do not want to be troubled by them, so I felt I should warn you. You should expect a letter from her soon enough.

On another note, Edmund has not yet returned, but I suspect that he has received your letter and Sir Thomas's. We expect him to return by Monday at the latest, but the letters might spur him home tomorrow or even later today. That shall very likely make for an unpleasant encounter between Sir Thomas and Edmund; you know how much Edmund has always supported and looked out for you. It shall not be pretty when he returns.

Your letters to your other cousins went out an hour or so after you left, along with a letter from Sir Thomas to each of them. I do not expect to hear from any of them until Wednesday or even Thursday. I do hope they shall support you; you need as much support as you can get, my dear Fanny.

There is little else of consequence to tell you about. Sir Thomas is still upset with you, and only your Aunt Norris dares to mention your name in front of him. I think she is saying too many unkind things about you. The Crawfords and the Grants are still in disbelief that you are gone. Mr. Crawford has actually become quieter; perhaps he is suffering more than we thought he would. Yet do not think I should try to make you feel guilty, Fanny. That is one thing I should never do to you. I would never try to pressure you to marry someone I knew you did not like.

I must conclude; I hear that I am being called for. I shall write whenever I have something of importance to relate to you. Give my love to your family, particularly William and your mother. And tell her that I support you as much as I did her when that dreadful Captain Crawford tried to marry her. Yes, I think he is Mr. Crawford's uncle, the one who gave William the promotion. I do hope he never tries to find your mother, but I should hope he has long forgotten her.

Your affectionate Aunt Bertram

I was happy to repeat Aunt Bertram's last request. I wound up reading the letter to Mama, William, and Susan. There was little to say afterwards. It was also time to mend some clothing of Tom and Charles. With each day, I believed I grew bolder, felt more assured and secure.

And now to wait for more news. Possibly from my cousins in London. I was not sure I would enjoy Maria's letter; I still had no idea how much she cares for Mr. Crawford. Edmund's letter might also be a potential object of terror, As for Tom and Julia, I felt that there letters would be more likely to be supportive and not painful, but even then I would not place a bet on it.

Note: I'd like to dedicate this part to Gwyn from the DWG board for her comments on the last post, Sharni and Katharine Meg from the DWG board for their interest, and Namrata at Pemberley's MP discussion board for discussing how the various characters would react. And also William L at the same board for introducing the topic of Fanny getting a "one-way ticket back to Portsmouth." I appreciate all the feedback on the idea; not only was I able to flesh out the reactions that I was already certain of, I got ideas for the ones that I thought were open to question. I think the story is stronger for it. Also, I thank Gabby for being my editor, and for giving me wonderful ideas.

Chapter 3

Posted on Friday, 10 May 2002

By Wednesday the noise became louder again. I started going out on daily errands, and walks with William to the harbor to see the Thrush in all of her glory. William was my greatest comfort during the early days of my return. During our walks, we would encounter the other officers of the Thrush, and William always introduced me. It turned out that some of the men William had served with on the Antwerp were being transferred to the Thrush. I was as pleased with that as William was; it would give him a sense of constancy that would be helpful in handling the time away from home.

The walks were not just to get away from the noise if it got to be too much. I also needed to find some exercise daily, or I feared I would lose some of my health. I even took some walks with Susan whenever William had to meet with the other officers.

I wrote a letter to Aunt Bertram Wednesday morning. I told her about Portsmouth, how the family and I were doing, and I extended greetings from my parents, William, and Susan. My other siblings simply said to tell her "hello" for them. It went out when I went out on errands soon after finishing it.

Susan was far more blunt than I am used to seeing, but I suppose that is because you must be forward to make do in Portsmouth. I saw the full extent of her bluntness by Tuesday night. Betsy had pulled out a silver pocket knife, which was given to Susan by my late sister Mary (bless her sweet little soul). It had clearly been a bane on the comfort of the house for some time, and Susan got very upset when Betsy kept finding the knife even after Mama hid it; Mama called it being "cross at Betsy."

So on one of my errands, on which I planned to attempt to sell that dreaded necklace, I decided to buy Betsy her own silver knife. If I could find one that did not cost too much, I would find her one with a "B" engraved on it. While Susan was collecting some food, I was at the most upscale shop in the area. I had to wait a few minutes to be served, but when I said why I was there the gentleman behind the wares was very helpful. He examined the case and necklace very carefully, and he took enough time doing it to make me concerned that I would still have to carry around the necklace. But my worries were done away with when he at last declared that he would take it. Then he brought over some engraved silver knifes for me to look at. I took my time, trying to find one that cost less than the amount that the gentleman (he never gave me his name) said the necklace was worth. At last I found a very pretty one, with a "B" engraved on it, that cost only half a guinea. That closed the deal, and I took away the knife and what money I had left from Miss Crawford's necklace; it would allow for more food at the table for a day or two at least.

I had to slowly make my way home; there was one of the street celebrations going on. I had loved them as a little girl, but my family was still not used to my being back, and so I had to help make the needed changes to the house as quickly as possible. Perhaps, I had hoped, before William left I would be able to dance with him to the tune of the street hand organ again, if it was around.

Once I was home, I wasted no time in giving Betsy her present. She screamed her delight, and happily bounced off to her room, leaving Susan with relief that her knife was safe, but also feeling guiltily; she thought I had done it so she would not be cross with Betsy anymore. I reassured her that that was not the case, and told her not to reproach herself.

Mama was very surprised by my gift; she was sure it cost me a fortune. She was also pleased that one problem had been solved; she commented that she had been at her wits? end as to how to solve the problem.

I may not have been close to Mama before, but now that we had an experience in common I often spent part of the days in her company. I would help her fold clothing while she talked about her childhood and what my aunts were like as children. It was a bit of a shock to learn that Aunt Norris was at one point a very sweet and helpful child. I asked what happened to change that, and Mama simply said, "She was spoiled by our mother, and not curbed enough by our father."

She told me much more than that, but for the sake of not speaking too ill of Aunt Norris (her injuries to me did not seem so bad now, even though I now suspected the ill motivations behind them, regardless of whether she saw them as such) I shall not repeat more than that. I will venture to state that Mama thinks Aunt Norris, since her marriage to my late Uncle Norris, has been trying to act as mistress of Mansfield Park, and it did not help the relationship between them.

Several times I have felt bad about the new ill feelings I have towards those whom I owe my knowledge and refinement; I felt that I was being ungrateful. But then I remembered my thoughts about Miss Crawford's comments about her uncle, and then I knew I was merely being observant about what had been done to me. I mentioned it to Mama when she noticed my looking oddly at nothing in particular, and she said that there was nothing wrong with how I felt now about my uncle and my aunt Norris.

However, bringing up Miss Crawford's comments forced me to bring up what led to my talking about them, and that made Mama look at me intently, as if trying to discern why I reacted so strongly to those comments. I struggled not to blush, but I failed when she asked if my uncle had inquired as to whether my feelings were already engaged. But to my relief, Mama put down her work and embraced me as I started to weep. "Which cousin, Fanny?" said she. I could only whisper "Edmund" before crying harder.

"And he was the one who was always kind to you?? I nodded. "And he helped make you more comfortable at Mansfield?" Again, I nodded, and felt Mama shake her head sadly. "Ah, you poor thing. To experience first love, and have it be towards one who you could never admit your feelings to."

She was silent as I cried further. It must have been some time later before I was able to pull back. I had to sit, but I felt better knowing that my mother would not hold anything against me for my feelings. She waited while I attempted to recover my composure, and thankfully no one came in to request or demand anything.

Mama had more questions for me once I was calm enough to speak again. "Tell me," said she, "do you think your uncle had any clue about your feelings?"

That question I was unprepared for. I could only give one answer. "He started to ask, in a way, whether my feelings were already engaged, and I knew to whom he meant. I mouthed 'no', but my face turned scarlet; yet my uncle soon seemed quite ready to believe that that was impossible, much to my relief, and did not press the subject further. He considered it by then out of the question."

I had found it necessary to turn my head down; I could not meet Mama's gaze. But she did not talk. She simply sat herself and held my hand for a minute, thinking.

As she pulled her hand away to resume folding (we still had a lot to do for William and my other brothers), my curiosity about my parents' letter to my uncle got the better of me. "Mama, what exactly did you and father say to my uncle?" I asked.

She was very quiet, but admitted that they "demanded" that my uncle give up guardianship rights over me if I was to stay with them from now on. They did not expect an answer until next week; my uncle's attorney would have to be contacted and bring papers to my parents to make the change complete. Mother expected Sir Thomas to sign those rights off; his honour would demand it.

I returned to my folding, thinking about my parents' demand to my uncle. They were quite right to demand it; he was giving up on me. Then I realized something: if my uncle were to give up guardianship rights, and the circumstances and his honour demanded that he do so, then any suitor of mine would have to apply to my father for consent. Since my father hated the Crawford family with a passion, there was no chance Mr. Crawford could ever obtain consent from him. Or my mother, for that matter.

Mama noticed the growing smile on my face and asked what it was over. I told her my thoughts, and she smiled too. "He would likely find himself facing the rope's end if he asked for consent or even came near here."

I did not know then whether I should have been pleased or shocked at the idea.

By Saturday, we had not received any word from my uncle. Mother assumed it meant that he was getting everything in order to resign all claims to guardianship.

Susan and I were upstairs putting clothing away for the morrow on what was a surprisingly peaceful day. The boys were well-behaved, and Betsy was eager to be helpful.

I was finishing while Susan went downstairs to start cleaning the parlour. While I was folding the final cloth, I heard a knock on the door. I knew Rebecca would get it at once, so I ignored it and put my item in its drawer. Then I heard Rebecca greet the person. I did not have to wait long for the answer; I could hear it since my door was open.

"I am calling on Mr. and Mrs. Price."

I froze. It was Mr. Crawford.