As you might have guessed, I've been working through my issues with MP in ManGo, and not gently either. This was a remarkably satisfying chapter
title to write.
Mansfield Gothic
Chapter 17: in which I might kill Mr. Crawford
Eventually, I am no longer in my uncle's bedroom. Crawford is pulling me through the halls, guiding me back to the East Room.
"Wait!" I say, digging in my heels as my memory returns. "I must go back for the Mark." After all this trouble, to have my uncle or his valet pick it up again would be sinfully careless.
"I have it," says Crawford and he resumes his pace, pulling me after him.
He
has it? Where? "Let go of it," I command him. "Drop it. Now."
"I am afraid I cannot do that," he mutters darkly. I look at him. After a bit, I can see the curse of Possession snaking up his arm from the Mark now held tightly in his fist. It joins the other curses I saw earlier and weaves about his body, binding him to his master. But the vision is fading, the Lion's gift is expiring, and I am very quickly running out of time.
"What possessed you to touch it?" I ask, pointlessly.
"I didn't intend to. When I opened Sir Thomas' hand, it fell and rolled on the floor. I was afraid we would lose it. I reached for it without thinking."
I need to emulate William and consider the situation. Crawford is very clearly trying to resist the effects of Possession. His prior experiences no doubt give him guidance. But it is also clear that this is a losing battle and he is slowly succumbing.
"Let me go," I order him.
"I wish I could," he says sadly.
"And what do you imagine you will do to me?" I ask.
He does not answer, which is just as well. He does not want to do anything and I will not permit him to do much.
Thankfully, he cannot do more than hold onto me in the corridors. One hand is gripping my arm and the other is occupied fully with the Mark. He can drag me down the hall -- he has already brought me a fair distance from my uncle's and aunt's private rooms -- but I still have one free hand, and Guillaume if it comes to it.
I make the decision to avoid using a blade, Guillaume or otherwise, until it is absolutely necessary. I have killed another human being before when she was under a demon’s control, but Mr. Crawford is too aware of his own Possession, actively fighting against it, and I still believe he can be saved from it. He does not want to hurt me and so I stall not try to hurt him irrevocably either.
Still, I must have some latitude. I scratch his arm which shatters a curse near his wrist; the effect is enough for him to release me. This frustrates him and he tries to grab me again but his fingers must be a little numb and he cannot tighten his grasp.
Then he changes tactics; he attempts to apply his bulk against me. I may be tired and my ribs may be slightly sore, but I can still dance circles around him. When I let him get close enough, I reach out and rip away a curse before darting out of his way. Over time, we go down an entire hall this way and he fares worse and worse. The protections given me by the Lion begin to fade as well, and I notice an occasional stinging sensation although I am well accustomed to it and Crawford bears the brunt. My plan is to exhaust him in this way until he is easier to manage, possibly lure him into a room where the commotion will not be noticed, and then knock him down and pry the coin from him with as much force as necessary.
Then I make an unfortunate mistake for both of us. I dodge to the left, but the curse I have just broken staggers him and he accidentally runs into me. He is able to get an arm around me and presses me close to him. I fight back by tearing at the curse wrapped around his chest, the only one left within easy reach.
This curse does not shatter or unravel. Instead I yank it out of him in a thin barbed line. It resembles in many ways the Possession emanating from the Mark and I realize in a flash of insight that it is the remnant of his earlier Possession. Tonight has proven to be extremely illuminating, and I look forward to sharing what I have learned with my family and other demon hunters provided we each live long enough for a reunion.
Crawford clutches his heart as the curse exits him but he cannot prevent the chain from coming out. He pales and gasps for air. If this does not leave him weak enough to topple, I shall be very much surprised.
However, my surprise is greater still when the last barb emerges. Crawford's eyes immediately shutter and he drops to the rug as limp and lifeless as a rag doll. The impact is enough to jar loose the Mark which bounces harmlessly nearby once then twice.
The demon's Possession is not quite done, however, and after a few hours of handling curses with something bordering impunity, I do not expect the flash of light that blinds me. I rub my eyes and pray to see the path of righteousness through the obstacles and wickedness that surround me. My sight returns slowly, first as varying thicknesses of black, then as shades of gray, then finally recognizable shapes in the colors of night. In all this time I hear not a sound from Crawford or anything else beyond a howl of winter wind beating against the outside. When at last I can see him again, he has not moved.
My vision is still recovering from the backlash, or perhaps the Lion's gift has expired, but I cannot see any trace of a curse on Crawford. There are no pockets of darkness, no fiendish knots. Even in the darkness, his skin is as pale and still as marble, and his face has a deathly pallor against his mouth.
I kneel to examine him. I rest my fingers gently over his nose and mouth but there is no breath. His chest does not rise or fall. His eyelids do not twitch. I place my ear against him but do not hear the thud of a beating heart.
"Mr. Crawford!" I whisper.
He does not hear me.
I press his shoulder as if to jostle him to consciousness but it does not work.
If he is dead... If he is dead, it is by my hand however unintentional. I have killed many in my life, but only once have I killed another human being and that was by choice to save my own life. I do not choose for Mr. Crawford to die. His death is not necessary to my survival. And while I know that the demon is at the core responsible for his murder, I also know he would not be lying at my feet had I not removed the curse. To be a diabolical instrument is anathema and I must try to save him.
I start with a simple prayer of healing and quickly expand through anything applicable in my prayer book. Nothing has a noticeable effect. There is no flutter of movement or breath or sound from his body; at best, I can say he does not look more dead, which is hardly encouraging.
And so I am forced to devise my own petition in a mixture of English and Angelic phrases to match my thoughts. I am reminded of the Christ's own prayer: "If this cup can pass from Me, let it be according to Your will." I realize this is hardly the same situation, but I am reminded nonetheless. To finish, I place my hands on his chest, over his sleeping heart, and breath on him as I had once done to Mr. Yates.
I lean back, searching for some sign of life but there is nothing, no spark of hope. Undeterred, I begin again. It is foolish, I know, but I cannot abandon him here, not yet.
The prayer is slightly different the second time, but I end it with the same motions. As I sit back to see if there is any change I can detect the sound of movement behind me as a maid on her early morning rounds has discovered us. Mr. Crawford does not stir.
A scream quickly follows, along with the sound of something dropping to the rug. I must flee. As far as I can tell, I have not been identified but what will that matter if I am found running the halls in these clothes or, worse yet, not found in my bed when the whole house is roused in the commotion? I do not check that I am being pursued; I doubt I am but it will not do to find out. Through forgotten staircases and oddly useful connecting doors, I travel the distance to my garret room and lock the door behind me.
I remove my patrol uniform and hide it in the trunk. My room is frigid and the water I use to wash my face is literally icy. Mud and blood end up in the bowl before I am scrubbed clean. I perform a quick inspection for signs of my nocturnal adventures but, besides the blood I have already washed away, the Lion has removed all suspicious evidence. I slip on my freezing nightdress and climb into bed. The sheets are as cold as the rest of the room and I lay there shivering until I remember to pitch the contents of my wash basin and to unlock the door.
Back in the bed, I squirm and fret until I am almost warm, then turn my thoughts and prayers to Crawford. I am crawling with guilt for what happened to him. How could I have led him into this? If Northamptonshire is too dangerous for one experienced demon hunter, who was I to involve Crawford? How William would lecture me on tonight. How rightly I deserve it!
With effort, I shift my thoughts and prayers back to Crawford.
It is an interminable wait for the maid to come with my warm brick and fresh water this morning. When the door finally opens, it is not Annie who I expect but Jill, a young woman a few years older than me.
She starts with a quick pardon as she goes about her business but she is sidetracked as soon as I ask about Annie.
"Oh, Miss Price, the whole house is in an uproar," she tells me readily, her chore forgotten.
I force myself to act surprised. "Really? Has anything happened?"
Jill looks about cautiously as if anyone ever comes here then whispers something about a ghost.
"What did you say?" Clearly, I am expecting news of Mr. Crawford.
Jill leaves the ewer and approaches my bed. "Annie saw a ghost," she shares with me.
It takes me a moment to understand what she is saying and what it means. "Where? What did it look like?" I ask with no artificial tremor in my voice.
Jill sits on the edge of the bed, perhaps an overly familiar gesture but I shall not check her. "It was earlier this morning," she says in response to a question I did not pose. "She was on her way to the family’s rooms to take care of them, like she always does. That's when she saw it." There is a dramatic pause. "It was black as... 'as black as Hell,' she said, Miss Price, with burning coals for eyes and claws for hands. And it was hovering over a figure in white in one of the halls."
She must mean Crawford and me. Great: now I've killed an innocent man and terrified a poor maid half to death.
I want to get to the point and ask about Crawford, but I cannot mention him until the maid says his name first.
"And who was it?" I prompt.
"That's the thing," says Jill. "Annie has never seen the ghost before, no one has. Mrs. Mullen doesn't like us to talk about it, but there are ghosts at Mansfield Park. There's one in the cellar that likes the damp, and I think every maid has seen the ghost in the servants' hall. But the ghost Annie saw this morning was completely new, and dangerous-looking from the sound of it."
"What do you mean?" I cannot believe this.
"Well, Annie was so hysterical right after it happened that we couldn't get a word of sense out of her. I thought someone was going to have to slap her. But eventually she calmed down enough to tell us about it. She said she was on her rounds when she saw the evil spirit. It had captured some gentle spirit and was squeezing its heart."
Here she pauses to hold up her fists to show me what such a thing might look like.
"And what of this gentle spirit?" I inquire nervously.
"It turns out that it was no gentle spirit after all! And why should it be? Why would a ghost come to Mansfield to plague another ghost? What can one do to the other? They are all equally dead; you'd think it is the living they are after."
Perhaps, but I might die of old age before I learn what I want to know.
"Mr. Baddeley went to investigate as soon as he knew where to look," the girl continues. "And would you believe it, but the figure in white was none other than Mr. Henry Crawford! Nobody knows what he was doing up so early, or in that part of the house, or why he was dressed for dinner, but that's how Mr. Baddeley found him. The ghost was to kill a real person after all!"
Now the maid falters in her story. She looks worried that I will react poorly.
"And did the ghost kill Mr. Crawford?" I ask in my steadiest voice.
"I'm afraid I don't know," she apologizes. "They sent for the surgeon straight away and then Mrs. Mullen remembered that no one had been to see you yet, and that you'd certainly be in need of warmth this morning, so she sent me upstairs without waiting to see what happened. But I'm sure Mr. Nelson is here already and I'm sure he's speaking with Sir Thomas right now."
She hesitantly reaches out to pat my hand. "I know he was sweet on you, Miss Price. I'm very sorry."
There are so many conflicting thoughts in my head that I don't know what to say. I consider denying any preference on either of our parts but it seems too complicated to explain. Crawford only flirted with me because he was Possessed. He only entered into a courtship with me because my uncle was Possessed. I only involved him in last night's fiasco because I have no one else and I didn't realize it would end like this.
The girl shudders. "It just reminds me so much of when Lord T's maid died," she confides. "Do you remember that, Miss Price?"
Of course I remember it. Who could forget that? Jill probably does not realize that I even saw the body in all its grotesque glory. And she cannot know what prompted the maid to go mad, but I do. Those thoughts naturally turn to Crawford and I wonder if he was fatally cursed, if there was nothing I could have done to save him. William had called the Demon's Kiss a nasty piece of work, and I have to believe there are other curses just as foul.
"Shall I bring you up some tea and toast, Miss Price?" asks Jill.
It is a kind offer, and I give her something like a smile, but I had better go down. I will learn nothing new by hiding in my room all morning.
Of course, there is very little to learn at the breakfast table. I am the only one there at first. Aunt Bertram is in her room, as usual, and Sir Thomas is elsewhere, presumably with Mr. Nelson and Baddeley. The footman says nothing.
I am halfway through a large breakfast when the old cat strides in.
"I came as soon as I heard," she announces, then looks affronted to realize she is wasting her words on only me. "Where is Sir Thomas?" she asks of the footman.
Before he can answer, I pipe up. "What have you heard, Aunt?"
She glares at me. "As if you didn't know! It is about Mr. Crawford. The whole village is talking about it." She turns away to dismiss me.
"What are they saying?" I persist.
She nearly radiates disgust at my impertinence. "That someone discovered his body lying in one of the corridors this morning under very suspicious circumstances. I suppose that is just what you wanted to happen, Fanny."
I am too surprised to respond to that. Thankfully, I am saved from reacting by the sudden arrival of my uncle, followed closely by the surgeon.
"Ah, Fanny," he greets me, "just who I was hoping to find."
The old cat repeats her original announcement and segues immediately into a request for information.
The two men share a look as if they are trying to decide how much to reveal.
"Mr. Crawford is upstairs," Mr. Nelson finally admits.
"Is he dead?" the old cat wants to know. "What happened to him? Was he found near Fanny's room?"
Just what is she implying?
"Mrs. Norris, please," interjects my uncle. "He was found between my room and his. We must be very careful with what we say and how we say it. Mr. Crawford came here as a guest."
Then he turns to me. "Fanny, may I speak with you privately?" He makes it sound as if I could refuse him although it appears to be the best chance for my curiosity to be satisfied.
I stand and walk out with him, abandoning Mr. Nelson to the old cat's interrogation.
It takes too long to walk through the manor to my uncle's study but he remains tightlipped and pensive throughout. When at last we are comfortably seated, I blurt out, "What of Mr. Crawford?"
He sighs heavily which I can only interpret badly. "I must apologize, Fanny," he begins, "for my recent behavior. I have forwarded a match between yourself and Mr. Crawford despite your obvious reticence. I believe I had your best interests at heart but I am aware that I may have appeared too forceful."
Shall I say that I forgive him? And is he pointing out that I do not care for Crawford so that I will avoid hysterics when I hear he is dead, or is he miraculously still alive and insisting we become engaged?
"Does it really matter, Uncle?" I ask. "If Mr. Crawford is dead--"
"He is not dead," says my uncle with certainty.
" Oh." I am not sure what else to say.
"He is not dead, but he is not well," Sir Thomas clarifies. "Mr. Nelson believes he is much too ill to be moved. But my first priority must be to my family, and you as my niece supersede Henry Crawford. If you wish to end this courtship, I will speak to Crawford myself at the first opportunity. And if you do not wish him to stay at Mansfield Park while you are in residence, I will have Mr. Nelson transfer him to the parsonage. Just say the word, Fanny, and I shall act upon it."
I am -- I must be -- relieved that I have not killed Mr. Crawford. Let me be thankful for that! But his continued existence at Mansfield Park in the face of my uncle's regret... And yet I had pictured him leaving the manor under his own power. There is comfort in the implication that, however serious Mr. Crawford's current injuries, he is expected to recover sufficiently to perhaps marry one day.
I confess, I little expected my feelings to be consulted at this point. “It would be a poor example of Christian charity," I say at last, "to make Mr. Crawford leave now if he is indeed as injured as you say. And when he recovers, he may choose to withdraw on his own. You need not do anything."
It is a bit too naïve and my uncle shakes his head gravely. "I am afraid that expectations will be raised if he remains here. If he later withdraws, people will accuse him of caprice. Other gentlemen may choose not to consider you for marriage because of this."
I want to point out that this was all true before and I have no inclination to marry anyway, but it does not change the fact that my uncle was Possessed at the time the decision was made and here we are.
"May I see him?" I ask. "If his condition truly is as bad as it appears, I cannot ask that he leave. And if otherwise, then I should ask him to leave myself."
"Fanny--" he begins, and I know he is going to refuse me. I am, after all, merely his meek, little niece. The thought of this mousy creature forcing anyone from necessary shelter is ludicrous.
"Please, Uncle," I stop him. "You have spoken enough on my behalf." That is uncharacteristically forceful but it silences him.
Sir Thomas struggles with the decision briefly then nods. "Very well. You may speak with him when Mr. Nelson approves but I do not want you alone with him."
It takes a while to arrange for the interview. Mr. Nelson must finish his breakfast first, somehow, with the old cat constantly pestering him for details. I resign myself to a long wait and go to Aunt Bertram's sitting room until someone should send for me or find a way to make me useful.
My aunt eventually arrives and begins with an almost energetic, "Well, Fanny, what of the excitement this morning?" I suppose if Crawford had died she would not be so cheerful.
"I confess," I say, striving to be truthful, "Uncle has not told me much."
"Nor me," sighs my aunt as she positions her pug on the sofa. "Although he did state the desire for Mr. Crawford to be healthy enough to be removed to the parsonage."
I nod. This is not news to me. We sit in silence for a while.
"Fanny, you cannot want Mr. Crawford to leave Mansfield Park." She seems agitated.
"What do you mean?" I manage to ask.
"If he leaves, it will mean the end of your courtship. He will not offer again."
"Uncle is concerned about our reputations," I say. "The longer Mr. Crawford stays, the more fixed our futures will be."
Aunt Bertram is not concerned about that; she is concerned with the exact opposite. "Sir Thomas has not fully considered the long-term implications of your situation. A girl has a duty to appear disinterested to any and all suitors until one declares himself. The girl's favorite may never be in a position to offer for her, and it would be the height of folly for her to spurn a perfectly good second or third choice for a hope that may never materialize, or to otherwise convince those men that they would waste their breath in paying court to her by making her preference too widely known. But when she receives an offer such as you have, she is then free to express as much preference as modesty and her own inclination allows."
Has she ever seen me express a preference toward Mr. Crawford?
"No, but you are exceptionally modest," my aunt observes with impenetrable logic. "And when Julia returns for the wedding, she will appear to Charlie Andover as the perfect and only choice for him, despite his sister's too public opinion on the subject. The Andovers are not as rich as the Rushworths, but Julia was never as pretty as you or Maria. Andover Lodge is even closer than Sotherton Court, so I do not consider it any less advantageous a match than Maria's."
I am not used to Lady Bertram talking faster than I can comprehend. Embarrassed I go back to the beginning to unravel the riddle. "What wedding?" I say.
"Why, yours and Mr. Crawford's, of course," she says like it is the most natural, most expected thing in the world. "After all, you do not mean to refuse him."
I had not considered accepting him but I do not say that. Now that I have had more time to think on it, if Mr. Crawford is not seriously injured, I cannot suppose he will wish to stay here, and my reason for keeping him here vanished when we plucked the Mark from Sir Thomas' hand.
At that thought, I involuntarily gasp. Where is the Mark? Crawford dropped it when I nearly killed him, but I was too blinded to see where it landed, then I was too concerned with Crawford to grab the coin, and then I was too busy running back to my room to think of it. For hours now it has been lying in a hall trafficked in maids and footmen, my uncle and aunt, and the surgeon too.
Any one of them could have picked it up, even Aunt Bertram. And now that the Lion's gift is faded, I cannot easily discern who.
I study my aunt for signs of Possession, I look to her hands, but she is as always: petting and teasing her pug by turns and almost but not quite working on her ragwork. Her hands are too occupied with motion to hold the Mark and the opinions she expressed must be her own.
But if the Mark is not here I must find and secure it at once. I mutter some hurried excuse and prepare to quit the room but my uncle's arrival stops me.
"There you are, Fanny," he says. "Mr. Nelson is ready for you now."
"Very well." Starting in that area of the manor will make hunting for the Mark easier.
"Sir Thomas," pipes up my aunt, "Fanny has decided to accept Mr. Crawford when he offers for her."
We both gape at her in amazement and when my uncle turns his eyes on me, I give him such a blank look in reply that he tuts at his wife and only comments that it is, "neither here nor there at the present."
He leaves with me and we say nothing substantive for most of the walk. I observe him minutely, searching for a sign that he has regained the Mark. Then I cautiously ask where Mr. Crawford was discovered. My uncle vaguely gestures down a hallway and I only have time to peep before we move along. It is not the place I remember having fought Crawford, but perhaps my memory is not to be fully trusted.
At Crawford's door, my uncle knocks and awaits Mr. Nelson who promptly comes out to greet us. He informs us that Crawford is improving but still weak, and that we should not tarry in our visit. These are most reasonable terms and we agree to them before being ushered into the sick room.