Beginning, Section II, Next Section

Chapter 8

Posted on 2008-08-20

The morning of mornings, the wedding day, dawned in its proper time. Fanny was up and dressed in time to watch the sunrise from the East Room. She had made up her mind to be very sensible about the wedding, but despite herself, the prospect of attending Edmund's bride to church and listening to the vows that made them one forever, did cause a certain piercing sensation just under her ribs. She sat for some time trying to pray, but she did not know what to pray for. It would be wicked to pray that the marriage would not take place, that Mary would jilt Edmund at the alter, but Fanny could not think of any other proper petition. Should she pray that she would not faint? "Help me, help me," were the only words that at last formed themselves in her heart. And with that, she heard footsteps and noise below, and knew it was time.

The duties of a bridesmaid are irksome at the best, for she undertakes to offer her support to a woman who hardly notices her in the transports of the joyful occasion, and at the price of her own beauty: for a bridesmaid must be quiet and plain on this day if no other. To be retiring would not have troubled Fanny, but to be forced to praise and wait on the woman marrying the man one loves has a sting that would not fail to irritate the gentlest heart. It was perhaps Fanny's greatest triumph of mind and spirit that she set out for the church having honestly done her utmost to make Mary lovely and happy. There was really little to do. Despite moving flowers from one side to the other and coaxing curls to fall just so, Mary's beauty would not have altered one whit whatever Fanny did. All brides are beautiful, as everyone says, and the unmistakable joy in Mary's eyes made a charming woman absolutely breathtaking.

So, probably, did Edmund think when his waiting eyes caught the first sight of her. The return look he gave her held such intimacy of love that Fanny, standing just behind, averted her eyes. While the bride and groom no doubt heard and remembered very little of the ceremony, Fanny felt as if each word burnt through her heart.

Henry Crawford, sitting at the very front of the church, had positioned himself to watch his sister, but also to be able to observe Fanny -- since no opportunity to do so with impunity should be passed by. From his seat he saw it all: the adoration in Edmund's gaze, Mary's smile from under her bonnet, and half-hidden behind, Fanny shrinking away, wincing as if from a rough touch on a sore spot. The pain showed in her face for only a moment, and it could have been anything, envy of being married, melancholy at losing her cousin and her friend, even an upset stomach. But in the flash of comprehension that came to him, he knew it was none of those things.

Fanny Price loved her cousin Edmund, had loved him for some time. He saw it and knew at once it was true. It fit many things that he had wondered over. The pensive droop that came over her in unguarded moments, and the sadness that gripped her so stubbornly, had a meaning and a reason now that seemed so obvious he wondered at his own blindness. No wonder it seemed impossible to make her happy, as he had once blithely hoped to do.

It should have been a moment of despair to Henry Crawford, but being a man of confidence and a sanguine temper, he found relief in it too. "So this is the secret of her indifference," he thought and found the idea strangely comforting. It was an obstacle he understood; it gave a comprehensible reason for her past behavior to him. He watched Fanny again, and now that he knew, he saw it in everything, in her posture, in her look, in the expression of deep grief that sat in the delicate lines of her mouth. And, selfish hopes for the moment forgotten, he was struck with the tragedy of it; she should be happy, content, loved. He would have liked to hit Edmund. How could he have hurt Fanny so? What an idiot -- he must never have noticed the love right in front of him.

Everyone left the church all in one rush, crowding round the bridal couple. It should have been Fanny's duty as bridesmaid to stay close and throw flowers before them, but she had somehow been pushed to the back as embraces were given and hands shaken. Henry's eyes were all for her, and he drew back to find her, drawing her hand into his arm. "My dear friend Fanny! Here you are. What a crush! You wouldn't think it, for there are not so many of us, and yet it feels as if it were a hundred." He saw that her lips trembled and her eyelids winked fiercely several times, and guessed that she was in a mood to be overcome by the simplest kindness; if he kept speaking she would be quite overset.

Mrs. Norris's voice could be heard arching over the happy noise of greetings and congratulations. "Fanny! Where are you? Don't lag behind, it is not the moment for self-indulgence." Mrs. Norris had bitterly resented Fanny's being asked to be a bridesmaid. Where she did not see fit to put Fanny, any honor given could only be most improper. She thought that Julia, at the very least, should be asked before Fanny. Julia was Edmund's own sister, after all, and what was Fanny? But one could not argue with a bride. At the very least, however, Fanny ought to value the honor which she had so unjustly usurped. "Come here at once!" she commanded. "Miss Crawford -- that is, Mrs. Bertram wishes you to hold her flowers."

Henry sensed his companion stiffen at his side, and felt at once more and more angry. "There is no need to be so importunate, Mrs. Norris," he said sharply, turning so Fanny was shielded on the side farthest from her aunt. "It is I who detained Fanny."

"No blame to you, sir, I am sure, but Fanny has duties and must not forget herself no matter how pleasant the company."

"I am here now, Aunt Norris," whispered Fanny.

Henry opened his mouth for a probably ill-considered reply, but fortunately he was interrupted before Fanny could be more embarrassed and Mrs. Norris disillusioned in her good opinion of him.

"Come all, to the Parsonage," put in Mrs. Grant, anxiously. "There is a stiff breeze in the open here."

Fanny had to sit next to Mary at the wedding breakfast, a torture so acute to her feelings that she did not even notice Mr. Crawford watching her. She could see Mary and Edmund holding hands under the table -- and they did not seem to care if she saw. She wondered suddenly what it felt like, to love and be loved in return. She had spent half her life loving someone, but she suddenly doubted she knew what love was like after all. If she had poured the entire contents of her heart out at Edmund's feet, and it went trickling neglected over the ground like water -- then what could fill her up again? Religion perhaps. And though faith in God had sustained Fanny for many years, through many despairs, she now wondered if it would be enough, and then did not dare to wonder. Everyone has moments of doubt, and Fanny had at last reached hers. A blackness dropped over her.

The bridal couple departed, and the usual slightly irritable reaction of everyone else followed as proper. Fanny was too exhausted with thinking and unhappiness to object to Mr. Crawford's escorting her back to the park. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram had come in the carriage, and she was offered a seat, but declined decidedly. A walk, a walk in solitude, would balm her torn and ragged spirit. It looked cloudy and the wind was formidable, but Fanny insisted, for once, on her way. It was not until she had left the Parsonage garden that she heard steps behind her. She had guessed at once who it was: not a difficult guess, for who else would follow her? Mrs. Norris had taken Fanny's place in the carriage.

She did not want Henry Crawford's sympathy and kindness, either, but the exertion of denial was absolutely too much for her. She took his arm without a word, trying desperately not to dwell on the memory of walking down this very lane with Edmund scarcely a week ago.

"The wedding day is terribly depressing to everyone after the bride and bridegroom have gone away," he said, gently.

Fanny hated her ready tears. "Please -- " she began, but her voice would not carry her any further.

"Don't be troubled," he rejoined hastily. "I'll babble on harmlessly or keep silent, just as you wish."

They walked on. Mr. Crawford opened his mouth to speak three or four times. Never in his life had he had such a struggle for self-restraint. He longed to speak to her, but respect for her, and a kind of awe of her hidden grief, prevented him. It was a new course of action, and the prolonged silence gave him leisure to think. He thought of how long she must have struggled with hope and despair, without betraying anything to anyone around her. He condemned her family at first for neglecting her, but he realized that he ought to be condemned at least equally. A chance look had revealed her secret to him, but if not for that he would have remained as ignorant as everyone else. How could he have been so stupid, he who claimed to live on her very glance?

The hopeful confidence that had relieved him at first, gave way to sudden fears: having loved in concealment so long, would she continue to do so forever? He thought it like her to doom herself to eternal spinsterhood, a life of helpful and unacknowledged servitude at Mansfield. "Or if she marries," he thought, "she'll marry someone who needs her and makes her feel useful." He imagined her finding some middle-aged clergyman she could nurse, instead of love.

And worst of all was this enforced silence. This revelation was not something he could laugh about with his sister. In sharing Fanny's secret only by accident, was he not honor-bound to keep it with her? And who could he confide in? Not Mary -- how could he tell her that her friend Fanny was in love with her husband? It was ridiculous even to contemplate.

They reached the Park, and Fanny turned slightly to him. "Thank you for your company, Mr. Crawford."

She would not look up. "Remember we are friends now," he returned as warmly as he dared. "I shall come in, or go, just as you order. No doubt it will be a long afternoon, with numerous repetitions of the same hackneyed sentiments. How sorry we are to see them go, and what a comfort it is to hope for their eternal happiness." He had mimicked Mrs. Norris's voice, and thought, peering sideways to catch a glimpse of Fanny's chin and mouth under her bonnet, that he had conjured a very faint upward curl of the lips. "Would you like to read, or discuss politics, write charades, talk about the weather -- anything to occupy your thoughts? I promise to be of your mind in everything -- only for today, of course."

"You are very kind, Mr. Crawford," she murmured, seeming to struggle. Then she sighed and gave in. "Please do come in."

They went in together, and as they entered the drawing room Mrs. Norris's voice reached them.

"Of course we are sorry to see them go, sister, but their happiness must be such a comfort to you."

Fanny actually looked up for the first time since leaving the Parsonage, and on his catching her eye she really smiled this time. "Your reputation as a prophet is made, sir. I shall consult you on the weather for tomorrow."

More likely, my reputation as a miracle-worker, thought he in astonishment. Did Fanny Price just smile at me

Posted on 2008-08-26

Fanny thought about Edmund and Mary less than she expected, while they were away on their wedding trip. She was distracted by other ideas, for which she acknowledged with reluctant gratitude, Henry Crawford was responsible. His ability to engage her was remarkable even to herself, for she could not at once converse with him as she had been used to converse with Edmund, nor could she open her feelings to him, as she had not been used to do with anyone. She feared that his gentle courtesy would be temporary, that it was put on for some hidden purpose of his own, very likely to lull her into dropping her guard so that he could slip in underneath her shields and stab her to the heart. With such suspicions lurking on one side, and such varied passion and depression on the other, it is a wonder that they got on at all.

This was entirely due to Henry Crawford's stubborn persistence in an entirely new plan that he had laid out for himself. Fanny's suspicions were correct in that he was not without personal motives -- no one so sincerely in love could be entirely disinterested. But for the first time, he had relinquished the unquestioned confidence that he could take her heart from her as easily as picking a wildflower. He had made himself a strict rule that he would not dwell on his eventual hopes; he hardly even thought of them. The result of his not sleeping the night after the wedding, was a fixed determination, not to make Fanny like him, but to be a true friend to her.

Even at his most amoral, Henry was not a stupid man: he realized that the likelihood of his ever winning Fanny always had been, and ever would be, extremely slight. With any other woman he would have seized the opportunity to become the comforter of her broken heart and felt confident of succeeding with merely a slight alteration in his scheme of attack. But though Fanny's modesty and virtue had once been a challenge for him to conquer; his hopes had for some time been of a somewhat different kind. He had planned to marry her and have her for always; now he unwillingly admitted that in spite of the progress he had made so far, it was very improbable that Fanny should stoop to consider a man like him after Edmund Bertram. She would want another Edmund instead: a man of serious character and gentle goodness, not a Henry Crawford, be he ever so charming.

It was a surprising admission for a man like Mr. Crawford. He first thought that the most sensible thing to do would be to give her up and go away, and astonished himself even more by finding that he was unwilling to contemplate the idea. No, he could not give her up, not just yet. Whether it was love, or pride, or a combination of the two, he did not stop to determine; but if anything she had become even more irresistible to him than before. But he could not remain in the position of suitor. Continual rejection he could not bear, even to be near her. The only way to remain in her company, and perhaps earn a place in her good graces, must be to become her friend. He must study the art of friendship as avidly as he had once studied the art of making love to pretty girls. Even that would be a challenge unlike any he had ever faced, but for one reason or another he refused to give up entirely.

This was the path, and he set out unhesitatingly, once having decided. And this was the secret of the unfailing patience that so bewildered Fanny. No matter how short and chilly her answers, he came back unflaggingly.

They began by talking of Shakespeare. After reading to them all, he would draw up his chair close to Fanny's so they could talk quietly, so Fanny would not be embarrassed by the notice of the whole room. Even then, she would speak very little at first, just a few conventional replies. His ideas astonished her sometimes; his interpretations of the text were imaginative. Or perhaps he only put forth opinions not his own in order to provoke her disagreement.

"Do not you think that Ophelia has a guilty conscience?" he wondered, the evening after they had read the mad scene. "I think she must be hiding something, or what could drive her mad with such speed?"

Fanny could not forget that they had discussed Ophelia once before -- at least, he had tried to discuss her. It was not very comfortable topic, for more than one reason. She tried to be cool and unemotional in her reply. "What could she have done, Mr. Crawford? I do not think there is anything in the play to warrant such a harsh opinion of the poor lady."

"No, perhaps not in the strictest interpretation, but just imagine, Fanny, she cannot be a completely guiltless and pious person, or she would have dealt with her grief in a guiltless and pious way."

Fanny was struck, but she would not give in so easily. "She is overcome by so many blows at once, and with no one to support her."

"But you must know -- " and he broke off, with an odd expression on his face. "You have no one to support you, and you are continually calm and in command of yourself."

"I have not endured such grief as Ophelia," Fanny said, blushing both for his personal praise and because what she said was not quite true. She too had lost her love and broken her heart, like Ophelia. She hastened to add, "besides, I have many people to support me; my sister for instance, or my uncle."

"Perhaps it was an ill-considered comparison. But nevertheless, there are many people who endure heartbreak and live on to regain a new happiness," he argued, echoing her thoughts in a way not quite comfortable. It was becoming necessary to turn the conversation. Fanny bethought herself to ask:

"But sir, you have not said what crime you suspect her of."

He paused. "I hesitate to say, for I would not shock you."

"I can bear it, though she is my favorite character," returned Fanny, smiling.

"Well -- suppose she has compromised her virtue."

"Mr. Crawford!"

"I knew I should not have said anything. Now you are offended; but Shakespeare writes of many such unpleasant realities, you know."

She sat with her brows contracted for some time. The conversation, perhaps, was best ended, and yet she had thought of an implication that interested and compelled. Despite her better judgment, she found herself speaking.

"If your theory were true, Hamlet could not be honorable. Who else could take the blame? -- and he must be blackhearted indeed to trifle with her innocence. To make her love him, and then turn her away -- I think nothing so wicked as a man who knows a woman loves him, and who will lead her on in full knowledge that he is doing wrong by encouraging her."

His head turned toward her, eyebrows lifting. "Miss Price!"

She went white. "Oh, Mr. Crawford. Now it is I who must beg your pardon. I never meant to imply anything beyond the play itself."

"Dear Fanny, I'm only teasing you," he smiled, and it struck him what she meant. She, of all people, to apologize for his past misdeeds. He looked away from her before she should see his face.

Lady Bertram called to Fanny, leaving him sitting there alone. Good God! To have her make a comparison, even unintentionally, between his own behavior to the Bertram sisters and the destructive influence of the indecisive and vindictive Hamlet. It was bad enough that she had thought of it, but worse, the idea had perfect justice. In the image of the drowned Ophelia, he thought he glimpsed, for a brief moment, why Fanny Price had hated him so much. The helpless position of a woman, the secrecy of her heartbreak, his own flirtations, danced before him. He did not even notice that Fanny had returned to her seat until she spoke, leaning towards him, with more tender feeling in her voice than he had ever heard directed toward himself.

"You are upset, Mr. Crawford. I was thoughtless -- I should have let -- You must believe that I was not thinking, in the interest of discussion -- " The confidence and self-respect that had grown in her in the past few weeks had begun to slip away before his eyes. He interrupted quickly, desperately.

"Never, my -- dear friend. I am only ashamed that you should feel any necessity to offer me an apology. I too, had forgotten everything else in my interest in the discussion. I thought only of Hamlet, and I must confess I did not at first understand you. If only my actions could bear a comparison to Hamlet! I have longed to play the Noble Dane, and yet I've never thought to compare myself in reality. I have not his capacity for self-criticism, Fanny."

He looked up after a moment, almost afraid to meet her eyes, and saw with shock that she had tears in them. "Mr. Crawford, you differ from Hamlet in other ways. You have compassion and a kind heart, and I hope that your fate will bear no resemblance to his either."

Silently he offered his hand, and she took it, for the first time, without reluctance or hesitation. For a moment the contact remained unbroken; it seemed almost to startle them both. Then Fanny drew her hand away, not without a shy smile to soften the action.

Neither of them spoke of this conversation again, and in fact they both had become so afraid of talking about Ophelia that they had lengthy conversations about Polonius rather than refer to her in the slightest. And when Polonius was done with, there was always the weather. No, the topic of Ophelia was permanently proscribed.

But both felt the effects of that exceedingly uncomfortable interlude, which drew them closer despite its momentary pain. Mr. Crawford had learned to feel shame for the first time in his life, and Fanny thought of him with a great deal more compassion than before, for no better reason than that she had deservedly wounded him

Posted on 2008-09-02

One very warm evening after the first really hot day of summer, Sir Thomas had engaged Mr. Crawford's attention in a discussion about something. Fanny did not pay attention, but she thought they were arguing some Parliamentary matter. She herself had escaped to the open window looking out over the terrace at the side of the house. The darkness beyond the reach of the lamplight, the soft warm air on her face, and most of all the moment of solitude, filled her with a contentment she had not felt for some time. She could not be sorry to lose Mr. Crawford's conversation for one night; though he absorbed her attention in a not unpleasant way, she had yet to feel truly comfortable in his company. Each day that passed without the slightest sign of an attempt at flirtation or gallantry, eased her fears a little. But Fanny had yet to reach the point of really trusting him. She could not believe this peace would last.

While she stood at the window, leaning her head and arm against the casing, she heard a footstep and movement behind her, and started up hastily. She was not ready for Mr. Crawford just at the moment. But it was not he -- it was Susan, who had left her aunts entertaining each other and snatched her own brief escape.

Fanny gave her a welcoming smile, not unwilling to share her quiet corner with Susan, and happy that she had sought her company.

"What are you doing here in the dark, Fanny? You are not brooding, are you?"

"Oh no! You must not suspect me of any such thing," said Fanny, blushing a little. "I was occupied much more pleasantly and innocently -- I was looking at the stars."

Susan cupped her hands to her face and leaned out a little to see better. "How lovely, Fanny. I never saw so many, and so bright. You know how it is at home. Too many buildings, and one cannot be out much after dark."

"I know -- I missed them. I used to go star-gazing with -- with my cousins." An idea struck her. "Susan, let us go out now! It has been such a long while since I have done it."

Susan agreed at once, and with a delighted conspiratorial smile she ran to fetch both their shawls from upstairs. Fanny met her at the door. They ran laughing down the steps and out onto the lawn.

"Fanny, how beautiful it is!" cried Susan, twirling. "I feel as if I would never get sleepy tonight."

"Now, Susan, I will show you how we used to find the constellations. You see that rectangular shape of four very large stars, just there?" Fanny pointed. "And those three behind it like a tail? That is the Bear, Ursa Major it is called."

Heads bent together, they circled the lawn, Fanny naming for her all the stars she knew.

"It is not the season to see Orion," she said, regretfully. "He is my favorite. But he is a winter hunter."

There was a step on the gravel behind them, and this time it was Mr. Crawford.

"I have found you after all, no matter how cleverly you thought to disappear," he said triumphantly. "What dark conspiracies are you concocting there with your sister, Miss Susan?"

"No conspiracy -- we are only star-gazing," said Susan. "Fanny is teaching me."

Fanny wished her sister might have answered with a little less warmth, as Mr. Crawford turned his head toward her. It was too dark to see his face, but she was imagining an expression that would have made her uncomfortable if she could have seen it.

"And what have you learned?" was all he said.

"There's Cassiopeia," said Susan, proud to show off her knowledge. "That's the one that looks a bit like a 'W', all very bright stars."

He looked up too. "Yes, as clear as can be tonight. What else?"

But before she could answer, they heard a call from the house. "Oh, my aunt is wanting me -- excuse me, sir; Fanny will show you," said Susan, running up the steps.

Fanny began to follow her at once. Star-gazing might be harmless enough, but she would not for anything have lingered there in the soft starlight with Mr. Crawford.

"I did not know you were such a great astronomer, Fanny," he said behind her, as if to delay or prevent her going in.

"Please do not flatter me, sir," she returned, hastily, and anxious to avoid being caught in a dangerous conversation. "It was Edmund who taught me all I know."

As she spoke, she regretted her words, fearing they would provoke him to -- she knew not what. But uncharacteristically, he remained silent.

"Goodnight, Mr. Crawford," she said, and went into the house.

Edmund -- Edmund -- always Edmund! Henry Crawford kicked at a stone as he walked back to the Parsonage. But kicking was childish, and did not relieve his mood in the slightest. He knew he should be more patient; it had only been a few weeks that he had been pursuing his new plan of friendship with Fanny, and he had made progress. In justice, he knew he had made progress. Yet she was still thinking of Edmund. He lurked always at the back of everything she did. And what did it profit Henry Crawford to be less hated by her, when her heart still remained firmly in Edmund's unwitting possession?

He wondered that her strict moral principles would allow her to be yearning after a married man. No -- he had no right to be criticizing her behavior. Not when she suffered so much -- he knew, now, how much. No doubt she tried not to think of Edmund, for all the good it did. Just as he tried not to think of her -- and he had never imagined what a hold she would have over him. No woman he had ever known had absorbed him like this, for so long. He might have laughed at the irony that he should be taken in, as Mary had once teasingly prophesied for him. But it was no longer humorous to him.

And Edmund and Mary would be coming back within the week. The family at Mansfield did not expect to see them at once, of course; they would go to Thornton Lacey first. But as early as the next week they might reasonably be expected to appear for the first time in all their married splendor.

Mr. Crawford suddenly did not think he could bear watching Fanny watch Edmund. He could imagine the look on her face: a gentle smile almost -- not quite but almost -- obscuring her pain. He had seen it often enough, after all.

He should leave, give up, abandon his irrational and stupid hopes. But where could he go? He was not fit for society, and London held no appeal for him now. He was a lost man.

He had meant to stay away from the Park the next day, but after dinner he found himself walking that way as if by habit. Mrs. Grant had asked him to take a message to Lady Bertram, and stupidly he had no excuse ready. And there was really no other employment that might have distracted him from thinking about Fanny -- and Edmund.

The family were sitting, as they always did, in the drawing room. Sir Thomas reading a paper, Susan sitting by Lady Bertram, and Fanny a little apart, having taken her work to the window to make use of the evening light before they lit the lamps.

After greeting them all, and delivering his sister's message, he drew a chair up to Fanny's; this too, almost by habit. He could not seem to stay away from her.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Crawford," she said in those clear, gentle tones of hers. "I had almost given you up, and I hoped we could choose a new book to read."

"I would not disappoint you for the world, Miss Price," he replied with an effort at his usual manner, "but I must beg to be excused from reading tonight. I am tired, and fear I could not do justice to beginning a new book. The beginning, you know, should be read with great energy, for that is what catches everybody's interest."

"Oh, no, if you do not like to read, of course we shall wait for another time. Perhaps we have been too selfish, demanding that you entertain us all every day. That is not fair at all."

"Besides, I am afraid it would be a greater disappointment to start a new play and then leave you in suspense for a week. I must go away for a few days -- I am leaving tomorrow -- my attention is requested, quite demanded in fact, at Everingham." He had been thinking of this all day, and now felt it to be absolutely necessary to go. It would do him good, perhaps, and he would not have to be present for Edmund and Mary's return.

"Oh!" said Fanny, and he looked up to see how she took it. If she looked sorry -- but no, her face was blank. It might be a good sign that she did not look happy or relieved at his news, but it mattered little. He ought to give up looking for good signs.

She paused, and then added, "I am glad that you take such good care of your affairs, but we shall miss you, of course."

"Will you?" he could help asking.

"Yes -- your sister will be very sorry to find you gone when she returns."

He turned his head away. It was useless to ask if she herself would miss him -- she probably welcomed his absence.

There was a silence of some minutes. Mr. Crawford had not even realized that he was sitting with his head in his hands, until his thoughts were interrupted by Fanny's voice. She was leaning toward him, frowning a little.

"Mr. Crawford! Are you quite well? Sir, you do not look at all yourself."

He jumped up, walked to the window, and came back. "I must get away," he burst out almost in a whisper. "I cannot bear this."

Fanny looked, as he saw from the corner of his eyes, nearly ready to cry. He pulled himself under control with a wrench. "Miss Price, forgive me. I make a very poor companion tonight. I must apologize for burdening you with my bad temper -- perhaps it would be better if I take myself off at once."

"I have not -- not offended you somehow, have I?" she asked in a trembling voice.

"No, no, Fanny, do not be distressed. Do not cry, dearest --" He had clasped her hand before he knew what he was doing -- dropped it quickly. They had attracted the notice of Sir Thomas from across the room, and Henry knew he would not be answerable for his actions if he stayed longer. He went, with a quick word to Lady Bertram and Sir Thomas

Posted on 2008-09-10

Fanny felt that somehow, she had done or said something amiss, and a miserable discontented feeling troubled her all the next day. She felt a vague wish to see Mr. Crawford once before he went, but she could not make up her mind to seek him out -- that would appear so particular. She sat silently hemming handkerchiefs and hoping that her inward squirming would not appear on her exterior.

Fortunately there was no one to notice, but Susan, who was helping Lady Bertram address letters. "Are you feeling unwell, Fanny?" said she, turning over her shoulder from the desk by Lady Bertram's sofa.

"Do you think this pen is sharp enough, Susan?" put in Lady Bertram, before Fanny could answer, having arrived at a resolution to speak after an exhaustive consideration of her pen point. "Dear me," she continued. "How it looks as if it might rain. Fanny, my dear, do you not think it looks as if it might rain? My sister will be so wet if she walks up now."

"Perhaps she will notice the clouds herself," suggested Susan patiently, with the slow even voice that Lady Bertram liked to hear.

"Oh I hope she will notice them. It does look as if it will be very wet at any moment. Do you see my pen, Susan? It is rather dull, is it not?"

Nevertheless, by teatime the day had brightened a little, as Lady Bertram observed complacently. "She had said it would not be wet long. Indeed, how very wise of her sister Norris to wait for her visit."

It was not too many minutes before Mrs. Norris appeared, in fact, equally impressed with her own sense in staying dry and managing to time her visit so as to be sure of being offered tea as well.

When Mrs. Norris had well settled in, Fanny gathered all of her nerve together.

"Aunt Norris? Did not you say that you had an errand for me at the Parsonage? I thought Mrs. Grant had offered to give us some berries, the ones from those canes you planted." It had only been a slight mention of the berries several days before, but Mrs. Norris did not often forget even slight mentions.

"I don't recall any such thing," was the reply. "Why must you be so restless, Fanny? There is plenty of work for you here, if you will once apply your concentration and your needle. I do not understand why young people are so fidgety; why when I was a girl I spent hours together at my samplers."

"I am sorry," said Fanny meekly, ashamed of herself. It served her right for attempting to be -- not deceitful exactly, but contriving. "I am sure you are right, Aunt."

Mrs. Norris looked at her sharply. "I don't want any laziness, Fanny Price. You have been indulging yourself all day; if you will work with energy you will not feel so languid. I never allow myself to feel tired."

"Yes, ma'am," said her niece miserably, feeling that she had only made things worse. How did Mr. Crawford always manage to get his way so smoothly? Apparently she lacked the art of it.

A silence of some minutes passed. "To be sure, it is very decent of Mrs. Grant to remember those canes were mine. I had not thought it would occur to her to offer me any," mused Mrs. Norris, quite mollified by the idea of her rightful ownership of the fruit being acknowledged by her successor.

"They must be quite early this year," said Fanny eagerly.

"They always were," said Mrs. Norris. "If you do not dawdle, Fanny, you might go and bring us some in time for tea."

Fanny hid her relief by bending her head to fold up her work.

She walked quickly to the parsonage, trying to ignore the jumping feeling in her stomach; and entered with all her nerves vibrating tensely. But there was no soothing balm for her anxiety yet. Mrs. Grant was at home, but her brother was nowhere to be seen, and Fanny dared not ask after him, even casually. She prolonged the conversation as long as possible, even framed her question in her thoughts, but she could not make herself ask it. She trudged back home despising herself, and feeling utterly wretched; and no appetite did she have even for early berries.

Apparently Mr. Crawford had really gone. This was confirmed by Sir Thomas, with great satisfaction. "A man who sees to his own property -- now there is a man to be admired. He sent me a note, very respectfully, too."

"Did he say when he will return, uncle?" inquired Susan, with just the right mixture of warmth and disinterested curiosity that Fanny felt to be totally beyond her reach. "Surely he would like to see his sister when she arrives!"

Sir Thomas looked at her approvingly. "Not everyone has your family feeling, niece. It seems that he has had news from his steward that demanded his attention. Since I cannot tell what the matter is, I cannot guess how long it will detain him. But it is always better to see these things through, even if inconvenient at the time. It will do any young man good to spend some time on his estate. He should settle down soon, before it becomes entirely unmanageable."

This last was directed at Fanny, and might have caused her much pain, but that she did not hear it.

Fanny could not help but suspect the reason for Mr. Crawford's quick departure; and though she accused herself of vanity, she felt fairly certain she was right. He still loved her, it must be. She had supposed that he had more or less given her up, and had been pleased; but she was surprisingly untroubled to discover that it was not so. Flirtatious he had often been, ingratiating, even seductive, but not overmastered by his feelings. He treated everything with such levity, she could not help but feel pleased to find him so serious about anything; although of course she would rather not have been the subject of his interest. But what really made her unhappy was the thought that she had driven him away. She could never regret refusing him, but she had come to think he was not entirely wicked; and she must pity him. She knew better than anyone how painful such disappointment might be.

And she had just been beginning to really enjoy his company, as a friend. She found herself hoping that he would come back. Surely he must come back eventually, now that his sister lived in the neighborhood.

On reflection, Fanny decided this was selfish and sinful. She was actually contemplating encouraging false hopes in him, merely for the pleasure of his company! It was bad, and even long inner argument did not convince her to relent in her self-condemnation. Yet the idea of banishing him forever still grieved her. She would not think about it. It might be hypocrisy, but losing one's only friend is a prospect not to be contemplated with equanimity by the most hard-hearted.

A thought even more reprehensible entered her mind. What if she were to accept him? For the first time Fanny allowed herself to imagine life as Henry Crawford's wife. But only for a moment -- no, it would not do. She marry him, after all her protestations? And to be unfaithful to -- The thought of Edmund had entered so stealthily that she did not at first realize what she was thinking about. Resolutely she set her heart against his idea. There could be no question of unfaithfulness to Edmund's memory; she must think of him only as a dear cousin and nothing more. Still, whether or not she named Edmund as the source of her reluctance, the idea of accepting Henry Crawford could not be entertained. She did not love him: that was enough.

The new Mr. and Mrs. Bertram drove over from Thornton Lacey on Tuesday just as expected, to dine with the family at the Park, and Mr. and Mrs. Grant, who were asked to join them. They meant to stay several days and then return in time for Edmund to hold services on Sunday.

Mary flew to greet and embrace Fanny, and as always Fanny found herself feeling put off and provoked. She ought in her loneliness to have been grateful for the affection in which Mary was always so unstinting. But Fanny had ever found it very difficult to understand Mary. She was ostentatious, yet sincere, over-demonstrative yet genuine. The fact of the matter was that she rubbed Fanny the wrong way, and being newly married to Fanny's beloved cousin did not help smooth her offenses.

"Fanny! How much I have to tell you! You must walk with me tomorrow, for very likely we shall be occupied all the evening," she said, drawing Fanny's arm through hers.

"Oh yes, I always like to walk," said Fanny with literal truth, unwilling as she might be to spend all morning with a Mary in high spirits. "Did you like Brighton?"

"The sea is beautiful, and bathing like nothing else, but I must save all that for tomorrow or I will forget to tell you all the important details. There is nothing so provoking as telling a tale all out of its proper order, just when one has settled with oneself exactly how to recount it so as to produce a great sensation."

Fanny smiled, but before she could speak, Mrs. Norris called for her.

"Fanny! Do not monopolize Mrs. Bertram. I'm sure she is very kind in singling you out but you must not think to put yourself forward so much when she has only just arrived."

Mrs. Norris would have been even more offensive had it been Maria returning for a visit, for Edmund was not her favorite. Nevertheless, at moments of celebration for any young Bertram, Mrs. Norris felt it incumbent upon her to ensure that any Prices in the vicinity did not rise above their station.

"Come with me, Fanny," said she. "Someone must oversee the laying of the silver, for your sister Susan is busy with Lady Bertram, and you are not needed here."

"Fanny will do no such thing!" protested Mary hotly, and not without justice. "You forget, ma'am, that she is now my cousin, and I will talk to her if I like!"

Mrs. Norris drew back, astonished, but before she could speak, Fanny jerked away from them both. She took a long breath, her heart full and overflowing. "Mary, you are very kind, but it is no matter -- we will walk tomorrow. Aunt Norris, you know very well no one needs me to look over the silver. Excuse me, but I have a headache just now." She walked away quickly, eyes filling with guilt and emotional reaction together. Never had she refused anyone's claim on her before. Mary meant to defend her, but she had provoked a scene and at the moment Fanny almost hated her. Henry would have managed to occupy her time so easily that Fanny would not be made uncomfortable, nor Mrs. Norris excited. How she missed him

Posted on 2008-09-16

Fanny was not the only one who noticed Mr. Crawford's absence. His sister lamented him at least thirty times the next morning before dinner. Her whole family would be gathered, she said, except this beloved brother who had been so inconsiderate as to be gone at an important moment. "Her affection is real," Fanny thought, "and she does not realize she is selfish."

Fanny had little charity for anyone, at the moment. Mary was still in high spirits and half their walk had been spent in angry denunciation of Mrs. Norris, on one side, and attempts to placate and soothe on the other, until Mary recovered her good temper; and having laughed scornfully at Mrs. Norris's new dress, felt equal to telling Fanny all about Brighton. But Mrs. Norris was not so quick to forgive; and the dinner conversation that day was carried mostly by Edmund and Sir Thomas.

Fanny feared a miserable week if Mary's winks and nods, and Mrs. Norris's glares, were any indication. Susan shot her a sympathizing glance every now and then, but Lady Bertram had a steady flow of quiet remarks about the potatoes and the weather, that kept Susan quite busy with a variety of gentle assents and left her little time to attend to her sister.

The ladies rose at last, and Fanny followed Mrs. Norris to the drawing room. Mary's high spirits had risen to a fever: she only longed for someone to exchange wit with, and no one could be found. Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris did not understand wit; Sir Thomas and Edmund ignored it; and Fanny, if she understood it, could not enter into the spirit of it. Susan at last rose to the challenge. She had not the worldly experience to match Mary's allusions, but she could laugh, and ask questions, which satisfied Mary for the moment.

"Is not the bathing-dress very cumbersome?" she wondered, at Mary's laughing description of the bathing machines.

"Oh, entirely too cumbersome for some, but not nearly enough for certain others," said Mary with a sly emphasis. "It is a bit odd-looking at first, indeed, but everyone wears it, so oddity becomes simple custom. I do not acknowledge anything strange about it, now. No, as an experienced sea-bather, I am compelled to look down on those who question it, and say many wise and scientific things about the coldness of the water, and the safety of the bathers, and so on."

"Oh dear, then I must not ask any more questions."

"Ah, but this is a family-party, so I will forgive you this once. You might as well take the opportunity to learn all about it, that when you go to Brighton yourself you may look as wise as the next lady."

"I am not likely to go to Brighton," said Susan.

"You never know," said Mary mysteriously. "Your family influence is growing, you know."

"Do not be encouraging any inappropriate fantasies in the girl," Mrs. Norris said. "You may have a kind heart, Mrs. Bertram, but you forget that it is in the end much more sensible and compassionate not to give anyone hopes that are never to be fulfilled."

"A very quiet and no doubt very useful life you plan for your nieces, Aunt Norris," retorted Mary, speaking with a sharp gaiety. "Well, you have gained much wisdom with your years, but I am still young and silly."

Fanny winced at her tone of voice, and drew her chair further back. The dim glow of a lamp over her embroidery gave her an excuse, and threw her face in shadow at the same time. She nestled into the darkness as into a warm bed on a cold night. In it she seemed separated from the unpleasant and awkward silence that had fallen on the other side of the room.

Before the silence had grown too formidable there came a welcome interruption. They heard footsteps, voices.

"How very quick Sir Thomas is this evening, to be sure," observed Lady Bertram in a voice the very opposite of quick. The door opened, and in walked, not Sir Thomas and Edmund, but Henry Crawford, looking blown and a bit dirty. Fanny dropped her needle onto her screen.

"Lady Bertram, please forgive me for intruding, all in my dirt as I am," he said in his usual energetic way, and bowing to the company. "It's very rude of me to arrive so abruptly, but I am trusting your family feeling will supply understanding and mercy; I could not rest without seeing Mary. I knew you would expect me, sister dear." This last as he kissed her hand gently. "I will not embrace you, Mary, and get your finery mussed."

"You had better not try, indeed. I have been very angry with you, Henry, and I am not sure yet if you are to be forgiven."

"Not impressed with my dramatic appearance, Mary? And I had planned it so carefully!"

"Oh, most ingenious, but you know my feelings are all domestic now. I favor quiet harmony over touching drama."

"Do you? Then I will not say that I arose before dawn merely for the purpose of arriving here in time for tea. You would abhor such a display."

"Yes, I would. Mrs. Norris agrees with me, I'm sure," said Mary.

At this point Lady Bertram put in her answer to his earlier speech, paying no attention whatever to their teasing. "Of course you are very welcome, Mr. Crawford, but I am afraid you will be very tired after such a long ride."

"Indeed!" ejaculated Mrs. Norris, who probably felt that the conversation was becoming unruly. "I wonder at your being in such a hurry, Mr. Crawford! To ride all that way and back only for a few days! One might well envy such energy!" She narrowed her eyes at Fanny, as if to attribute all the world's follies to her account. No doubt Fanny slyly encouraged such demonstrations. If only it were easier to catch her at it.

After the first moment, Fanny had bent her eyes to her embroidery frame. She was too overwhelmed with a variety of feelings to really work, but she bowed herself over her floss studiously, quite unconsciously throwing a gleam of light across her neat head. It would be both proper and right to greet him as a friend, but she was quite paralyzed. She dreaded the moment of meeting his eyes, but not with the same dread that she had used to feel at his presence. For a moment she was angry at him; could he never be satisfied without disturbing her peace? Just when she had begun to feel comfortable again, he upset her whole system.

Then she was sorry for feeling angry. It was not his fault that she was foolish, and weak, and persisted in feeling more than she should for Edmund. He had not wronged her -- whatever his other faults, he had never deceived her about his motives. It was she who kept her feelings secret.

But while she was thinking, she had not moved or even lifted her head. It was he who came to her, after everyone else had their share in the welcome.

"Miss Price? Will you not shake hands with me, at least?" Blessed to Fanny's raw heart was his low voice, too low to be overheard by Mrs. Norris, who had moved a little nearer, suspiciously. And the warmth in it too -- it was more than she expected, perhaps more than she deserved when she had not even had the courage to offer him a simple greeting. She gave him one quick glance upward, and held out her hand, looking down again. He pressed it so hard he almost hurt her, but let go swiftly. Without looking up, Fanny could hear and almost even feel him cross in front of her to the other chair, and draw it across the carpet to her side.

"You have been unhappy. I despise myself."

She shook her head hastily. "Sir! Please, do not. You owe me no apology, and any discussion of -- of that night -- will only prolong both our uneasiness."

Looking sideways at him, she saw that he was observing her closely. "Will you tell me you are not unhappy?" He asked, in an even lower voice, almost a whisper. Fanny wished he would stop, before she began to cry in spite of herself.

She replied truthfully and as reassuringly as she could under the circumstances, "I am very well, and happy to be your friend, Mr. Crawford."

As she spoke, she wondered at her own words. 'Friend' was more than she had ever expected to call him, and still less, she knew, than he desired to be. She half expected him to protest, but he merely said with that unaccustomed seriousness which was still surprising to her, "Thank you, Fanny."

They spoke no more the rest of the evening. Mary occupied his whole attention, as was only natural. Fanny watched them between stitches, and was -- not happy exactly, but relieved and almost contented.

Sir Thomas, and especially Edmund, rejoiced to see Henry Crawford waiting for them as they joined the ladies. They were both, perhaps, in a matchmaking mood, for different reasons, and both thought of Fanny as soon as they saw him.

"Why Crawford!" exclaimed Edmund. "What a cheerful surprise this is. Someone is happy to see you, without doubt."

"Why yes, I knew Mary would be disappointed if I stayed away," he replied, turning toward her. Fanny, from her corner, could not tell if he was dissembling or not. She suspected that Edmund had been hinting something else, and it pained her. Edmund at least had always refrained from teasing her about Mr. Crawford's intentions.

"Of course Mary must be gratified by your presence; we must honor such amiable feelings, but they are too natural to be surprising," said Sir Thomas. "But for myself, I am delighted. I count you a family connection myself now. Fanny, what are you doing in that corner? Do you not welcome Mr. Crawford back among us?"

"Yes, I do indeed," she replied quickly, but she did not speak loud enough for her uncle.

"Why so backward, Fanny? There is no need to shrink back. Mr. Crawford is quite family now."

"Fanny has been naughty," Mrs. Norris stage-whispered, bustling forward. "She likes to have her own way and sit alone in that unsocial manner, rather than form a useful part of the household as we all wish her to."

Fanny had risen to her feet in obedience to her uncle, but she felt the hot prickle of tears at Mrs. Norris's denouncement, which was audible to everyone in the room. To do her justice, Mrs. Norris intended no unusual cruelty by the actual timing of her remarks. It did not occur to her that Fanny had any dignity to be upheld, but her own had been injured by Mary Crawford's sharp tongue and she meant to retrieve her power of control by asserting it.

Henry Crawford had not intended to interfere with Sir Thomas, but Mrs. Norris forced his hand. He felt compelled to say, in as low a voice as possible to Sir Thomas, "Miss Price has been all that is gracious in her greeting to me. We will make her cry this way." And then he added loudly, "Bertram, did you happen to take Mary to see the ruins at ___ on the journey back? I know she had been wishing to visit them." If he had hoped for a reward, he got one in the look of pure relief Fanny sent him across the room as she returned to her seat. Sir Thomas, too, instantly appreciated Mr. Crawford's tact in smoothing over his own mistake. His gratitude took shape in his joining at once in the general conversation about travel, as the most expedient way of ignoring Mrs. Norris.

Despite her thankfulness for being rescued, the evening could not be over quick enough for Fanny. She looked forward to the next day for all her possibility of serenity and happiness

Posted on 2008-09-23

Fanny had hoped for some soothing solitude early the next morning, but instead, as she tripped down the stairs from the East Room, she found Edmund waiting in the corridor.

"Fanny! I am very glad to see you."

"And I you, of course, Edmund."

"How have you been?" he asked seriously, and when she did not reply at once he went on, as usual. "I can see that Susan has taken some of the burden from your shoulders, but she seems very busy with my mother. And you -- you seem still lonely?"

Fanny's eyes filled at this evidence of care for her feelings; and then she felt angry that he could still make her cry. This combination of feelings produced a rather indistinct reply.

"I am so glad," continued Edmund, gently, but taking her murmur for assent. "I am very glad to see that you have been making friends with Henry Crawford. I know that he, at least, can value your good qualities as they deserve, as very few value them."

"He has been very kind," said Fanny.

"You need not be wary with me, Fanny, as I already know your opinions on this subject. I do not mean to tease you, whatever Mary may say; I mean exactly what I said. It is not well for any person to be so much alone, with no congenial companionship -- that is Biblical, you know!"

"I have Susan, too," Fanny said, still afraid to reveal too much. Edmund was now inalterably united with Mary Crawford, who could not be trusted -- as his very mention of her showed.

"Susan does not read Shakespeare with you, does she?"

"Mr. Crawford is pleasant company for all of us," she reiterated stubbornly.

Edmund smiled at her. "Another might think that you feel very little. I know that is not the case, and that your affections are in general as deep as hidden."

This was a remark that could not really be answered, and Fanny was glad to hear Mary's voice, for once.

"Edmund!" she called, and the door to Edmund's room, just on Fanny's left, opened. Unfortunately for Fanny's comfort, she noticed at once that Mary was wearing his dressing gown. Fanny recognized it by the fabric. "Oh, you have found Fanny! What does she say, my dear?"

"Nothing yet! I have not had a chance to ask her anything."

Mary turned to Fanny. "We want you to come and stay with us when we go back to Thornton Lacey. It is not so far away. I know how attached you are to the Park, but we will be seeing them all the time, and those at the Parsonage too," with a significant look. "And we must have you for a little while at least."

Since this invitation was exactly what Fanny had been hoping with all her might would not occur, she did not answer at once. But only a moment's thought convinced her that she had no possible recourse, no excuse that could bear the briefest examination. Her reply, therefore, must be that she would be happy to stay with them "if her uncle gave permission;" and to her habitual timidity must her first hesitation be attributed.

"I have already raised the subject with him, Fanny," assured Edmund kindly. "I knew you would wish to defer to his opinion, which I am happy to tell you is decidedly in our favor. He thinks nothing so proper as a visit to us just now. You can have no apprehension for my mother, for he thinks that Susan will do for her as a companion just as well while you are gone."

"Susan has grown very fond of my aunt," remarked Fanny flatly. That she herself could be so easily replaced was bad enough, without making Susan into a sort of all-purpose household tool to be fit into any role as necessary.

"Of course," agreed Edmund eagerly. "I always thought, from your letters, that Susan had a very warm heart, only wanting nurture and opportunity for refinement."

"I am very glad that Sir Thomas agreed to invite her here," added his dear wife, dutifully supporting him. "And it was extremely well-thought of by Henry."

"Henry suggested it?" cried Fanny in astonishment, not noticing in her surprise that she had echoed his Christian name.

"My dear, there, I am giving away secrets to the wrong people as constantly and with as much delight as you give advice to your parishioners," said Mary ruefully to her husband.

Fanny said nothing more, because anything that could be said would betray too much. This was a new evidence of Mr. Crawford's thoughtfulness, but what impressed her more was his silence. He had not come to her boasting of his good deeds as he once would have -- as he had on the occasion of his obtaining William's commission. He had seen the opportunity and what it would mean to Susan, after only having met Susan once, in Portsmouth. And he had taken action on her behalf out of disinterested goodness. No -- not disinterested -- she knew better than that. She knew he had done it for her. But if so, he had done it only to make her happy, and not to ingratiate himself with her. She was deeply touched.

It was in this frame of mind, that she made her way down to the stable for her ride. She had hoped perhaps to meet him somewhere in the course of it, but she was not prepared as she waited for the mare to be saddled, idly swishing her crop at dust motes, to hear Mr. Crawford's voice behind her. She jumped first, and then turned around.

"Good morning, Fanny! Edmund said I might find you here. I was hoping to walk with you, but perhaps I may ride with you instead -- if that meets with your approval."

Fanny looked her approbation, and he dismissed the groom. She put her hand on the rein while he turned to tighten the saddle. He had ridden his own chestnut up from the Parsonage, and Fanny wondered if that had been planned too. But he had never joined her at the stables before, and there was an obstacle. The pleasure of having his company in her ride could scarcely outweigh her acute embarrassment as he led her mare across to her.

He seemed to take it as a matter of course, but Fanny was not accustomed to riding with gentlemen alone, and being helped to mount by an indifferent groom was not exactly the same. For a minute, Mr. Crawford was very close to her, closer than he had ever been before, and she could feel his breath on her ear although she would not look up. His hands, warm even through his gloves, slid round her waist. A very slight pause, then she felt herself lifted, and she was up, settling herself into the side saddle and draping her habit comfortably, and he had turned his back to her as he swung himself lightly onto his horse. Fanny felt momentarily short of breath.

They rode out side by side at a walk, and once out in the lane, Fanny gave way to an overmastering impulse for speed, unusual with her -- but she had suddenly felt it would be good to feel cool breeze on her face. She pulled ahead of Mr. Crawford, and then he caught up and they cantered gloriously through the Park gate and on down the road with a thudding of hoofs.

They had gone some way before she pulled up, looking around her. There was a small stone cottage on the right, and hedgerows on the left starred with white flowers, and just ahead a rise in the road topped with a glimpse of bold blue sky through the trees. There! It must be the Jones farm, and they had ridden farther than she thought. Usually such exertion as required for a long canter would tire her out, but she felt today, breathing in bright cool air, as if she could ride for hours. Mr. Crawford was just ahead of her, and when she drew up even with him they paused by common consent, looking out across a clear landscape of fields, dotted with clumps of wood and striped with dark plough marks. All the colors, chocolate brown earth and yellow-green budding trees, and the red shirt of a farmer in the distance, had a crisp brightness to them.

"Are you tired, Fanny?" he asked after a few minutes.

"No, not at all -- I ought to be, but somehow in such beauty I am refreshed instead of fatigued."

"Then let us go back slowly, and we can talk as we go."

She turned, keeping to a walk, and he came up with her on the outside.

"Has your morning been pleasant?" he said, after some silence.

"Oh, on such a day, under such a sky -- I could not wish myself anywhere else, or doing anything but this."

"That is not an answer, Miss Price!"

"You asked whether it was pleasant, and surely the lovely weather is a pleasant fact."

"You know very well I meant to ask about you, yourself. I have not seen you for many days."

Five days, she thought, but in fact it had seemed many. She hardly knew how to answer. There were so many things that she could not mention or allude to, that she rather panicked and blurted without planning to: "Edmund and Mary have invited me to stay with them."

There was a pause on his side before she heard him mutter something like " -- blind fool -- ." She looked over, and caught such an expression of mingled sympathy and frustration on his face as he gazed at her, that it left her breathless. It took her a minute to realize how it was that he could possibly be sharing her feelings. With understanding came a gasp of shock like plunging into ice water.

"I know, Fanny," he said. "You need not say anything. I know it all."

She could not speak for shame. But with embarrassment surpassing anything she had ever felt, she understood in a flash. She, who had suffered so long in unrequited adoration, could not help but understand him. She remembered his black mood the night before he left for Everingham.

"There is not much to say, is there, Fanny?"

"How -- long -- have you -- " she choked out.

"The day of their marriage, I saw it in your eyes, at the moment you watched them pledging their vows -- no, no, do not be ashamed. I am far from blaming you for anything. I should beg your pardon, in fact; I am mortified that I should have betrayed my knowledge to you. I meant never to let you see that I knew."

"It is not -- you have done nothing wrong." She seemed to be regaining the power of speech little by little.

Earnestly he said, "Please do not regret that I know your secret; this knowledge has only helped me understand you better."

"I am very sorry," she whispered. "How you must have suffered --"

"Yes," he said. "I have."

Such perfect honesty between two people, on such a delicate subject, she had not imagined possible. She admired him for it, even as she deplored her own weakness for allowing him such power over her. Still, had he not demonstrated his trustworthiness?

She could not speak for some time; it was not tears that silenced her, though a few did fall. It was simply that she had nothing to say. She could not offer him anything at all adequate to their situation: there was no comfort, no friendly encouragement, in her power. Why had he fallen in love with her? How unnecessarily and cruelly complicated it all seemed -- was it not enough to be heartbroken, without being compelled to break another person's heart as well?

When she finally spoke, she tried to change the subject, but all her thoughts were on him, and she could not turn the conversation much out of its path. "I know what you did for Susan. It seems almost insulting at such a time, to offer you thanks; but I cannot withhold my gratitude. You have given me so much, and I have so little in return."

"I would do anything for you," he replied simply. "I have tried to keep it hidden, especially after I saw the truth -- after I realized what your own feelings are and must always be. I would not make you uncomfortable or unhappy for the world. But I cannot conceal from you now, that I would do anything for you. To give you Susan's company was little enough."

"It was not little to me. Oh, Mr. Crawford! I feel very wretched! I wish I need not hurt you any more than I have already done, though I hope you know, most unwittingly; but now," she said. "Now that there is nothing concealed from either of us, how then could we possibly continue --" She broke off.

"Nothing need change. We may continue in just the same way, as friends, if you like."

"No, I cannot agree to that. It would not be fair. How could I ask that?"

"Fanny, I have offered you my friendship already, have I not? I have not asked anything in return that you cannot give in clear conscience. I am under no misapprehension, and I have no hopes."

Fanny reached out and plucked a shining green leaf from an overhanging branch and whirled it between her fingers. The horses walked on without any particular direction.

"That cannot go on forever, though, can it?" she questioned softly.

"My dearest -- my dearest Fanny." He paused, to take a few breaths. "I leave everything to you. You must decide -- I am yours entirely." He could not keep the passion from the last words.

Fanny was shaken by his emotion; it called up some feeling in herself that she did not know how to name and did not want to own. It took but a minute to realize that she could not reject him this time; her heart rebelled against the thought. Yet neither could she accept him. To deceive him would be unthinkable. His honesty and courage deserved the same coin in return, but she did not know how much she ought to say, or whether she could possibly make herself speak the words. She looked at him for the first time since they had begun the conversation. His lips were pressed together, and she saw a muscle at his jaw tighten. She must force herself to speak, in compassion for him.

"I do not know what to do, sir. I do not -- love you," she choked on the awful word, then hurried on to the next, "not as a husband; but I dread to lose you. I -- missed you when you were gone. I wish I could say more, but I cannot. I only think of you as my friend, my dear friend."

"'Dear friend!' That is not 'only'. That is more than I hoped for." His expressive voice was deep with feeling. "What kind of relation can be founded on dear friendship, Fanny? Will you not allow me -- " he broke off sharply.

She could feel her heart shaking her with each beat. "Allow you to -- what?"

"No, no, I would ask too much."

They were entering the Park gate again. He muttered something that sounded like a disappointed exclamation. "We can walk," she prompted.

"Yes! Let us walk." As they approached the stable, he swung down from the horse, and came to help her down. Again for a moment he held her between his hands, and this time the very air between them seemed to burn. He let go hurriedly and moved away, calling to one of the boys to take charge of the horses.

"You won't be too tired?" he asked again, coming back with his own face flushed, and offering her his arm. Glancing up as she took it, Fanny thought he had never looked so nearly handsome. Once again, she asked herself if she could be his wife. Now it almost seemed possible -- it seemed real. But was it not too soon? Too hasty and rash? She had only that morning shed tears for Edmund. It would be unfair, and wrong, to enter into an engagement yet

Chapter 14

Posted on 2008-09-30

Fanny and Mr. Crawford walked slowly along a path that led by roundabout ways around the edge of the Park toward the side garden by the library. Fanny felt herself unsteady on her feet, and he seemed to be the same, for his shoulder kept bumping against hers.

"You wanted to ask me something?" she said, timidly, but too anxious to be patient.

"I am terribly inconsistent. I have just been promising you not to demand anything of you, and now I have all sorts of requests crowding each other to come forth. But it is your fault! You give me hope. Fanny, be very careful; do not say anything you do not mean. I know your compassion would sacrifice anything, but I do do not want your compassion."

"I can make few promises in return, but I will promise you now, Mr. Crawford, to be honest with you as you have been with me."

"Then tell me -- honestly -- can friendship ever become something closer, something more intimate?"

Fanny put her free hand up to her face; it felt glowing hot. "I have sometimes wondered the same."

"I believe it can. Fanny -- may I tell you --"

"Anything," she said, breathing quickly.

"I admired you once and determined to win you, almost as a game, or a challenge. I thought you pretty, and good; and perhaps you even enticed me the more for being so beyond my reach, but I did not really know you. It is friendship that has shown me what you are; yes, and made me love you, Fanny, for all the beauties of your character, not only the beauties of your person."

She was silent, both excited and distressed by his praise.

"I would not hurry you into a decision you might regret, dearest. I want to ask if you will let me wait, just as we have been, but acknowledging the hope that you have just given me. I will give you as much time as you wish; I will not press you. I wish only for permission to try."

Even this seemed a daunting commitment to Fanny. It was a risk: it wasn't safe. She feared it -- she feared disaster and scandal and she knew not what. She could scarcely believe yet, in her heart, that he truly, sincerely loved her. This was Henry Crawford, after all, and her nature was slow to change, even though she found this gentle wooing impossible to resist. Her loneliness, the fondness she could not help feeling for him, and the other feelings he provoked which she still ignored if she could -- every soft and tender feeling argued for him against her sterner determination.

"And what if I can never give you what you hope for?" she asked.

"I have already said," he returned seriously, "that I will never blame you. You have shown me your heart openly; I can ask for no more than that. I love you now, Fanny, more than I thought it was possible for me to love. I told you, I did not intend to fall in love with you. I was stupidly arrogant, but you conquered me before I knew it. I could not hurt you, Fanny. You must believe that. I only ask you not to banish me -- it is too late to ask for your permission to love you; I cannot help it now."

Fanny had no defenses against his pleading. Confidence and vanity she could reject, but not this sweet, gentle passion.

"I will try," she said, so low that he bent his head to hear her. "I will try to give you the answer you want, too; I cannot yet, but I will think of it."

"Fanny! My dearest --" he half-whispered. "No, say nothing. I know you are not mine yet, but I cannot help it just now -- " He stopped walking and turned her toward him, taking her hand in his. She looked up, and then down, not sure if she could bear the expression of his eyes fixed on her. But she did not resist as he lifted her hand to his face, drew back the edge of her glove, and kissed the inside of her wrist. She swayed, or the earth swayed, and he took her arms, laughing, to steady her.

"Do not fear me, dear. I'm only giddy for the moment. It will pass, and we will discuss Thompson's poems with great gravity."

"You must not tell anyone what I have said, not yet, please!" Fanny could not help saying. She did not want him to think her cold, but a sudden vision had risen of herself beset on all sides by family, some thinking she had accepted him, some thinking it rejection, none understanding.

"No, of course not," he cried.

"They would not understand. They would talk to me and try to push me one way and another," she added, more vehemently. "They will think me slow, or inconstant, or worse."

"Trust me. I will behave with perfect propriety. I will behave like a model young man -- my conversation will be so unexceptional you might write books from it." He laughed, pressing her hand, which he still retained; his spirits still exalted.

Fanny was too overcome with mingled confusion and apprehension to be in high spirits, but endeavoring to do him justice and to feel the trust he requested, she replied gently, "Very well, I will depend on you for protection."

"That is just what I want. You will not be disappointed in me, I promise you, Fanny."

"But --"

"What is it? Anything, Fanny, anything you like."

"Don't tell Mary either, please?"

"I won't tell her, if you wish it. But why not? Mary loves you."

"That's why," returned Fanny quickly, anxious not to offend him. "She is so affectionate to us both, I am afraid of her eager ways, sometimes."

He laughed, and promised.

They walked back to the house together, and Fanny could not remember later if they talked or were silent. On reaching the Park, he bid her farewell for the present, promising to return in the evening, and she sought the sanctuary of the East Room in a daze.

The ground slowly steadied itself beneath her feet, and she set herself to think rationally about the agreement she had just made. It was not so momentous really: all she had promised was to allow him to continue in friendly intimacy as closely as before and to think as well of him as she possibly could; both of which were only to her advantage, as she wanted a friend and hated her loneliness. And yet, despite this cool reasonable assessment, she still felt shaken when she remembered the look of joy in his eyes, and the way his lips had pressed against her wrist.

Henry Crawford had at that moment stopped to lean against the wall outside the library, tipsy with happiness. To him this was no simple acceptance of ordinary courtship. And perhaps he was nearer right than Fanny. He thought -- no, saw again in his mind's eye -- the image of Fanny in Portsmouth, with her face averted and her eyes on the sea. Three months ago she had not even liked him. He admitted that, now that he could rejoice in the affection she had offered -- the more than affection. She had closed her eyes as he kissed her hand, so moved was she by his very touch. He knew in his deepest soul that he was a self-confident, sometimes a vain man, but that had been no imagination, no wishful desire of his. She had been moved, and yes, passionate.

He took a deep breath. It was not the time to dwell over her charms, revisit her tendernesses. He must be calm, not excited. She had trusted him not to betray her, to shield her from the impertinence of some of her family, which he had often himself deplored. In such a task he must not fail! He put his hands over his eyes and rubbed at his face.

"Henry! Are you well?" It was Mary, coming down the hall from the morning room.

"Mary! I am -- " he cut himself off. He had very nearly spilt it all, and after he had promised Fanny to keep their agreement a secret. He had always confided in Mary, but Fanny must come first now.

"You are what? Tell me, Henry! I don't know whether you're sick, or in a passion. You look quite unlike yourself."

"I am in a passion, sister mine, and sick too, if you like." He spoke lightly -- he knew as well as anyone that Mary could be too pressing in her playful curiosity. She did not realize the effect her piercing mind had on weaker souls. No wonder Fanny feared her, now that he came to think of it.

"I have been out riding with Fanny," he continued. Let her draw her conclusions.

She burst out laughing. "Do not tell me, Henry, that you, devourer of young ladies, are lovesick! Look at you! -- pale, and hardly able to stand on your feet."

"Yes, physician, my very symptoms."

"She's very coldhearted to leave you in such a state. I've half a mind -- "

"No Mary," he said, catching her arm, and changing his tone. "I am quite serious; do not say a word to her. I have already made great progress -- she is easy in my company. She talks to me. I will not have her made uncomfortable by your pressing. You are quick, Mary, but remember that she is slow and cautious."

"I believe you really mean it. You have hope then, despite your sickly complexion just now."

"I have hope, Mary," he returned, lowering his voice. "I struggle, because I am more impatient than you can possibly imagine. If I can wait, you can. Remember that. If I hear of your disturbing my Fanny's peace, I will inform on you."

She laughed again, and he saw that his teasing soothed her worries. "No governesses now, Henry. You have no one to carry tales to."

"Oh, I know better." He leaned close and hissed mockingly, "I will tell your husband."

She hit his arm playfully. "I do not fear you, tyrant."

After dinner Henry came to join Fanny as usual, but she felt deeply awkward. She could not think of a thing to say to him. Why had she never noticed before the intense way he looked at her? She could feel it even when she was not looking at him. Or perhaps the look was new, now that he was allowed to do it.

"You were right about Mary," he murmured, leaning in to admire her work. She felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek and knew herself to be blushing, as if his heat had communicated itself to her own body.

She was almost too breathless to speak, but managed, "You did not tell her anything?"

"Of course not! Did I not promise you? I meant only that I can understand why you might fear her. She is too quick. But you are safe with me, Fanny."

The conversation must be turned. Fanny could not bear such remarks any longer, half-whispered against her ear, stirring the curls of hair that fell on her collar.

In desperation she said, "Tell me about Everingham."

This had been a lucky thought. His eyes lit at her interest. "Well, you know -- or perhaps you do not! -- that I dismissed my steward in March when I found my suspicions of his conduct had been correct. In this I thought I followed the advice you had so circumspectly refused to give, for I did what must be right. It could not be ignored any longer. His cruel and cheating ways had done myself and my property much damage as well as making miserable the lives of my tenants. Indeed, Fanny, I now feel ashamed that I had let this state of affairs continue for so long."

Fanny felt that she could talk about Everingham all evening. It was a safe topic, at least, and she was surprised to see how animated he had become while speaking of it. She spoke with much less restraint. "Perhaps you feel shame justly, but you must be glad that you have done well in the end, and that you did not prolong the situation any more."

"Yes, you must now tell me I did right, Fanny."

"You did right, indeed, Mr. Crawford, but you know that without my saying it. Please tell me what you did next. You needed a replacement for the position of steward, did you not?"

He could pause long enough to regret that despite the gentleness of her voice, he must still be 'Mr. Crawford' to her, then continued. "Yes, I did need a new man, and the task of finding him proved a great deal more arduous than I had suspected."

"But you have found someone, or else you would not be here."

"Yes, by accident as it seemed. A younger son of a genteel but impoverished family, who wished to occupy himself with useful work. I was skeptical at first, because of his youth, but I begin to believe that he is the ideal person to guard my interests. When I went back last week I found all just as he had written to me, and he needed very little of my help to solve the problems he had encountered."

"And your tenants? Is he kind to them?"

"Compassionate Fanny! I think so. But I am a poor judge, for I have been neglectful myself. I visited many of them when I was there in March, and I must admit, I was shocked."

"Shocked at the poverty?" she questioned, thinking at the same time of a nagging shame of her own, that she had not been more active in charity. She had sewn clothing to give to the poor, at Mrs. Norris's instigation, but she had always assumed that it was not her place to take on the responsibility of visiting which should belong to the lady of the house.

But he was answering, "Yes, at the poverty, but more at their hopelessness -- the poverty of spirit which is so much worse than a mere lack of ready money."

"How very well said!" she exclaimed. "But surely hopelessness can be remedied at once with relieving their poverty. If you see it so clearly, is there nothing you can do to alleviate their distress?"

He looked thoughtfully back at her. "Yes, if I lived there for more of the year, I think I could."

This seemed to be leading to the idea of settling down, so Fanny hastily voiced some of her own thoughts. "I wish I had done more to help the poor, myself, but I am too afraid of offending."

"I do not believe that. Who could you possibly offend with good works?" he laughed at her.

She blushed again. "I have only done what anyone might -- what my aunt -- perhaps there might be more material ways of helping than knitting a few stockings, but I thought I should not overstep my place. If I were in another position --" she broke off because her words had run away with her, and seemed to be going in a direction she did not want to explore just yet.

Henry gave her a speaking glance, as if he understood the root of her confusion, but said nothing.

At this interesting moment, Mrs. Bertram broke in on their tete-â-tete.

"Of what are you talking so solemnly, Henry? Miss Price," with mock stern finger pointing at her, "if you have transformed my brother into a serious thinker, you must be working unholy magic."

"Everyone cannot be foolish all the time," retorted Fanny, with more than her usual spirit coming to her friend's defense. To her astonishment she seemed to have said something witty. Henry actually grinned, and Mary pealed with laughter.

"Then what very wise thing have you been discussing?" she persisted, recovering herself. "You must teach me to be wise, and I will nod my head and stroke my chin as well as the best of you."

Fanny was too intimidated by her own successful sally to try again, so Henry spoke for her. "We were talking of Everingham."

"Oh, I love Everingham! You must not shut me out. I will admire your lakes and summer-cottages as long as you like."

"And tenant farmers, and stewards? Will you join us in canvassing those subjects too?"

"Certainly not. You must not let him bore you, Fanny, even though he has gotten himself into a domesticated landlord mood."

Fanny's protest that she was not and could not be bored, was lost, as Mary began talking of the visit Fanny was to pay them. What bonnets they should decorate together, what novels they should read, and what pieces for the harp she would play for Fanny's grateful ears, occupied the rest of their conversation. Fanny gazed helplessly at Mr. Crawford several times, but he, leaning back in his chair, seemed more amused than annoyed, and would not come to her rescue

Chapter 15

Posted on 2008-10-07

Much as she wished to, Fanny could not escape Mary's plans for her entertainment. She set out early Saturday morning for the rather dubious comfort of Thornton Lacey, which was to serve as her home and haven for the next month at least. A quiet embrace for Susan, and for Lady Bertram, a respectful curtsey for Sir Thomas; and Edmund handed her into the carriage, to nestle in uncertain intimacy with Mary on one seat, and expose herself to the affectionate if unseeing gaze of her cousin on the other. Fanny turned to wave out the window, and fortunately missed the sight of Mary kissing Edmund's hand most improperly.

Days at Thornton Lacey were quiet, surprisingly quiet for a house presided over by such a mercurial mistress as Mary Bertram. Edmund wrote his sermons in his study while Mary amused herself with trifling duties of housekeeping, answered letters, and played her harp for hours on end. Fanny wondered with some dread, how she of the dissipated London life could support such bland harmony for long; but for now, they were happy with all the playful happiness of any newly married couple: as Fanny must daily observe to her pain. Not that she wished them to be unhappy. But, although she tried with all her might to avert her eyes, to be blind and deaf, she could not entirely prevent herself from catching them in stolen kisses, and swift conjugal embraces. They might have given a pleasing picture of marital affection, to anyone a little older and less subjective.

They did not mean to shut her out, and indeed during the day Mary's companionship could be very agreeable, her exuberant nature tempered by her quiet surroundings, her intelligent mind responding to Fanny's hesitant conversation. In the evenings, however, her eyes focused only on Edmund, and his on her; and small blame to them. No young couple can possibly be good company for a shy and lonely girl recovering from heartbreak -- especially when one half of the couple happens to be the party responsible for the broken heart.

When Henry came to dine with them the first week, he was distressed to find Fanny pale and quiet, almost as subdued as she had used to look when she first came back to Mansfield. The shock of the change showed how much her spirits had really improved in the past months; but he could hardly rejoice at how much she had been looking better when faced with a Fanny now so sadly altered.

He did not have to contrive to get her alone; Mary and Edmund were too eager to play matchmakers, and Mary had invented a dull errand for herself before he had been sitting with them fifteen minutes.

Fanny would hardly meet his eyes, whether because she was embarrassed at Mary's conniving to get them together, or for some other reason. She returned nothing but one-syllable answers. Yes, she was well. No, she did not feel ill at all.

"This is insupportable!" he cried. "You look very depressed, Fanny, indeed you do. I can hardly bear to see it. And you will not talk to me. I knew I should have prevented your coming here in some way."

"Please," she said, turning white. "Do not speak of it -- if you have any compassion on me, do not speak of it."

"I will not say another word, but only if you will talk to me." He remembered that Fanny was always more at ease out of doors. "Come for a turn out in the garden with me -- if I recall, Bertram has the beginnings of a fine hedgerow walk along that pasture."

Fanny agreed to this.

"You have not been having any exercise, have you?" he said, when the sunlight had warmed a little color into her face.

She shook her head in reproof, but the color deepened instead of fading. As little as she liked personal remarks, Henry knew, it was no doubt more convenient to her to blame her health for her lack of spirits than some deeper cause.

"Well then, Miss Price, you have engaged to provide me with conversation, and I am waiting," he said, trying for a lighter tone.

"There is not much to talk about," said Fanny. "Sir -- Mr. Crawford -- you must not think I am ungrateful, or that I have no value for your presence here. But I am -- I am out of practice perhaps --" she broke off. Too much had happened between them for ease and comfort yet, he guessed.

"What have you been doing?" he suggested.

"Very little -- so little I amaze myself. I listen to Mary play the harp, write letters to Susan and my aunt, walk about, sew a little, look at fashion plates with Mary -- I hardly know what."

"What do you do in the evenings? I confess I can hardly imagine it. They cannot entertain much."

"We dined out once with the squire."

"And the rest of the time?"

"I read," said Fanny, and suddenly she half-smiled, a wry little smile. "And I listen to Edmund and Mary talk to each other."

Henry laughed before he could check himself. "Oh dear," he said. "That is very bad. They must be extremely dull company for you -- no wonder you are out of spirits." He looked down at her again to see if a his teasing would be too much for her, and was pleased to find her meeting his eyes with an almost cheerful look.

"I can confess to you," she said after a moment. "I know they meant to do me a kindness by inviting me, but I feel as if I were in the way. No one needs me here."

"And someone at least needs you at Mansfield," he said in a low tone.

Fanny blushed, and shook her head. She looked uneasy again, and he thought there might be tears in her eyes. Henry saw it would be wise to change the subject.

"What have you been reading, then?" he asked, and she rejoined quickly. She was reading Cowper again, she said -- perhaps she ought to try something new, but she loved her old favorites. They gave her comfort -- she did not say that, but he could see it was true.

But just as they were returning to the house, she stopped him. "Mr. Crawford!"

"Yes?"

"I am well, truly I am. It is -- difficult, being here," she spoke very softly. "But it is making me -- stronger, I think. I am not sunk in agony. I would not have you think that."

He was surprised that she admitted so much to him -- surprised and moved. But of course she would attempt to reassure him. She was too good. He hardly knew what to say -- it would be arrogant to thank her, and she did not want his sympathy. Instead of speaking he took her hand and kissed it quickly, before she could prevent him.

Henry was indescribably happy, and gratified, and proud too, to see how his presence seemed to affect Fanny for the better. When they sat down to dinner she joined in the conversation a little, without looking too reluctant; she smiled when he teased in the gentle way she liked. And he did not have to wonder if the improvement in her had been all his imagination, the too-eager self-pleasing imagination of a lover; for Mary confirmed it for him a little later after dinner.

Edmund had engaged Fanny in conversation, which appeared to me mostly on his side. But it left Mary free to whisper to her brother, "Look how Fanny smiles now, all rosy and bright -- laughing even! I wish I knew how you did it."

"Is it me?" he said, though he knew it was -- but he had need of confirmation. He could not help a sudden doubt, watching her look up at Edmund. He had never seen her so easy with her cousin -- but knowing what he knew, he could not be completely at peace with that, confident though he had been a minute ago.

"Do not affect stupidity, Henry; it does not become you," said Mary. "Of course it is all your doing. Fanny has not looked like that the whole time she has been with us. I should be quite cast down -- what a reflection on my skill as a hostess! -- but I shall take it instead all in compliment to you."

While Mary was speaking, Fanny looked over at them and caught his eye. She blushed and instantly looked down, but without the accompanying frown and shrinking away that he had once thought mere affectation. Now he knew that she had really disliked him, and almost trembled with joy that he should have so nearly won her, despite it all.

Mary had been watching too, as sharp of observation and comprehension as ever. "Now I come to think of it, Henry," she said, "I do not think Fanny has looked so happy in longer than a week -- perhaps never since I have known her. I do believe -- I do believe I understand what you were talking about when you spoke of hope, last week."

"You see, I am not quite as out of my wits as you thought me then."

"I must acknowledge I did think you quite mad."

"Well, what of you? I did think you might have been a little more sympathetic, having so recently endured the torments yourself. A more unlikely pair to make love-matches than we two, I cannot imagine."

She turned away, laughing. "Nonsense, Henry -- I am always quite sane. I never allow myself to lose my wits."

He had meant to turn the conversation and inquire after her in earnest, but it was too late, she had moved away, whether to avoid him or merely by coincidence, he could not tell.

There was no reason to suspect anything but perfect happiness to fill the Thornton Lacey parsonage, no reason but the characters of the occupants. Henry had been struck by his own careless words -- how unlikely it really was that any two people as world-weary and cynical as he and Mary should have been fortunate enough to win the love of two such gentle, good creatures as Edmund Bertram and Fanny Price. It was a blessing he himself had learned to value as nearly miraculous. He had, that dark day he had fled back to Everingham, almost given up hope. That Fanny now smiled when she saw him and blushed when she met his eyes -- he could not quite convince himself that it was all his doing, much as he would like to. It was something else -- something completely undeserved. Something like grace, had he been accustomed to think in such theological terms.

Henry wondered if Mary ever thought the same.