When the errant Mrs. Rushworth appeared at the door, all alone, Miss Crawford might have been excused for hesitating - for thinking of Henry and all the trouble this woman had caused him already, and would surely continue to cause - but in fact it was after only a moment's consideration that she turned to exchange glances with Lady Stornaway, in the silent yet expressive communication often practised by ladies of long-standing acquaintance, and found there encouragement enough to let her reach out and take Maria's arm, drawing her indoors. After such weeks of agitation, she could not let any fair and sudden chance slip away for want of boldness.
Mary Crawford was not inclined to call it the most agreeable summer she had ever passed. These two months and more, since the events of early May, she had not known a moment's peace; had chatted and smiled, made calls and attended parties - danced - flirted - all by rote, with a mind too greatly perturbed for her to take any real pleasure in the season. Never had she felt so restrained, so confined in the appearance of perfect liberty and felicity. And wherever she went, she was quizzed on all sides, incessantly, about the scandal; even by people she barely knew, who only had to hear the name of "Crawford" to begin the attack, whether by expressions of sympathy or more straightforward curiosity: "her dear brother, they understood, was still in town, and they hoped he was well?" Mary soon developed the habit of speaking a sufficiency of words while telling nothing at all.
Indeed, there was nothing to tell; she had not seen Henry since it all began, though not for any lack of wishing or striving on her part. She had chosen to remain with her friend Flora, Lady Stornaway, as long as possible, and would stay another week, until the Stornaways removed to the country.
Lady Stornaway was far from objecting to Miss Crawford's presence; and, to her credit, this was only partly for the great talking value of hosting the sister of Mr. Crawford, who had run off with Mrs. Rushworth! - so very shocking, to be sure. But dear Mary had been two years at school with her; they had learnt the harp together, and come out together; and Mary had been her bridesmaid for the great match which brought her such splendid jewels and carriages and the finest house in Gaunt Square; no, it would be quite impossible for her to send dearest Mary away, no matter what her brother might have done (and if Mary staid, was there not a chance of seeing the brother, before anyone else could do so?); - so thought Lady Stornaway, whose disposition was not unamiable, and whose temper was alternately peevish and merry. Her welcome was heartily seconded by Lord Stornaway, all too ready to be fond of his sweet little wife's charming friend. His lordship was a tall, lean man who laughed at everything and lived for his pleasures; he fancied himself a wit, a rake, a rattle - a fine young dog, though past forty; Mary's estimation of his understanding remained as low as ever, but he was not too unpleasant, after all, as she was forced to remind herself every time he made some low jest or greeted her with a loud "Miss Crawford! I say! View halloo!" - fixing his gaze a good foot below her eyes. - Perhaps the greatest evil, to Mary's mind, was that Lord Stornaway counted Admiral Crawford amongst his cronies; yet even the detested Admiral was almost welcome now, for any news he might bring of Henry.
Henry! His sister was wild to see him, yet his letters, when they came, contained little of substance, and she could not write to him, for he gave no address. All she knew was that Mrs. Rushworth remained under his protection, and the two of them were somewhere in London or very close by; they seemed never to remain in one place for long, and never appeared in public. The Admiral swore they were not concealed at any of his properties. Mary would not be deceived by her brother's notes; "he was well enough," indeed! Nonsense; he was miserable, quite miserable, she was certain of it. This could not continue. And what now of her plans, her hopes of persuading him to marry Mrs. Rushworth after the inevitable divorce? How was she to use her influence when Henry would not even see her?
There were moments when she doubted that she should press Henry to make the match; Edmund had seemed so very much against the notion, when last they spoke, and Edmund's absence lent his words the weight of longing keenly felt. But they had met (and parted) at such a bitter time; he had been so distressed! - ten to one but he did not know what he said, nor mean anything by it. Mary would not have it so, being greatly determined to believe that her power over him was not lost, for that was the only unexceptionable compensation for his power over her. Let her have but half an hour in his company again, and all would be well; she was quite persuaded of that. It could not, must not be otherwise. Lady Stornaway and Mrs. Fraser might teaze her dreadfully about her clergyman lover, but they could not know her thoughts, nor how a hundred memories of Mansfield tormented her, from the moment she had taken his arm for the first time - how his face lit up! she never would forget it - when they had walked and rested together in the park at Sotherton. Edmund's clear, steady gaze - his fine figure - his manner of speaking to her, all tenderness and honour; - in truth, she could not do without these things, and upon the sight of him walking away from her, seemingly forever, she was forced to admit herself in love. So she must marry him, for was that not the only cure for this affliction? - and so she still wished her brother to form a connexion with the family - if not with Fanny Price (oh, why would she not accept him?), then with her cousin.
Her marriage to Edmund must be a more difficult task now, following upon the behaviour of their relations; but with all the vigour of a nature which scorned impossibilities, Mary meant to accomplish it. The thought of Edmund pained by their separation - returning to town and seeking her out, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps this week - balanced certain lingering apprehensions about the Miss Owens, and inspired her to devote a great deal of time to her writing-desk, seeking news of him as well as news of Henry. Vexing as it was to find that her letters to Fanny went unanswered, she continued to write, confident that some key word or question should elicit a reply. Being not yet grown desperate enough to flout decorum by writing to Edmund himself, she fixed her efforts on her sister, Mrs. Grant, whose friends in Mansfield village provided Mary with third-hand intelligence. Sir Thomas, they said, was returned to Mansfield Park; Mr. Bertram was recovering from his illness (and here Mary half-sighed, half-laughed at herself for being so glad to hear that Tom was safe, yet regretting the baronetcy, which was to have sweetened the pill); Mr. and Mrs. Yates had returned and been received. And Mr. Edmund Bertram? But there was no news of him; he had not been seen in the village at all, of late.
Thus matters stood in the month of July, as Mary prepared to go to her sister, who was happily settling into a comfortable house in Dean's Yard, since Dr. Grant had succeeded to a stall in Westminster. And it was this preferment which gifted Mary with so much new information (and new hopes of happiness) from a part of society previously unfamiliar to her.
Some clergymen, it appeared, could have handsome incomes and live in a more than tolerable manner (especially if their wives had twenty thousand pounds); there was interest and advancement in the Church, as elsewhere. Having set her mind to studying the matter, Mary sought Dr. Grant's guidance and frequented St. George's, Hanover Square till Flora and Janet declared that "no clergyman was safe with Miss Crawford, she had grown so excessively fond of them!" But Mary felt no confusion; only a growing conviction that if she could look forward to becoming a bishop's lady, the baronetcy should not be regretted; - and by July she flattered herself that she could talk of deans and canons, bishops and archdeacons, with as much taste and discernment as any of the Miss Owens. All this was vastly interesting and appealing, and she longed to discuss it with Edmund - if only she could see him, or find some means of communication.
It was a Tuesday evening, and Lady Stornaway was crowning the season with a large dinner; this, and a considerable house-party of cousins staying for several days, brought bustle and animation enough that Mary had grown quite weary of even more stares and questions than usual, and heartily wished the week over and done. The ladies had just gone up to the drawing-room, when the butler approached Lady Stornaway, then came up to Mary and said, "There is a lady at the door, ma'am, asking for you." If they would be so good as to come down and speak with her - for it was very odd, that the lady would neither leave without seeing Miss Crawford nor enter the house to wait on her.
They proceeded downstairs and into the vestibule; the front door opened onto a wet and dirty evening; and there before them stood Mrs. Rushworth, in walking-dress and shawl.
"I have left him," said she, in a quiet voice which seemed to summon each word one by one. But she would not come in, without an invitation expressly given; for the Aylmers had turned her away from their threshold, and her stance conveyed that she would not suffer such treatment twice.
Fortunate Mrs. Rushworth! She was in no such danger, for the two ladies before her were exceedingly ready to take her in. Miss Crawford could not help but notice a strong resemblance between Maria's eyes and those of Mr. Edmund Bertram; while Lady Stornaway saw a veritable treasure-trove of gossip which must on no account be allowed to escape into the night.
"Oh dear! - Do, please, come in - but indeed, there is not a single room to spare - "
"She may share mine," said Mary, linking her arm with Mrs. Rushworth's, her thoughts busy with the provoking consciousness that Henry would never marry her now, and the advantage of persuading the poor bewildered sister to write to her kindest brother as soon as possible. It was almost enough to make one never laugh at Providence again.
Leaving the butler to settle with the hackney coach-man, they passed through the vestibule and were close to the foot of the staircase when several of the gentlemen emerged from the dining-parlour, full glasses in hand, to investigate the commotion at the door. Lady Stornaway at once ran to her husband, and, with a sweetly coaxing smile, raised herself on tip-toe to whisper into his ear. Mary paused to admire how well Flora had learnt to manage her great buffoon, in only three years.
"Mrs. Rushworth, is it now? Well, well," said he; then, as they passed, he added in a very audible whisper to Lord Steyne: "As pretty an adultress as ever I saw, d--n me!" Mary felt Mrs. Rushworth flinch, and restrained a sigh of impatience; upon her soul, the Bertram sisters were always such country girls, au fond, with provincial manners and sensibilities; - Maria would have to harden herself to more than one remark of that nature.
"How very unkind of the Aylmers, I can scarcely credit it, and when you think of his cousin and her goings-on, indeed - " Mary kept up a stream of soothing talk as they walked upstairs and the laughter of the gentlemen below faded into curious murmurs from the ladies peering out of the drawing-room; - they went on, at last reaching Mary's apartment and allowing Mrs. Rushworth to sink into a chair in the small sitting-room overlooking the square. "And have you really nothing with you? What of your clothes, your - ?" Intolerable, of course, but easily remedied; Lady Stornaway would fetch her sister this instant - "they were of a size, surely - Miss Crawford's things would not do, she being so small, and Mrs. Rushworth had such a fine figure, so tall as she was, almost of a height with Mr. Crawford - oh dear! Indeed, she would go this instant." (Exit Lady Stornaway.)
The next half-hour was all bustle, as Mary called for food and drink, received the borrowed clothing when it came, but closed her door to Flora and Janet, fearing that their well-meaning questions and exclamations might agitate her visitor and hinder her purpose; - and Mrs. Rushworth sat through it all as if stupefied, making little or no response if addressed. When Mary thought to have hot water brought to her dressing-room, Mrs. Rushworth was finally persuaded to remove her mud-spattered gown and accept a maid-servant's assistance in bathing, then to don a dressing-gown and take a reviving cordial, though she would eat nothing.
Surveying her guest, Mary thought that she looked very well, all things considered; her beauty had not failed her, she had lost none of her bloom, despite evident low spirits and the silence which was so unlike herself. Would she take tea? Did she wish to sleep? "Ha! Now I am playing Cottager's wife to your Agatha, it seems," said Mary gaily, but the allusion failed to cheer, eliciting only a sigh.
Once again, Mary reflected on the folly of these past months; not only her brother's folly, but that of the woman before her, whose education must have been sadly mismanaged by the indolent mother and the officious aunt - imagine never giving the sisters a season in London! - and never teaching them how a great deal of unpleasantness in marriage (to say nothing of divorce) might readily be avoided, if everything were done as it should be. While Mary had no intention of taking a lover herself, after she married Edmund, she could thank her dear departed Aunt Crawford for not leaving her as ignorant as some wives clearly were.
"My dear Mrs. Rushworth - Maria - you may rely on me, I do assure you - but will you not tell me of your plans?" Nothing, still nothing. "What has happened? And Henry - " Maria gazed at the floor. "But do you know anything of Mansfield? Do you plan to return? Your eldest brother is almost well again, and your sister, Mrs. Yates - perhaps you have not heard, she is quite forgiven! So if you were to write - that is, your father might - "
"My father!"
"Oh, I do not mean you must write to him! But should you not write to your brother - your brother Edmund? Surely he would speak for you! Yes, I do urge you, write to him without delay - that is, if you do not mean to return to Henry?"
Mrs. Rushworth laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "I hate him," said she, "for he made me beg! - and still, to no avail! - and may he rot before I see him again."
"Perhaps he fancies that he paid too high a Price for you."
Mary's temper had flared at Maria's abuse of her brother, but she rather regretted the last remark, when she saw its effect on Maria's eyes. Perhaps there was still some chance of a marriage, in spite of everything? She must know. "Forgive me - I do not mean to be unkind, indeed - I believe I can imagine your feelings - "
"You cannot," said Maria, her voice quite cold, "but perhaps you will - Yes, I think I shall wish that for you, Miss Crawford! - that one day you may know exactly how I feel."
A silence lay between them after that, until Mary recollected herself sufficiently to ask after her brother again, in a tone only slightly strained by the effort of civility.
"He is gone to Everingham," was the dispirited reply; then, after a pause, "And I did not know - I could not think what to do - Oh, I should not have come here! - You care for him, you shall only side with him - "
"Oh, but I do assure you - "
"And you have such a look of him! - your eyes, your voice - No, leave me be!"
But Mary caught hold of her hands and insisted that she should calm herself; - she was overwrought, she should sleep - yes, that would be much the best thing now, she repeated in a low, soothing voice, guiding her guest into the bed-room, and all the while reminding herself that she could and would put up with anything, even Mrs. Rushworth's temper, for the sake of bringing Edmund to town and furthering her plans for him.
Mary's will prevailed; at last the room was silent, the bed-curtains drawn, and she was free to return to the drawing-room, finding that two hours had passed and the company was beginning to break up; sufficient numbers remained, however, to form a small but attentive crowd of listeners as she delivered a reassuring report to Lady Stornaway and the rest of her friends. - "Was Mrs. Rushworth well? Would she not come down at all? What of Mr. Crawford, was he well? Was he to be expected?" - Mary duly informed them that Mr. Crawford was gone into Norfolk and not expected to return immediately (a general murmur at that), while Mrs. Rushworth required rest and quiet. All expressed their gladness, while remaining disappointed not to see the scandalous and universally talked of lady come downstairs with Miss Crawford at once, to be properly looked at by everyone, and talked of further. "Would she come down for breakfast to-morrow?" - Miss Crawford thought she would not. "Did she require anything? Would she walk in the gardens? Should not the apothecary be sent for? Would she care to be driven anywhere?" - Miss Crawford did not venture to say. "Would she dine with them? Yes, she must certainly dine with the family to-morrow evening!" Miss Crawford demurred, but was finally persuaded; - yes, she would undertake to see that Mrs. Rushworth appeared downstairs for dinner. She thought it no bad thing, in truth; Mrs. Rushworth could not hope to remain behind closed doors forever, and her hosts did have some claim on her, as they had on Mary herself, who was content enough to sing for her supper by making herself agreeable and amusing.
It was some time before she could go back upstairs, and longer still before she went to bed; for even after changing into her nightgown and sending her maid away, Mary lingered at the window, her mind too full of hope and misgivings to let sleep come easily. She would certainly write to Henry in the morning, though she hardly knew what to say - and as for the other - If she were careful, and clever - if nothing interfered - she might see Edmund within the week, and have all the credit of restoring "his poor lost sister" to his care, being the means of reuniting them; - would that not be enough to repair their intimacy, to compensate for whatever he had so misliked in her, that terrible day in May? It must be enough.
She turned away from the window, picked up a candle, and moved slowly into the bed-room; parted the curtains and stood silently there, for long moments, watching her troublesome visitor sleeping in the candle-glow: yes, the gentlemen seemed to like it well enough, this soft honey-haired style of beauty, quite unlike Mary's own. - But how far, how very far to fall! - the handsome Mrs. Rushworth, mistress of Sotherton, with a splendid house in town and the enjoyment of twelve thousand a year! Now come to these sad straits, through her own folly; - yet still proud as Lucifer, for all that - not a word of thanks had Mary heard from her all evening! - And this selfish, silly woman would cost Henry at least three or four thousand pounds when Mr. Rushworth (urged on by his dear Mamma) brought a case against him in preparation for the divorce. Mary could not think of it without a sigh, as she blew out the candle and lay down upon her bed.
Maria stirred, a warm half-wakeful presence in the dark, turning - there was a sound, a waiting silence; - and the next moment Mary was astonished to find herself most passionately embraced, and caressed, and called Henry, my Henry! The suddenness of these attentions overpowered her at first, and she lay motionless beneath them, Maria's breath warm against her throat, her cheek; but then, feeling an answering fire rise within her, she willed her arms to move and return the embrace, scarcely knowing what she did. It was madness! But then her mouth found Maria's, and she felt the other woman's consciousness return - knew the very moment of awareness when Maria woke to embracing the sister, not the brother! - a hesitation, a slight drawing-back, but only slight. In a single blessed instant she was returning Mary's kisses with a desperate energy which only stoked the blaze. They touched, they moved. They burned together. Mary was not entirely unfamiliar with such pleasures between women, but never, never had she known them with such fierce intensity: a perfect wilderness of wanting, of sheets and nightgowns thrust aside, of hands and lips exploring in darkness without constraint; - and then she found herself caught in helpless motion, over and over, irresistibly, a long smooth thigh clasped tightly between her own, dimly aware that Maria did the same, until - ah, until and at last! - such ease, such gentle ease.
No speech passed between them. Maria uttered a broken sound and drew away, huddling into herself; Mary, still flushed and bewildered, made no attempt to speak.
(TBC)