Merriment & Wisdom

A Mansfield Park fanfiction

Part Fourteen:

Familial Discord, Such As It Always Is

"Do you remember when you were a small boy?" Sir Thomas asked, his stern gaze on his eldest son strangely glassy despite its intensity. "You used to play Tom the Knight – you'd ask for a mission – and I'd send you off with a message for your mother, or on some other small errand, such as ordering the driver to ready the horses and carriage" – here, Tom made some small noise, as if embarrassed by this impromptu visit along memory lane, especially as it was in earshot of Fanny, who was seated on the sofa with his mother and Susan – "you always said, 'no, father, give me a noble mission, I'm playing at being a knight, not a servant'."

Pressing her fingertips into the upholstery until they felt sore, Fanny clenched the arm of the sofa, her light eyes darting between the three standing Bertram men and the tranquilly sitting Lady Bertram – her aunt – seeking some comfort and finding none. Beside her, Susan sighed and removed her bonnet and shifted upon the edge of the sofa cushion, looking askance at the fat pug in Lady Bertram's lap.

Sir Bertram continued, "Whatever became of that boy? That boy who always wanted to do things right, to be noble? Who liked nothing better? What you've done..." He pressed his hand to his mouth, then slowly lowered it. "This, what you've done, is ignoble, Tom."

"Ignoble?" exclaimed Tom. "How can you call something as natural as marriage ignoble?"

His father breathed heavily through his nose, struggling to keep his composure.

Her eyes lidded, Lady Bertram murmured, "You did not go about it properly, my dear – that is what Sir Thomas means. There ought to have been a line about it in the papers, I think, that is the proper way of it, and there was decidedly not."

"You did not do this," Sir Bertram growled through his teeth, "because you were in a great hurry to be married, Tom – you did this to punish me. I'm not a fool."

"Father," began Edmund, shakily.

"You," snapped Sir Bertram, barely glancing at him. "I will talk to you later. Do not presume to speak to me as the voice of reason now. You were not innocent in this."

The tea-things were brought in and set up to satisfaction, but they remained untouched by the men, and the maid-servant carrying in the tray was dismissed once Sir Bertram very vocally decided his niece Susan could – unless she were a great deal dimmer than she looked – hand a teacup and saucer with sugar to Lady Bertram as easily as any of the staff might have done.

Fanny was greatly relieved he had not selected her for that task; her hands were trembling too violently to hold anything containing hot liquid without causing an incident.

Susan poured the tea, although she had never handled fine china in her life, and managed to hand it to her aunt intact, despite her fear of accidentally spilling a little tea on the high-strung pug Lady Bertram would not remove from her lap even to eat and drink.

"Oh, thank you." Lady Bertram seemed mildly impressed. "You are so handy, child. I did not have long to wait at all between the tea-things being placed down at the teacup being given me. What is your name again?"

"Susan," she told her, colouring slightly. "Susie."

Fanny said nothing until Lady Bertram asked her if she would take a gooseberry tart, since she appeared ghostly white about the face, as if she might faint. She took one from the tray to avoid argument and to satisfy her aunt, but she did little more than nibble at its crust. It might have been a very fine pastry indeed, but it tasted of nothing in particular at the moment.

"Father, whatever you think of my actions," Tom said, "I can assure you this was a love match – I did not simply select the first girl I thought would provoke your ire. Even I have standards, sir."

"Don't be absurd," Sir Bertram snapped. "D'you suppose I don't know you well enough to be aware you'd never look to anything – be it a woman, an occupation, or so much as the purchasing of another of your damnable racing horses – without a view to provoking me? You may very well have convinced yourself you fancy the girl" – his eyes shifted from Tom to Fanny – "she's a pretty thing, and her complexion is well enough, but you'd never have looked to her with a view to any connection if the idea of humiliating this family had not entered your mind upon an earlier meeting. Confess it, Tom! You do yourself no favours in concealing your true nature. You did not love her half so well before you learned she was a relation I'd never mentioned in your hearing!"

"It can hardly matter now, either way," Tom retorted coolly, giving a maddening, fluttering little blink. "Can it?"

Sir Bertram sucked his teeth and began to pace the length of the drawing-room. "I am ashamed of you."

"The feeling, Father, I assure you, is mutual."

Edmund glared and shook his head at his brother, but was ignored.

"Tell me," said Sir Bertram, after a long pause, stopping in his tracks, "is there any reason this marriage might yet be dissolved? Any part of this union that may as yet be mercifully incomplete? Any grounds upon which–"

"Oh, no," Tom assured him, quite ardently, all bright grins and sparkling eyes, "that ship has sailed, I'm afraid."

"There's no need to look so smug about it, Tom," hissed Edmund.

Fanny's face flushed a brilliant, vivid crimson and she choked on the sparse crumbs of gooseberry tart already in her throat, setting the pastry down in hurry and turning her head away. There were altogether too many eyes in this enormous room.

"Lord preserve us from the folly of foolish children," muttered Sir Bertram. "Cousins in love, indeed!"

Tom crossed his arms. "It would appear, Father, as nothing can be done, there can be no further discussion. You will have to accept that my choice of wife – Fanny, your neglected niece – shall one day be Mistress of Mansfield Park – and we must both let bygones be bygones."

"I could always disinherit you," said Sir Bertram, very quietly.

"Sir, we both know you wouldn't – not over this."

"No, you're right, Tom – I would not take away your birthright over this, given – when I really think on it – it is only any extension of inconsiderate behaviour you've displayed in the past, rather than anything new." His eyes glittered coldly. "But I will not reward you for your lack of discretion, either. You imagine your life here, at Mansfield with your wife, will be entirely to your liking and choosing. You imagine luxury and pleasure only. You fancy you will occupy your hours however you like best, smirking at your poor, stupid father and thinking how clever you were to get the better of him."

"I think nothing of the sort! Indeed, I–" began Tom, in vain.

"You are to be occupied, daily – I will have tasks for you by the hour, filling up near every moment of your time, spare or otherwise."

"Sir–" The colour was beginning to drain from Tom's face.

"There is the seasonal hunting, which by way of duties you have always been asked to partake in, of course, but I won't have you idle until September. It's high time you made yourself useful in other tasks – time you learned what you will need to know when you are master here."

"There is no hurry for me to learn such–"

"If you are old enough to be married, and to select your wife with no thought to pleasing your family, you are old enough to be useful. Your life since returning from Antigua has been one long party – such flippant merrymaking ends today. You will be taught, however much you might struggle against it, to live for others besides yourself. No more indulgences, for – upon my word – you shall no longer be indulged under this roof until you've gained some inkling of sense."

Tom's shoulders dropped several inches. He was less brazen now. He was displeased, but perhaps he still held out some hope of being let off from his father's metaphorical shackles every now and again, fairly sure he could soften Sir Bertram considerably before the next racing season started up if he but played along for a time, and – more to his credit than not – he might have, at least in that well-intentioned moment, judged having Fanny to be worth the sacrifice.

But then Sir Bertram continued, "As my niece and your wife cannot be sent back to Portsmouth – and as you've seen to it that I cannot undo your actions – they will naturally remain here."

"Naturally," said Tom.

His father's eyes narrowed at the interruption. "I would not put my own relations out onto the street to fend for themselves, regardless of what you may think me capable of if not backed into a corner by your interference."

"That's very good of you, Father," Tom added patronisingly.

"Shut up," mouthed Edmund, rather frantically, in his direction, sensing there must be more to this and that his elder brother was only digging himself in ever-deeper.

"The foremost attic-room will do well enough for Susan and Fanny to sleep in, and we might give them the old school-room – none of you are at an age to have any further practical need of it, and Miss Lee no longer lives with us – for a private parlour. They may not always wish to hold conference in the drawing-room with myself and your mother present."

There was a creased furrow puckering between Tom's eyebrows, which were coming more and more near together and sinking lower as he tried to work out his father's meaning. "Yes, of course, the school-room will do well for Susan – for Miss Price."

"I said," insisted Sir Bertram, so as there could be no mistake, "Susan and Fanny."

"Fanny is Mrs. Bertram!" exclaimed Tom, taking a step forward. "She will be staying with me. Miss Price can stay wherever you see fit to put her – she's here as a gift for Mother, a sort of companion, and of course, secondly, because she is my wife's sister. I have no wish to interfere with however it is you wish to house that manner of guest. But Mrs. Bertram–"

"She is Mrs. Bertram in name – in legality – but she is not mistress of this house yet, no more than you are its master!" thundered Sir Bertram. "You will not father an heir of your own under this roof until you have more right to it." He sucked his teeth and rolled back his shoulders. "We may revisit the subject of rooming-arrangements when you have proven yourself more responsible. For the time being, Fanny will live with her sister in the attic-room. That is my final word on the matter."

"That's not fair." Tom was quite beside himself. "With all the duties you will insist upon my taking on, I will hardly ever get to see my own wife! At least if we shared a room I'd be with her at night."

"Father," tried Edmund, thinking – in this one instance – that perhaps their father was being a trifle harsh; splitting up a married couple, despite understandable reasons, was hardly the best recipe for familial happiness. It could only breed further resentments, and would hardly encourage Tom to stick around should the world at large offer him a way out. Why, the very first tentative invitation from friends in Weymouth would mislead a man such as Tom who did not think he had any reason to stay! Edmund feared greatly for Fanny's future comfort here at Mansfield, in that case. "Perhaps, if Tom were to–"

He was silenced, however, by a single look, and dropped his gaze to the floor.

This was all beginning to be a bit much for Fanny. She, unlike Tom, respected Sir Bertram's decision – it was his home, after all, and his son had failed, despite his efforts through the letter which had gone astray, to inform him of their marriage – though she did not care for it and had not anticipated it, but at the same time was feeling less and less like a cherished wife and more and more like a poor relation.

She could endure Sir Bertram making her feel thusly, but Tom was nearly as bad.

No fool, she had suspected and long come to terms with the notion that Tom had wanted to marry her – at least partly, and at first – due to a sense of rebellion. She was not the sort of wife he'd been expected to take, which doubtless made her more appealing to him. Still, she had not imagined how deep that sense of rebellion went – she had not fancied she would be so very much a weapon wielded against his father.

Edmund had warned her, in his way, of course, regarding the rivalry between father and eldest son at Mansfield Park, and she'd said she understood – and she'd believed, truly, that she did...

And yet...

How could a single person go from being the adoring, doting creature Tom had been back in Portsmouth – and even on the journey here – to a sullen man demanding his rights, using what he'd previously acted as though was so precious, so sacred, to him only to further his own point?

No one who grew up in the same house with him and has ever seen him throw one of his ungodly tantrums could suppose it genuine.

Yes, Edmund had warned her about this, too, tried to prevent her from making a dreadful mistake.

But what other option had she had, really? To give Tom up, when, despite her senses being against the match, she did truly love him? To live a life, trapped in Portsmouth, her own mother knew would do her in eventually?

And, at the thought of her mother back home, upon remembering her brothers and other sisters (the one living and the one dead), Fanny suddenly saw herself, as if she were floating above the sofa upon which she was seated, looking down objectively apart from her own being, to be very coarse and pallid and uneducated and and unattractively diminutive, and she burst into tears.

"D'you see, Father?" cried Tom, rushing over to the sofa. "You've made her cry."

Fanny shook her head. No, she wanted to say, it's not... It's nothing Sir Bertram has said. I'm simply feeling unwell. And missing my mother – my Mama back home in Portsmouth – quite unexpectedly. But the words would not form, would not bubble forth from her aching throat.

"Fanny?" Susan said gently with quiet concern.

Tom was kneeling in front of the sofa now and rubbing the back of her shaking hands affectionately with his thumbs, but she could – right then – feel no comfort from the gesture, however kindly meant.

"I daresay the journey has wearied her, poor duck," concluded Lady Bertram, blinking at the poor mousy creature beside Susan who was – at that moment – all trailing tears and raw puffiness. "Yes, it must be that, to be sure. Have the servants brought her things upstairs yet? She might go to her room and rest for a while – she's bound to feel restored by supper, I am certain of it. Pug rests on the pillows very nicely, when there has been a stomach upset or teasing scare, and is always well again by the next mealtime."

Supper was a tense meal, taken in silence save for the noise of spoons clinking and china plates being cleared and replaced.

It was a meal unlike anything Susan or Fanny had ever experienced before in their lives. Nobody grabbed for anything; indeed, nobody asked for anything. The servants seemed to know exactly what and when to bring out and place before those gathered at the table.

There was a sharp-looking silver bell, at the far end of the table where none of them sat, which Susan noticed no one lifted to ring and asked about. Edmund explained it was for their Aunt Norris, who always said the servants did not hear her when she had need of making a rare request – because her voice was too soft and unimposing (and here he could not bring himself to look serious, too aware in relating this that if Mrs. Norris was 'unimposing', the word could not possibly mean what everybody else in the world believed it to) – whenever she dined with them.

This was not a fancy supper by the standards of the Bertram household, but there was still more than one course, which amazed both sisters utterly.

"Usually," said Edmund, leaning forward to speak to the two baffled ladies, "supper would be a somewhat lighter affair – soup and one dish of meat and vegetables – dessert if there is company, though most sweets are consumed at tea. As today's tea was somewhat muted in nature, the cook has seen fit to make up the difference. No one goes hungry here, unless it's by choice."

Susan smiled.

Fanny tried to smile as well, but her hesitant gaze shifted from the rows of forks and spoons set beside her plate over to Tom, who said nothing, too busy gulping down his second glass of wine – then signalling the nearest servant to refill it immediately – and ignoring the food on his own plate. She found, then, she had no more smiles to spare – not even for Edmund.

"Fanny, you know more about this than me – what do I do?" Susan whispered urgently under her breath, tapping her sister's wrist and motioning to the forks in front of her.

But she could only gnaw at her quivering bottom lip and look helpless.

Sir Bertram gave her an arched look, yet made no motion to help. Lady Bertram appeared slightly more aware and alert than usual, and she glanced at Susan with what might have been a glimmer of pity, but she did not help her either.

Sighing, as he saw nothing else for it, Edmund began rhapsodising on the remarkable order of silverware. As if in self-reflected marvelling, he made light, enthusiastic statements about the order of each utensil set before them that night and motioned to each one in turn.

Susan did not catch on to his meaning at first, gawking at him in puzzlement, but Fanny immediately worked out what her dearest cousin was doing and – grateful beyond words – fell into copying his deliberately elongated and exaggerated statements with her hands, taking up each piece of silverware in the correct order based on his casual reflections. Soon, Susan copied her sister so that they were both managing quite well. If they were clumsy, they still performed passively well for Portsmouth-bred girls who had never eaten at such a table before.

Lady Bertram gave her younger son a tiny approving smile from the corner of her mouth before pulling out her chair and looking about her feet for Pug.

"Edmund," said Sir Bertram, with a cough, when there was at last a pause, "as there will be no seafood course tonight, you might spare us your deep reflections upon the beauty of a fish-knife. If you would be so very obliging, that is. My head aches most dreadfully and I'd like to finish my supper in peace."

"Yes, Father."

"Yes, Father," mocked Tom, rather nasally, bringing his wineglass to his lips again. "That's what you sound like, Edmund."

Edmund inhaled sharply and tossed his napkin down onto the table beside his half-empty plate. "That is your third glass of wine tonight, brother?"

"Mind your own business!"

"Oh, yes – as you've been doing all evening?" He motioned to Fanny, the beloved Mrs. Bertram, who Tom had not said three words to since she'd come downstairs for supper, his great anxiety over her tears earlier surprisingly short-lived.

"I warn you, Edmund" – Tom glowered – "I am in a foul mood – do not attempt to provoke me."

"I believe I said," growled Sir Bertram, "I wished to finish supper in peace, did I not? The next one of you ungrateful, ill-mannered boys to speak until I rise from this table and retire to my chambers will sleep in the stables."

Edmund and Tom exchanged cross looks, laden with blame and mutual ill-humour on both sides; Fanny and Susan stared down at their plates.

"Sir Bertram has used us very ill," grumbled Susan as she undressed for bed.

"Do you think so?" said Fanny, quietly. "It is his house, after all. And today came as quite a shock for him – he did not receive Tom's letter."

"Still," said Susan, a little breathlessly, pulling a cotton shift over her head. "To treat you as if you were yet a Miss Price as I am and not a Mrs. Bertram! To stick you in this tiny attic-room!"

"You should not speak so ill of him, Susie," insisted Fanny, shaking her head. "It isn't right. This one room is so much finer than anything we had in Portsmouth – there can be no comparison. And the servants have fixed us a good fire, and we've eaten well. You must remember, it is not Tom's house for him to decide otherwise, not yet."

"Oh, Tom!" she burst out, next, unable to hold it in any longer. "I could begin on him as well! What was he playing at today? He spoke so coldly of us both – for all his quarrelling with his father, claiming it was a love-match between the two of you, his other words said outside the carriage and in the drawing-room don't do his pretty claims the least justice! – calling me a gift for his mother and acting as if marrying you was some sort of great favour..."

"Susie, please, stop." Fanny looked at her sister imploringly. "I cannot bear such talk tonight. I wish to defend my husband's character, as I ought" – however keenly the hurt was felt – "but I am so very tired – please do not press me to take up any side, even my own. I cannot bear it."

"Our Uncle Bertram might have given us two beds," Susan sighed, letting Tom off the hook for the time being. "You can't disagree on that much, or think me ungrateful for wishing you were given that consideration."

Perhaps that was true enough, but the fine mattress shadowed by the towering iron-wrought headboard and with elegant claw-feet at the base was certainly large enough for any pair of sisters used to sharing much more cramped and pinched accommodations – there was no meanness on that account. Fanny pointed this out meekly, and Susan nodded, though clearly unconvinced. For herself, it was all very well. If alone here, she would be thinking how very kind Sir Bertram was to give her such a room and marvelling over the beauty of the view from the little window, but what she perceived to be a clear, unmistakable slight to Fanny she could not ignore, could not wholly pardon even at Fanny's own urging. That terrible moment when Sir Bertram had so heartlessly suggested the possible dissolving of Fanny's marriage! No, Susan could not forgive him for that. He was worse than Edmund had once been; but at least, then, when Edmund wished to split them up, Tom and Fanny were not yet wedded. Allowances could be, and in Susan's mind had been, made. She could pardon Edmund by comparison to his father, as well as in light of the service he'd rendered them both at supper.

Pulling back the covers and (after gaining a clumsy grip of the wobbly handle) moving the brass bed-warmer to the middle of the bed so she could climb in on her side, Susan uttered the one remark she was sure Fanny would not be disheartened by. "Edmund behaved lovely. It was very good of him to help us at supper."

Fanny gave her a grateful little smile and admitted, voicing – as much as she ever would permit herself to – her pained doubts towards Tom at the moment, "I think Edmund may be my only true friend here at Mansfield – apart from you, of course, Susie." She wrapped an old faded shawl over her nightdress from home and wandered over to the fireplace, reaching for the poker to stoke the lowering flames.

"We are lucky to have him, after all," said Susan; "I hope he never goes back to his parish."

"I don't – I fear it would be unfair to his congregation," Fanny pointed out. "It's selfish to wish him always here just so we'd be assured of his taking our own part so he might ensure our comfort. But I understand; I'll miss him when he goes, too."

"Are you not coming to bed?"

"I'll stay by the fire a while." She set the poker down and eased into the wingback chair beside the fireplace. "I slept a little when I rested earlier."

Susan meant to remain awake, even as she was upon her new, soft pillow and warmed under the covers, until she felt the mattress give at her side and knew Fanny to be as cosy as herself, but her eyelids proved too heavy and the mattress too lacking in lumps (so unlike the one at home) and she was very quickly under the spell of a deep slumber.

Fanny was glad of her sister's departure from the conscious world. She could allow her face, at last, to look as grave as she felt. She could allow a few more tears to run quietly down her cheeks as she thought over the events of the day. Nothing would induce her to speak – or to truly think – ill of Sir Bertram, for he might have proven so much the worse, yet she was heartbroken at having gone from one family which had so little use for her on the whole, pleased enough to see her off, seemingly straight into another which endured her presence similarly.

In so wealthy a home, as a married woman rather than a ward or dependant, she might have nursed hopes of being less of an obligation to be fed and clothed, if nothing else. The reality, however, was proving rather the opposite. This was only something further she must endure. It was true Portsmouth had had no pleasures, but this place was far from being devoid of pains.

How very long she sat there, comparing the two places in her mind, wishing herself... Well, not back home, no, for this was her home now, and there was no love to be lost in leaving behind the evils of that former house, but certainly back in the inn, overlooking the harbour.

The clock struck half-past twelve in some distant hallway Fanny could not have located even if set in the correct direction initially and provided with several minutes' head-start.

Still, she judged it to be near, since she could hear it so clearly.

Perhaps it was from being too near the fire for so long, but her mouth felt very dry and she was exceedingly thirsty. She wasn't sure what the Bertrams did when they wanted a drink of water in the night – probably the servants knew their habits and brought them one at the usual hour, or they kept some in a pitcher on hand for just such an occasion – but neither of those were viable options for quenching her own thirst just now.

Surely there could be no evil in making one's way to down to the kitchen for a glass of water?

There was, of course, the fact that she did not know where the kitchen was and was also greatly alarmed at even the mere notion of being found wandering searching for it – seeming to be snooping around in the ungodly hours of the morning – only if she were very quick and decisive she might slip there and back unnoticed.

Steadying her agitated hands and gripping the corners of her shawl determinedly, Fanny rose from the chair and – with one look back at Susan to be sure her sister still slept well – crept from the room and began making her timid way down the attic stairs.

Tom Bertram heard scuffling.

It was not coming from the corridor directly outside of his chambers, but the one just beyond it – he might not have registered the sound during the day, when all was busy, but at this silent, witching hour it travelled shamelessly.

The tread and heavy breathing was too deep, too resounding, to be a mouse – at least the sort of mouse the house-maids set traps for, at any rate; he was out of bed and closing his own door behind himself the moment he realised it might be a much more welcome manner of creepmouse.

Knowing the layout of his home as the 'mouse' did not, he was able to sneak up behind it and grasp it by the back of the arms. "Fanny, don't scream."

She managed not to, but only just. "Tom," she breathed, eyes wide and breath laboured with anxiety despite his finding her lost in the house decidedly being better than another member of the family doing so – at least she could console herself that he believed, whether or not she agreed with the reasoning behind such belief, she was entitled to do what she liked here and thus would not be out of sorts with her.

His mouth pressed itself close to her ear. "Were you looking for me, creepmouse?"

Fanny turned, whirling out of his grasp, and shook her head. "Kitchen."

"Come on." He took one of her hands and tugged. "With me."

She resisted for a moment, then thought the better of it and allowed herself to be taken along two corridors and into a new hallway she hadn't seen before.

"This isn't the kitchen," she managed, when they'd stopped before a large set of doors and they were flung open to reveal a spacious sitting room through which was visible a shadowed bed-chamber.

"Isn't it?" said Tom, brow lifted. "My mistake."

"Where are we?"

"My chambers."

"Tom..." She shrank back. "Your father."

He said, then, a few distinctly unflattering words in expressing his opinion of what Sir Bertram thought.

"I think I ought...that is..." She turned halfway and looked down the hall, into nothing familiar, reaching up and pushing back a cluster of blonde curls in some obvious distress. "I should go back to my room."

"Susan's room," he corrected stubbornly. "And you're more than welcome to go back and sleep there if you wish it, Fanny – no one is stopping you."

"I-I," she stammered, looking into his face again, hoping for some pity; "I don't know the way."

"How unfortunate for you."

"Tom, please."

"Look, if you want to wander the house all night until you find your way back, that's perfectly fine by me." He took her hand, lifted it, turned it over, and – bringing it to his mouth – kissed the inside of her wrist lingeringly. "Or..."

Fanny flushed scarlet, despite everything, and allowed herself to be drawn in.

Or.

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