Don't take my arm too much
Don't keep your hand in mine
Your hand feels so grand in mine
People will say we're in love
- 'People Will Say We're In Love', from Oklahoma!
It was commonly known, at the time, that upon the event of someone reaching their eighteenth birthday, two - or more, in some, rarely talked about, cases - signatures appeared on their wrists. One had the name of their soulmate, the person best suited for them in life, romantically or otherwise (again, these latter people were never talked about, except for when the name was of someone of the same gender. It truly is amazing, the number of truths thought inconvenient until they suddenly become useful). The other had the name of the person they would, or had already, convinced themselves was their soulmate, whether consciously or no. Of course, as is the way of these things, no one ever knew which was which, except by their own inference, or, if they were lucky, events which exposed one or the other. Many young people, eager to meet their soulmate, married quickly, only to discover that there had been a mistake; that their new spouse was not, in fact, the right of the persons on their wrists. This rarely impeded marriages for long; a soulmate may be a person's perfect match, but many imperfect ones are often made with some success. It is a simple fact that a marriage will work if it is formed with love and respect. Even marriages where those values were absent could often function if the two members showed enough skill at avoiding one other.
Henry Crawford was somewhat of an outlier. On his eighteenth birthday, only one name formed, on his left wrist; Henry had never set much store by soulmates, or really, truly falling in love outside of an idle flirtation, and so, accordingly, he had never and would never become so deeply in love that he could possibly believe that person and him to be destined. Unless, of course, the object of his love was, truly, the one most suited to him in all the world. Even then, the name was faded, barely legible unless you chose to look closely, which Henry didn't. His sister Mary, on the other hand…well, Mary looked very carefully indeed at things which could further her own self-interest, and considered her brother's soulmate to fall squarely into that category. She spent two years carefully studying the words on her brother's wrist, memorising the script, the name.
So her own eighteenth birthday came as quite a shock. On her right wrist was Mary Crawford, scrawled carelessly in large, elegant letters (she laughed silently, and knew this to be the false name - she may very well convince herself, or have convinced herself in the past, that she was the only person good for her, but it was unlikely to be true. It faded, but remained visible, etched onto her dark brown skin). On her left was a familiar, small script - almost as if its owner feared irritating someone by taking up too much paper. It was much bolder than it was on her brother, but still…she had looked at it for long enough in that state to recognise it on sight.
Fanny Price.
Mary stared at her wrist absently for a moment, thought briefly what a shame it was that she and Henry were predestined to be rivals, then resolved to start wearing longer sleeves. After all, no matter how little she cared about the issue of having a female soulmate herself, it wouldn't do to scandalise society quite that much. A fortune of twenty thousand pounds can do many things, but it is not so strong an incentive that people would forget such a thing, and welcome such a person into their homes.
Far away and several years later, Fanny Price started crying.
Written on one of her wrists, in the perfectly formed writing which was so familiar to her, was the name Edmund Bertram.
That was enough of a problem - the necessity of hiding it from the Bertrams did not exactly please her - but it was not the reason for her tears.
The other wrist said Mary Crawford.
Steps on the stairs! Fanny quickly pulled the sleeves of her nightdress down to hide the words, in case whoever it was chose to enter the room suddenly.
A knock on the door. A quiet, "Fanny?" Of course; who else but Edmund would have wasted their time on her? She called for him to wait, and quickly got dressed, making sure to wear a thick dress, even though the July sun was already shining through the windows. One which was most likely to hide her secret.
Edmund was standing there, neatly dressed (of course he was; Edmund made it a careful habit to be awake and ready for the day - and above all, tidy - before anyone else) and wearing a concerned expression on his handsome, pale face. Fanny's heart swelled, but as it did so, her left wrist (the one which she was so aware had his name on it) began to itch, and so she forced the feeling down and smiled at him, trying to ignore, as she did so, the few tears still making their way down her face.
"Well, ah," Edmund looked embarrassed, "I was curious as to whether you would be prepared to show your soulmates to any of your family? Of course, you are not obligated to...to show your aunts, or your other cousins, but perhaps..?"
The implication of his question hung in the air between them. Perhaps you would show me?
Here, Fanny had a problem. She truly loved her cousin (the name had forced her to acknowledge that as fact), but she felt, just as truly, that she could not show him either wrist.
"I-I would really rather not, cousin Edmund," she made herself say, and tried not to notice the disappointment in his expression, or the voice in her head that sounded like Mrs Norris - always Mrs Norris! - telling her that she was selfish, that Edmund deserved to know, and that she was being ungrateful. Alas, she was not successful - the simple refusal of her cousin's request had wracked poor Fanny so much that she began to cry again. Panic crossed Edmund's face, just for a moment, before a more soothing expression took its place.
"Fanny, I should apologise. It was wrong for me to ask something so personal of you, especially when I haven't even showed you either of my names. Come, compose yourself, and once you feel prepared, I shall escort you down to breakfast."
Soon enough, the door opened on Edmund again, and Fanny, the fresh tears still drying on her face and her eyes turned slightly pink from crying, took his arm. He served as a calming presence, even without speaking, and Fanny soon felt as close to her normal self as she could, with the knowledge that the name of a woman sat on her right wrist.
The calm was soon gone away again, for the rest of the Bertram family - apart from, mercifully, her uncle, who, along with her cousin Tom, was in Antigua for the moment - despite their usual dismissiveness of Fanny, were suddenly crowding her, demanding she give up her secret. No matter how much she quietly refused, they continued to pester until the poor girl was quite in tears again. Edmund made an attempt to stop them, perhaps slightly tempered by his own curiosity, but it came to no avail. Maria and Julia chose a simple method, asking the same question over, and when there was a failure to answer that, making angry demands. Tom, if he had been there, would have no doubt joined them; there was something to be grateful about in his absence. Lady Bertram, when finally appealed to by her children, seemed barely to understand what was going on, so distracted she had been, but as soon as her children gave a (strongly biased, of course) account, she made an offer of whatever presents Fanny would like if she would only show them, and really, whatever the names were, they could not be so very bad. Throughout all this, Fanny stayed silent, only made increasingly miserable by the questioning. It was amazing how much noise so few people could make, and she was almost tempted to give in. But fear - a greater fear than the consequences of her refusal - held her back.
"If you do not tell us," Maria said, more petulantly than could be thought possible for a young woman of twenty-one, "then when our father comes home, we shall have to tell him that you have been keeping secrets from us, and then he will force you to tell us."
Fanny was terrified of her uncle; Maria knew this, and spoke hoping - correctly, it seemed - that on weighing her uncle seeing her wrists against the rest of the family doing the same, the latter was the lesser fear. Fanny, with shaking hands, began to roll up her sleeves.
The Bertrams craned to see the names. Edmund started, slightly, on seeing his own written in bold black.
For one brief, horrible moment, everyone seemed to freeze - even Lady Bertram, who usually showed so little interest in anything not related to herself or her beloved Pug.
"Oh, how boring," Maria complained. "They are only platonic soulmates."
Julia frowned at her sister. "Are you certain, Maria? How can you be sure?"
She scoffed. "Is it not obvious? Why, with one of the names female, and the other that of our very own brother, how could there possibly be any hint of romance?"
And then the Bertrams' fleeting interest with their poorer cousin was gone, and as breakfast was served it seemed the entire issue was forgotten, the only indication to the contrary being the way Julia's eyes rested on Fanny for longer than usual, a flicker of curiosity igniting them. But for Fanny, whose mind was always ready to be filled with worry, and who, after all, was now fully, uncomfortably aware that her interest in Edmund was romantic, it sat there in her mind, as the days moved by ever so slowly. Minor, day to day worries, usually at the forefront of her mind, quickly vanished, but Mary Crawford, sitting as it did on her wrist, remained. Fanny grew pale; she spoke to no-one, not even her beloved Edmund. If the Bertrams had deigned to pay attention to her, they would have no doubt of the cause. As it was, the world moved much as it usually did, with only the insignificance of the change in Fanny's mood to affect it. And, inevitably, given some time, and the lack of suspicion shown by the family, she calmed. Edmund's name was a worry, of course, but one which she could force herself to ignore; though it caused her pain, it was a bearable pain, within the realm of acceptable human experience. And as for the other name, well, she wasn't leaving her home, and what was the likelihood that this Mary Crawford would come to her?
"A parsonage?" Mary asked incredulously. "In the countryside?"
"I am afraid so," Henry said, his words laced with faux-solemnity. "I am sure I do not know how we will cope! The savagery of it all! Although, of course, you would not have a problem at all if you had simply…gotten along with our uncle. Is it really so hard for you to like him, Mary?"
"Well I suppose it shall be nice to see our sister after such a long time away from each other," Mary continued, rather pointedly ignoring her brother. They had had similar conversations all throughout the time they had lived with Admiral Crawford. Nothing would come of it if she chose to argue; she could not convince him of the man's wickedness any more than he could convince her of his virtue. "At the very least, there will no doubt be some rich eldest son nearby, to flirt with."
"Unfortunately not," Henry said, pouring himself a glass of port from the decanter sat on the table. "An associate of mine has informed me - after I enquired, knowing your partiality to such men - that the gentleman in question has gone off to Antigua with his father. A shame, but I am sure you will cope; I hear his brother is a respectable young man."
Mary sighed. "I hold no stock by "respectable young men", Henry. Second sons yield no interest for me."
"Not even the second son of a baronet, as I am told is the case here? Ah, well. I suppose you shall simply have to waste away, without an eldest son to enjoy."
"You seem to think me to be so exceedingly shallow that my sole focus is men. I shall tell you now, Henry, that it is entirely untrue. Why, I am tempted to enjoy myself despite his absence, just to spite you!"
"Mary," Henry said, taking a large swig of his drink, "please believe me when I tell you that nothing would make me happier. Now, shall you write to our sister, or shall I?"
"Mrs Grant informs us that her brother and sister, children of her mother's second marriage, will be joining her and Mr Grant in the parsonage," Edmund said, with an uncharacteristic nervousness underlying his words.
"I am sure they will be people of a most agreeable sort," Fanny said quietly. "But, cousin, since I am certain to be far too busy to join you in entertaining our guests-"
"They are two young people by the names of Henry and Mary Crawford," Edmund said quickly. "Perhaps Mrs Norris and my mother would permit you to join the rest of us, rather than running chores? They have been invited to dine with us, anyway, so you will not miss them entirely."
Fanny said nothing; all of a sudden, she was very pale, and her hands shook slightly where they rested on the table.
"Miss Crawford is one of the names on your wrists. Perhaps it would be best if you became acquainted with the woman who could potentially become your closest friend."
"If you…" Fanny's throat was suddenly dry. She gulped. "If you think it to be best, Edmund."
"Fanny, of course I think it to be best," Edmund said gently. "But this is for your benefit, not mine. Sometimes I feel as if, well, as if you have no friends outside of myself - indeed, you have perhaps had no opportunity make friends, as sheltered as you are here, and…perhaps you would enjoy the benefit of Miss Crawford's company."
Enjoying the pleasure of Miss Crawford's company was exactly what terrified Fanny, of course. But Edmund was not to know that, nor would she wish him to know. Besides, she could not wholly avoid her if they were coming to dine - even in her nervousness she was able to admit that to starve herself would be a silly thing to do, solely to avoid a person. And it was Edmund requesting this of her; his younger cousin had never been known to refuse anything he suggested. And so it was that she found herself sitting with the rest of the family, not so patiently waiting for the arrival of Mr and Miss Crawford, along with their half sister and her husband.
"Oh, do stop fidgeting, Fanny!" Mrs Norris snapped. Fanny flinched.
"Yes, Fanny, do stop fidgeting," Lady Bertram echoed absentmindedly. "We must give these young people a good first impression of life here."
"I hardly think that the Crawfords will be so absorbed with ideas of propriety as to care about one of our number moving as slightly as Fanny has done," Edmund said calmly.
The clock ticked by.
"Oh, when shall they arrive?" Maria exclaimed loudly. She stood up and began to pace about the room. "It is not polite to be late for a dinner engagement."
After an age, one of the servants stepped into the room to announce "Dr and Mrs Grant, Mr and Miss Crawford."
Mrs Grant came in first, greeting them all, thanking them for their hospitality, and apologising profusely for their lateness.
"We would have arrived here this half an hour gone, except Mary, I am afraid, took so long getting ready-"
Mary cut her off. "I find it infinitely preferable to be late, and well dressed, than on time, nay, even early, and an embarrassment to rich young women everywhere." She smiled, and in her expression was something which tempted even the most hard hearted to forgive any transgression.
Edmund cleared his throat and stood up. "Miss Crawford. Mr Crawford," he said, bowing to both of them in turn. "A pleasure to meet you both. I am Edmund Bertram. May I present my mother Lady Bertram, my aunt Mrs Norris, my sisters Miss Maria Bertram and Miss Julia Bertram, and, of course, our cousin Miss Fanny Price."
Mary glanced at Henry, to see if she could glean any expression from his countenance. Nothing. She smiled again, more subdued this time. "It is a pleasure to meet you all." Her eyes rested on Fanny.
Something about the way Mary was looking at her unnerved Fanny. She shifted uncomfortably.
"Fanny!" Mrs Norris snapped again. She smiled apologetically at their guests. "You must excuse Miss Price; she is but a poor dependant, tragically uneducated until we brought her here, eight years ago. Please," she gestured to the chairs, "will not you sit? There is some time yet until the food will be prepared."
Mary graciously seated herself, as did her brother. All the while, her eyes remained fixed on Fanny, who was doing her best to avoid staring back.
Throughout the conversation, throughout dinner and the time after it, neither spoke to the other, but every so often, Fanny would give into temptation and stare back. There was something compelling in Mary's eyes. They seemed to sparkle at some amusement unknown to any but herself, and, perhaps, someone else too, if only they would draw closer.
Fanny looked away, blushing.
"Are you quite pleased, Henry?" Mary asked on their way back to the parsonage. They walked far ahead of Doctor and Mrs Grant; the two of them walked far slower due to the good doctor's unfortunate affliction of gout, and in fact wouldn't have walked at all if it hadn't been suggested in some quarter due to the pleasantness of the evening.
"Oh, yes, quite pleased," Henry affirmed. "With Maria and Julia both. In fact, I found the company so pleasing that I have been considering extending my visit."
"Oh?" Mary raised an eyebrow. "And what about dear Miss Fanny Price?"
He laughed. "You noticed that, did you?"
"You seem to think," she shot back, "that I am somehow oblivious of all about you. I cannot think why that is, since I usually find myself knowing you better than you know yourself."
"I suppose that I have never put much effort into hiding it," Henry said flippantly. He was silent for a moment. "I have decided," he said eventually, "that I should rather like to have some fun with Miss Price. She seems awfully boring. And who better to make her more…interesting than Mr Henry Crawford? I am sure a girl of her standing will fall at least slightly in love with someone who shows that she is his "soulmate"." He laughed.
Mary said nothing. Henry was foolish to think he would be safe from love forever, especially if he chose to flirt so blatantly with his soulmate.
Now, what about her own connection to Fanny Price? Mary rubbed absentmindedly at her left wrist. It could, she supposed, be rather diverting to fall in love.
"I am disappointed in you, Fanny," Edmund said solemnly, as they sat, secluded, in the old East Room Fanny had made her own. "I would have thought you to be more keen to befriend Mary Crawford."
"I am afraid that I am much too shy for that," Fanny said quietly.
"Well, in that case, I shall organise it so that the two of you spend some time together," Edmund declared. "It was no doubt the amount of people in the room that made it difficult for you." Fanny found that she couldn't disagree. A part of her still hoped that she wouldn't fall in love with Mary, that she didn't even have the capacity to love a woman in that way. But she couldn't bring herself to believe it, not quite, when the way Mary had looked at her still rested on her mind.