Beginning, Previous Section, Section III

Chapter 16

Posted on 2008-10-15

One morning the two ladies at Thornton Lacey sat together writing, Fanny composing a letter to Susan, and Mary rather languidly penning a note to one of her London friends. The sound of the doorbell startled both of them, and their astonishment was all the greater when the door opened on Maria Rushworth. The greetings on all sides were warm, if insincere, and many expressions of astonishment were uttered. "They had no idea of Maria being up from town!" and "What a pleasant little party! She had stupidly forgotten that she would find Fanny here as well as Mary."

At last they subsided a little: Maria sat down on the sofa next to Fanny, and Mary ordered some tea to be brought in.

"Yes, we have only just arrived from town last week," Maria said, in answer to their previous exclamations at her being there. She looked well: her figure had filled out and could almost be called statuesque, and her color was very bright. But there was a sort of hard look in her eyes, that frightened Fanny. She wondered if Mrs. Rushworth was very unhappy in her marriage, and if so, what consolation she found in her life.

"And I have not yet congratulated you, Mary -- sister Mary!" Maria continued brightly. "The wedding was very quiet, my mother tells me. That is very like Edmund, of course, but I did wonder at you!"

"I had all I could want," replied Mary so gently that Fanny looked at her gratefully. "You know very well I have not many family, or friends I truly love. Edmund missed having all his family, I know, but my little pew was complete."

"No doubt you think yourself vastly changed by marriage," said Maria.

To interrupt the awkward pause Fanny thought to ask after Julia. It seemed Miss Bertram had gone to stay with Lady --------, a very dear friend of the Rushworth family. Fanny expressed a little surprise that Sir Thomas raised no objection, but this observation apparently gave offense. Naturally Sir Thomas could place trust in the judgment of the Rushworths.

Mary, this time, broke the silence by inquiring whether Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth had visited at Mansfield Park since their arrival back at Sotherton.

"Oh, three or four times -- we have been there nearly every other day!" was the reply. "We have not seen dear Mama and Papa in so long, and besides --" Maria added slyly, "I think agreeable company might be necessary to console poor Mr. Crawford, who seems very solitary now at the parsonage."

Fanny raised her head involuntarily; she did not mean to catch Mary's eye, but having done so it was even worse that Maria should intercept their glance. Perhaps she could not read all their meaning, but she saw enough to make her suspicious: that much was apparent by the way she continued to inject praises of Mr. Crawford into the rest of the conversation. He was such a delightful companion, he was so clever at cards -- Maria expected he might go back to London when they went, he seemed to have missed society so much. In vain Mary tried to change the subject; Maria would not be diverted. And Fanny would not help her, for she could hardly trust herself to speak.

At length Maria departed. Mary and Fanny were for once united in their silence. Neither spoke until Mary burst out, half-laughing, "I never thought I should become so unwilling to hear my own brother praised. Fanny, I hope you hold her opinions as lightly as I do. You will not be troubled -- say you will not. You know very well this is no true representation of my brother's wishes. I am sure he has no intention of returning to town."

Fanny blushed, but replied, "I have no complaint to make. I should not be a good friend to Mr. Crawford if I suspected him of wrongdoing at every slight provocation."

It was not as warm a defense as Mary might have made herself, but she chose to be satisfied; although she could not let it rest without remarking that Maria Rushworth should learn to guard her tongue, as spitefulness did her no credit.

But Fanny would not say another word on the subject, not even to condemn Maria. If she could not trust in Mr. Crawford's loyalty now, their friendship could have no future, much less develop into something more. Nevertheless she privately felt as much and as bitter dislike of Maria Rushworth as she ever had. Selfish being! Having willfully made a brilliant marriage against the advice of her friends, she could not be satisfied with that, but must have every man at her feet. It did not seem fair.

Fanny would have scorned to question Mr. Crawford on his next visit. She would not be the arbiter of his behavior; and to betray any interest in what he thought of Maria Rushworth would have been as much as admitting to jealousy. But Mary had no such compunction.

"So the young Mrs. Rushworth is holding court, we have heard," she began, as they sat down to tea together.

"Is that what she told you?" said her brother, lightly but with a quick frown at Mary.

"Pretty nearly. She was determined to undermine our peace, was she not, Fanny? -- to make us discontented with our quiet ways. Such stories of card parties and gaiety as she flaunted before us."

Fanny was growing uncomfortable. A small, mean part of her was not unwilling to hear what Mr. Crawford would have to say about Maria; but as usual, Mary would taking it too far. To discuss amongst themselves in such a way, witty or not, reduced everything to the level of vulgar gossip.

To her relief, Edmund came in just then and the conversation changed course as he greeted Henry. Nothing else was said by anyone that could possibly refer to Mrs. Rushworth; and when Fanny had bid goodbye to Henry again, she reflected that he had seemed just the same as usual. Not that he should appear different -- she had expected nothing else. But she was glad he was just the same.

Fanny had been at Thornton Lacey for three weeks, and though they had passed with greater comfort and less pain to herself than she had at first feared, she could not help but begin to look forward to her return to Mansfield. She always felt a little homesick for Mansfield -- at least that was how she accounted to herself for the strange unsettled excitement she felt when she thought of it.

One morning afternoon Fanny had gone out for a walk alone, since Mary expressed a disinclination for stirring from her magazine. She had not gone far before she met Edmund, returning from a charitable visit to a elderly lady. Edmund brightened as he met her eyes.

"Just what I hoped! Fanny all alone. You do not object if I join you in your walk, do you?"

"Of course not," said Fanny, not quite beyond a very faint blush; but it was more a blush of habit than of real consciousness. "Was there something particular --?"

"No, nothing of any serious nature," returned Edmund. "I have just been thinking that I have hardly had any conversation with you the whole time you have been with us, and I missed my sisterly Fanny."

"That is very kind. You are right, now I think of it. We have always been three together. But I know Mary is a better conversationalist than I am."

"You will not catch me that way, Fanny. I can hardly disagree with any compliment to Mary; but that need not imply that I should never like to listen to anyone else, occasionally at least."

They were silent for a few minutes.

"Forgive me, Fanny, for raising the subject, as I know you dislike talking of it," he began -- and Fanny resigned herself to being pressed on the subject of Mr. Crawford. "-- but I must say I hope you will be happy. Next to one other's, your happiness is dearest to me in the world. I do not insist that you should accept Crawford at once -- that is what Mary would recommend, no doubt. Take as much time as you like, only be happy at last."

"I am happy now," protested Fanny.

"No, I think you are content now, for the most part. You are more contented than you were, and it warms my heart to see so much. But you are not quite happy. You will allow me to be an authority on happiness, Fanny."

"Certainly," she murmured, turning her head away.

Fanny did feel a great deal more hopeful for lasting happiness at Thornton Lacey than she had once, but she did not think Edmund an authority. She had been right about Edmund all along, she thought: he was infatuated. He was happy blindly still, not rationally. No, her stronger confidence in their prospects for happiness was founded on a better opinion of Mary Bertram. She had been surprised to find Mary so apparently easy in her new position, and her respect for Mary's character increased every day that quietly passed.

"You need not be so reserved with me," cried Edmund, smiling. "Do say you have seen us happy -- if only to gratify my foolish wish."

Of course she could say nothing of her thoughts to him. It occurred to her to wonder what Henry's opinion would be. "I do think you happy, Edmund -- happier than I even expected," she said gently.

"Cautious Fanny! Do not imagine I am ignorant of your meaning. Your standards are always high."

Fanny had no idea what he was imagining, but it was impossible to continue the conversation, so she asked instead about the text for next Sunday's sermon and they talked theology until they returned to the house.

Chapter 17

Posted on 2008-10-21

"Are you nearly finished packing, Fanny?" asked Mary, putting her head in at Fanny's bedroom door. "May I help you with anything?"

"Thank you, but no," replied Fanny, closing the lid of her trunk. "There is no more to do."

"Now you have cheated me of any usefulness at all! I hope it has not been an entirely unpleasant visit, in spite of my general failures as a hostess."

"Oh no!" cried Fanny, the more horrified because her words were not so far from the truth. "It has not been unpleasant! I am very sorry if I have given any such impression. I am slow to change, you know; it always takes me some time to feel completely comfortable in a new place."

"I think I begin to understand you better, Miss Fanny Price, and I do not think it was that only," said Mary with a sly glance.

Fanny began to protest again, but Mary interrupted her, laughing. "You miss some people at Mansfield. We shall not name any names, but -- I cannot feel too slighted, although, if it were anyone else -- Well, your company will be missed, Fanny. You know that already, I hope. Perhaps I am not effusive, but you understand my meaning."

Fanny was affected by so sincere an expression of friendship, and resolved with all her might to think better of Mary than before. But Mary's next words did not forward her resolve much.

"I cannot be sorry to intrude on Mrs. Rushworth's little court," she said. "She is not the only beautiful woman in the world, nor even the only one at Mansfield. I hope she may be improved by finding herself no longer of first importance with some, for all we have not her standing in the neighborhood."

A competition with Maria for notice, even Henry's notice, was the last thing Fanny wished for, and although she thought the very idea ridiculous she was still unsettled by it. Besides, it was not the first time Mary had alluded to Maria's consequence as mistress of Sotherton, and it was a topic which could not show Mary in the best of light.

It was no uncommon thing for Fanny to be anxious on her way back to Mansfield Park, nor for her to gaze longingly out the window, searching for the first view of the roof. What was unusual was the way her heart beat as they turned down the drive, and how her head swirled giddily as she climbed down from the carriage. As they mounted the steps the doors were thrown open; there issued forth the sound of the pianoforte and low laughter, and there were a great many lighted windows. Staid Mansfield was alive tonight, and Fanny had guessed the animating cause before Baddeley had informed them that Mr and Mrs Rushworth were here, and not only they, but Mr. Tom Bertram and Miss Julia -- that is, Miss Bertram. Fanny fell back behind Edmund and Mary, without realizing that she did so. It was a homecoming indeed, but it was not for her.

They went forward to the door of the drawing room. The scene that met them there was not unpleasant: it was lively and bright; but it was not being enjoyed equally by all of its participants.

Lady Bertram smiled fuzzily as she lay on her sofa with Susan beside her, but Susan looked uneasy and puzzled. Mrs. Norris was in transports, that was clear, but Sir Thomas was most emphatically not. He wore the tight smile that had always frightened Fanny far more than this frowns.

As for the young people, Mr. Rushworth stood at the window by himself. Julia was playing pique with Tom, who had thrown off his coat; and Maria was playing Mozart on her pianoforte. Beside her on the piano bench, which was hardly large enough for two, sat Henry Crawford, bending toward her so that his cheek almost touched her bare shoulder. It looked as if he were whispering in her ear.

Only for a split second could the new arrivals observe the scene; then everyone's head turned toward them. Maria stopped playing, and Henry leaped up, coming toward them with what seemed like real pleasure. He embraced Mary first, shook Edmund by the hand, and held out his hand to Fanny. She took it, too much in shock to do anything else, but as she looked up at him, she could feel the tears prick at her eyes.

He looked confused, and half opened his mouth, but Fanny drew her hand away almost sharply. Still hardly in command of herself, she turned away to greet her uncle and aunt, and Susan. Before she could bring herself to look for Mr. Crawford again, Susan had pulled her off to sit next to her, near her aunt. Lady Bertram had a good many polite questions to ask about Fanny's visit, and whether she had finished knitting the shawl she had started before she left. While Fanny answered, she got her breath again and felt she might be able to endure a reasonable time with at least the appearance of composure, until she could get away to her room to think.

But she was not quite up to laughing at the boisterous ribbing she got from her cousin Tom, who teased her for being a fine lady, and demanded that she get up and turn round so he could see her new dress. Fanny would have refused this rather undignified request, but did not know how to do so politely, when she heard Henry, who was sitting at the card table now, interfering for her.

"Is that how you treat all the ladies of your acquaintance, Bertram? No wonder you've better fortune at the races than in the ballroom."

Tom Bertram growled at this and forgot Fanny, but even so she wished that Mr. Crawford had not defended her. His speech had earned her a glare from Maria and Julia both at the same time. She might almost have been transported a year back, thought Fanny; and the memory brought her no pleasure.

She sat in agonies for a few more minutes, then quietly begged her aunt would excuse her, as she was tired from traveling and had a headache. She did not look back to see if Henry Crawford watched her leave the room.

Fanny did not seek her bed at once. The East Room lured her; warm and stuffy as it was at this time of the year, it was still her sanctuary. But she did not take the same satisfaction from the sensation of homecoming she once would have. Neither grief nor anger had complete sway yet. A blind, gasping confusion overwhelmed her. She kept seeing, like a brightly-colored painting, the image of Henry bending over Maria Rushworth at the pianoforte. Was this the same Henry Crawford who had stood in Edmund's entry hall only a weeks ago, caressing her hand and unable to tear himself away? Her Henry -- practically embracing another woman?

Sinking down on her stool she rocked back and forth insensibly. It came to her at last. She had realized that in truth Henry Crawford had won her heart. She was in love with him. There remained a faint ache in the part of herself that had once adored Edmund; but her whole affection, her whole self, was no longer his -- she was Henry's completely.

Anger followed this, for just as she realized that she wished to marry him, she realized that she could not. It would be foolish to pledge herself to a man so unsteady, who could show devotion to two women in the same week. She could only guess that his devotion the whole summer had been nothing but a determined attempt to win her -- an illusion to attract her, with no substance or foundation. There was nothing else for her to think.

Burying her head in her knees, Fanny burst into shaking sobs. Not again! Not again! Why, why must she be forever denied, forever loving what was just out of reach, or just forbidden? Was not one heartbreak enough to endure?

He did not even realize what it was he had done; either that or he was hardhearted enough to pretend to ignorance. Perhaps he really had intended nothing. That perhaps, might be true. He could not have meant to deceive her -- she remembered his agony when he thought himself hopeless, his offer to be nothing but a friend. No, she could not quite believe he had been deliberately false. But still, it was not enough. He did not love her enough to be faithful, whether he had intended it or not.

At this point in her musings, a soft knock on the door interrupted her. It must be Susan, she thought, and raising her head, she called "come in!" The door opened, and Henry himself entered, his face expressing anxiety, remorse, confusion -- everything most calculated to distress and melt her torn heart

Chapter 18

Posted on 2008-10-28

Henry had really been conscious of no guilt when he saw Fanny arrive. He had considered his position carefully, and if asked he would have thought his behavior had been completely blameless for the past few weeks. Maria Rushworth held a superficial attraction for him -- she was exactly the kind of woman he had always most enjoyed a flirtation with. She was bright, lively, witty, and just seductive enough to skirt round the edges of propriety, never quite crossing the line into scandal. But compared with the quiet joy of Fanny's company, Maria's charms were as insubstantial as champagne to pure water. He had determined that there was really no danger, but that he must be careful not to offend appearances. Sir Thomas's household did not see things with the same distinction he did.

But he enjoyed company, and the arrival of all the Bertram children at once drew him into the fun of their party. He contributed compliments and jokes as a matter of course. There could be nothing in that. He had been really puzzled at the grief-stricken accusation in Fanny's eyes. Yes, he had been sitting with Mrs. Rushworth when she arrived, but he had never thought Fanny had a jealous nature. Perhaps he had been wrong. At any rate, it caused him great pain just watching Fanny scuttle into the background, withdrawing from him. He did watch her leave the room and noted with a lover's acumen the heaviness of her step. This must be made right, and soon! He was quite willing to apologize for being friendly with Mrs. Rushworth, if Fanny really was upset by it. He would find her tomorrow morning -- that was not soon enough, but he could not see any way to talk with her first. A note? No, that could not express anything of substance, and it would be too easily misinterpreted.

In the bustle and called goodnights as the party broke up, an idea struck him. He caught Susan as she passed him with Lady Bertram's shawl.

"Miss Susan, I must speak with your sister, if I can. She was upset when she left the room." Susan looked at him sharply and he continued hastily, "I must put it right if I can."

"Perhaps you can speak with her tomorrow," she suggested, not very warmly.

"Please, Miss Susan, you are observant. You must know how I feel about your sister. You do, do you not?"

She looked thoughtful. "I do not know if Fanny would like it, Mr. Crawford -- "

"If you will not take pity on me," he entreated, desperately, "think of her. She will spend an unhappy night unless I can speak with her first. You know her."

"Very well, sir. She may have gone to her room, but if not -- I don't think I should tell you. Oh, all right, you needn't beg. She'll be in the East Room. It's her own sitting room. I'll take you as far as the upper hall."

If it were possible for Henry Crawford to feel nervous, he felt it as he stood at the door of the East Room and knocked. But he really thought his heart broke at the sight of her face, raised from her hands as he opened the door. She had been weeping her heart out; her eyes and nose were red and swollen. He cursed himself, and shut the door behind him. He should have been more careful -- once again he had underestimated the demanding nature of Fanny's morality. She was worth the trouble it would take. If he could pacify her this time, he vowed never to give her any uneasiness again.

But before he could speak, she was shaking her head at him. "Mr Crawford, you should not be here! How did you find -- no, you must go away. This is most improper -- " her voice broke and shuddered to a halt on the last word.

"No, I can't go yet. Hang propriety -- I must set this right before it is too late!" He spoke so passionately that she was silenced. He knelt before her, reached to touch her, then drew his hand back. He wouldn't touch her, not yet. He could not bear her recoiling away from him.

"I will go and leave you alone, but not until I speak to you. You need not say a word. Just tell me if I am right. You are grieved and angry. Yes?"

Her head had sunk back onto her knees. It nodded, slightly. Now for it.

"You were angry at coming home and seeing me sitting with your cousin Maria?"

Her head nodded again, but not without a choking sob, muffled by her hands and skirt.

"And you thought that I was breaking faith with you by flirting with another woman? That is the trouble, is it not?"

He did understand, after all. Fanny nodded, and to show she felt his acknowledging so much, she reached out a hand in the general direction she supposed him to be sitting. It came into contact with his warm solid body, and she made a squeaking noise and snatched it back; but before she could curl it into her lap again, he took it. His hands were warm too, and she became suddenly conscious that hers were shaking and damp with tears. He noticed too, and said in a different tone, "Fanny, you are burning, feverish. This room cannot be healthy! At least let me open a window!" and she heard him cross the room and wrestle with the sash.

She looked up. "That's the one that sticks," she said, momentarily distracted from tragedy. He looked round and met her eyes, though she looked away quickly. How intolerable! Everything was dreadful, even the sticking windows, and she wanted nothing more than to hide herself away from him.

He was too quick for her, again. "Now." He settled down back at her side, and took her hand. "Will you allow me to explain to you, Fanny?"

She was skeptical of explanations, but found herself whispering a ‘yes'.

"I wasn't flirting with your cousin -- I can promise you that. I can imagine how it must have looked to you, and if I have made you unhappy, I must take my share of blame, but I swear to you I did not mean to wrong you. She asked me to turn pages for her, and I could not in good manners refuse." He paused, then added, "to be honest, Fanny, I didn't think to refuse. That kind of thing is common at parties in town. I thought nothing of it, and I doubt she did either."

It sounded reasonable the way he put it, and Fanny did not know how to argue against him, but all the same she felt uneasy. "Mr. Rushworth thought it something, I could see. It is wicked to divide a husband and wife."

"You are no doubt absolutely correct, Fanny, as you usually are; and if so I must be more careful in future, even if she will not. It ought to be her first care as well, but if she will not guard his feelings I see that I must. Nevertheless I think Mr Rushworth is quite often jealous where there is no cause, because he cannot understand her mind or her pleasures."

It was said so calmly, and there was so much truth in his observation about Mr. Rushworth, that Fanny felt he must be right. Her head still buried in her hands, she thought over what he had said. He had sounded sincere, and if he had not been taught the same principles she had, that was not his fault either. At least he seemed to understand the value of guarding against even the appearance of wrongdoing, although he did not seem to realize how truly shocked she had been by the sight of him with Maria. Perhaps all was not lost; maybe he could in time come to think as she did.

She looked up slowly, aware at once of how disheveled her face and hair must look. But she must see his eyes. He was nearer her than she had thought, bending over her tenderly, and looking as if he would embrace her with the slightest provocation or encouragement. She did not dare to move, but she gazed up at him, trying to see into his eyes.

He put one hand up to his face, shielding his eyes from her gaze, but keeping hold of her hand with the other. When he spoke his voice caught and stumbled. "Fanny, you have no cause to fear or doubt. No one else has a claim on my heart. I am yours now -- and if you will only speak the word, I am yours forever."

Fanny did not at first realize what caused that catch in his voice -- she had never seen a man weep before. When she understood the new sound in his voice she could hardly speak herself, but with the impulse of her heart impelling her irresistibly past any doubts, she leaned her head against his shoulder, and reached her other hand around his neck. At once his arms came round her, catching her close to him, and his head bent over hers. A hot drop fell on her cheek and she did not know whether it fell from her own eyes, or his.

She said "Yes," her voice muffled against his shoulder, and felt him still at the sound.

"Fanny? Did you say -- did you mean -- " He gasped as if he were struggling for breath. Only the idea of his agony could have induced Fanny to speak so boldly, but since he seemed incapable of saying the words, she must. She could not let him suffer so.

"Yes, I will marry you --" Of course she knew his Christian name, had used his Christian name in her thoughts, but she had to force herself to add the next two syllables: "Henry."

The next few minutes were a bit indistinct. Fanny clung helplessly to his shoulders as he kissed her cheeks, her forehead -- his face pressed against hers with an unfamiliar roughness. Her hair had come down as he put his fingers through it. She had at first not the energy, and then neither the will nor the desire, to stop him. The world whirled and then went very still as his lips found hers.

Fanny let her head fall back against his arm, her breath coming short. How odd it was to look into his face when it was so close to hers! She could not see it all at once; she gazed at his mouth which had just been touching hers, and lifted her eyes in order to look into his.

"I am taking liberties, I know, Fanny," he said, and she could see he was smiling by the way the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened.

She had to swallow before she could speak. "You are very improper, sir." It came out all soft, although she was trying with all her might to feel offended.

"Do say my name again, dearest."

She smiled, embarrassment for once overcome by happiness. "Henry, you are very improper."

"You provoke me to kiss you, Fanny," he muttered in her ear.

Fanny felt completely scandalous, leaning there in his arms. She said reluctantly, "It must be late, and if anyone should see you here -- no, you must go."

"Do not banish me yet, Fanny."

"Is it not enough for one night?" she pleaded, softly. "I can hardly think -- I feel as if my brain were bursting."

This remark apparently gave him satisfaction. "Mine too," he whispered, and he kissed her again, his hands around her back clasping her even closer to him. "But perhaps it is easier for me than it is for you, not so sudden. I have waited so long for you. Oh, very well, love," as she tried to frown at him. "I will go, but you must promise to dream of me tonight."

It was the sort of speech that she had always thought silly and insincere, but in the heat of his embrace it did not seem unlikely that she would actually dream of him. She did not say so, however.

"Before I go --" he said, with a teasing look.

"What is it? What do you want now?"

"I have kissed you a dozen times and got nothing in return."

Fanny could not refuse him. She stretched on tiptoe and put her hands on his shoulders to balance herself, and pressed a kiss on his cheek next to his mouth. He shook his head at her, and caressed her face, whispering, "I will expect more tomorrow, Fanny -- I shall not be satisfied with that!" He opened the door, fumbling with the latch because he kept looking over his shoulder at her; and he was gone.

Chapter 19

Posted on 2008-11-04

Fanny woke the next morning nearly at daybreak -- still too many hours before she might reasonably hope to see Henry. She dressed, taking unusual pains with her hair and dress, of course, but feeling all the same that there was not much she could do to improve her appearance. And if he had not objected last night to a face red from crying and hair falling from its pins, he was hardly likely to find her repulsive now, in a fresh summer gown and glowing in spite of herself when she looked in the mirror.

Feeling that she had done all she could to ensure that her appearance was passable, or at least neat and trim, Fanny went out to walk in the garden. It was cool and wet under a sky still pale violet shading to gold, but warming fast; and Fanny raised her face to the light with gratitude. She had been too feverish last night to think much; and though she had lain in her bed for a long time before sleep found her, it was not serious contemplation that kept her awake, but a tangled rush of impressions and sensations. She wanted now to think about what had happened, to think rationally if it were at all possible.

She had not progressed very far in her cogitations -- for remembered moments and words from last night kept intruding despite her resolution to ignore them -- when she was interrupted by Susan, who ran across the lawn and fell in beside her.

"Good morning, Fanny," said Susan with a faint note of inquiry. "I just saw you leaving the house -- you will not mind if I join you?"

"Oh no! It is lovely to be out so early," Fanny replied, as they linked arms. She really was not sorry to have her solitude disturbed. Susan's company always had a soothing effect.

They walked in silence for a few minutes.

"It seems as if we have not really talked in so long," said Fanny.

"You have been away," said Susan practically.

"But before that, even -- I feel as if I have neglected our reading."

"I have been busy enough with Aunt Bertram. You should not blame yourself so much. Now why can you be smiling, sister dear?"

"That sounds like something Hen -- Mr. Crawford would say to me -- not to blame myself," murmured Fanny, half embarrassed and half delighted at the opportunity to mention his name.

Susan did a little skip. "And you have been busy too, sly Fanny! Tell me all about it. What has happened?"

"How do you know anything has happened?" asked Fanny, suspicious but not entirely surprised.

Susan explained her part in the events of last night. "You're not angry, are you, that I told him where to find you?"

"I can hardly be angry now, can I?"

"Then he did make everything right? Please tell me, Fanny! You know I've always liked Mr. Crawford."

"When he came up to the East Room, I was so unhappy; so very unhappy. I thought -- it doesn't matter what I thought. I suppose I was jealous of him, and that feeling made me understand my own heart. I knew at that moment that -- "

" -- that you loved him," guessed Susan, with a blissful sigh. "But what did he say when he found you?"

"He just said -- oh, I hardly know. Except that I was crying, and he understood exactly what I was feeling, and told me that he was mine always, and he -- " Fanny had blurted it all out until the end, and there she stopped with a fierce blush.

"Did he kiss you?" Susan demanded.

Fanny said nothing, which was answer enough.

"Oh Fanny! Then -- are you to be married?"

"Yes, we are engaged," said Fanny, feeling very odd putting it in words, but smiling because she could not help it.

"When will the wedding take place?"

"I suppose that will be for my uncle to decide. He has not spoken to him yet since last night, of course -- there has not been time yet for such details. But I know my uncle has already given his blessing. Oh! Susan, you will be my bridesmaid, will you not?"

Susan accepted this invitation instantly, with at least as much joy as Fanny felt in extending it.

"Of course I will! Oh Fanny, I am happy for you. I will have to have a new dress!"

She did not stop talking excitedly in the same vein for some minutes, and Fanny was spared having to say much more or even to think much, while she was able to feel very content in having made Susan happy too. As they turned and walked back toward the house, Fanny was fluttered, although not surprised, to meet Henry coming toward them.

Susan greeted him perhaps more effusively than Fanny could herself, and very properly offered him her hand and congratulations as a sister. Afraid that Susan was altogether too willing to further Henry's ends, Fanny clasped her sister's arm tighter; but it was no use. Susan knew what she was about. She had no intentions of staying to be chaperone and to interfere with Mr. Crawford's courting.

As yet hardly having even spoken to him, Fanny could scarcely meet his eyes as Susan danced her way back to the house and up the front steps. She trembled; she could not think what to say to him. To embrace, to clasp in each others' arms, to kiss, was one thing while under the sway of deep emotion and in the privacy of her East Room. In the glaring sunshine on the front lawn of Mansfield Park, she could hardly imagine such a thing.

Henry took her hand and stroked it with his own. "Fanny -- will you not look at me? You are not -- you are not regretting, are you --?"

That took her out of herself, because she was instantly anxious to reassure him. "Oh no. No, forgive me, Henry, I am only confused; so much has happened I hardly know how to be myself any more."

"That's better," he said, and he bent and kissed her quickly. "We will talk more later, but I must see your uncle as soon as he will receive me. I am in a fever to have it all settled, dearest."

Sir Thomas received Henry gravely, listened to his joyful announcement, and sat for several minutes apparently in thought.

Henry had expected a little more animation -- not perhaps to match his own, but at least as much pleasure as Sir Thomas had shown in their previous interviews. He waited with some puzzlement and slight dismay.

"Having already given you my permission to address my niece on the subject of marriage," began Sir Thomas at last, "I can hardly withdraw it."

"Withdraw it!"

"I am inclined, indeed," continued Sir Thomas without appearing to have heard him, "to believe the best of your intentions and to extend the benefit of the doubt to behavior which some might have seen as contrary to Fanny's interests."

"I am afraid I do not understand you," said Henry, with a sinking feeling that perhaps he did understand him.

"You must be aware, young man, that what may pass as acceptable flattery in town society, might cause unfavorable comment and even gossip, in a confined company such as ours. I refer, of course, to your attentions to my daughter, Mrs. Rushworth. No --" as Henry opened his mouth to offer an explanation -- "I am determined to regard the matter as well-intentioned, if mistaken, courtesy."

"I certainly intended nothing untoward," protested Henry, as he saw an opening to speak.

"I understand that," said Sir Thomas, in a tone a little warmer and gentler than he had at first employed. "If I did not believe you to be sincere, I would certainly not trust you with my niece's hand, whatever promises I had made previously."

Beginning to recover his breath, Henry attempted again to explain. "I may have been careless, and if I have excited your notice, sir, I should be more cautious in future in my attentions to Mrs. Rushworth."

"Please, say no more about it. I have said I believe you to be well-intentioned. However, I will accept your promise to be more careful."

The two men shook hands, Henry still a little breathless at this unexpected assault.

He reminded himself again, as he attempted to recover his good humor before seeking Fanny's company, that the difference between country manners and city manners was not to be underestimated. He might have been inclined to resent some of Sir Thomas's expressions, but it was all for Fanny's sake, after all. He did reflect ruefully that if the Admiral or any of his former associates had heard him promise not to turn pages for married women at the pianoforte, they might have been a great deal more shocked than Sir Thomas had been at the reverse.

"When shall we tell Mary and Edmund?" was Henry's question after he had found Fanny in the morning room, where she had been writing a letter to William. Lady Bertram and Susan sat on the other side of the room, but since Lady Bertram seemed to be sleeping, and Susan was determined to notice only her embroidery, they were no hindrance to intimate conversation.

Fanny had just been reflecting on whether to tell William about her engagement. Telling people was the hardest part, she thought. She liked to make her family happy, and it was pleasant to know they all approved of what she had done, but she dreaded the first transports with all the attendant questions, the notice, and the wonder.

"I do not know -- when are we likely to see them?" was her reply to Henry.

"Wait for the next time we see them -- Mary would never forgive us! I thought we might ride to Thornton Lacey the next day or tomorrow, if you think you can ride such a long way."

"I will try, and it will not seem very long if you are with me," Fanny said.

This earned her a sly kiss on the cheek. "Thank you -- I was beginning to think you were wishing for a secret engagement."

"Oh no --" said Fanny in confusion.

"If you did, it is too late now. I have spoken to Sir Thomas."

"Did you speak of when the wedding is to take place?"

"Not yet; I wished to consult with you first. Fanny, I think it may be necessary for me to go back to Everingham for a few weeks, to see to the harvest. If you dislike it very much, I will endeavor to find it not quite necessary, but I do think it will be better if I do."

"No, no, do not think of me. You must do what you think is really best."

"But if I go, we must put off the wedding until the end of October at least."

"That is not so long, is it?"

"Fanny! You can bear to be without me for a month, then?"

She made no reply but gave him a skeptical look.

Henry laughed. "Very well, then it is decided. The end of October, I will suggest to your uncle."

Chapter 20

Posted on 2008-11-11

Fanny was afraid she was going to be completely knocked up by the ride to Thornton Lacey, after all. The morning had been pleasant, and though she had been glad to dismount when they arrived, the cool air was refreshing with every breath. Henry's company was more than enough to distract her from any discomfort. But now -- try as she might to sit up in her saddle as straight and strong as ever, she was wishing hard for the first sight of Mansfield. Her back hurt and she felt the first stirrings of a headache as well.

It was very unlucky that she had been so foolish as to agree to go today, because they were engaged to dine with the Rushworths tomorrow. Either she would be obliged to stay home, which would attract attention -- not to mention that it would be rude, since the dinner was in some part for her -- or, she would go out to dine anyway, and be miserable the whole time.

The visit had been as nearly satisfactory to Fanny as possible. Mary had, of course, been happy with all the demonstrative energy of her nature; but Fanny endured being embraced and petted with a great deal more equanimity than she might have once. Mary was not like her, and never would be, but Fanny could not refuse to believe that she really loved her. She could see the similarities between brother and sister; the ardor that she had grown to love in Henry, she must love in Mary too.

Edmund had begged for the honor of performing the marriage ceremony, and of course they could not refuse. Henry would have liked to say no -- Fanny had seen the wry twist of his mouth as he agreed -- but she was surprised to find herself indifferent. She loved Edmund -- would love him always. He was more than a cousin; he was dearer to her than a brother. But the idea of feeling passion toward him no longer seemed even reasonable. It was impossible, and therefore imagining what would have happened if things had gone differently -- that was impossible too.

Henry drew his horse to a halt to wait for her, and she sat up a little straighter, smiling at him. But if she was learning to understand his expressions, he had had even longer to come to know hers.

"You are tired, Fanny?" he said, reaching out his hand to her.

"I must admit that I am, more than I had expected."

"Ah, forgive me, dearest. It was selfish of me to suggest that we ride. I wanted to have you to myself, but I should have been thinking of your well being before my own satisfaction."

"I know it is weak to be so easily tired," Fanny began with regret.

"Hush," he interrupted, taking her gloved hand in his and rubbing her fingers gently. "We have not more than another mile to go -- perhaps two, but certainly not more than that. Can you endure that much?"

"Oh yes, certainly; if I have come so far, a few more miles is nothing at all."

"Tell me honestly, now, Fanny. My horse will bear two, if you wish; or I will lead yours --"

She blushed. "I am in no danger of anything worse than a headache, which I deserve for my silliness. I should have known better."

He shook his head, but did not press her.

Fanny felt it very unfair. She could keep up with him in nothing. She could not read with his expression, talk with his wit. And though she loved to ride and knew he did too, she had not even enough spirit to ride for one day without tiring herself out and paying for it the next day. She rather wondered that Henry did not despise her.

They had seen very little of the Rushworths. Mrs. Norris carried the news of the engagement to her favorite niece, and whether they commiserated together in private was unknown. Fanny could not help but feel how odd it was to sit down to dinner at Maria Rushworth's table with Henry on one hand and Edmund on the other. Nothing could be more unlikely to happen, and yet there she was.

But then, everything seemed strange to her at the moment. Her fears had been realized and she had woken that morning already feeling listless and sore. She had tried to seem well, so as not to give rise to questions from her uncle, but she was afraid Henry was not deceived. The headache which still troubled her made everything seem distant and wavering, and Maria's high voice hurt her ears so she could hardly attend to what she said. Fanny was unspeakably grateful for Henry's low voice, replying for her so she need not say more than politeness required.

Mrs. Rushworth had begun her assault by turning charmingly toward Henry and quizzing him on the location of their honeymoon. She had hardly begun to speak before Fanny felt herself growing hot. She hated to hear the subject of their honeymoon tossed about lightly by a person she disliked, not to mention that she had a particular discomfort in hearing it discussed at all. She looked at her plate, wishing she could rub her forehead with her hand.

Henry, however, did not appear perturbed in the slightest. "We may go to the Lakes, or perhaps even Ireland, for some weeks, Mrs. Rushworth."

"That is not very original of you." No doubt Maria thought herself very forbearing. She had not, after all, said anything unpleasant.

"Originality was not our object in choosing it."

"If you mean to be conventional, you might at least go somewhere fashionable. It will be the height of the season at Brighton or Weymouth."

"Fashion, also, was not our object," said Henry.

"Henry!" his sister, sparkling with mischief, leaned across the table. "You are very sly, but we can guess what your object was."

"Yes," agreed Mrs. Rushworth. "We all know fashionable society would not agree with Fanny."

"I doubt fashionable society would agree with me on my honeymoon, either," Henry remarked calmly. "Fanny's society will be enough for me."

Fanny blushed with embarrassment, and Maria Rushworth with pique.

"And then, I suppose, you will retire to Everingham and never be seen in decent company again."

Henry answered the question as if he had not even heard the implied insult. "We will not go back to Everingham at once, no. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram kindly asked that we stop at Mansfield first. It will not be easy for Fanny to say farewell to her home, knowing how very much she loves it."

"I suppose that means you will not be in town for the season," she said, with a light laugh that contrived to sound disdainful but not actually outright sneering. "Well, in that case I hope you will postpone your journey for a few more weeks. We mean to have a real family party here at Sotherton for Christmas. Do we not, Rushworth?"

"Family Christmas gatherings are a great tradition at Sotherton," said the elder Mrs. Rushworth smugly.

This invitation from the Rushworths was the occasion of the first disagreement between Fanny and Henry -- Fanny refused to think of it as a quarrel.

"I wish you had not accepted the invitation to spend Christmas at Sotherton," she said to Henry when he came to ride with her the next day.

"Why, Fanny, what would you have had me say? I could hardly refuse, not when all our families will be gathered together."

"Of course you are right. It is just that now it will be so long before we can go back to Everingham. I thought we might be there for Christmas, and now it will be months before I even see my new home."

"But you have not been anxious to leave Mansfield. Did you not say just the other day how much you will miss it?"

It was true, leaving her beloved Mansfield for a new and unfamiliar place made Fanny uneasy, even in thought. But a stay at Sotherton, where she found unpleasant memories in every room, was certainly not what she had intended. Maria Rushworth was the last person with whom she wanted to spend her first few months of married life.

None of this, however, could she easily explain to Henry.

"I would have liked to talk it over with you," she said at length.

"I am sorry, Fanny, but I still do not see how, even after talking it over, we could have given any other answer. And it is not like you to cavil at spending time with your family."

"You are right, Henry," she admitted, but despite her blinking a tear had overflowed her brimming eyes. He would see it, of course.

"Why Fanny, what is the matter?" he said in a tone of horror, pulling her into his arms. "Tell me -- if it is so unpleasant to you, I will invent an excuse. We need not go. Only say you are not afraid of Mrs. Rushworth on my behalf."

"No." Truthfully, she added, "-- not exactly. But it is so unpleasant to have her always saying things she intends to hurt us --"

"You must not think I do not notice when she insults you. I am sorry I cannot protect you any better, dearest; but when I attempt to defend you she grows worse. I know you are too good to regard her -- you are her superior in every way. She can have no power over you, Fanny."

For answer Fanny pressed her face into his coat lapel. "No, but -- I think after all, I will miss you very much while you are away."

When he had kissed her until they were both breathless, Henry said, "I will not go, then."

"You will, I know you will. It is right to go."

"Then I will not go tomorrow -- I can put it off until next week."

Fanny shook her head, smiling. "You must not say that."

"Must I not, Miss Price? Why is that?"

"You know why," Fanny said. "You know what will happen if you keep putting it off."

"Nothing very dreadful, and a good many very delightful things."

She looked down. It was difficult sometimes to determine if he were teasing or serious, and though she knew it made him happy to flirt a little, she was afraid of always being the one to remind him of his duty.

"Do not look like that, Fanny," he whispered. "I know too well what will make you happy, and I do not mean to neglect anything that will provide for your safety and comfort. Everingham will be dearer to me as your home than it has ever been to me before."

Chapter 21

Posted on 2008-11-19

Though there was much of married life to which Fanny had yet to become accustomed, she had not felt the difference in herself so acutely as when she entered Sotherton as Mrs. Henry Crawford. She was forced to keep reminding herself, as Maria's housekeeper showed them to their rooms, that she was no longer Fanny Price, a poor cousin of Mrs. Rushworth's, but an invited guest, the lady of her own house, though she had yet to see it.

It was an even stranger feeling to dress for dinner here, than it had been that evening she had dined here after her engagement, or than her first evening back at Mansfield as a married woman. It had been odd to go back to Mansfield, and share a bedroom with Henry; not her old back bedroom, but one of the finer guest rooms. But after all, it was Mansfield and she was among family. The going down to dinner, and being escorted in state by Sir Thomas as befitted a bride, was almost like a joke there. Henry had teased her about it, and so had Mary.

But now she was neither at home, nor alone with Henry among strangers who would not bother to look at her; and very likely Maria and Julia and the other guests would be watching her at every moment. She was trying not to dwell too much on it while she pinned up the last strand of hair, when Henry came in from the dressing room.

"What will you wear for a necklace tonight?" he asked, coming up behind her and looking at her in the heavy and ornate mirror over the dressing table. Their room was rather old-fashioned, and Fanny wondered whether Maria had put much planning into the room assignments.

"Surely the pearl necklace is too fine for a family dinner?" she answered Henry, as he held up the pendant he had given her for a wedding present -- a much too extravagant wedding present, she had protested in vain. "I thought the gold chain Mary gave me last year."

He picked it up and fastened it around her neck for her. "Yes, the one Mary gave you -- I remember it well. Mary is such a bad influence," he said in a low tone, and Fanny saw in the mirror that he was giving her a smile half-sly, half-apologetic.

"Do not blame Mary for your iniquities!" she cried, a little disturbed that he should refer to it. She seldom liked to revisit the past.

He bent and kissed the back of her neck, murmuring against her ear. "I am only teasing, Fanny. I know it was very bad, and I am the more sorry that my first gift to you could not be given outright, so you would have only good and blameless memories to associate with it."

She could not but be charmed, as much by his words as by his caresses. Perhaps it was better to acknowledge past mistakes, rather than attempt to ignore them -- which would be only pretense, since clearly he remembered the incident of the necklace just as well as she did.

"You are forgiven, Henry," she said, rising and turning into his arms. "And I will not think of the necklace with unpleasant associations, if I can -- I will think of this, instead." Her voice dropped as his mouth met hers.

Fanny went down to meet the company for dinner with more confidence -- with Henry's kiss on her lips, she could not feel that anyone else's opinion mattered nearly as much.

As it was so near Christmas, Sotherton was already decorated with holly branches and all the other appurtenances of the season; and Fanny thought they suited its stolid grandeur rather well. Julia and Tom had arrived before them, and Mary and Edmund were expected on the morrow, though Edmund would have to ride back to Thornton Lacey to preach his Christmas sermon -- a duty he refused to leave to a curate. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram were asked to Christmas dinner, but Lady Bertram did not like to stay overnight. A Rushworth cousin was to come later, as well.

Between Tom and Julia, and Maria, the dinner was lively enough, even though some of the expected company were yet to arrive. After dinner Maria suggested cards.

"I would play," she said, "but when Mrs. Bertram is here we may have more music -- perhaps a glee, or we may sing carols. Mr. Crawford, will you play whist? Mr. Rushworth will not play, so I am left without a partner."

"We have too many for one table of whist, and not enough for two tables of anything," objected Henry, frowning. "Fanny, would you like --?"

"No, no, I will not play," said Fanny. "If Mrs. Rushworth prefers whist I will be happy to observe you."

"I do prefer whist," said Maria, smiling.

"But --" Henry hestitated, but Fanny was anxious above all to avoid a scene.

"I am content," she said in a low voice, for his ears.

That was enough for Maria. She took his arm, and led him off. Henry made a face at Fanny over his shoulder, but she did not think he seemed too reluctant. And really, there was no reason why he should not play cards. Fanny hoped she had faith and generosity enough not to be jealous of him.

After all, she had not expected much from the party at Sotherton. To be quiet and proper, and not to attract too much notice, was all she wished for herself; and to avoid any unpleasantness, the best she could hope for the company in general.

Mary and Edmund's arrival made the party complete. Fanny thought that it would always be so -- Mary was the kind of person who made any gathering livelier and more amusing and more charming by her very presence.

They had come just in time for dinner, and were whisked away upstairs to dress before they had done more than greet the other guests. But Mary met Fanny on the stairs as they went down to the drawing room.

"Fanny! Dear sister, how well you look. I meant to say so last week when we dined at Mansfield, but I was distracted and forgot. But you look even better now. Marriage agrees with you -- I may say that as an older married woman, you know. It is one of the sly things we say, so that we may look knowing and wise."

"Thank you. You look very well yourself," said Fanny. "That is a new dress, is it not?"

"It is not. I hesitate to confess, Fanny, for you will be so shocked," she said, laughing. "It is an old dress I had made for winter two years ago, and I turned it and remade it. Do not look at my hem, for it is dreadfully botched. It is my first time turning a dress, but these are the straits we poor clergymen's wives are forced to. Is it not a horrid tale?"

"You are teasing me, Mary."

"Of course I am -- what else am I to do? If I attempted to hide my dress's ignoble origins, I should be ashamed of myself, and I never feel ashamed. I have made it a rule, in fact."

Fanny did not answer that, because she did not understand her. She could not tell if Mary were really in high spirits, or only affecting to be. It worried her.

"We have hardly talked in so many months," Mary continued. "I should say, 'this age' and affect to cry, but I am quite serious. Since you visited us I have never been quite satisfied with Thornton Lacey -- it feels as though you should live there too. I should like to have your company always, but I suppose Henry would object."

"I should object to what?" he asked, coming up behind them. "Or may I not inquire too closely?"

"I meant to take Fanny and have her with me always at Thornton Lacey, but you will very likely prevent me."

"Yes, I certainly will," he said, taking Fanny's hand. "I am sorry, but I must insist on keeping my wife for myself."

"But perhaps you will come to see us in the summer, when we are well settled at Everingham," said Fanny. It had seemed the right thing to say, but she hesitated and looked up at Henry. "That is, if you do not mind."

"No, of course not -- you are the mistress of Everingham now, dearest. You must issue whatever invitations you choose," he replied warmly. "And I should never dare to object to Mary in any case, although I will watch her carefully to make sure she does not attempt to carry you off with her."

"We are sisters now, you know," cried Mary defiantly. "And we will not be separated, not by the claims of a mere husband!"

As she spoke, Edmund came down the stairs. Fanny flushed as if she had been caught in wrongdoing. She did not like the look on Edmund's face; he made no sign of having heard Mary's last words, but Fanny could not doubt that he had. She looked at Henry anxiously, but he was greeting Edmund warmly and did not appear troubled either.

Fanny did not know what Mary was about. It was as if she had returned to the mocking scorn that had sometimes made Fanny so uneasy before her marriage. And she had not been so when Fanny was visiting Thornton Lacey -- then her pretty speeches had been all in favor of marriage and domesticity. Fanny was disappointed and dismayed to think that it had all been acting.

She took Henry's arm as they continued to the drawing room, and contrived to whisper to him, "Mary seems troubled, I think."

"Do you? I did not see anything but high spirits," he returned, also in a low voice. But he paused as if struck, and added, "No, perhaps there was something. You are very quick to observe, Fanny. I would not say 'troubled,' exactly, but there was an edge of -- I do not know what."

"Unhappiness?" she suggested.

Henry shook his head and opened his mouth as if to say something, but there was no more time; they were waited for.

Chapter 22

Posted on 2008-11-24

The following days continued in a similar pattern: whether charades, or music, or cards was the entertainment of the evening, Maria gathered around her those who were wittiest and most charming. As the wittiest and most charming of course included Henry, Fanny had not been allowed very much time with him. It was perhaps to be expected in a large party, and she reminded herself again and again that she must not be inconsiderate, even if she was a newlywed. Henry seemed to be enjoying himself, as he always did in company; it would be abominable to curtail his pleasure with selfish complaining.

On this evening, they were playing cards again. Though Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram were not present, Maria had invited enough young people from the neighborhood to make up several tables. There were still two left out, but she did not stop to inquire about them; either she did not count Edmund and Fanny as guests, or she knew that they would not complain whatever she did.

Fanny would not really have minded being left out of the cards, ordinarily, since she did not care for the noise of such a large group, and knew she would only be a hindrance. She had sat down at the desk in the corner to write an over-due letter to William, and in such occupation she might have been content; but she could not prevent herself from occasionally looking over her shoulder at the table on the other side of the room. Maria had again managed to get Henry as a partner. It would have been difficult to refuse politely, but knowing his powers of persuasion Fanny thought he might have managed it if he had really wanted to. Maria was leaning forward and laughing at him with her eyes, just as Fanny looked around, her face glowing with arch delight. Perhaps it was just as well, Fanny thought, that she could not see his face.

Edmund was not playing either -- he had gone to the library to fetch a book, and come back with it. Fanny had not seen him turn a page in some minutes, however. She looked over at him and met his eyes; and he got up and came over to her.

"If you are finished with your letter, will you walk with me, Fanny?" he asked.

"I am not finished, but I will write more later -- I have no more to say just now," she replied. "I would be happy to walk with you, if you will wait while I change my shoes and fetch a shawl."

In fact, it had been more thinking than writing. What could she write to William about? There was so much that was too private to be shared, even with her brother. And it was hard to describe the Sotherton party in any way without letting a tinge of bitterness through. A walk with Edmund would be a welcome distraction.

It was almost like a year ago, as they went down through the garden wilderness, which being sunken was protected from the chilly wind. Sotherton was cold and white instead of hot and green, but they themselves were the same, after all that had happened. Nothing had changed, though everything had changed. Edmund was silent, but in spite of all the doubts and uneasiness of the past week, she felt as comfortable and safe in his company as ever.

"You do not seem unhappy, Fanny." said he abruptly.

Fanny started, though of course he could not know what she had been thinking. "Why should I be unhappy, cousin?"

"No reason in the world. I am glad that you are so well and contented. Perhaps I am surprised to find happiness in others, because I am not --" he broke off.

"You are not happy, Edmund?" she asked, when it seemed he did not intend to continue.

"Fanny, I do not know what to do. I should not speak of it, but I need help, and I feel as if I could confide in you."

Fanny reflected -- she felt a little apprehensive about what he might say, but if he needed help, how could she refuse? And surely it must be Edmund's part to decide what should be proper to discuss with her. She said, "I am ready to listen, if you feel sure it is right; I must trust your nice sense of propriety to decide. But perhaps your wife should be the one --"

"No, Fanny, I cannot speak to Mary. The matter concerns her. I think I must explain it to you. That can do no harm, for you are the soul of discretion, and if you can suggest anything to better the situation I will have gained immeasurably and lost nothing."

"What is it, Edmund?"

"I fear -- I very much fear that I cannot keep Mary happy. She is not made for my life. I thought that it would be enough that she loves me -- that everything else would follow. But it is not so. She does care for me, I think, but she cannot be content with solitude. She grows restless at Thornton Lacey, in such a confined society. I wish I could gratify her wish, Fanny! But I cannot afford to go to Town, even if I had not duties which prevent me in any case."

"She knows that, surely."

"It makes no difference to her. She has no capacity for self-sacrifice, for the discipline of denial. Perhaps it is unfair to blame her -- the way she was taught to live from childhood --"

"But Edmund, have you talked with her?"

"I have tried, but it is no good. Oh Fanny, you know her! It is all charm and half-apologies that mean nothing, and then she laughs it off and promises to be good. And then she will put her arms around me and -- and she makes it impossible for me to say anything."

Fanny blushed. He should not be saying this to her -- flattering though it was that he should seek her out to confide in. She wondered that after all, Edmund should be the one regretting -- but then she stopped short. It was dangerous to consider in that direction.

"I am very sorry, but I do not see how I am to help you," she said.

"Perhaps you can think of some diversion, some way to catch her interest, or even if you and Henry could invite her to visit occasionally -- not at first of course, but when you have settled in at Everingham. She is so fond of you, and she seemed happiest when you visited us."

"I have already asked her to visit us in the new year," Fanny said. "But Everingham will not be very lively either, I think. I am sure there are neighbors, and Henry likes to have company, so perhaps --"

"Thank you, Fanny," he said earnestly, and pressed her hand.

"But Edmund, I do not think you should rely on me, or even Henry. If Mary is unhappy, it is you who must be her comfort, before anyone else." She stopped, recollecting herself. "Forgive me, Edmund, I have no right to offer advice, and I have neither wisdom or experience that should enable me to recommend any course of action to you."

"No, you are right, Fanny -- you so often are. You may be inexperienced, but I do not think your conscience often directs you wrongly. I should be her comfort, but -- I do not know how. Tell me, Fanny. Instruct me."

Fanny was both embarrassed and troubled. Edmund did not speak like himself and she was uneasy with the confidence he was putting in her.

"Have you thought that perhaps Mary is just lonely?" she asked at length, thinking back over the conversation she had had with Mary when they first arrived.

"She might go to visit Mrs. Grant whenever she likes, or make friends among some of the respectable women of the neighborhood, but she does not do that. I cannot believe she is lonely. She has never complained to me of loneliness."

Mary did not complain directly -- it was not her way. Fanny wondered that Edmund did not know that himself. Surely he should know her better than anyone, as Henry knew Fanny herself better than anyone. At least, she had thought he did; but then that implied Henry should realize that she was unhappy staying at Sotherton, that it was antithetical to everything in her nature. And he did not seem to notice how she felt.

Fanny sighed. On her wedding day, she remembered thinking that it was the end at last -- the end to all uncertainty, the destination of her journey. How foolish she had been! A wedding was not the end at all.

"Speak, Fanny --" Edmund urged. "What are you thinking?"

She opened her mouth to explain to him, but in spite of the fact that he had so long been her confidante, she could not begin now. She felt that he would not understand.

"I am just thinking about Mary," she said with partial truth. "Can you not ask her, Edmund? Would it not be better? She is not used to speaking of her deepest feelings, I think -- she has been taught to hide them. But you are her husband; she must learn to trust you."

"No. I cannot speak to her in that way. You are right that she hides her feelings, Fanny; but I cannot force her to trust me. If I could only describe to you the nature of the relations between us -- if you only knew --"

"Please do not!" cried Fanny in horror.

"What are you fearing, Fanny? I only mean that there is no intimacy of mind and soul. I feel as if my wife is a stranger to me. I think we were closer to each other when we were debating the merits of the clergy as a profession, last year, than we are now."

Fanny did not know what to say.

"I dare say we will be late to tea," said Edmund. "Thank you, Fanny, for -- thank you --" and he pressed her hand, with a speaking look.

When they went in to the house, the card tables had broken up and everyone was standing in idle conversation awaiting tea. Mary was at the piano, laughing up at Tom and the young Sotherton cousin.

Henry left a group near the fire when he saw Fanny enter.

"Fanny -- I did not know you intended to disappear," he said, drawing her a little aside to the window.

"I was only walking in the garden," she returned, astonished by his look and tone.

"With Edmund?"

"Certainly." There was no reason for her to blush, yet she felt her face heat. It was the way Henry was looking at her.

"You were asked for," was all he said, "and I did not know where to find you."

"I am sorry," she began, but they were interrupted.

"Mr. Crawford! You are wanted." It was Maria. "Your taste and musical discernment are required -- we cannot decide which glee to sing. Assist us, if you please," and she put her hand on his arm.

Henry went, without another word to Fanny.

She remained by the window, looking up as the stars began to be visible in the dusk. What Henry meant by questioning her about what she had been doing, she could not imagine. While he sat with Maria every evening, what harm could there be in her walking out with Edmund -- who was now her brother?

Chapter 23

Posted on 2008-12-03

Fanny had expected that Henry would speak to her when they retired to their room; and she had her defense all ready. But he said nothing, either of her walk with Edmund or of his wishing to find her. She thought that perhaps his reproach had been only the result of a momentary irritation, and endeavored to forget it herself.

The next day was Christmas Eve. Edmund was to ride back to Thornton Lacey at some time in the morning, and it was a fine day for riding. It had snowed, but the sun was glaringly bright and as the day grew warmer it looked as if the snow would disappear by dinner time. The rest of the company, inspired perhaps by Edmund's mentioning it, talked of riding out themselves for pleasure. Everyone had grown tired of indoor pursuits and felt the attraction of refreshing themselves outdoors. If it should be cold, no matter -- they would be enlivened by the exercise and the housekeeper would prepare hot drinks for their return.

Fanny wavered even as the ladies went to change into riding habits and Mr. Rushworth assured anyone who would listen that he had more than enough horses in his stable to mount everyone. She could not decide; though she missed riding and longed for fresh air as much as anyone, Maria had talked of riding a good distance, and she knew that she would either interfere with their enjoyment, or disgrace herself trying to keep up with them. But to stay home looked very unsociable. Either course seemed likely to end in mortification and awkwardness.

While she was thus thinking, she looked up and saw Henry standing with Maria across the room. They seemed to be talking privately, and his head was bent down to her as he spoke earnestly about something. Maria flashed a passionate look up at him, and Fanny was instantly decided. She would not go.

"I do not think I feel well enough to ride," she said to Julia, who was nearest her; and she went out into the hall, walking as quickly as she could.

Edmund was in the hall, his gloves and hat ready on the side table, settling his overcoat on his shoulders.

"Ah, Fanny," he said. "I wanted to have a word with you before I go. Will you step aside with me? Only for a moment -- I would not detain you from the day's pleasure."

"Of course," she murmured mechanically, and followed him into the library.

"It is regarding the matter we spoke of yesterday," began Edmund. "I mean to stay at Thornton Lacey until Sunday, since it is only a few days away. While I am gone, may I entrust Mary to your care, Fanny?"

"My care! What do you mean, Edmund?"

"I mean, will you talk with her and try to find if there is some way to make her happier?"

"I will talk with her, naturally. But I do think you are laying too much responsibility on me. I would not like to guarantee any other person's happiness."

"I did say ‘try', Fanny."

"I will try, on my own account as Mary's friend and sister. But I hope," she could not forbear adding, "I hope you will talk with her also, when you return."

"Thank you from my heart," he said, making no reply to her last request. And taking her hand, he carried it to his lips and kissed it tenderly.

Fanny drew her hand back sharply. She felt very uneasy, and then ashamed of her own uneasiness. She had once longed for such attentions from Edmund, and though she had long ago determined it impossible to think of him as anything but a cousin, a part of her could not be comfortable in the intimacy of a brother with him.

When Edmund had gone, she sat in the library for a few minutes to recover her composure. She had not, after all, done anything wrong. And she did not thing Edmund intended any wrong. He should not turn to her before Mary -- but perhaps he did not know what else to do. Fanny remembered that she had always thought Edmund's feeling for Mary was nearer infatuation than love. It was inevitable that he should be disillusioned; such a state cannot continue forever. Much as she had always admired Edmund, she felt at the moment a great deal sorrier for Mary; it was not Mary's fault that he had deceived himself.

After perhaps fifteen minutes Fanny went out into the hall. It was silent; she crossed to the open door of the morning room, and thought at first that it was empty too. But it was not quite deserted -- Henry stood by the window.

"Has everyone gone already?" she asked, as he turned his head, but did not speak. "Why did you not -- I thought you were to go riding too?"

"You think me completely heartless, apparently; but no matter what other faults I may have, I would not leave my wife behind without a word," he said, his voice colder than she had ever heard it. "For the second time in as many days, I did not know where to find you."

"I was only just across the hall," Fanny stammered, her logical assessment of Edmund's motives and her own feelings deserting her. "I was -- Edmund wished --"

"Yes, so the butler informed me," snapped Henry. He turned around to show his face darkened with anger. "I find it hard to understand your determination to do what you know will hurt me. If you prefer your cousin's company to mine, very well; but at least have to courtesy to inform me of your whereabouts so I may not be reduced to asking the servants where my wife is."

Fanny gasped under the drenching chill of this speech. "I -- did not -- I do not prefer -- what can you mean, Henry?" But even as she spoke, she felt a guilty dread fall upon her. He could not be speaking of her -- it sounded so sordid, so horrible. And yet, she had been uneasy in Edmund's company.

"Will you force me to say it?" he said, averting his face. "I do not suppose you meant to do me wrong -- I know you well enough for that. I do not suppose you thought how it might appear. But I am still your husband and I resent -- yes, Fanny, resent bitterly -- your confiding in another. And knowing what I know, what your feelings for him have been -- "

He broke off as Fanny went white. She did not tremble or go faint, but she could not speak. Denial was necessary, but her brain seemed to have frozen.

"I did not confide in him!" she whispered, and stopped there. What a stupid thing to say; she knew at once that Henry did not care who had confided in whom. Understanding struck her like a second blow, with more force than the first. She had used Henry's own excuse, that she had not really done anything wrong. But she was mistaken, and he was right. Her conversations with Edmund had been intimate, after all. The fact that Edmund had talked while she only listened did not change that fact.

And appearances mattered -- that was what she had herself had tried to explain to Henry on the night they became engaged. She had hurt Henry, even though she had not really done anything wrong -- it was hurt, not pride, she could see in his half-hidden profile.

Fanny stood petrified as her mind turned over and rearranged itself. She, the outraged innocent, was just as much in the wrong as Henry with his free manners. She had wronged him, after all; if her actions might be excusable on the grounds of habit and affection, her heart's motives had been reprehensible and sinful. She reviewed with a stab of inner shame how flattered she had been that Edmund sought her out; her own embarrassment which ought to have warned her that she was not behaving with perfect propriety. She had been unfaithful to Henry in thought; and her disloyalty was unbearably painful to contemplate. Her actions had hurt not only Henry, but Edmund and Mary too. And she had done this thinking herself perfectly above reproach, while she felt virtuously patient in bearing with Henry's light flirtations.

She looked up to see that he had his hand on the door; he was leaving her.

"No, no! Henry! Do not go yet. Please listen to me. You are right, but I did not think -- "

He shook his head, still with his back turned to her. "Stop, Fanny. Leave me be for the moment. I must have time to calm myself." He went out, and closed the door behind him.

Fanny sank down on the floor where she stood and hid her face in her hands in a storm of weeping, too shaken to contemplate anything. When the sobs stopped she got up unsteadily and went upstairs to their rooms. She sat down in the broad old window seat, leaning her head against the glass to cool her heated face. Utter misery filled her heart. She felt hurt by Henry's resentment, but that was not the most overwhelming feeling. Indeed, she deserved everything he could say. No, the worst of it was her own stupidity, and yes, pride. She could see now, in the light of her own self-knowledge, the dark little thought that had lurked at the back of her mind: the idea that she was and always would be Henry's moral superior. That she had anything to learn from him had never crossed her mind. And now she was disgusted with herself. Her spiritual pride had been as abominable as his spiritual laxity, and worse, for she ought to have known better. For the moment, she hated herself.

The most heartfelt prayer for forgiveness that she had ever prayed, made her feel a little better, and she turned her thoughts to Henry. A few wild fears crossed her mind: would he do something rash to harm himself? Would he go away and leave her behind? Would he even listen to her apologies? She tried to reason with herself, but love's fear is irrational and will not be calmed. It had never occurred to Fanny that married people might argue and yet come together stronger than before. The examples of marriage she had had before her showed no such reality, and she dreaded that it was all over for her.

It can only be imagined what a wretched day Fanny spent. She could not face the rest of the company, and stayed in her room pleading a headache, which had become actually true, and no wonder after all her crying. It grew dark and she strained her ears listening for his footstep. He would not go to bed in anger, would he? Surely he would speak to her first. He must. Oh please let him come!

Chapter 24

Posted on 2008-12-10

Henry thanked God the house was deserted. He could not have borne with any politeness at the moment. Mr. Rushworth had offered him a horse to ride, so he went straight to the stables, and asked which way the rest had ridden. He thanked the boy and set off in the opposite direction.

That Fanny should have sought her cousin's company before his, should have put Edmund's wishes in first priority above his, hurt him deeply, not merely because he knew Fanny to have loved Edmund once. He did not really doubt Fanny's faithfulness -- her integrity, her sense of moral rectitude, was his guarantee even without her love. But what chafed the wound was the knowledge that Edmund deserved Fanny more than he did. Edmund would not have made Fanny so unhappy -- he would not have flirted with another woman, even lightly; or left his wife neglected.

He had been flirting. It was only just to admit it to himself when he had complained of Fanny's behavior. It meant nothing -- how often he had said that! He had meant only to make himself agreeable to the company. But it was too easy for him to flirt in his habitual way. His treatment of Maria Rushworth had been more particular than mere politeness required.

No wonder that Fanny had sought other society! Henry shook his head in disgust at himself. The same offense again! How often he had thought that Fanny's love was a gift he did not merit. But an undeserved gift can also be a burden. He would never be worthy of her. Perhaps it was useless to try.

Still -- the look on Fanny's face when he had reproached her with her old affections for Edmund -- he would never forget it. He had never deserved her, but now he had wounded her more deeply than ever. It was impossible not to compare his own emotion to what she must be feeling. After earning her trust, how despicable must be a man who could then break her heart.

Fanny hated being at Sotherton. He knew that. He ought not to have forgotten it. With a sudden resolution he turned back toward the house.

"Fanny?" It was Henry's voice at the door, unexpectedly. It opened and he peered round it, but Fanny was so stiff from sitting in one attitude that she could hardly move, let alone throw herself in his arms as she longed to do.

"My dearest, you are sitting in the dark," he said, softly coming towards her. She stretched out her hands and the next moment he had pulled her to her feet, to hold her against his chest.

"Forgive me, Fanny," he whispered at last, to her dismay.

"No, do not say that; you have apologized too often already. This time I am to beg your forgiveness, Henry! You were exactly right. I have been so wrong, and so proud -- so unworthy --"

He bent as if to kiss her, then drew back, hesitating. He did not let go of her, and she could not help leaning her head on his shoulder, though his emotions so far seemed uncertain.

"Perhaps you'd better explain what you mean, Fanny," he said. "I hate to be at odds, but I am not sure we are understanding each other."

They were too alike in their wish to avoid trouble, Fanny thought. Explaining would be difficult and painful. Nevertheless, when he asked her in that voice, she could not evade him.

"I mean just as I said. You were quite right. Edmund and I spoke only of Mary -- he is very unhappy; did you know? But," hurrying on lest she should lose the courage to say it, "it does not matter what we talked about; to speak with him on such matters was completely improper, as much as I longed to help Edmund. It was too intimate, just as you said, and I -- liked it too much." It was very hard to say the last words.

There was a silence. "You liked it," repeated Henry in a flat voice.

"No, no, no!" she exclaimed, horrified. "Not like that. I don't mean that I still feel for Edmund what I used to. No, you must not think that, Henry -- I love you. I do love you, so very dearly --"

At that, he did kiss her, with passionate haste. Fanny broke away to say breathlessly, "I only mean that I was flattered by Edmund's wish to confide in me. I was pleased to be admired. I have not been so important to Edmund in a long time, perhaps never."

"As for that, Fanny, I should never have cast up to you my knowledge of your past in such a way. It was ungenerous and cruel, especially from one who -- well, let us say that I can understand the appeal of flattery better than you know. I have neglected you. If you did wish for the company of Edmund, who has so long been dear to you, it would be my fault only. And I know you do not harbor any guilty inclination."

She clenched her hand on his sleeve. "Oh Henry! You are too good. I did not mean any wrong, but it should have been enough that it made you uneasy. That itself was bad enough. But I am afraid my actions may have hurt Mary and Edmund too. She may see it just as you did. You must know, I thought myself above reproach all the while. I was proud even."

"You, Fanny -- proud?" he rejoined with a smile. The smile disappeared as he continued, "That is just what I thought myself when I was with Mrs. Rushworth -- do not let her name give you pain, Fanny. Listen to me. I never would have been able to comprehend how I was doing wrong, if I had not been able to see it from your point of view, when I felt the same way you did. And you have more to forgive, for my neglect made your trifling trespass possible."

"Not trifling, if it made you unhappy," she murmured.

He moved away, impatiently, and walked across the room. "Fanny!" he burst out. "I must admit I have always thought morality stuffy and boring. I thought the rules of right and wrong merely stiff commandments imposed by society. You have taught me that doing right is really nothing more nor less than unselfish love. We were both wrong exactly because we hurt others. Good intentions mean nothing if you assume they are correct without thinking," he said earnestly.

Their eyes met; he smiled in that particular way he had of combining mischief and tenderness. "What have you done to me, Fanny? You've got me sermonizing already."

It was incomprehensible how she had so long withstood his charm -- she melted now at his very look. He reached out and swung her in to him with one arm while with the free hand he wiped the tears from her face; she lifted her mouth to him and he bent his head at the same time with the same impulse.

Fanny lay long awake that night; more than three months of marriage had not yet accustomed her to the sensation of sharing a bed. Henry stirred, his hand brushed her side, and she could feel herself blushing in the dark even with no one to see. She held her breath to listen to his breathing. Yes, slow and even. Perhaps she might dare to nestle a little closer, very cautiously so as not to waken him --

"Fanny?"

"I am sorry! I didn't mean to trouble you."

"You could not trouble me -- anyway, I wasn't asleep. Come here --" after a little awkward rearranging, they rested close, Fanny on her side with her head on his shoulder.

"Happy, Fanny?"

"Very happy, Henry."

"But not quite content," he said. "I should not have made you come here. I should have known how unhappy you would be here."

She pressed a little closer to him for answer. She could not deny it -- she did long to leave Sotherton.

"Would you like to go home, my love?" he asked.

"Home?" For a moment, she was confused. "Oh! You mean Everingham!"

"Yes. Our home."

"I would like to very much, Henry."

He fumbled in the darkness to touch her face, and having found it, kissed it tenderly. "I do not suppose we can leave tomorrow, as it is Christmas Day, but we will go as soon as we can."

"That is the best Christmas present you could make me, Henry."

"Then good night, Fanny, my love, and sleep well."

"Good night, Henry," she whispered back, and nestled her head close to his.

"What are we to do about Mary?" asked Fanny some days later. The weather had held fair as if making ready for their journey. It was frosty, but that made good traveling weather, Henry said. No mud to stick in the wheels -- they flew across the frozen ground as easily as along a paved street. It was cold inside the carriage, true, but that merely provided Henry an excuse to hold her close. He had piled them both so high with rugs and blankets that Fanny hardly noticed when the brick for her feet had grown cold.

"What can we do about Mary?" Henry echoed her question.

"I thought you might think of something," she said, hesitating. "But if you do not like to interfere --" She had thought Henry would no longer be troubled by the subject of Edmund and Mary, but perhaps she had been wrong.

"You misunderstand me, dearest. I would wish for their happiness as much as you do. But we cannot make them happy."

"But surely we might do a little to help."

"If Mary is really lonely, it will be doing her a kindness to invite her to stay with us, as you had planned. But Fanny, I do not think you ought to expect any great change in her relation with Edmund."

Fanny was distressed. "Oh but Henry -- there must be something --"

"You think me harsh, Fanny?"

"No," she said. "I think you are right, and it makes me sad. It is so dreadful to see them unhappy. A brother and sister to us -- and Edmund the best friend I ever had. You do not mind if I say so?"

"No, no. I should be a brute of a husband if I minded that, now."

"But we shall see them so often, I hope, and must it always be like this? -- never easy or contented together? Never understanding each other?"

Henry tightened his arm around her. "We may hope it will not always be so. We may pray. But I know Mary as I know myself. Until she has learned how great a gift is love, as I have --"

"Until he has learned to trust, as I have," added Fanny.

"I am afraid they will never know contentment."

They were silent for some time. Then Fanny turned her face toward him to find him looking down at her with half a smile. He pushed her bonnet back a little and bent to kiss her.

"Your face is cold, Fanny."

"I am warm enough inside," she returned, pressing his hand under the blankets.

The carriage wheels crunched on gravel instead of hard earth.. Fanny had been reclining against her husband, but at the sound she sat up, alert and anxious.

"I know very well you will see plenty of which to disapprove," he said at her back, but with a laugh in his voice. "You don't like improvements, as I remember."

"I shall endeavor not to disapprove of all of them," she replied. But anxious not to offend, she turned towards him at once. "I am sure I shall love it, Henry. The summerhouse, especially, will give so much comfort and ease."

"Oh, you protest, but I know you. Never fear, we shall replant as many trees as you wish. You shall make it just what you like, and I shall always be happy as long as I have projects to arrange." Almost haltingly he added, "Fanny -- I hope Everingham will be in time as dear to you as Mansfield once was."

They turned a corner and the ground rose a little to reveal the house beyond -- her own house, and at last, her own home.