Merriment & Wisdom
A Mansfield Park fanfiction
Part Twenty-Six:
Gifts, As They May Be Accepted
"Sir Thomas, tell him he can't!" cried Mrs. Norris, bursting into Sir Thomas' study despite years of having drilled into his children's heads that they must never, ever – under any circumstances, save, perhaps, those which involved quarts of blood or else some other means of imminent death – dream of doing such a thing as interrupting their illustrious father in the middle of his work. "Indeed, you must–" Her knuckles went white as they curled around the side of the door-frame. "You must tell him he cannot do such a thing as this."
Looking up and blinking confusedly from the parchment spread across his desk, Sir Thomas said, in plain astonishment, "Compose yourself, my dear Mrs. Norris. Pray stop and catch your breath. Whatever is the matter? Who's done what? Why must I stop it? What's happened?"
"Your son–" she gasped out.
Sir Thomas closed his eyes and sighed. "What's Tom done now?" He knew at once it could be nothing about Edmund – no one ever complained about the younger of his two boys, for he did little to raise anybody's ire. Tom on the other hand always rubbed somebody in the household the wrong way, and their fury was seldom without just cause.
As if called thither by some dark magic, then, Tom and none other than Henry Crawford appeared behind Mrs. Norris in the still-open doorway of the study.
She whirled on them. "Ask him for yourself, Sir Thomas! The folly–"
Sir Thomas held up a hand, silencing her. "Tom, what have you done to upset your aunt?"
"Why, nothing at all that I know of, sir!" exclaimed Tom, removing his top hat and shaking his head. "I was simply making a business arrangement with Mr. Crawford here" – he motioned with the hat at Henry – "and, to my great surprise and utter amazement, my dear aunt took wild offence."
Mrs. Norris made a strangled noise of indignation. "How could I otherwise – do you know what he was doing, Sir Thomas?"
"Indeed, I've not yet ascertained as much from the current witnesses of this great disaster which have flocked into my study uninvited, but I'm all ears," said Sir Thomas, dryly.
"He was attempting to sell our dear Maria's horse!" Mrs. Norris clasped her hands together in horror. "Sell it – to Mr. Crawford!"
One eyebrow arched, Sir Thomas looked to his son. "Is this true?"
"Indeed, sir."
"You see? He confesses it!" cried Mrs. Norris, looking at Tom with the expression of one who has been most cruelly betrayed.
"I thought myself well within my rights," Tom pressed. "Most of the dealings to do with horses on this estate go through me. And, providing I don't sell your personal mount, you've never questioned my management of them before."
"Would that you were as diligent in your other duties as you are with those animals, Tom," sighed his father. "But why is it – I admit I'm truly puzzled – you wished to sell your sister's horse?"
"I thought it simply the most useful thing to do," Tom explained, ignoring Mrs. Norris' huff of disgust at this remark. "Mr. Crawford's sister has grown fond of riding lately, and – as I'm told – likes Maria's horse, finds it more agreeable than any other. He wishes to surprise his sister with a generous gift, and the beast would – given the Crawfords' proximity to us – remain in our stables, simply at Mr. Crawford's expense."
Sir Thomas turned to Henry. "You've been very quiet through all this, Mr. Crawford – is what my son tells me true?"
"Yes, sir." Henry had doffed his own hat and he smiled at Sir Thomas respectfully. "I mentioned only this morning I wished to buy a horse for Mary, who has taken such pleasure in riding with your younger son as of late, but lamented I had nowhere to put such creature once purchased, and Mr. Bertram was good enough to suggest this plan."
"What I fail to understand," said Sir Thomas, "is why you, Tom, would wish to sell your sister's horse simply to oblige the Crawfords."
"It was not purely from the goodness of my heart, Father," Tom began.
"I should say not!" snapped Mrs. Norris.
"I wanted to sell the horse and move it into a smaller stall, once Mr. Crawford had paid me for it, and to – in turn – give the primary place for such a grand lady's horse to Fanny – I mean to purchase a horse for her, a superior creature suitable for the future Mistress of Mansfield, one she would not be asked to share or wait for turns with, one that frankly might give her more to work with as she keeps at it, a proper challenge to make the riding worthwhile – in truth, I have just the horse I think she should best like in mind already, very nearly secured – and I thought this scheme a good one on all fronts."
At that, Sir Thomas' countenance lightened considerably. "A horse for Fanny, you say? Well, well. I can see nothing against that. Your wife ought to have her own horse, should she truly want one. If she'd spoken sooner, hinted such a desire within my hearing I might have obliged the poor girl myself in your absence – goodness knows she should take more exercise that will not fatigue her."
Mrs. Norris was nearly apoplectic. "Sir Thomas, surely you cannot approve Tom brazenly selling Maria's horse for Fanny's sake! Surely not! I'm certain I have misunderstood you entirely. Is Maria's happiness be sacrificed for the sake of Fanny's whims and pleasures?"
"My dear madam," said he, "nothing of the sort is happening! Maria's happiness is not in question. She no longer lives under this roof, and she's never mentioned wanting her horse in any of her letters – I can only conclude my daughter has no use for such a nicety as a lady's riding-horse in London."
"But should she return to us for a visit and wish to ride!"
"Then, I suppose, she would ask the Crawfords – or if they are away, Mrs. Grant in their stead – if she can have a turn on their horse and I'm certainly they should not grudge it to her by any means."
"Indeed not," agreed Mr. Crawford. "Mrs. Rushworth is welcome to ride my sister's horse whenever she pleases."
"It is not your sister's horse yet, Mr. Crawford," Mrs. Norris coldly informed him. "If you please."
"Indeed, you must forgive me, madam, I spoke in haste."
"I think," insisted Mrs. Norris, "it is for the best if things here do not change so drastically."
"In most cases, I should readily agree with you, Mrs. Norris," said Sir Thomas. "But alas, as much as a great deal of his recent behaviour has shocked and saddened me, Tom is correct in this matter. Fanny is the wife of a future baronet, and it would seem mean and shabby of us all if she were not permitted her own horse."
"But she does not need a horse of her own! Not when she can easily ride Maria's horse anytime it is not wanted!"
"And Miss Crawford," Tom pointed out, "always wants it on fine days."
"Nonsense! I know for a fact Fanny went out riding with you the other day – when you both came home in a very loose and wild state, her screaming like a madwoman, indeed I still suspect liquor was involved – and it was fine weather from morning till night."
"Yes, but hang it all, aunt, you must see that was the exception rather than the rule."
"I think it shall all be settled, for now, as Tom has decided." Sir Thomas nodded. "I am very sorry if it grieves you, Mrs. Norris, and will do anything in my power to make you more comfortable about the place, but as my son has already given his word to Mr. Crawford, and has respectfully explained his reasons for doing this to my satisfaction, I cannot begrudge him this."
Mrs. Norris nodded, she could hardly do otherwise, but the hard fury did not leave her eyes and was not helped by the look of satisfaction lighting on Tom's face. "Thank you, Father."
It did not occur to his aunt that he was pleased to have his father on his side for once, or to be doing something for his wife – she took his jubilant expression as a slight against herself.
She held a private, entirely unreasonable, belief that Fanny was – in secluded moments – rather set on turning Tom against her, against his most beloved aunt who had always done the best for him. This served to clinch that belief in her mind. Fanny had schemed to have her own horse, to upset Maria's place here – the place Maria should always have here at Mansfield Park, regardless of what her surname currently was – and put herself forward.
She never forgave Fanny for it.
Fanny was perched in the window-seat of the library with a large, gold-lettered, elaborately illustrated book – which she'd taken down from one of the many shelves before seating herself – open on her lap, looking out at the expanse of green lawn and Mansfield Wood beyond.
The curtain which separated the window-seat from the rest of the library was only half-closed, and was being pulled aside by a familiar hand. "What are we reading today, creepmouse?"
Her eyes flickered up to her grinning husband and she smiled back, showing him the book.
Tom eased down beside her, reaching out lightly and taking the book from her hands, setting it on the cushion behind himself. Then he slipped an arm around her waist and scooted nearer, pressing his mouth against her throat and kissing her repeatedly.
His other hand began to stroke the front of her bodice, teasingly tracing the line of her bust, and she pulled away for a moment, a little breathlessly. "Tom" – her widened eyes darted to the window they were all but pressed against – "someone might look up and see us."
In truth, Tom did not much care too much who saw what, given neither of them were doing anything wrong – and it wasn't as if guests normally approached the house from this direction, anyway, so it would only be the staff, if one took his meaning, which Fanny was never entirely sure she did – yet he assured her, rather sweetly, no one had business on that part of the property right then.
As it happened, however, a number of servants were actually quite well aware Tom and Fanny, their future employers, could be seen, by any quick and curious eyes, locked in a passionate embrace, kissing each other – and sometimes, once or twice, rather a bit more than simply that – from the library window about this hour. It was around this time of day Tom tended to slip away from his duties, often right under the noses of those who were supposed to make sure he stuck around, and find his wife – in the state nearest to unoccupied she was ever to be found in – and he was – it would seem – simply delighted every single time to discover her thusly.
The servants were typically loath to say anything within their hearing – even Baddeley was reasonably silent on the subject – given they were the future master and mistress of this place, after all, but they all thought they should be very greatly surprised if there was not another little Bertram toddling about the place well before Tom was set to properly inherit any of it. Some of the maid-servants who had originally sneered at Fanny's clothes when she first came were not always the picture of kindness itself when discussing the obviously passionate nature of relationship between her and their future master, but they were too low in the household to do them any real harm. And one did wonder if they would – especially seeing Fanny better dressed and respecting her a little more for it – have been kinder if a couple of them did not harbour a fancy for Mr. Crawford, even if they knew he could not seriously consider their class of person, and weren't jealous of the constant civility and attention he showed Mrs. Bertram. The younger maid-servants were all too used to Tom, had grown up in too near proximity to their future master, to ever resent Fanny for getting him – if anything they wished her luck, thinking she'd surely need it – but Henry Crawford, despite not being particularly handsome, was a whole other matter in their eyes.
But the world below stairs is foreign enough – even to Fanny, who was much more sensitive to its whispers than Tom, given her more humble circumstances in upbringing – that a young rich couple in love cannot have concern enough to think too long on its probable gossip.
Reassured no one was currently observing them, Fanny busied her fingers unbuttoning Tom's waistcoat while his kisses moved up from her throat to her chin, to one corner of her mouth, to her lips. His hand thoughtlessly gave the amber cross at her neck a little tug while he kissed her, pulling harder than he meant to, and he withdrew apologetically when the necklace unexpectedly snapped and pendant and chain together came off and landed in her lap with a clink.
"Oh! That's a shame. I am sorry Fanny," he whispered. "I didn't mean to do it."
Fanny had to bite down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying out in relief. And to keep herself from smiling too broadly. The chain she'd been wearing, the one Tom had just accidentally broken the clasp of, hadn't been her preferred chain. Mary Crawford had joined them for breakfast that morning, and she'd been obliged to wear this one – this one which, so frustratingly, pleased Mary's brother twice as much as Mary herself – instead of Edmund's again. She'd meant to switch it out again afterwards but had gotten occupied and forgotten.
Part of her wanted to inform Tom of the joy he'd given her at once.
He might, she thought happily, even laugh along with her, made merry at having unknowingly ridden her of an unwanted gift – he really might understand her in this better than Edmund could, given he did not have any particularly attachment to Mary Crawford to blind him – and their shared jubilation could only bring them closer.
Alas, she would then have to explain why it was so unwanted, aside from not being to her taste – she would have to tell him Mary's brother was the original purchaser of the necklace, and she could not bear to tell Tom about Mr. Crawford's as yet still unending attentions.
These attentions humiliated her, on a consistent basis, yet she could see no good in exposing them.
Either Tom would be cross on her behalf, and begin a row with Mr. Crawford, which would anger the rest of the Bertram family – with the sole exception, perhaps, of Julia – because they all liked the Crawfords' company, or – worse, and more likely – he would think it unimportant, supposing it all to be a good, harmless joke. He could so easily conclude Crawford was only being friendly. After all, Tom seemed – within reason – to enjoy Mr. Crawford's company every bit as much as the rest of the family.
Fanny knew, of course, Mr. Crawford's attentions meant nothing, and her husband would hardly be wrong to thoughtlessly dismiss them as perhaps she should do, as she tried to do, but they still distressed her nonetheless.
So she settled, instead, for showing her gratitude by taking Tom's face in her hands and dragging it to her own for another kiss. A deep kiss given eagerly in a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.
"Fanny!" he laughed, pulling away for breath and gazing at her in considerable wonder. "Whatever was that for?"
Her lips parted, and she was so warmed by the gentle, very beautiful look about his eyes in that moment she might have told him the whole truth despite herself and risked injuring the Crawfords, but they were interrupted by the sound of Julia's voice from somewhere in the library.
"They're behind the curtain, aunt – where they always hide."
Fanny's eyes widened; Tom grimaced.
There was a great deal of scrambling, but by the time Aunt Norris had pulled back the curtain, Tom was sitting, seemingly tranquilly, with the book in his lap (notwithstanding that his waistcoat had several buttons done in the wrong places and the book itself was evidently being read upside down) and Fanny was seated beside him, the picture of all innocence, fiddling with the clasp of her necklace, as if she'd been employed in trying to fix a broken chain all this time and was simply keeping her husband company while he read.
"Your father," said Mrs. Norris, tightly, not properly looking at either of them in her seething anger, for all the effort they'd put forth in making themselves appear presentable, "wished me to inform you the new horse you've purchased has been brought to Mansfield this hour."
"New horse?" murmured Fanny, her lowered eyes flickering over to Tom questioningly.
He pushed the book from his lap and it fell to the floor with a thud. Then, beaming, he snatched her hand and squeezed. "Come with me."
The new horse Tom had procured was the most singularly beautiful creature Fanny had ever beheld in her life – a magnificent dapple-grey mare.
"I greatly desire your opinion on this one. The previous owner called her Shakespeare," Tom announced by way of introduction as soon as Fanny was in sight of the animal. "Rather a silly name for a mare. Truly, one would suppose they'd name it Giulietta or Ophelia – or even Hermia, for being little, dark and fierce – if they so wished to honour the bard. There's Wilhelmina if they wish to be trite about it. Whoever heard of calling a mare Shakespeare? It would be different if it were a gelding or stallion, of course..."
"I think it suits her," murmured Fanny, half alert, wholly entranced, reaching out, as if in a daze, to touch the horse's soft charcoal-coloured muzzle. "And there was Anne Hathaway Shakespeare – the wife – she needn't be named for the bard himself."
"Fair point, and mind you, Fanny, I've been to the races where they all have silly names, but it's rather different when it's intended for a lady's horse."
Fanny's hand dropped and she turned to look at her husband in mild surprise. "Is she to be a lady's horse?"
Tom paused, his expression suggesting he was attempting to gauge something in her face before answering. Finally, he said, in a voice which was almost a drawl, "Naturally." The corners of his mouth curled upwards and his eyes – slightly darkened in hue – twinkled. "I've purchased her for a certain fine lady of my acquaintance."
"Anybody I know?" Fanny's dimples were sweet, but her light eyes were guileless and did not share her husband's evident comprehension or playfulness.
"Indeed." He put his hands behind his back and straightened.
Oh, she thought, I see it now – he has purchased this splendid horse for Mary Crawford! If she has her own horse, I shall be able to keep riding Maria's on fine days uninterrupted and without guilt.
It was so good of him – to think of my health and happiness!
She was overcome by his generosity, yet as she kissed the horse's nose and fed it a carrot offered by a groom standing by, she harboured a little secret wish she might have Shakespeare for her own mount. But that was selfish, she told herself, and she mustn't... Surely, though, it could not be wrong to ask to ride her just once? To be certain the mare was not too much of a challenge for Mary? Maria's horse was so gentle, and slow, and although Miss Crawford was learning quickly, she might not be...
Alas, could she put herself forward so? When she had not long been riding, either? She was not so far ahead of Miss Crawford in riding lessons that she could act superior.
Indeed, she knew she must never behave in such a vulgar manner as that.
Still, Tom would let her – let her have one go on what she expected must be the prettiest horse in England, if not the world – if she asked, if she dared. She was almost certain of it.
She screwed her courage and, not quite meeting his eyes, asked if she could ride her – only a little ways, into the edges of field.
"By all means" – Tom seemed thrilled – "I'll have the horse saddled at once – you must tell me how you like her, Fanny, and be perfectly honest." The groom brought Tom's own saddle, and he shook his head. "No, for God's sake, it's the damn side-saddle we want – it's my wife that's riding, not I! You can't expect a lady to sit astride!"
But, behind her nephew scolding the groom, eyes gone hard as stone and hands placed high on her hips, mouth drawn in an expression most pert, Mrs. Norris glowered.
She clearly, so Fanny gathered, did not approve of this. No doubt the impropriety of Tom spending money, money he might not be in a position to spare, so that Mary could have a horse of her own, all for Fanny's sake, chafed – possibly even scandalised – the frugal woman. But what did Mrs. Norris wish her to do? She could not tell her husband to take back his gift for Miss Crawford, not when it was already in plain sight of so very many persons, and all the staff already knew of it. Word would travel to the parsonage and Mary should be quite slighted if she learned later Fanny attempted to persuade him to take the horse back again for the sake of her own pride, or even simply to placate Mrs. Norris!
Oh, such acute distress! She almost longed to be back inside, to have not come out at her husband's wishes to see the horse at all.
She tried not to dwell on feelings of guilt and misery, and how she wished she knew what was right to do in all this, as Tom helped her up into the saddle and handed her the reins.
After a couple laps around the perimeter of the field, the horse slowly building to a glorious gallop, she slowed back to a canter and then a trot as she brought the mare towards Tom and Mrs. Norris again.
As she alighted, Tom, still all smiles, asked why she was so Friday-faced.
Fanny's eyes were cast downward, fixed on her feet. "I'm not," she quavered, though she was, really. "I'm not at all. Truly."
"I should think not!" cried Mrs. Norris, leaning forward. "That unnecessary addition to the stables has cost more than a spoiled child in your wife's position can fathom. The ingratitude of young people these days, when they are given–"
"You do like her, though," cut in Tom; "don't you, Fanny?"
Like her? The word was not enough. Like. No. She loved the horse, adored it beyond measure, though it surely would not do to say so. "Oh, yes, very much."
Tom nodded; it was good enough for him. "She's yours, then."
Fanny felt as if her eyes would never stop widening; she knew they must look very buggy and unattractive, though it could not be helped. "Mine?"
"Of course, who else did you suppose I bought the ruddy beast for?"
Her cheeks grew hot. "I–" She did not know how to explain. "That is, I thought it must be for–" And she managed to croak out who she'd suspected the horse's intended owner to be.
Throwing back his head, Tom laughed so hard he was nearly howling. His shoulders shook and tears ran from the corners of his eyes. When he had secured enough breath to speak again, he exclaimed, hoarsely, still a little winded from laughter, "Miss Crawford? You are such a funny little thing sometimes, Fanny! What is Miss Crawford to me that I should think of getting her a fancy mount? I'm not in the habit of buying elaborate presents for women who turn down my brother's offer of marriage. Besides, she has a horse now – Maria's, which I've already sold to Henry Crawford."
"Against my expressed wishes," added Mrs. Norris, looking sternly at Fanny as if she sensed not only ingratitude but insincerity – and possibly a bit of hypocrisy – as well in her manner. "All for the sake of pleasing you and displacing your cousin."
"S-she's..." Fanny stammered, her eyes going from the horse to Tom, trying to avoid Mrs. Norris' gaze. "I can keep her? She's really for me?"
Tom blinked, clearly wondering if she could be in earnest. "Of course she is!"
Squealing, Fanny leaped forward, threw her arms around Tom's neck, and kicked up her feet, clinging to him and planting a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you."
"For mercy's sake, Fanny, there's no need to make such a display of yourself," snapped Mrs. Norris, rolling her eyes. "Tom has given you a very expensive present; you might think to show some propriety and accept it with good graces – none of these false tears and fawning. It's really most unbecoming."
Tom did not have the pleasure of spending every day delighting Fanny with new surprises – often, following breakfast, and apart from their brief trysts in the library, which they seriously thought of moving elsewhere more than once, given they were now aware even Julia knew about it – they might not see each other on fine days until tea or supper, and they might not be alone for any extended period of time until they retired to their chambers for the evening. He began to grow quite fond of rainy afternoons which kept him at home in a way he never had previously, not even when they'd provided him with occasion to sit indoors and draw. Such afternoons now meant he might sit in Fanny's company without chance of being asked by anyone if he really oughtn't be out doing something for the estate, or told by his father to get off the sofa – stop lolling about in the sitting-room with the ladies, for the love of all that was holy – and shoot something out of doors.
On one particularly fine day, however, Tom was able to persuade his father he did not need to do anything of importance and would be better off taking Fanny to have a picnic on the grounds.
"You know, sir," he'd wheeled, when Sir Thomas hesitated to agree, "it must be done before the heat of the day – or she risks a headache being out there under the sun."
"I have noticed," his father relented, "that parasols don't seem to do Fanny any real good, and she has been looking pale lately – eating out of doors today might bring some colour back to her face. Yes, if you're back well before tea and don't shirk your duties afterwards, I can't see the harm."
And so they sat, on a blanket under an oak tree, actually within sight of the pond Tom had once attempted to paddle across to avoid his father after he'd first brought Fanny here to Mansfield, eating from a hamper and looking at the clear blue sky above them.
After eating, Tom took out his sketchbook and started working on a drawing of a silver birch.
Fanny scooted closer beside him so she could see.
He stopped for a moment, lowering his charcoal stick and rubbing his stained fingers together pensively. "Have you ever thought to take up drawing yourself?"
She shook her head. "Me? No, indeed. No, I'd rather watch you."
"You know, creepmouse, what I ought to do is force you to try it – as I'm sure Edmund would do in my place – and we'd probably discover you were Leonard da Vinci reincarnated, if what's happened to you with riding is any indication."
"You're teasing me."
He smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. "Only a little." Then, "Besides, I'm not Edmund, and my vanity simply won't allow me to do as I know I ought." He reached out and stroked her jawline with his thumb, leaving a charcoal smudge on her face, trailing towards her chin. "I like you watching too well to stop for a lesson. And I can't teach to save my life."
"Henry!" hissed Mary Crawford, coming behind her brother and tapping him on the shoulder as he stared out from behind the hedge. "Lord give me patience! Are those my opera glasses?"
Spinning to face his sister, Henry gave her a sheepish grin and held them out to her. "You don't mind?"
"Yes, Henry, of course I mind," she sighed, rolling her eyes as she reached out and snatched them back. "What were you doing out here with those anyway?"
"Ah." He motioned over his shoulder, towards the grassy expanse beyond the hedge. "Mr. and Mrs. Bertram were sitting out of doors – just a ways off, it's a picnic, I think." He cleared his throat. "I was–"
"Spying on them?" she said sweetly, brow raised.
"For lack of a better term, yes, but it's not what you think."
Tucking her opera glasses securely in her reticule before reaching to secure a loose hat pin to avoid her hat slipping backwards and ruining her hair, Mary sighed, "What I think is you're sour over losing – over Mrs. Bertram not returning any of your attentions – and are torturing yourself."
Henry shook his head. "No. It's not bitterness, Mary. It's–" He hesitated. "How can I explain it? The side of Mrs. Bertram – of Fanny – I've seen recently has changed my mind entirely; she has real, deep feeling, and I'm sorry to have ever dreamed of trifling with her."
Mary was stunned. "Can this be my brother Henry who speaks?"
"I've never seen anyone so adoring as she has been, so inexpressively good-natured."
"Alas, such affection is all for her husband, with none to spare for you, so I can't imagine what good that does your vanity."
Henry forced a little chuckle of concession. "Ah. I've been horrid, to persecute such an innocent creature, I know – but my feelings are not–"
"Feelings...?" echoed Mary, as if trying to work out, to piece together, what her brother meant, what he was getting at. Then, comprehension and mild horror. "God, Henry, no! She's married!"
"To a man completely unworthy of her." Henry's expression grew mournful.
"There have been worse matches made in which the bride does not climb so high so smoothly as Fanny has," Mary pointed out. "She was from a poor family, an impoverished relation. He is to be a baronet."
"Yes, but even you didn't want him once you got to know him."
"There's nothing very wrong with Tom Bertram, save he never asked me, and you know it."
"Nothing very wrong," snorted Henry. "High praise indeed, sister."
"You know very well what I mean!"
"Would that I had been fortunate enough to have business in Portsmouth and meet her first, while she was yet Miss Price," he sighed.
"And she would have looked very dull to you there, indeed, I should think, without the allure of belonging to anyone else."
"You do me great wrong in assuming such – if once I had seen such feeling in her as I see now, I would have–"
"You're not telling me," laughed Mary, removing her hat pin completely and attempting to rearrange the hat, "you would have married her yourself if she was free. You love to joke, to tease and scandalise, but that is not what you're really saying, I'm sure of it. Pray stop at once, I fear you take it too far."
"It is what I'm really saying."
The hat and pin together fell from Mary's hand and landed on the ground. "You... You mean to say you're actually in love with Mrs. Bertram?"
"Alas, yes, I fear so."
"Oh, poor Henry." She did, truly, appear to sympathise, despite herself. "You do recall what you promised me about discretion, don't you?"
"Of course." His eyes rolled heavenward. "What do you take me for?"
"It is a shame, in a way – she would have fixed you, you know; she would have made you happy forever. Fanny is all gratitude and devotion, exactly what you like and what you would deserve in a wife if it were only possible."
"She is such a woman as I will never find again," admitted Henry, his voice grave and self-pitying. "She would have made me happy, but in return I could have made her... Oh, what I could have made of her!" His eyes darkened a shade. "Tom Bertram doesn't know what he's got. I've been observing them as of late, and all he does is paw at her like a clumsy imbecile and she, poor creature, meekly concedes."
"Oh, poor Tom," giggled Mary. "Don't be so cruel. Remember he has never been ungracious to you – remember he is your friend. It's not a fair comparison, and it's wicked and vain of you to try and make it. He doesn't know any better – I doubt he's had half the experience with women you have. At least he attempts, in his way, to make amends for his previous neglect of his wife."
"I could concede to your point if it weren't for the looks he gives her – they are not the loving expressions she deserves," said Henry woefully. "He knows she's special, but not how – she's nothing but a lucky find to bring home, like one of his horses. I've seen the looks he gives the horses in his stables, and the looks he gives his wife; they're quite the same satisfied expression. It chills the blood to see. I do not know how she endures it."
"I think she does rather more than endure it – you've already made her a saint in your heart, there's no need to make her a martyr as well – whatever attentions Tom shows her, regardless of what you think she deserves, regardless of them being clumsy and thoughtless, it's more than just vague consent she gives, as you would have it. You must face the facts; she likes it – she enjoys it. Trust me, it takes another woman to tell."
"I confess I do not understand what appeal Bertram holds for her." Henry did sound baffled. "He's well-looking and fit, to be sure – he's not Rushworth, as you've said, and that's greatly to his credit, no doubt, but that only goes so far. Fanny, I think, does not care for money... I can suspect it is only raw gratitude that he should raise her from one circumstance in life to another."
"Oh, you might have asked me sooner if you wanted to know, Henry." Mary bent down to retrieve her hat (the pin was quite lost and she would need a new one) before the rising breeze about them could think of blowing it away. "For I can tell you exactly what the appeal is."
"I'm all ears."
"Can you really not see it?" She vigorously brushed a trace of dirt off the hat with the side of her hand and shook dust from the attached feather and ribbons. "Fanny is one of those rare girls who has married her first fancy. One so seldom sees a wife follow her husband around like a starry-eyed puppy, or dote on him as our Mrs. Bertram does whenever she can get away with it, because most wives are only resigned to marriage – it's typically a business arrangement.
"In Fanny's case, though, well, think on it. She may have never had the stirrings of a first fancy in Portsmouth – slim pickings, no doubt – before a young heir turned up on her doorstep and announced he was her cousin from her mother's side. He's the first man she's ever liked, possibly the first man she's ever felt any kind of attraction to. And he purposed marriage. She's still as overawed by girlish infatuation, I think, as the day they met. Therefore, anything Tom might ask of her, provided it does not go against her sensibilities, she's only too happy to oblige him with – they do say love is blind."
This, while it might have been true to a point, did not console Henry Crawford in the least. If anything, it only convinced him if he had been the one to meet her first, before her rather ridiculous cousin, she would indeed have accepted him and been made perfectly happy. He sighed again, looking once more over his shoulder, then returned – in the gloomiest of spirits – to the parsonage at his sister's side.
A/N: Reviews welcome, replies could be delayed.