24 November, 1830
Mansfield Parsonage
Dear Jamie,
I am so glad to hear that you will be coming here for Christmas! You are quite right to remind me that Mansfield is not officially your "home," since you were born and lived the first several years of your life in Portsmouth, close to our grandparents' house, and indeed, lived with them for a few months after your dear Mama passed away. Not until Mama pled with your father for to come stay with us did you come to Mansfield. But you have been a part of our lives for so long, except when Grandmother and Grandfather Price claim you, that I forget Mansfield has not always been your home, and you are not truly my brother.
In any case, I am glad you are coming. The holidays would not seem the same without you. Aunt Bertram, of course, is most delighted to have Richard coming home, and has already planned countless gaieties to enliven his time. She wishes him to meet Miss Cooke, who is a wealthy South Seas heiress here visiting her family. I know nothing about Miss Cooke—and I will refrain from speculating.
You see, I am coming along in my attempts to be charitable.
Later
Directly after I wrote the last line, I had to lay the pen down, and now I am supposed to be asleep, for it is quite late, but I have to tell you what happened!
I have just finished penning those words when a shadow fell across my page, and I looked up to see Mr. Fulke standing next to my bench! I rose at once, naturally, and curtseyed, and he bowed, and then he said,
"I am sorry to disturb your solitude, Miss Bertram, but I am seeking your father. Do you know where he is?"
"Why yes," I replied. "He and Mama are spending the day at Thornton Lacey, visiting some of their acquaintances there."
(You remember, Jamie, that Thornton Lacey is where Mama and Papa lived for the first few years of their marriage, and where Aunt de L. met Sir Frederick.)
Mr. Fulke looked quite troubled.
"Is there anything with which I might assist you?" I inquired. I hardly expected him to answer in the affirmative, as he has shown such a decided dislike for me, but one must be polite.
"I'm not sure," he said. "Mrs. Perth, down in the village, is quite ill. She refuses a doctor, and insists she is dying. I thought your father would be best equipped to come comfort her, but if he is not here, I shall have to return and do my poor best."
"I shall come with you," I promptly declared, rising and wrapping my shawl around my shoulders.
Mr. Fulke looked startled—though at my promptitude, my willingness to go, or the impropriety of me accompanying him unescorted, I am uncertain.
"I wouldn't dream of asking you …" he began, when I cut him off.
"Father would want me to go in his place." This, as you know, is perfectly true. "Besides, if Mrs. Perth is truly ill, you may need a woman's assistance."
"Truly ill? Do you doubt my word?"
He stiffened up ridiculously, and I disabused him of that notion at once. "Not yours, Mr. Fulke, but Mrs. Perth declares she is dying about twice a year. Sometimes she is actually ill, but others, I suspect, she is merely bored."
Well, he actually smiled at that! And I thought again what a pleasant—even handsome—face he has when he smiles. It is a great pity he does not do so more often!
"Very well then, Miss Bertram, it would be my pleasure to escort you."
We walked mostly in silence to Mrs. Perth's cottage. As I had suspected, she was fretful rather than ill. Mr. Fulke read to her from the Scriptures (she requested something from the Common Book, but he said he didn't have it on him—odd, now that I think of it. Why would he have the Holy Bible and not the Book of Common Prayer?), while I tidied the cottage (and the children, who were filthy), and heated a batch of chicken soup I had borrowed from our kitchen.
We left Mrs. Perth feeling much better; she even deigned to say that she thought she might live out the night, yet.
"Thank you for accompanying me, Miss Bertram," Mr. Fulke said when we were out of earshot. "I really thought she was dying, and would have botched the job had you not assisted."
"Mrs. Perth is a good soul," I answered seriously. "All of her children are grown, but she takes care of her dead daughter's three babes, as well as two local orphans who would otherwise end in the poorhouse, I fear. She is entitled to a bit of rest once in a while, and if she can only get that by fancying herself ill, then who am I to judge?"
Mr. Fulke looked surprised; then he laughed. "Why, Miss Bertram, I begin to think I misjudged you, as well."
I glanced at him sideways. "If you have formed any opinion of my character at this point, it is certain to be incorrect. You know me, sir, not at all."
"No indeed, I fear I am very poor at making friends. Lucy does it much better than I."
"And I," I admitted candidly. "Though even I am better known to the people here than you are, Mr. Fulke."
"You think me standoffish," he stated.
"No! for I know you as little as you know me, and I would not dare to paint a picture of you yet. For all I know, you may be shy."
He did not laugh. "I am, by nature, very fond of good company," he said. "I believe I am amiable—at least, my friends have been kind enough to call me so—and I try to live up to my religion as best I can. Please believe me, Miss Bertram, when I say that my present poor attitude is not an accurate reflection of who I am, nor is it the fault of anyone here. I am—I am merely going through a difficult period in my life."
"I am sorry to hear it," I said. "If there is anything I could do to help …"
"Thank you, but I fear I must fight this through alone."
Poor man! I begin to think Miss Chatsworth correct, and he is recovering from an unhappy love affair. Perhaps the girl who jilted him had red hair, and that is why he took such an instant dislike to me.
"You were very good to Mrs. Perth," I said, thinking he might appreciate a change in subject. "She does so love being read to. I am more than willing, when I visit, but she thinks it inappropriate for a woman to read much of Scripture. Papa visits and reads when he can, but he has so many people to visit, that he cannot take all the time he might wish."
"Well," said Mr. Fulke with an attempt at a smile. "That is why he has a curate, is it not? To tend those duties for which he has no time himself?"
"That, and to prepare said curate toward becoming a clergyman himself," I answered, for I know Papa takes that part of his duty very seriously.
Mr. Fulke sighed. "I fear he has taken on a fearful task in me, then."
I longed to ask him what he meant, but we were met at that moment by Miss Chatsworth and two of her bosom friends, and I could not. It is just as well—that would not have been a polite question and I likely would have undone all my hard work at giving him a better impression of me!
Mr. Fulke turned off on another visit shortly after we met Miss Chatsworth, and I had to bear some very impertinent questions from her on why Mr. Fulke and I were out walking. I explained, that as the clergyman's daughter, I had to assist him with some of his parish duties, but she insisted on reading more into it. Wretched girl! She made me quite angry, and finally I reminded her that I am not out and therefore not bound to the same rules of society she is, and even if I were, the niece of Sir Thomas Bertram could hardly be accused of improper behaviour, as if she was merely a tradesman's daughter.
That blow stung, as Mr. Chatsworth owns a shop in town.
Now, Jamie, I know that was unkind, but I had no other recourse but to remind her of who I was. I do not want to start rumours swirling about Mr. Fulke and me! I owed it to him, as well as to Mama and Papa, to protect my reputation.
Miss Chatsworth is simply jealous, anyhow, because Mr. Fulke is no more than polite to her, and now she has seen the two of us engaged in conversation. If she had more brains—There! I won't finish that thought.
She said nothing more, and I trust the reference to my uncle will keep her from spreading any vicious gossip—Cassandra Bertram, clergyman's daughter, may be an easy target, but the niece of Sir Thomas Bertram of Mansfield Park carries a bit more weight.
In any case, I do not repent going. My father was pleased, when he returned—and if he did not think it improper for me to go with Mr. Fulke, it can only be acceptable socially. He will visit Mrs. Perth himself tomorrow, and commend Mr. Fulke to her.
I am glad, also, to finally have had a chance to become slightly acquainted with Mr. Fulke. He is not as amiable as his sister—but I believe there is hope for him yet.
Goodnight, dear Jamie.
Yours,
Cass.