Merriment & Wisdom

A Mansfield Park fanfiction

Part Eight:

Persuasion, Being Convinced Otherwise

Following her acceptance of Tom Bertram, Fanny's family began to treat her as more of a guest than a resident. They acted, largely, as if she were already Mrs. Bertram and was only returned to them for a visit. Most girls in Fanny's place would have been delighted – Betsey, who'd always been treated better than her elder sisters anyway, and had nothing to lament, should have been quite ecstatic in her place, for she liked very much to feel important and to put on airs and would hardly have known what to do with herself if she'd ever had any real occasion for it, as her sister now had – but Fanny herself was made greatly unhappy by it at first. She was a creature of habit who loathed change, and to feel keenly as if she were not part of the only life she'd known before she'd even left it behind her was not an easy thing to come to terms with.

Her mother took too much notice of her; her father nodded with dismissive approval when she walked into a room, as if privately concluding she was soon to be one less mouth to feed; John and Richard referred to her as their cousin's affianced in conversation more than they did their sister; Tom and Charles ignored her entirely, as if trying to distance themselves, knowing she'd be gone soon anyway; Betsey asked – on what seemed to be an endless loop – if there would be a cake when Fanny married Tom and if she could be assured of a large piece.

Only Susan was steadfastly the same as ever towards her, and it was she who reconciled Fanny to the change, reminding her that nobody meant to be unkind; they were merely preparing for when she was a lady and they should not see her and have the use of her every day any longer.

Poor Susan, though – deep inside, she was more miserable than Fanny. Fanny could look forward to a marriage that would bring her – though it must be through great change – brand new comforts. Susan could look forward only to less body warmth on the mattress shared between sisters on cold nights. She wished she was going to Mansfield Park as well. She'd heard of ladies who took younger sisters with them as companions for their holiday following the wedding, but she could have no hope even of that much in Fanny's case. Tom would have to return to Mansfield – doubtless he'd been away too long already – and Susan had not been invited. No one had spoken of Susan's visiting, let alone her coming along to see Fanny introduced to her new home.

But she was determined to bear it, and considered it only what was likely. Susan was used to having to give Fanny up – she gave her up entirely to William whenever he was home, because she had no choice, and now she was giving her to Tom Bertram. She was forced to be used to it. And, moreover, it was what was best for Fanny. It was what she'd wanted for her sister the moment she realised Mr. Bertram was sincere in his interest.

Fortunately, there were nice distractions for both Susan and Fanny while they waited for word of the younger Mr. Bertram's coming to perform the marriage. Tom took them on several more walks, all of which had less errands attached than the previous ones had, and he was given leave to convey them, when the next Assembly Night came around, to the dance hall in an open carriage Mr. Yates had hired. It proved much better than going there on foot, and Fanny was left with more energy for dancing. She looked far more appealing to the Portsmouth boys, who hardly recognised the little figure leaning on Mr. Bertram's arm as he helped her out of the carriage, than she had in all the years before; indeed, if she'd been a very different sort of girl, she would have had a great opportunity to make Tom exceedingly jealous.

A couple of days after the ball, Tom came by the house carrying a box tied closed with velvet ribbon and presented it to Fanny in front of the family.

Betsey – loudly asking why she didn't get a big gift-box as well – was kept from sobbing only by Fanny's hastily permitting her to keep the ribbon once it was taken off the box.

Inside, sandwiched between layers of paper, was a white gown of fine muslin sewn up with glass beads that glittered like fairy-lights when Fanny lifted it out.

"I thought," Tom explained, clearing his throat as if slightly embarrassed, "you might like to have something new for the wedding ceremony. I don't know much about that sort of thing, clearly, but I recalled Miss Crawford – that's the lady my brother fancied – had a similar dress everybody said was expensive. We took wagers on whose winnings at cards that evening would have been able to cover the cost of it." He pointed at the glass beads. "Hers had those glossy, spotty bits as well – whatever those are meant to be." He paused, then added, "Eh, you know, if it's the wrong size or anything, I'm sure we can have it taken in."

"It's beautiful," breathed Fanny, who had never seen such a dress before. "Thank you."

"Oh, don't thank me – you ought to thank Yates," laughed Tom, teasingly. "He's the one who put the idea in my head by waxing on about how dreadfully crummy your dress on Assembly Night was." He shrugged. "I didn't notice anything the matter with it myself."

"Fanny," exclaimed Susan, before anyone could reply to that, "you'll look like a princess!" Her eyes darted to Mrs. Price. "Won't she, Mother?"

"She'll look well enough for someone who is to marry a Bertram," she replied diplomatically. "Your Aunt Maria had a fine dress made up for her wedding as well."

"What about shoes?" Betsey piped up, having just finished securing the velvet ribbon in her dark hair. "Fanny hasn't got any shoes to match a dress like that!"

And Tom, turning his head, blinked down at the small girl.

Being a man, he had not anticipated such a question. He'd been pleased to have – rightly, it seemed, however against the odds – identified a passible muslin with glossy pieces – no one had told him there would be shoes.

Edmund's arrival in Portsmouth had only frustrated him further. Because of being sent in the wrong direction, it took him an hour to locate the inn Tom was staying at, only to be told by Mr. Yates that his brother was not within after all.

"Oh, depend upon it – he'll be out walking the entire length of the harbour with the Miss Prices," Mr. Yates yawned indolently, having just been roused from a nap. "I would have gone with him, as I've been doing, but I'm fagged out from a late night. And, well, one walk with your cousins becomes very much like another after a time. Further, I think it's terribly likely to rain, don't you?"

"There are no clouds out today, Mr. Yates," had been Edmund's dry reply before thanking him and departing.

Tom was at the harbour, and – from the first glance – he seemed to be alone. Perhaps the Miss Prices had gone home? All the better, if they had, he'd thought, approaching and calling out his brother's name.

Turning with a delighted smile on his face, Tom lifted his top hat and halloed in what – in that moment – struck Edmund as a very grating and exaggerated manner.

"Edmund!" He was positively beaming, as if it truly did not occur to him that he was in the process of making great trouble for the family. "There you are at last. I am most glad of it! I confess I was worried you'd left Thornton Lacey early and hadn't gotten my last letter – you didn't reply."

"Well, there are some matters that ought to be addressed in person rather than through a missive," said Edmund. "Would that you had enough decorum and good sense to realise it."

"Oh, you sound like Father," he laughed. "Lighten up."

"This girl you wish to marry–"

"Fanny Price."

"This girl," he pressed.

"You know her name, Edmund – use it."

"Fanny Price."

"There. Was that so very trying?"

"Fanny Price," Edmund went on, "is not–"

"Yes, yes, as you say – but before you finish that sentence," Tom cut in, lifting an arm and gesturing over his shoulder. "I feel obliged to warn you she's standing right behind you."

Edmund spun halfway, and caught a glimpse of the petite, pale figure standing with someone so alike in looks (though not in countenance) it could only be a sister.

What had Edmund expected Fanny Price to be like? Confronted with her in the flesh, as she truly was, he was no longer certain. It had been difficult, really, to get an accurate fix on her from Tom's letters. The eyes of love, if not actually blind, are always a bit fuzzy around the edges, as he knew from first-hand experience.

Tom had said she was pretty and good natured.

All men who believe themselves in love say exactly the same.

He had mentioned her piety and her amber cross, and very little else.

Somehow, Edmund thought he might have been vaguely anticipating someone who – while not morally repugnant by any means – had contrived to get Tom Bertram to propose marriage. A poor cousin cleverly – and not, in and of itself, wrongly – calculating her way out of poverty.

Perhaps it was to do with the way Tom had written that one part in the first letter he'd mentioned her in: 'Alas, she loves me, what else can I do?'

Instead, though, Edmund was confronted with a sickly young woman peering out at him through guileless light eyes, her smile quavery. Any chasing done here had been all on Tom's part; it was not contrived by this unfortunate innocent.

The blame here was so uneven as to make him feel very angry with his brother in regards to the deliberateness of it. He had not been entrapped. He had contrived and planned and plotted and played and gambled and jolly well let himself get carried away – as he always did.

And so he looked back to Tom with an expression of unadulterated disgust. "Tom, you're a fool."

Tom cleared his throat and ignored that. "Fanny, this currently very disagreeable and dour person is my brother – he's to marry us."

"Yes," said Fanny, simply, "I recognise him."

Surprised so completely he forgot to be angry at Tom's obtuseness, Edmund said, "Recognise me?"

"From Tom's sketches." Fanny blushed and glanced down at her feet.

"Oh, and this is Susan – your cousin also, and my soon to be sister-in-law," Tom added, waving merrily at Susan.

Susan bobbed politely. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Edmund Bertram."

"I believe he prefers Parson Bertram these days," drawled Tom, arching an eyebrow. "Does he not?"

"Indeed, he does not," grumbled Edmund.

"So." Tom grinned and clapped his hands together. "How soon can you marry us? Fanny has her wedding-clothes already. I'd like to have the church cleared out on schedule. Might be a bit awkward, you know – somebody praying on their knees in the corner while we're exchanging rings."

Edmund inhaled sharply, taking a long, deep breath. When he released it, he turned to Fanny and Susan graciously. "Come, we'll walk you home."

"No, no – absolutely not!" cried Tom, scowling. "We've just got out for the day and it's clearer than it's been since I first came."

"With all due respect, dearest cousins, my brother and I need to speak alone, so I fear I must beg your indulgence in this matter, despite how it will cut your exercise short on an admittedly agreeable day. Please don't think me unkind for it."

"Edmund, why are you addressing them? I'm speaking to you," Tom snarled.

"We," said Edmund, very slowly and with forced coolness, looking askance at his brother, "will talk later."

"Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Fanny."

"Indeed, I cannot – and as it is not Fanny I'm cross with, it would be a great unkindness to speak what it is on my mind in her hearing, and in front of her sister no less," Edmund told him. "Now we will begin walking back."

"You can't just show up here and tell me what to do."

"Do not," Edmund warned, very coldly, "push it, Tom."

"D'you imagine, just because you're a clergyman, no one may see or judge except yourself?" hissed Tom, indignant.

"I will not speak of it now – not in the present company." Edmund spoke through his teeth. "Take the younger Miss Price's arm and we shall be off."

Tom grew properly angry, as he had never been in Fanny's presence before, for he saw the order exactly as Edmund meant him to – a ready barrier between himself and Fanny Price. His self-righteous younger brother would not even allow him to take the arm of his betrothed for the short walk back to the house, insisting he escort Susan instead.

"This isn't up for discussion." And Edmund held out his arm in Fanny's direction.

If Tom expected her not to take it, to show stubborn defiance in his defence, as Edmund suspected – from his falling expression, which he did not watch without swallowing a twinge of sadness – such was not the case. Without the smallest sign of protest – not so much as a squeak or a parted mouth or an indignant look – Fanny automatically obliged and hooked her arm through Edmund's, her manner meek as a lamb and her wide, watery eyes blinking up at him as if she were not entirely convinced he was real.

Given no other choice in the matter, Tom took Susan by the arm without really looking at her as he did so and began walking.

When they arrived at the Price household, Edmund apologised for leaving them on the doorstep without a word, promising to come calling on his aunt and all the rest of them tomorrow and to pay his respects.

It was Susan, not Fanny, whose eyes darted from Edmund to Tom uncertainly.

Edmund shook his head – if he had anything to say about it, no, Tom would not be accompanying him on his visit tomorrow.

Poor Tom, though. Furious as Edmund was with him, he also was forced, despite himself, to pity him. Especially as Fanny – stationed in the threshold of the house, fiddling anxiously with her amber cross – did not watch Tom go as they turned to leave and his brother was visibly disappointed by the lack of regard. Downright crestfallen.

Oh, Tom, he thought miserably, I'm not your enemy. And you asked me to come.

Once they'd turned off the narrow street, Tom snapped, as if Edmund had spoken aloud, "She's shy – that's all."

"I did not say otherwise."

Then, almost more to himself than to Edmund, "Why does everyone prefer you to me?"

"That is not true, and – even if it were – it's irrelevant."

"You're a prig. D'you know that? Why could you not just arrive here and be pleasant and do for me the one favour I asked of you?"

"I wonder sometimes, Tom, that you are not ashamed to ask me for favours."

"T'hell does that mean?"

"You know exactly what it means," said Edmund, unwilling to elaborate further.

Seated before the fire in his and Tom's room, Mr. Yates halloed as enthusiastically as Tom initially had, upon seeing both Bertram brothers enter together, until he realised Tom looked cross, and his broad grin faded.

"What's amiss, chaps?"

"There's nothing you can say, Edmund," Tom fumed, "which will prevent my marrying Fanny Price. I had hoped for your blessing, but I can live without it."

"Tom, you complete imbecile." A hand was lifted to Edmund's mouth and he was several angry moments in stony silence before letting it drop and going on. "Do you truly not see the matter is far more grave than my preventing anything? For a start, Father will be furious."

Tom shrugged. "Then, really, he ought to have done something for Mother's relatives years ago – if I had been acquainted with the Prices before now..." He shrugged again, twice as callously. "Well, who's to say I would not feel differently? He's brought it entirely on his own head, Edmund. I'm amazed you – you who preach of kindness and charity – can defend his neglect."

Edmund sucked his teeth. "God give me strength – Tom, you speak of neglect, when we both know that you yourself are in far more danger of neglecting Fanny if you marry her than if you do not."

"I do not understand you."

"Tom," he said pointedly, "you were given extensive lessons in recitation, piano, and fencing – you cannot act or speak publicly with any clarity, you can barely play, and I'm fairly certain Mr. Yates here could best you in a duel."

Yates smiled.

"Don't look so damnably pleased, John, it's not as if it's true – and, Edmund, what has that to do with anything?"

"You've never attended to a matter thoroughly in your life."

Tom was stung. "Perhaps not, but Fanny isn't a piano or a sword – she's the woman I wish to marry. Surely that is a different matter entirely. I had no desire to learn anything Father required of me as a boy – no yearning or inclination for it – but I do long to be married."

"That is true," Mr. Yates chimed in rather too brightly. "He longs for her all day – speaks of almost nothing else. It can be quite bothersome. I think you had best agree to marry them, Edmund, or else we shall never hear the end of it."

"Oh, please. My privileged brother has never longed for anything in his life," huffed Edmund, "save for more fish at a card table with which to raise the stakes or, perhaps, two to one odds on Clop-clop."

"Clip-clop," corrected Tom, bitterly. "If you mean to criticise me, at least do so rightly. The horse's name was Clip-clop."

"Actually, the owner had it changed to Thunder-hooves and put him out to stud after he kicked that unfortunate groom in the nether regions," said Mr. Yates, unhelpfully, rising from his chair and brushing off his breeches. "Most regrettable."

"Damn fine horse," agreed Tom, offhandedly. "Shame about the groom. I hear he has a fantastic singing voice now, though."

Edmund rolled his eyes. "I think it would be best, Mr. Yates, if Tom and I could continue this conversation between only ourselves – this is a family matter."

"Oh, certainly, certainly." Mr. Yates was most amiable. He walked good-humouredly across the room at once, although – rather than quitting it as Edmund might have expected – he hoisted up a screen used for drafts and for when he or Tom was dressing and, dragging it over, placed it between his chair and where Edmund and Tom were standing. "You needed only to ask, my good fellow."

"I am begging you, as your brother," Edmund pressed, ignoring the screen and likely doing his best to imagine John Yates was not behind it, "use your brain for once and don't marry the poor girl. Say your goodbyes, break off the engagement, and come home to Mansfield Park with me."

"Do you despise her so much that you'd wish her to be left in this backwater, rather than to have a comfortable home at Mansfield?" exclaimed Tom. "You can see she's not well." And for a moment Tom's eyes glittered with hurt at what he meant to say – meant to admit – next. "She was fond of you at first sight. Before that, even. Why should you hate her? Should not love beget love?"

"I don't hate Fanny," said Edmund softly. "You, however, I'm not too keen on at the moment. The truth is, I'm frightened for her – for my poor cousin – for you both. You will make a rash choice, believe yourselves happy for a week, and then be miserable for the rest of your lives."

"This is immaterial, empty words – I cannot give her up."

"This is dishonourable, Tom." He closed his eyes and winced, shaking his head.

"Dishonourable?" Tom glared daggers at his brother. "All was done upright, and I proposed marriage, not some shoddy arrangement in which she's a kept mistress in London. It's you who wishes to prevent us from the most honourable union there is."

"I'm not trying to rob you of happiness," snapped Edmund, raising a hand and pointing emphatically; "I'm trying to help you. You are the eldest son of a baronet – your courtship should not have been a secret one conducted in a place like this, but something that came about in full knowledge of our parents. Your marriage should not be performed by a reluctant clergyman with only the Price family as witnesses. Banns should be posted, the paper should report on your choice. You know there is a way these things are done – you know it perfectly well."

Tom watched Edmund's outburst with an expression that was, not only lacking in nicety, but leaning towards the downright nasty. He ought to have been concerned the moment his elder brother, who had never gracefully tolerated hearing no from his family in conjunction with something he desired for himself, began to contort his features into such a look. There was malice in it, and there was no mercy. Edmund was the piteous one, the one who feared retribution if he did something unkind – Tom's own conscience, while honest to a fault when it could be prevailed upon in earnest, was a much more volatile thing, one which he knew how make quiet when he wanted it to be.

"I see," he said in a dangerously level tone. "I see it all now, Edmund – you are right."

Edmund dared not sigh in relief – he was sure there more to come – the voice was too barbed for that to be all.

"What was I thinking, proposing marriage to Fanny!" He made a little clicking noise with his mouth and began to pace the length of the screen. "She is most unsuitable. The shame I should bring on our poor, perfect father." The sarcasm seemed to drip from his tongue. "Certainly I must marry someone he knows already, someone our Aunt Norris would approve of as well. Not a poor relation I've imagined myself to care for." His stare was chilling as he bit down onto his lower lip in pretend consideration. "I know exactly the person."

"What are you talking about?"

"Mary Crawford."

The blood drained from Edmund's face. "You are not serious."

"Indeed, I am!"

"You don't even fancy her."

"But she's someone our father would approve, is she not? And she is amiable, is she not?"

"Miss Crawford would never accept you," but even as he said it, Edmund's doubt was visibly evident.

"Not accept me?" he laughed darkly. "But I'm exactly what she wants – your living is too lowly for her, which is why she refused you, but as you said I'm the first-born son of a baronet. I'm to inherit Mansfield Park." He cocked his head. "She overlooked me for you, once, but in the end she still wouldn't have you. So. If I take up a letter this moment and have it sent off tomorrow, just how confident are you that your lady-love won't respond to it in my favour, rethinking her former dismissal of me?"

"I did not believe you could ever be so cruel," murmured Edmund, eyes bloodshot and countenance fallen as if he'd been struck forcefully in the face. "You sorry bastard."

"We have the same parents, Edmund," he reminded him coyly, examining his well-buffed cuticles.

"You wouldn't truly marry her."

"If I can't have the woman of my choosing, one pretty girl is very much like another, is she not? Mary will do. And she's an accomplished musician – I enjoy harp music, though not so much as you do. We should not make each other too unhappy. And it isn't as if she ever accepted you – I wouldn't have stolen her from you. I'm not so harsh in my spite as that. I should only be marrying a free woman." With a little gesture at the screen, he added, "Indeed, she's the very sort of woman even Yates has anticipated my loving someday. Small, dark, and bright – just like Amelia."

"You engage and dismiss her in one breath."

"Ah. Can't be helped. I like to be efficient."

"May God forgive you, Tom."

He sighed dramatically, his cocky smile pulled tight. "Of course, given it seems to bother you so greatly, it occurs to me there is a ready solution.

"If I married Fanny – if we were happily wed before quitting this place – I'd never so much as have reason to wink at your precious Mary Crawford, would I?"

"I can see" – Edmund gulped down rage and fear and fury and tried to breath normally – "appealing to you is useless. I'm not to going to find your better nature in this state of affairs. You are too used to having your own way, too desperate. I shall have to pray our cousin has more sense than you and can be reasoned with."

"You can't–"

"It isn't a matter of what I can't do," and he stepped around the screen. "It is a matter of what needs to be done."

"I'm going to marry her, Edmund, whether you approve or not." The die, so far as he was concerned, had already been cast.

Edmund stopped at the door, fists clenched. "Are you speaking of Mary Crawford or Fanny Price?"

"Well," he said darkly, reaching for a decanter on a nearby night-stand, "that's up to you, isn't it?"

A/N: Reviews welcome, replies may be delayed.