Part II

Many weeks later, Fanny awoke before the sun after a night of restless agitation. Edmund would soon be there to retrieve her and Susan and carry them to Mansfield. The intervening weeks had brought the worst possible news of Tom's illness, Henry's and Maria's perfidy, and Julia's folly. Fanny knew that her own distress about Edmund's marital future was unimportant in light of the Bertram family's pain. She had longed to join them to be of some solace, especially to her aunt, and at last, a letter from Edmund had come, informing them that she was needed and would be come for.

With each letter from Mansfield Park, Fanny's heart ached for her relations anew. And yet, never had Fanny's estimation of Edmund been higher. Edmund was all in all. He had become the attendant, supporter, and cheerer of his suffering brother, and the strength for his parents in their desperation over their wayward children.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his entrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately seeing him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought back all her own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to sink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her instantly; and she found herself pressed to his heart with only these words, just articulate, "My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now!" She could say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.

After discussion of their readiness to depart, it was settled that Edmund should order the carriage to the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for their having breakfasted and being quite ready for the carriage. He had already ate, and declined staying for their meal. He would walk round the ramparts, and join them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad to get away even from Fanny.

He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which he was determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was terrible to her.

At last the carriage came, and Fanny and Susan prepared to depart. Fanny's last meal in her father's house was in character with her first: she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.

The journey was a silent one. Edmund's deep sighs often reached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, Fanny wondered if his heart must have opened in spite of every resolution; but Susan's presence drove him quite into himself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never be long supported.

Fanny watched him with never–failing solicitude, and sometimes catching his eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the first day's journey passed without her hearing a word from him on the subjects that were weighing him down.

During the silence of the carriage ride, she could finally reflect on the letter that she had banished from her mind from the first news of Tom's falling ill. Had Edmund even received it before departing to attend his brother? If so, had he read it? And if he had read it, what must he be thinking? In all the recent correspondence from Mansfield, the only indication Edmund had given of his wish to offer for Mary was a postscript to one of his mother's letters: "On the subject of my last, I had actually begun a letter when called away by Tom's illness, but I have now changed my mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends. When Tom is better, I shall go."

He had changed his mind. Was that simply about writing to Mary rather than proposing to her in person, or had he changed his mind about Mary altogether?

It was selfish, Fanny knew, to think of such questions at this time, but during the many hours of travel, she could not help it. When she arrived at Mansfield, she would put such thoughts away in order to assist her relations in any way needed.

She thought of his embrace upon his arrival to her parents' home, and his words, "My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now!" How she wished that being his Fanny and his only comfort indicated love for her as a woman, but she must be truthful with herself. He had called her, "my sister." That was how he saw her—as most beloved and dear, but only as a sister.

She glanced at Edmund, who, along with Susan, had fallen asleep with the rhythm of the carriage and warmth of the springtime sun. She allowed herself a wanton indulgence: to stare at his beautiful countenance. Although she had judged Mary for speaking only of Edmund's appearance to her London friends, she understood why they had found him impressive on this count.

And what of Mary? Did Edmund still hope to attach himself to her? As much as Fanny repented the second part of her letter, she hoped he had read, and heeded, the first. She felt her concerns even more strongly after reading Mary's latest letter to her. Fanny sickened as she thought of Mary's callous wish for Tom's death and Edmund's increase in wealth and status as a consequence.

Mary seemed certain that her power over Edmund remained. Did it? Oh, how Fanny wished she could rewrite that letter, sharing only her fears for Edmund and not her hopes!

Even now, she could recall every word of her missive, having read them over many times before sending it by post. "My dear Edmund," she had written,

"It was with greatest pleasure that I received your letter, for I have missed you more than you could know. I thank you for your many kind words to me, and for entrusting me with your heartfelt confidences.

"I must say that it pains me to hear you express such confusion and despair. I beg of you to forgive me if I step outside my place, but I must say what I believe to be true. Please know that my words are written with the deepest concern for your well-being and happiness.

"I recently had cause to say these words to someone: We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. I sense in your letter much uncertainty about committing yourself to Mary.

"I believe this to be your better guide, Edmund, one that you must attend if you are to have the future of happiness and respectability that you deserve. We have talked much of Mary and I have withheld my tongue more often than not out of respect for you. But my concern for you outweighs my discretion. Edmund, I am convinced that a woman who disparages your faith, your values and your profession could never make you happy. I know you believe it is merely her friends that are leading her astray, but please understand: She is quite as likely to have led them astray. They have all, perhaps, been corrupting one another; but if they are so much fonder of her than she is of them, she is the less likely to have been hurt, except by their flattery.

"Please consider carefully, Edmund: is such a woman really what you what? And could you make such a woman happy, one who thrives in the gossip and fashion and shallow pretensions of London society? You are such a good man that if you could not make your wife happy, you would be unhappy as well. Oh, Edmund, how miserable I would be to see you live in such sorrow!

"Now that I have been frank with you, I must be honest with myself. I told you that I wrote with deepest concern for your well-being and happiness, but I also write with concern for my own.

"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you!

"Oh Edmund, I do not know when my feelings changed from love for you as my teacher and protector and friend, to love for you as a man. But they have changed, and I can no longer deny them. Last winter you questioned my refusal of Henry, and I answered you truthfully but not fully. For though my concerns about his nature remain, those reasons were as nothing compared to the fact that my heart belongs to another. My heart belongs to you, Edmund, now and forever.

"I do not know how you will receive this information, with sorrow, disgust or joy. I can only hope that if not the latter, you will forgive me for speaking so openly. For even if you cannot return my affection, your happiness is my greatest concern. And if affection be only in my heart, then you will silence me on this subject forever.

"Please do not delay long in responding, for I must know. –Yours ever."

Fanny's face coloured at the memory, mortified that she could have written such words. Oh, what must Edmund think of her! Perhaps he had not received the letter, or perhaps he had not read them. That must be her only hope.

The first few days of Fanny's return to Mansfield were filled with talking to, listening to and consoling Lady Bertram, attending to Tom, and helping Susan to settle in. Fanny was greatly relieved that her attempts to prepare Susan for Aunt Norris' malice were unnecessary. Her aunt was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to everything that passed. Although she was clearly unhappy about Susan's presence, she could not exert herself to apply the small cruelties she had frequently shown Fanny over the years.

Edmund's responsibilities with his parish and the family were heavy, and to her relief Fanny saw little of him in the first days after her return. She was surprised therefore when he approached her in the drawing-room on Sunday afternoon. Lady Bertram had fallen asleep while Fanny read to her, and Susan was outdoors exploring the grounds of Mansfield.

"Fanny," Edmund said as he entered. "Will you walk with me? I must speak with you."

Has Edmund read the letter? What will he say to Fanny? Please leave me your comments!