Merriment & Wisdom

A Mansfield Park fanfiction

Part Eleven:

A Wedding, Such As One Would Best Like

The day before they were to be married, Tom proudly presented Fanny with a likeness of her brother William. He also told her about his plans – formerly shared only with Edmund and, in passing, Mr. Yates – to name a racing horse in her honour, and she thanked him politely, but she was much more taken up with the pretty little sketch of her favourite sibling.

"And how did you convince him to pose for you?" Fanny marvelled, shaking her head in delight. "William dislikes to be still for so long in a stretch." Unless, of course, they were sitting together by a fire, sharing their thoughts. But for a thing like this...? Perhaps if Tom had impressed upon him that it was a particular gift for her, perhaps then, but it still seemed...unlikely...

Tom had not, in reality, used William Price himself as the model for the piece – he'd worked from a mixture of memory and his already completed drawing of Fanny. The siblings were so alike that simply adding a more masculine jaw and changing the shading up, as well as drawing in different clothing, did rather transform the eldest Price girl's image into a likeness of William with remarkable ease.

"Oh," he said, hands behind his back, beaming at her, "I couldn't have him sit – he'd have told you about it in advance and spoiled the surprise, depend upon it."

"So this was your doing, purely from memory?" cried Fanny, glancing down at the likeness anew. "It's wonderful."

No, you're wonderful, thought Tom, gratified. What a funny creature his dearest creepmouse was! No other girl in the world, he was quite certain, could have been so easily made happy.

Edmund – who was walking with them that day in lieu of Mr. Yates and Susan – stopped at the low stone parapet Fanny rested on and, glancing over her shoulder, remarked, "You've made him shorter than he is in life, Tom."

"No, no, I do not think he has," said Fanny; "for William is sitting – that is his height, more or less, as it appears when he's seated."

"Sitting, yes," said Tom, giving a merry little snap of his fingers and privately vowing never to mention he had not intended the figure in the drawing to appear to be sitting at all. "Just so. As Fanny says. Clearly the likeness of William is indeed seated."

Edmund was not taken in. "He is too short," the younger brother insisted; "he looks to be about the same height as Mr. Crawford in your likeness."

"Who?" asked Fanny, blinking.

"Ah," said Tom, very quickly, making a little pop with his mouth, "that would be the elder brother to the dark little lady our poor Edmund was, until most recently, completely under the power of. They are a very tiny lot – the Crawfords – like brownies in a fairy-tale. They are, you see, half-siblings to Grants, who live at the Mansfield parish." And – since there was to be a look containing smatterings of darkness exchanged between the Bertram brothers at this – he then hastily changed the subject. Tom didn't really suppose Edmund would break his word and say anything about his foolish, ill-conceived threat to marry Mary Crawford – especially not so close to the wedding – but he would take no chances. "I say, Fanny, speaking of horses, as we were earlier – do you ride?"

In this, Fanny had to disappoint him – she confessed that while she had no grievance with horses in stables, hitched to carts, or pulling a carriage, she was frightened of being on one and, furthermore, had had no occasion to even afford her the opportunity.

"That is too bad," Tom sighed indolently. "I had expected we might go riding about the countryside together every now and again. But certainly you shouldn't do anything you don't like."

"How can Fanny know if she likes it or not," Edmund argued, a bit put out, "if she has never tried it? She must do some things simply for their own sake, by way of learning. At Mansfield–"

"At Mansfield, my wife," said Tom, unmoved, "will never be made to do anything which displeases her. I should like her to smile always. And how can she smile if horses frighten her and she's forced upon one? It's cruel! Indeed, I should ride alone – when I must be about it – and she should be permitted to do whatever she likes best in my absence."

Edmund was at his wit's end with Tom – he was convinced he'd spoil Fanny's good habits – and Fanny found herself sighing as she let them argue, privately wondering if either of them would think to ask her whether she would rather be forced to confront her fear or else be left at home.

She liked Tom's plan best, really, for it struck her as the most comfortable, the most likely to permit her to keep her feet securely on the ground, but she saw the merit in Edmund's argument just as readily, even if Tom did not.

She was the sort of girl who knew what was good for her, generally.

Clutching the likeness of William – etched out so lovingly by Tom to please her – with one hand and reaching up with the other to stroke the chain from which her cross now hung – the most thoughtful, useful gift she'd ever received – Fanny felt her heart being jaggedly divided between the two brothers.

The wedding proved to be more of a success than any member of the Price family might even have hoped for.

The church was cleared of anybody who was not a guest, but several locals volunteered to be witnesses along with the family, so that was all right, and it left them with a merry bunch, a sizable gathering.

Even the ringleader of Fanny's tormentors (who we now know, and thus must refer to, as Lucy Gregory) was in attendance. Perhaps she could not truly believe the fine gentleman meant to marry Fanny Price of all people and suspected some manner of prank she wouldn't have missed the execution of for the world; but instead she saw the thing play out quite straight.

For her pains, she only got to see Fanny in a beautiful new dress being gazed upon lovingly by her intended. Their happiness was not only real it was – at least on that day – absolute.

Mr. Yates, who was seated beside her during the ceremony, thought poor Miss Gregory looked a bit sour, taking her to be on the verge of becoming sick, and offered her a comfit to soothe her stomach. She turned her nose up at it, however, so he shrugged and proceeded to eat all the contents of the open box on his lap by himself – they were gone less than a quarter into Edmund's wedding speech, well before he even opened up his Bible.

It was William who gave Fanny away, rather than Mr. Price, because their father's gout was acting up again and he could barely ease into the back pew, let alone walk down the length of the church with Fanny clinging to his arm. Mrs. Price made several frantic apologies for this, expressing her regret that such a thing should mar the day, but it was – really – just as Fanny wanted it and she could not have been happier.

Edmund did beautifully, nothing if not a professional, and he joined their hands so very gently when the time came. From 'dearly beloved, we are gathered...' onward, his manner, the way he spoke the words...oh...it was perfection itself, pure and beyond any reproach. A very, very fine thing indeed! The only notable deviance in his speech was that, when he asked if anybody present knew of a reason the pair should not be wed, he added, "Excepting my own already raised objections, of course," in a low voice.

Tom made a face at this, but otherwise kept his composure well enough.

William coughed and had to turn away.

Betsey tried to raise her small hand, but Susan wrested it back down.

Mr. Price said, "Eh? What's that?" rather too loudly, and got no answer.

When Edmund paused and gave a little nod, Fanny and Tom exchanged simple rings which Mr. Yates had procured for them (Tom had – in his excitement over getting married to begin with – very nearly forgotten they would need wedding bands and there was almost some trouble over it).

Tom greatly admired Fanny's delicate white hand as he slipped the ring onto her finger – such wonderfully lady-like fingers for someone who had lived in poverty! If only they did not clench and shake and perspire so! Poor nervous-hearted creature!

And, just like that, whether those present were pleased by it or not, Fanny Price became Mrs. Thomas Bertram.

Congratulations were given all around, some truly meant and others purely ceremonial and out of a sense of social politeness, and there was a small picnic arranged in celebration down at the harbour mouth after they all made their way out of the church.

They attempted to have some dancing, but the space – and the wind, which picked up rather messily – did not lend itself to such an activity, even a single dance between the bride and bridegroom proving difficult to pull off, and mainly the party consisted of frowning, straining persons covering their faces and trying to eat slices of cake – along with currant tarts, over-done puddings, and small, brittle sandwiches.

Lucy Gregory made a few disparaging remarks about the temperature of the drinks being served, but it was pointed out – even by her favourite companions – how unlikely she was to have anything like this fine wine (at any temperature) served after her own wedding, should she marry a Portsmouth man.

The Price children and their local friends, however, had the time of their young lives, running up and down the length of the harbour halloing to one another and playing games. Charles was lost for several hours during a game of hide and seek, but Susan eventually found him – luckily doing so before Mrs. Price could get very worked up about the possibility of her dearest Charlie having fallen into the water, drowned, and been swept out into the cruel, cruel sea. He was, at any rate, perfectly dry when he was located, as well as in the company of two other also perfectly dry boys no one had even noticed were missing.

Although Tom and Fanny themselves did not stay overlong at the picnic, returning to the inn with Mr. Yates while it was still quite light out, Fanny was exhausted and suffering from another headache by the time they were through and it became readily apparent she would need rest. So, when Mr. Yates moved out of the room he was leaving to the newly-weds, Tom temporarily went with him and allowed Fanny the large bed to herself, only popping in to attend to her a handful of times in the night and to bring her what comforts he thought might help the hours pass less painfully for his new wife.

Mr. Yates was worn out from Tom's endless pacing, coupled with the way he banged the door open and shut constantly, and slept very little himself as a result, but he proved good-natured about the whole ordeal, feeling keenly that both of them – poor things – would have doubtless much rather been in their shared room together, on this particular night especially, and would not have inconvenienced him if it could have been prevented.

The next day was better for them both.

Fanny proved well enough to get up and have breakfast with the other guests at the inn, all of which were giving her rather irksome little side-eyes and winking at Tom, unaware that they'd spent the night apart, and they took the air together afterwards, dutifully visited the Prices for tea, who acted (aside from William and Susan) as if Fanny were an important lady and not much of a relation to themselves, and returned to the inn in reasonably amiable – if somewhat subdued – spirits by the time it was getting dark.

Fanny was changing behind one of the screens when Tom's head peeked out from around the other side. "You know, Fanny, it's suddenly occurred to me that this" – he motioned at the screen and stepped all the way around it – "is, well, rather unnecessary." Grinning, he tied a dressing-gown over his nightclothes and took a step towards her. "Force of habit, I suppose."

"Oh," said Fanny, blushing, too keenly aware she was in her under-things, "yes."

Tom stared, and her burning cheeks went from bright pink to vivid crimson. "D'you want some help with that?" He was motioning, vaguely, in the direction of her corset.

Fanny had, actually, been wearing it since the day before, since the wedding. She'd been unable to unlace it from the back without Susan's help, and her head had hurt her so dreadfully last night that she hadn't asked Tom, who she'd honestly been shy of bothering despite his being her husband now, so she'd been obliged to continue wearing it.

It was all right, really, but now she had to do something about removing it.

She settled on a weak nod, then squeaked out a small, "Yes," in case he hadn't seen it. "Please."

"Right...uh...let's see..." Tom moved behind her and examined it for a moment. "Here we are!"

"That's tighter," she gasped out.

"Oh. Sorry, Fanny." Patting her on the shoulder, he reached with his other hand and pulled the other end of the lacing, hoping that was how one loosened those blasted things – he hadn't much experience with removing corsets. "How's that, then? Have we got it off now?"

"It..." stammered Fanny. "There's a little stay in the front... My fingers aren't..." She was trying to unfasten it, but her numb, trembling fingers weren't cooperating. "Um..." She turned around. "It's just down here. Can you...?"

Tom didn't answer; he was staring again – his eyes focused very intently, and fixedly, on the swell of her breasts.

"Tom?"

"Hmm, yes?"

"It's not up there." She gave the corset a little downwards tug – which, in retrospect, probably didn't assist all that much in moving his attention in the direction she wanted – and tried to show him the fasten she needed undone.

"Oh, right – sorry – I was" – he coughed apologetically – "distracted."

Fanny drew in her breath and forgot to release it while Tom's fingers slid down the front of her corset and unfastened the stay. She let it out in a little rapid huff as he – looking rather pleased with himself – removed the corset and grinned broadly at her.

Light-headed and rather weak about the knees, Fanny wondered if she was going to faint in front of her husband and desperately hoped such was not the case. She had fainted a few times in her life before, always when it was least convenient, and it was decidedly not an experience she thought would be worth repeating under the current circumstances.

What, though, was she meant to do now?

"You're cold!" Tom cried suddenly – and Fanny realised, then, she was shaking like a leaf – and hastily unfastened his dressing-gown and put it over her shoulders. "Poor Fanny! You're too far from the fire on this side of the room, I think. Why didn't you say anything? Here. Put your arms through the sleeves."

It was easier to pretend it was a chill that brought on her violent trembling, so she meekly did as he suggested, slipping her arms through the dressing-gown and pulling it – though she scarcely knew how she managed – around herself.

Tom reached around her, which only made her face go whiter still, and fastened the dressing-gown so it stayed secured about her waist. "Come – don't linger here – I'll get you some mulled wine and put you in front of the fire. You'll warm up quick as anything." In a low mutter, he growled, "I'm going to have a talk with the innkeeper about these ghastly drafts – see if I don't! The screens do nothing."

Fanny wanted to say, "Please, don't, not on my account," wanted to urge him not to trouble himself or the poor innkeeper, but all that came out was an unintelligible mumble.

For all his talk, however, of screens and innkeepers, it seemed Tom did know something of Fanny's true apprehension after all – enough to make her wonder if he was not playing with her a bit, hoping to get a funny reaction – for as he settled her down before the fireplace and placed a cup of mulled wine into her hands, entreating her to sip it slowly and see if she did not soon feel much better, he said, perhaps too causally, "It will be my first time, too."

Fanny nearly choked, coughing and spitting out the small sip she'd just taken. She knew, of course, what he must mean. He could be speaking of only one thing on their first proper night together after the wedding.

With a chuckle, he eased into the chair across from hers, reminded her there was no need to drink quite so fast – they had all the time in the world – she needn't gulp down more than she could swallow, then added, "If my father or Edmund asked, as I pray they never do, I'd make out that my abstinence was to do with ethics or religion – they love that sort of thing, especially Edmund, being what he is. But there needn't be secrets between us, Fanny." He poured himself a glass of wine and nearly finished the whole thing in a single swallow before setting the wineglass back down. "It's really more that... I've never quite understood men who can go about card tables and to the races, win, and then still find time to woo whatever pretty lady happens to be present at the event, dragging her off to some secluded guest bedchamber. I rather think they must cheat, you know. I never found the time for it."

Fanny took another sip of the mulled wine and stared down at her lap. She wondered if she ought to tell him this speech was not particularly romantic. But he must know it already – surely he must have known – he wasn't stupid. At least it was honest – she could not fault him for that.

"And, between ourselves – and please do promise you won't tell anyone, my sweet creepmouse – I've always been...uncertain...of my father's reaction if there was a real scandal. Goodness knows he made a big enough fuss over my gambling debts."

Fanny made some small noise.

"There almost was something, once," Tom went on, his gaze on the fire, "when I was younger...an incident..."

Oh! Fanny didn't think she wanted to hear this. Why must he tell her this sort of story? Why now? She had, despite everything, such deep respect for him, for her lovely new husband. She was under no delusions regarding him, none that she could be aware of, and still... She was so very frightened of him saying something which would dull – even slightly – that whole-hearted regard. He mustn't tell her anything which he might later have cause to regret! They should be perfectly contented – for a while, at least – without any of these kinds of shocking speeches.

She looked up at him, her expression partially reproachful, partially pleading.

He did not notice. "I was attending a party, drinking as one does, and I don't remember leaving my host's home – truly, I don't – but I woke up in a house of–" He stopped, for he'd glanced away from the fire to glimpse Fanny's expression, and he'd seen her look at last. "What's that face?" His thoughtful look changed into one of amusement. "I do believe you're jealous – I've inspired jealousy in the most level-headed, cool-tempered girl I've ever met! Oh, how splendid! You can't imagine how flattered I am, Mrs. Bertram."

Fanny could not bring herself to speak.

"But, pray" – he scooted to the edge of his chair – "don't judge until you've heard all. I may well succeed in surprising you."

She nodded her assent. Her husband's eyes were playful, beautiful, so hard to meet and yet equally difficult to tear her gaze from even in this uncomfortable moment.

"So, I awoke – head pounding – in a house of ill repute, in an unfamiliar bed, and – well – you can imagine what I suspected might have happened though I recalled none of it."

She gnawed on the inside of her cheek.

"It took me the better part of an hour to locate the...I suppose I must call her a lady, though polite society certainly wouldn't...whose room it was."

Fanny imagined this woman to be beautiful, though Tom did not describe her or look – as he remembered her – enraptured as one typically did when recalling a great beauty. She imagined her to be good-looking in the exact opposite way to her own features – dark eyes, strong colour about the face, stout and curvy rather than merely willowy and slight in form...

"I asked her if there were...expenses...for the...um...room...and anything else I might have...well..."

While she had never properly hated anyone – not even Lucy Gregory – Fanny, despite knowing it was irrational, felt very, very near to openly despising this unnamed woman she'd never even met. This woman who – when you thought about it – had only been doing her job, even if it was a job any well-brought up, God-fearing person ought to disapprove of. This woman who clearly meant nothing whatever to Tom Bertram.

What's wrong with me? Fanny thought, fiddling with her fingers in her lap.

"Come to find out," Tom finished, "all that happened was I – allegedly – mumbled, 'don't tell my father,' and passed out on the bed. Leaving me alone to drool on her fancy pillows, she went downstairs and shared a room with one of her housemates."

Fanny tried not to laugh, but a giggle escaped her. She pressed her hand to her mouth in a vain attempt to muffle the noise, resulting in a snort.

"Oh, yes, laugh – it's very funny," said Tom, as if it were anything but, though he was grinning as he spoke.

"I'm sorry," she managed, regaining composure and trying to give him a look he would judge to be sympathetic.

"Anyway, it's all just as well," Tom said in a voice that was somehow both decided and airy. "You ought to be my first – and last – you're the only woman I can never think of...as..." He trailed off, looking into her face with all the wonder one usually saves for stargazing. "You have such eyes – so soft and light – and so pleasing a form. I couldn't fancy someone who wasn't as you are."

Poor Fanny was not made of stone; she was the farthest thing from unconquerable – such words, and so tender in their expression, had a ready affect on her. Tom might have asked almost anything of her, right then, and she would have agreed, melting into her seat as she was, warmed by the intensity of his attentions far more than by the fire or the mulled wine.

Tom rose from his chair, strode over to hers, and offered her his spread hands. She took them gingerly, sliding her fingertips slowly into his palms as his grasp tightened gently around her – finally steady – hands and pulled her up in front of him.

Letting go of her hands, which dropped – in a most leaden fashion – to her sides at once, Tom then reached to unfasten the dressing-gown he'd previously draped over her, slowly peeling it back and gazing intently at her rumpled under-things, at the way they clung to her body in certain places and hung off – ready to be removed for the night – in others.

Fanny let out a small, nervous hemming noise as the dressing-gown was peeled back from her shoulders and discarded onto the chair behind her. His hands were suddenly exploring – feeling, tickling, tugging, caressing – and it was not unpleasant. She managed to smile at him in response to this affection, and to reach out and touch his arm in an admiring manner, feeling at his muscles and marvelling – though she did not say, did not need to say, it out loud – how delightfully strong he was and how nice it was going be to be held by these arms.

"Ah," he said, after a few moments. "Ah, me." He took Fanny's hand in his own and began to lead her away from the fireplace. "To bed, wife."

Fanny eased onto the bed uncertainly, keeping very still for the first few moments, turning her head to look at Tom, who was yet standing – and was, in truth, little help in guidance, since he was quite shamelessly staring once again.

Coming to the conclusion – however tentative – that she ought to be doing something, Fanny sat partway up and began to remove the last of her under-things. Considering Tom's difficultly helping her out of the corset earlier, she was not altogether convinced he'd be able to figure – on his own – exactly how they were meant to come off, and yet she was also convinced he meant to have her out of them.

"Let me do it," he blurted – and there was some awkwardness, since he seemed hardly to know what he was about, and he kept stopping every few seconds in order to kiss and caress her anywhere he happened to feel inclined to during the process, but it was completed by Tom in the end rather than Fanny herself.

Then he seemed to recall he was still wearing his own nightshirt and he pulled it over his head.

Despite it being rather dark in the room, there was still firelight and candlelight enough to see him by, and Fanny had to draw in a very sharp breath. She had brothers and a father – and none of them (except perhaps for poor, often mortified, William) had half the care to their own modesty as they ought – so she'd seen an unclothed man before, of course, only she had not seen this man unclothed before.

Nor had she seen one undressed while in Tom's particular state.

In what seemed to be less than seconds, less than a heartbeat, less time than it took for her to release her drawn-in breath, he was in the bed with her – had rolled himself on top of her – and was pulling the blankets – along with the thick coverlet – over them both.

He murmured her name – then called it out with rather a great deal more volume – and Fanny whispered and sighed her husband's name back to him in reply.

If there was any difficultly, any embarrassments or disappointments or general bumbling and fumbling about, between the couple, it was their own private affair and – whatever else may have been the case – they both appeared reasonably content when they'd finished.

Afterwards, Fanny thought to creep over to the other side of the bed. Perhaps she only expected it was what was done – she had, probably, heard the noise of doors slamming and her father leaving after sharing in a private moment with her mother, and while judging leaving the room itself to be both imprudent (they were in an inn, after all) and most likely unnecessary, supposed husbands preferred to be left alone when it was done.

Tom, though, would not permit her to slink away. "No, that won't do – what are you thinking of, I wonder, Fanny? – I mean to hold you, of course."

And Fanny could only smile and oblige him by staying put.

His face buried in her hair, arms wrapped around her, Tom mumbled what had – at every moment starting from the minute he began thinking of wanting to marrying her – been implied, what was inferred by simple reason and logic, but – as Fanny realised suddenly – had not actually, prior to this, been directly said.

I love you.

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