Merriment & Wisdom

A Mansfield Park fanfiction

Part Ten:

Conditions, Accepting Them For What They Are

And what do you think Tom was doing, meanwhile?

He was, by the light of three newly-lit candles, attempting to write what he thought a very fine-sounding letter to Miss Crawford, which he meant to wave under his brother's nose upon his return to the inn.

His eyes unfocused and glassy, he signed what he – finally – deemed an acceptable letter with a sloppy flourish, blotted it, then passed it to Mr. Yates. "What do you think, John?"

"You don't sound particularly enamoured of Miss Crawford," remarked Mr. Yates, dropping into his chair and letting his eyes lazily scan the contents of the letter. "Jolly good note otherwise. Crisp. Packs something of a punch, what."

Tom let his head loll backwards as he rolled his eyes. "This is simply a precaution – God knows what nonsense Edmund has been saying to my poor Fanny this past hour. It's the only leverage I have with my brother at the moment – should bloody well teach him not to try and govern everybody else."

Mr. Yates tsked and let the hand which held Tom's letter to Mary Crawford go slack at the wrist as he stared off into the middle distance. "One supposes it all might have turned out differently."

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Tom rose from his seat and walked over to where Mr. Yates was, putting a hand on the back of his companion's chair, leaning forward and staring out into the same direction blankly. He blinked, finding little enough change. "What the hell are we looking at?"

Mr. Yates' hand snapped back to life, holding the letter properly and handing it backwards to Tom, who took it irritably. "It might have turned out differently, but it didn't."

The door opened and Edmund walked in, his heavy, dragging steps weary and dejected.

"Ah, Edmund," simpered Tom, waving the letter about. "What excellent timing you have – I've only just completed my letter asking Miss Crawford for her hand."

His brother gave him a side-eye, but walked, first, to the desk and motioned down at a nearly empty decanter. "Tom, that was almost full when I left – tell me Mr. Yates at least helped you finish that."

"I'm afraid, my fine fellow, I haven't had a single drop," said Yates, with grating merriment.

All around the desk and awkwardly-angled chair were crumpled up paper and discarded pens with broken tips. There were also signs of ink having been spilled and improperly cleaned up – if an attempt had even been made at all.

"So," groaned Edmund, rubbing his temples, "you've been sitting here, sullen, curtains drawn, drinking and composing letters all afternoon?"

"What's it to you if I have?" Tom held out his hand and flapped the letter impatiently. "Now. Are you going to read the damn thing or not?"

Edmund took it from him. "Oh, that's romantic, Tom," he said sarcastically, looking it over with pursed lips and an angry furrow between his eyebrows. "You're asking for someone's hand in marriage – not ordering a roast pheasant."

"And yet I'm still fairly confident she'd accept," taunted Tom, his expression rather nasty.

Edmund's fingers tightened around the left-hand corner of the letter, wrinkling it slightly. "I wonder what you'd say if Fanny Price were to see this?"

Tom blanched. "What?"

"I have the letter in my hand now, don't I?" Edmund said in a monotone from which no emotion could be derived. "I could show it to whoever I pleased, could I not?"

"I say, Bertram, that's hardly sporting!" put in Yates, gone rather pale himself.

Tom looked broken – as if someone had just pulled not merely the rug out from under him but the entire world, as if he was left standing upon nothing, and was – truly – not even certain he was standing any longer.

The thought of Fanny, dearest Fanny, reading such a missive! Passionless and coldly clinical it might be, but it still – seemingly – professed his wish to marry somebody else. Tom's ignorance regarding the feelings of women did not extend so far as to not be aware of the sort of wound which might be inflicted. He'd lose her, the instant her eyes landed on the page, perhaps forever. He ardently hated himself for writing it, for ever thinking of writing it.

"Even if I told her the story behind this, sparing no detail, misrepresenting nothing at all," said Edmund, evenly, "you cannot imagine she would think kindly of..." He held up the hateful letter pointedly. "Would you?"

"Edmund, if you presume to show her that letter I will never forgive you," snarled Tom, a little colour returning to his miserable face. "D'you understand? Even if it takes years, even if openly despising a clergyman condemns me to Hell itself, I will find a way to make you pay for this."

"Tom – look at me."

He'd been deliberately avoiding eye-contact – it made it easier to hate – and now – heart pounding, racing – he forced himself to look his brother full-on in the face. What he saw there, at last, gave Tom a twinge of relief.

"You wouldn't," he breathed, seeing his brother's eyes. "You'd never..."

"That's right" – Edmund tossed the letter into the fireplace and watched it begin to burn up instantly – "I would never."

And Tom, never so unspeakably glad in his life to see something transformed to ash, was overcome with shame. Edmund wouldn't have shown that letter to Fanny. Edmund simply didn't have that sort of spite in him, not in one single bone in his body, and he clearly cared too much for both parties involved. While he himself, reckless elder brother, had been perfectly willing to go through with his own threat – he'd been willing to propose marriage to Mary Crawford just to prove a point, in hopes of getting his own way through blackmail.

"Thank you," he rasped out.

"Now, let us hear no more of this nonsense about you offering your hand to Miss Crawford," said Edmund, getting – quite unexpectedly – the final word on the matter. "We're not children any more, Tom, let us be civil."

Tom nodded, dropping his gaze.

"I've spoken to Fanny – she refuses to give you up."

Tom's head jerked back up; he was alight with joy. He brought his hands to his face and let out a small groan of relief.

"Now that I have your attention, listen. I still believe this marriage to be ill-conceived," Edmund told him, "my most fervent wish being that she will yet change her mind, but – against my better judgement – I'll perform the ceremony, join the pair of you in wedded bliss, if you agree to my conditions."

"And they are?" Tom asked, hardly daring to believe this happy change in fortune.

"Firstly, as I know it's useless to try and convince you to write to our father prior to your marrying Fanny Price, I will require you give me your word that – as soon as you have gotten your way, as soon as you're married – you will write him and beg his pardon."

"Oh, do come on," groaned Tom.

"I mean it," Edmund insisted. "I won't have you turning up at Mansfield with her unannounced, thinking it some sort of grand joke. Give our father a something like a warning, allow him time – however short – to adjust to the idea. If not your own sake, then for Fanny's."

"And what else?"

"You will not – on some sort of mad whim – take Fanny from Portsmouth and go gallivanting about in London under the guise of a wedding holiday – I highly doubt Fanny's health could endure the pace of your London lifestyle, and you've been away from home long enough."

"What of Bath, then?" Tom suggested. "I would think Fanny might rather enjoy Bath."

"In the future, perhaps, if the proper arrangements were made, but not now." Edmund was unmoved. "I'm also going to write to Father, though I will say nothing of your marriage – I'm going to ask only that – if it is quite convenient – he send his own carriage to convey us to Mansfield in two week's time."

"That's not enough time, Edmund – a fortnight is nothing."

"You and Fanny will have to make the most of it – and you'll do so here, in Portsmouth." He sighed as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and – rather than ridding himself of it – was shifting it so he could bear it longer, for to drop it would only end all. His own suffering might be eased, but that of others would only increase. It was heavy, so heavy... "You can't hide from your problems forever."

"Is that all?"

He shook his head. "One last thing. We are to take Fanny's sister, Susan, with us to Mansfield."

"No. An interesting idea, certainly, but I'm afraid it's not possible." Tom folded his arms across his chest. "Our family will already–"

Edmund held up a hand. "If there's any objection," he insisted, "we'll say she's a companion for Mother – for when she sits alone in the evening and our father happens to be away. No one can have anything to say against that."

"But what is your real reason for wanting her there?" inquired Tom, wholly mystified.

"My real reason, Tom, is fear that when you tire of quarrelling with Father – when the racing season starts up again – you are likely to abandon Fanny in Mansfield Park, where she will have no friends, no allies. I can't be there to look after her in your stead, not if I'm returned to Thornton Lacey, but having her sister in residence may ease the pain of your inevitable neglect. The Prices, I think, will be glad enough to allow it – once the thing has been suggested."

"Very well," Tom said at last. "I agree – to all of it. I give you my word."

"This place is a mess," Edmund declared, answering by way of not answering as he crouched to pick up the discarded papers Tom had left scattered about his chair. "We should burn these as well." And he tossed them into the fire, and – watching the hateful scraps turn to ash before his bloodshot eyes – Tom felt so light he could float.

Edmund's elbow happened to bump something off the edge of the desk as he rose. It was Tom's sketchbook, and it fell open on the floor.

The younger brother was astonished, getting to it before he could be prevented and seeing rather fine work. "Good lord, is that supposed to be me? Why, here is Julia and Maria, too!" He had seen, a handful of times, unfinished landscapes of Tom's – and while they were, mostly, just what a gentleman's drawings ought to be, they'd never stood out as anything special. He'd never suspected his brother of having an eye for detail, much less the constancy to finish what he started. To be sure, they were small, simple pieces, but they were also remarkable, all very like their subjects. "I had no idea you'd gotten so accomplished in your likenesses."

"See?" said Tom, with some lingering hostility. "You don't know everything about me."

Turning a few pages, Edmund came across the drawing of Fanny. It was perfect, apart from a smudge under her cross that might have come from a mere slip of the hand rather than signify any sort of incompleteness. So Tom – so much as he could – really did love her, then. There was a raw affection in the work – a passion – not present in the little drawings of himself and their sisters.

With a sad shake of his head, Edmund closed the sketchbook and set it down on the desk again. "Would that you'd never let your eye linger on her in the first place – you'll only break both your hearts."

The next time Tom, Edmund, or Mr. Yates saw any of the Prices was at church on Sunday morning.

Despite Tom being slightly hungover and his grumpily muttering that he had better things to do than "hear that hoarse backwater preacher go off about the merits of sobriety," Edmund had dragged his brother out to hear the sermon and, in the end, Tom had let him do it willingly enough because he thought he might see their cousins – including Fanny – and have a moment to speak with them before they slid noisily into their usual pew.

Mr. Yates, trailing along for no particular reason, had very much the air of one who hasn't been to church in so long that he's forgotten the proper way and routine of it and is preoccupied with trying to recall the motions to avoid looking idiotic.

"My religious tutors," he chuckled breathlessly, trotting alongside, "would be most disappointed in me. I fear I've forgotten..."

Neither Bertram brother acknowledged John Yates' statement, nor followed his stream of consciousness as it continued. They reacted no more to his chatter than they would have to a bird singing off-key in the nearby trees.

The Prices were there – they were too loud to miss – but Fanny was not with them, much to Tom's disappointment.

"Fanny had one of her headaches last night and was dizzy today," Susan explained, reaching out to prevent Betsey from pirouetting on the church steps in order to show off her best dress. "She's at home. I'll tell her you – Betsey, stop! We're at church!"

"I say," remarked Mr. Yates, looking around. "Where's Tom gone?"

Susan let go of Betsey – at her mother's biased insistence – and glanced at where Tom had been standing a moment ago. Indeed, Mr. Yates was not mistaken; his companion had fled.

"Oh, Tom," groaned Edmund.

Tom was, of course, fast-walking down the narrow street and heading straight for the Prices' house. He wished he'd had time to stop and buy some more raspberries for her, but it was Sunday and he hadn't wanted anything to slow him down. He hadn't seen Fanny since their last walk, since Edmund's less than agreeable arrival, and he was loath to miss out on the opportunity which had just presented itself.

He didn't bother knocking – he thought it couldn't be wrong to simply let himself in. Fanny knew who he was, of course, and so did Rebecca (who he had also not seen at church and suspected had remained to look after her), so he wasn't terribly likely, he reasoned, to be taken up for a burglar.

Not that the Prices had anything worth stealing.

It was eerily quiet inside. The place was quite transformed without the noise of the children slamming doors and the bustle and the quarrelling and Mr. Price's phlegm-laden coughs. He thought he heard a clock tick softly as he stepped over the threshold. Tom was amazed – he hadn't realised, prior to this, the family even owned a functioning clock; they didn't seem the sort to remember to wind it up again when it stopped working.

He found Fanny at the table, sitting with the uncleared breakfast things spread out in front of her, looking tired and slack-faced. Her eyes were half-closed and she obviously had not seen him come in, so he crept up behind her and put his hands over her eyes.

She inhaled sharply in surprise, as if preparing to scream, just as he merrily called out, "Fanny, who's there?" and allowed his hands to drop to her shoulders.

A strangled yelp replaced the scream she'd been building up to, as she gasped out, "Tom?"

Grinning, he let go of her, took off his top hat, and showed himself. "Hello, Fanny – having a good morning, are you?"

"But..." she stammered. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I heard you weren't at church, thought I'd stop in and surprise you." He was glad, though he didn't say so, to see she was out of bed – it might have been a bit more unseemly if she'd been in her room, especially as he hadn't gotten permission for this visit from either of her parents. "Are you feeling any better?"

Fanny smiled at him shakily. "You shouldn't be here – I'm alone."

"What, no Rebecca, then?" He lifted an eyebrow. "I thought she might–"

She shook her head. "Rebecca is having her day off – she's gone to visit relatives. She said she'd be here by tomorrow morning, but Mother doesn't expect her to actually turn up again until Wednesday."

"Oh, I see." He glanced about and fiddled with the brim of his top hat, twirling it and shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

"I suppose I might offer you some tea before you go." Fanny pushed back her chair and – a little unsteadily – rose from it, gripping the side of the table for balance. "What time is it?"

"No..." Tom shook his head, taking a step back. "No, thank you, I... I don't want anything. It's too early for that."

She looked at him, opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again, going a bit red.

"I've made you uncomfortable," Tom said dejectedly. "I thought..." He'd thought, perhaps foolishly, she'd be happy to see him. "I'll go."

"Tom, wait a moment – please."

He waited, of course. "What's wrong?"

Fanny reached up and lightly gripped his face, dragging it down to hers, and kissed him.

Tom blushed, despite himself – it was the first time she'd initiated a shared kiss between them, and he hadn't been expecting it. Nothing had seemed more unlikely, and nothing could have been more sweet.

He pulled away to blink down at her in stunned surprise, cheeks flaming, then quickly closed the space between them again, returning the kiss but with more urgency and eagerness. His hands stroked her hair and neck and her jawbone, and they drew her back in the handful of times she seemed to be slipping away, seeking some small opening, some excuse, to stop.

"You need to let me breathe," she whispered in a laboured little laugh, finally succeeding in getting him to back up for a moment.

Tom stroked her cheek with the back of three fingers. "Right. Let me know when you've caught your breath."

"I–"

He leaned in.

She turned her head, sucking in her lips. "I think you need to go now."

"Not yet," begged Tom, slipping an arm around her waist. "Let me stay a little longer."

"Come" – she reached up and pushed her blonde curls away from her flushed face, then spun out of his grasp – "I'll walk you to the door."

"Fanny, are you angry with me?"

She stumbled. "No, of course not." Her light eyes were doting, even though her voice was strained – it was clearly not sarcasm. "Why would I be?"

"Things have been...unsettled...lately." He shrugged. "That's all. And after that unfortunate business with Edmund... I was worried you...you might..."

"Oh." She gripped his arm, shaking her head. "Oh, no. Tom, no."

"It's only the impropriety of the thing you're worried about?" he double checked.

She nodded, a trifle sheepishly.

"Damn." His smile was teasing. "Damn your lazy housemaid for taking the day off and leaving us without a chaperone."

"It's Sunday," Fanny said quietly, letting her hand drop back down to her side, "you shouldn't swear." She still couldn't resist smiling back at him. "Though, I think my mother would agree with your sentiments."

Tom took her hand and kissed it in a very gentlemanly fashion, as if saying goodbye, then – before she could open the door – flipped it over at the wrist and kissed the inside of her arm, raising his eyebrows at her, his expression just a touch suggestive.

"Mr. Bertram!" She withdrew her hand.

"I was only teasing you, Fanny – and it's Tom, not Mr. Bertram."

She stared at him, unblinking.

"Let me stay a few more minutes, my sweet little creepmouse," he sighed, reaching out and playing with her hair, holding the tip of a curl between two of his fingers. "What harm could it possibly do?"

William Price hadn't had time to write his family to tell them he was returning to Portsmouth, albeit only for a short time – the return had been unplanned, brought on by an unexpected wind and a sudden need for provisions. So when he arrived in the harbour on that unseasonably warm and calm Sunday, he knew it would have to be a surprise visit. He was only sorry not to have Sam with him, the younger boy currently being on board another ship – their poor mother would be dreadfully disappointed.

It was Fanny he was most looking forward to seeing. Her last letter had been a while ago, and although he'd read it over dozens of times, he still wondered what new developments were in her life. Had her headaches gotten any worse? Did he need to send money home for a doctor to see to that? Was she getting on well with Susan and Betsey? Fanny wasn't one to quarrel, but he knew his other two sisters could be, particularly little Betsey. Was she eating enough? She always did eat too little. There was never enough of what she could keep down – buns and biscuits and milk – and too much of what she never had stomached well – Rebecca's slapdash cooking and their mother's additives to the already wretched meals.

How his favourite sister spent her recent hours were a mystery to him, though he suspected little enough changed from month to month in Portsmouth – it was a surprisingly stagnant place, despite being so near the wild, free water.

Truly ironic, William thought.

He was nearly to the narrow street which would take him home – it was Sunday, so he knew they'd all be at church, and he thought he'd be waiting by the front door when they returned, his arms outstretched – when a pretty figure came up to him with an anxious look on her face.

William smiled uncertainly. "Miss Gregory."

"Mr. Price," she blurted, straightening the ribbon of her oversize bonnet fitfully, "I have something to tell you – something urgent."

Arching a pale-gold eyebrow in surprise, William wondered what on earth she would say to him. Lucy Gregory – and all her friends – had been snubbing him for years; he liked putting out that it was because he was a midshipman, and they wouldn't look at a man who hadn't a commission, but it was really their inexplicable distaste for poor Fanny, who they misunderstood entirely.

Miss Gregory and her sisters – in William's opinion – had always been the most beautiful girls in Portsmouth, but they had not such good souls to match their pretty, spoiled faces. He was not a fool – he smiled and nodded at them in public, but he knew they – and especially Lucy – bullied his favourite sister so often as they could possibly get away with it.

Lucy was the ringleader of the sorry lot. The rest might have left off by now if not for Lucy's consistent encouragement.

So he couldn't imagine what she had to say to him.

"It's Fanny," she said as if he'd voiced his incredulity.

Heart sinking, he thought, oh God, Fanny is very ill, or she's been hurt – it must be something beyond measure, some horrible sickness or misfortune no one has had time to write to me about, if even Lucy Gregory is fretting over it.

He was so worried, in fact, that it barely occurred to him to wonder why Lucy Gregory was bunking off from church – where she ought to be, too – when she seemed to be the very picture of good health.

And Lucy, face white and eyes wide, hands pressed together, told him she'd seen a nefarious man going into the Prices' house as she walked by only a little while ago.

"And it's occurred to me, Mr. Price, that I did not see Fanny today at church – I had to leave early to take the air; the pews have been newly painted and it made me feel unwell."

So, if Lucy was not mistaken, William concluded, whatever the man was up to, he might have found poor Fanny at home – and sick, too, if she was missing the Sunday sermon.

In his grand hurry to race to the house and be sure his sister was all right, William didn't see Lucy Gregory's face recompose itself and settle, then, into a satisfied smirk.

He reached the house panting for breath, wrenched open the door and found a man – a man he did not immediately realise was in fine gentleman's clothing and was a complete stranger – pressing Fanny back against the wall beside the door, hissing – or so it seemed – something to her in a low voice. They were almost nose to nose, the man and Fanny, and William thought he heard his sister let out a distressed little moan, too afraid – he assumed – to speak clearly or cry out.

"Take your filthy hands off my sister!" shouted William, lunging and – wresting him away from Fanny – tackling the startled man to the floor.

Fanny yelped, "William!" and was caught – like a helpless fly in a spider's silken web – between extreme joy and pure horror.

"Oi!" cried Tom, rolling over just in time for William's fist to connect with his nose. "Ouch! Son of a–"

Fanny burst into tears, then, and William was obliged to leave off trying to get a second shot at Tom in order to stand up and comfort her.

"Oh, well done, William," snapped Susan (who had come in with the rest of the startled family – and Edmund and Mr. Yates – moments after the blow had landed and Fanny had begun weeping inconsolably), as she helped Tom to their father's chair by the fireplace. "You've given Fanny's intended a bloody nose."

William grimaced apologetically.

"Do keep try to keep your head tilted back, Mr. Bertram," Susan insisted. "It'll slow down the bleeding."

"M'fine," muttered Tom, tilting his head back anyway.

"Why're puttin' the likes of him in my chair? S'man not permitted to sit in his own house?" grumbled Mr. Price, glaring. Then, to William, arms raised, "Ah! Welcome home, m'boy!"

Susan took a somewhat discoloured handkerchief and pressed it to Tom's nose. "What were you thinking, William?"

Disentangling himself from his father's uneven bear hug with some visible difficulty, William blurted, "I listened to that silly Lucy Gregory – why I don't know."

Betsey was crying, fluttering around their father's chair in hysterics, bawling at the top of her voice, asking if Tom was going to die.

"M'fine," said Tom, again, rather nasally.

Edmund crouched by the chair and – after assuring a rather doubtful Betsey her rich cousin was not at death's door, that her brother hadn't actually killed him – glared up at Tom. "What were you thinking, running away from church and visiting here unsupervised?"

"M'a big boy, Edm'nd, I can take care of m'elf," he grunted.

"Dreadful lot of blood," said Mr. Yates, wringing his hands as Susan pulled back the bloodstained handkerchief, turned it over, folded it, and replaced it against Tom's inflamed nostril. "Quite a shot your future brother-in-law got in, if I'm not mistaken."

Richard, Charles, and Tom Price were dancing circles around their elder brother – making his conversation with an irate Susan rather clipped and difficult – too excited about his return to bother with their cousin. And Fanny was struggling not to show the same attitude for fear of making her dear Tom Bertram feel unloved, but she longed to throw her arms around him and dance for joy as well. She was also ashamed of having been caught alone with the man she was to marry, particularly when she hadn't told William yet that she was betrothed. It seemed so unnatural to her that he'd have to hear it from her mother and Susan because she was too busy sobbing to explain.

When the blood dripping from his nose had slowed enough that Tom could sit up and look properly at William, he decided he would have known him for Fanny's brother if they'd met on the street under normal circumstances. They had the same look about them – blonde, fair, willowy – and if William Price was healthier, older, and his eyes bluer, it did not take away from the fact that, when he stood by Fanny, they might easily have been mistaken for twins.

"So," said William, breaking free of his little brothers' merry circle and dispersing them by doling out some small, crudely-made gifts from his pockets, "Fanny truly is to be married?"

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Price, hurriedly. "Very soon. It's all been arranged. She's glad you're here for the wedding, I'm sure."

"But, how can you–?" He did not know how to ask how they could let some wealthy man – relative or no – just turn up and pop their beloved, weak child under his arm and run off with her to some big house in the country.

"I wouldn't bother my head about that if I were you," said Edmund, gently. "Liable to drive you a bit mad, I shouldn't wonder. Others have tried. There's no coming between them now, I'm afraid."

If William was uncertain of Tom, he was liking Edmund very much – for the same reasons Fanny did – and this smoothed his considerably rumpled feathers over the matter. He rather wished Fanny was marrying the younger brother instead, even if he was the poorer of the two. He could be easy in his mind about him, at least.

Composing herself at last, her sobs lessening and becoming more like hiccups, Fanny walked over to her father's chair, dragging herself past William despite the aching pull in her heart, and placed a trembling little hand on Tom's shoulder.

It was a small gesture, but it was one which said, very plainly, she'd chosen him, she wanted him, and nothing – no one – would persuade her to give him up.

William saw her face, and – having known her all her life – he got the hint.

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