Merriment & Wisdom

A Mansfield Park fanfiction

Part Twenty-Seven:

Cages, Where They Are Not

"Now that I'm a wise old married man," Tom Bertram said conversationally, taking a turn about the billiard room before selecting his mace stick, "I declare that I cannot, for the life of me, understand why your average married gentlemen always seems to be so very miserable – gloomily hiding in the side-rooms whenever they dine out, looking like they've had the life sucked out of them. The matrimonial state is nothing to bemoan so far as I can see."

"Well, many gentlemen," said Mr. Yates pensively, "tend to quarrel with their wives."

"Oh, quarrelling is most tiresome, to be sure, I grant all men that in utmost solidarity," agreed Tom, rather cheerfully, smirking to himself. "But I like the bit that comes after."

"And what bit is that?" Yates glanced behind himself at the wall. "Oh, by the way, old bean, you haven't got any of those new-styled cues about, have you? I've got rather a preference for them."

"We have, actually, just there." Tom motioned to one hanging on the same wall his friend had been looking at, simply a little further to the left. "That is, as I was saying, I like when the quarrel is over and it's time for making up. That's the bit I find very agreeable indeed. Gentlemen whinging about being caught never seem to mention it, somehow, which leads one to have no expectation of such a thing, and – let me tell you – it's glorious."

Edmund, watching him critically from the opposite end of the room – where he sat silently reading a book of sermons – and no doubt thinking him speaking far too openly on such things to Mr. Yates, sniffed, "And how often do you even manage to quarrel with Fanny, Tom?"

"Not very, if you must know," he snapped. In a sweeter voice, he added, "In truth, we've only had the one real quarrel – when I came back from Weymouth – but I've made a point of trying to pick small fights with her to start up a fresh one."

Edmund sighed deeply, placed his thumb between the leaves of his book as a sort of marker, and closed the covers. "Tom, I would ask you not to take this the wrong way, but I must give voice to my reluctant, sorrowful conclusion that you are, in fact, the spawn of Satan and well beyond any help I could ever offer."

"Oh, you do say the nicest things, Edmund," simpered Tom, rolling his eyes. "I'm deeply moved."

"Any man who would actively seek to quarrel with someone as gentle as Fanny is a cad."

"Nonsense, brother, it's all in good fun – I suspect she wouldn't mind, not if she understood what I was really about – besides, the point is moot since she doesn't even seem to notice." Tom chuckled to himself. "That damnable sweet nature of hers prevents her from realising she's being tyrannised, endlessly needled by a husband who wishes to get a rise out of her."

"Was that a double entendre?" asked Mr. Yates.

Edmund ignored that, speaking over their guest. "I did warn her, before she married you, what you were."

"Then it's a good thing you're a parson and not a merchant," Tom teased, taking his mace stick and approaching the table. "I'll break, and then you can have a go, John." Then, by way of concluding his former thought, "Edmund couldn't sell water to a man dying of thirst in the hottest desert."

"Am I interrupting anything?" Fanny's small golden head peered around the half-opened door.

"Fanny!" Tom's face lit up like a candle as he whirled around. "Of course you aren't – you've simply livened up a dull, grey afternoon for us all." He took a step away from the billiard table, hands outstretched. "Come here, I'll show you how to play."

"Oh, no. Thank you." Her cheeks flushed and she placed her hands shyly behind her back. "I prefer to watch."

"Come here, for pity's sake – and no argument – you'll break with me, at least, before I take mercy and give you leave to watch as you like." He waved her forward and – when she crept towards him in compliance – he pulled her to him so he might wrap his arms about her. "Poor little creepmouse of mine." He pushed lightly so that they were closer to the table, Fanny then being obliged to fold her abdomen against its side. "So timid. You're shaking – you needn't, you're doing nothing by yourself." His mouth pressed against her ear, his lips brushing against her lope as he spoke, "Let my fingers guide your hands, I'll show you where to hold the mace and we'll push out on my say so."

"As you like, Mr. Bertram," murmured Fanny, her shaking ceasing as she began to enjoy the warmth she was enfolded into, though she was shy of everyone watching.

"Tom," he corrected, pressing closer against her still, though that scarcely had seemed possible a moment ago when all space between them already felt inexistent. "Now. Shall I give the word on the count of three?"

She nodded.

"One..." He leaned his face against hers so that they were cheek to cheek. "Two..."

"Well, well, this is a cosy party for a rainy day!" cried a cheerful female voice in the doorway. "I'm glad, after all, that Mrs. Grant persuaded the both of us to take the carriage and visit when we were so deadly-dull at the parsonage."

"Miss Crawford," Edmund exclaimed delightedly. "What a pleasure! We weren't expecting you today."

Tom let go of Fanny – who released a breathy little sigh and spun out of his arms panting softly – and turned to see Mary and her brother entering the room.

"Are you well, Mrs. Bertram?" asked Henry Crawford, studying her face. "You seem to be struggling for breath."

Fanny only reddened all the more deeply and, wringing her hands, mumbled she was perfectly fine, thank you, though – for the first time since entering the room – she no longer seemed pleased to be there.

Tom did briefly wonder at that, finally putting it down as one of her many minor oddities of temperament. Still, she'd been enjoying herself up until a moment ago, he was certain of it – he'd felt her excitement as she quivered in his arms, heard the smothered giggles she was swallowing back, and now she was quite subdued; quite altered. She was such a funny thing, sometimes, with her shifting humours, his little waning moonbeam of a wife. She could without warning become the most shrinking of all shrinking violets. Why should guests dampen her spirits so rapidly? It was only the Crawfords, after all, nobody new or shocking – they were not strangers.

It was all most baffling indeed, if one cared to dwell on it, which was – decidedly – simply not Tom's way.

And so he dismissed it.

With the Crawfords joined to their party, and Mary Crawford not particularly fond of billiards though she could play well enough when called upon to do so, it was inevitable that they – Mr. Yates, Edmund, Tom, Henry, Mary, and Fanny – would all remove themselves and regroup elsewhere in the house and come, eventually, to be seated near the pianoforte.

Mary brightly declared, if it were only not raining, she could find some means of conveying her harp from the parsonage and give them all a performance. And Fanny found herself thinking, a trifle gloomily, that if it were not raining they might have found amusement elsewhere and left her and the Bertrams alone. Indeed, she – though she knew it to be uncharitable – wished the sun might come out and take them both back to the parsonage. There, Mary could play her beloved harp however much they desired without impediment, without feeling the need to lug the instrument about and show it off.

She felt a little better about the visit when Susan came into the room and sat beside herself and Tom. Having her sister present with this company made her feel more protected. Susan, younger though she was, might more readily notice any excessiveness in Henry's manner to Fanny as the others did not and be a private comfort to her, even if she could do nothing about it.

"Is Julia coming?" Fanny whispered, speaking under her breath so only Susan could hear, though it was for precious little, given Henry – not too far off – inclined his head slightly, as if listening for any word from her.

"No," Susan whispered back, regarding Henry from the corner of her eye. "She wouldn't come out of her old room when she heard Mr. Crawford was here. I feel sorry for Mr. Yates, though – you can see how badly he wants her here."

Fanny did see it, now that Susan mentioned it, and thought herself rather wicked and selfish for not having noticed it earlier in the day, for not having asked Julia to accompany her to the billiard room initially.

Such an invitation would have made them friends, perhaps, and given Mr. Yates and Julia both at least a few moments of felicity before the Crawfords arrived.

And, lamenting this, she sighed.

"Did you sigh, Mrs. Bertram?" asked Henry Crawford.

"No," she said, too quickly.

"You did, though, Fanny," blurted Tom, blinking innocently and failing entirely to notice the withering look Susan shot him. "You certainly did just sigh – I heard you. Whatever's the matter?"

"I was thinking," she said, voicing the only truth she could in front of this party, "how sorry I am your sister is not with us, Mr. Bertram."

Mr. Yates immediately tripped over himself praising Mrs. Bertram for her feeling – fawning rather over-much on her acute tenderness in thinking of her dear, dear cousin – but Tom only laughed, "Good God, is that all?" as though the thought of Julia joining them had never so much as crossed his mind – indeed, it never had.

"Perhaps Miss Bertram will join us on the next rainy day, or later today – should she feel more equal to it by and by," said Mary, straightening her back and stationing herself beside the pianoforte. "Now which of you fine gentlemen shall have the pleasure of playing so I might sing for you all?"

Henry volunteered to oblige his sister, and – somewhat to Fanny's annoyance – he played almost as well as he read aloud. He made only two mistakes and managed to work both of them into the music to make them seem quite intentional; both times Fanny found herself questioning whether they were proper mistakes or not, or if she was – feeling out of sorts – looking for fault in a gentleman she was finding it difficult to like today.

She did not have enough confidence in her limited knowledge of music to say for certain one way or the other.

Taking a sip of wine from what was his third – or was it fourth? – glass since the Crawfords' arrival, Tom tapped Fanny on the shoulder and said, "Mmm, Miss Crawford has rather a good voice, don't you think?"

"Yes," she said, more stiffly than she intended, speaking through a somewhat clenched jaw.

"Her brother plays well enough for her, though he's made two mistakes – and those are only the ones I've noticed. I'll say this for him, he covers them up brilliantly."

Fanny fought the urge to smile. She had been quite correct, then.

"That's enough, I should think," Edmund declared, once Mary had performed two – rather lengthy – songs for them.

"Why Edmund, you spoil-sport," laughed Tom, waving his near-empty glass, "permit the lady to sing another if she desires. And let us, in turn, be silent and gaze upon her in awe – it is only what she wants, I should think. And we are all furthermore enjoying ourselves immensely listening."

"I would not have her sing herself into a sore throat for our sakes."

"I thank you, Edmund," said Mary, "but I never take ill. My throat is never raw."

"He's quite right," Henry decided, rising from the piano-seat. "Moreover my wrists have grown sore – it is not only my dear sister's comfort which must be thought of. I'm getting rather fagged myself."

In a flash of unguarded thought, Fanny secretly wished him a sprain, then felt her cheeks heat as she coloured with guilt at the unwarranted cruelty of her mind.

"But we must do something to amuse ourselves," sighed Tom, plainly irritable at this halt in the entertainment; then, brightening considerably, he added, "I say! Mr. Yates, have you still got those song-sheets from our friends in Weymouth?"

"Why, yes – I have! Such a splendid idea, Bertram, my fine fellow!" He clapped his hand together. "Let me fetch them at once."

"Excellent." He smiled at Fanny adoringly before he leapt to his feet. "You'll get to hear me play, wife. I don't think you have yet, have you?"

"No, I have not yet had the pleasure." And this time she could not hide her smile.

"Tom, you barely play." Edmund gave him a wary look. He touched his brother's shoulder uncertainly. "This isn't going to be like the time you changed all the words to what was formerly a perfectly innocent song so that it rhymed with parts of your anatomy, is it?"

Tom glared and shook off his hand. "Oh, for mercy's sake – you really need to remove the stick from your arse and let that one go! I was fifteen."

Edmund's brow furrowed. "No, you weren't; you were twenty-one!"

Tom hesitated, lips pursed. "Oh...right..." He blinked. "Yes, I remember now." He chuckled. "Good times." Then, "Well, it's no matter, Edmund – because I shan't sing." He waggled his eyebrows. "I will play and you can sing for us."

Miss Crawford clapped her hands together. "Oh, do. Please."

Edmund agreed, eager to add to Mary's pleasure; but he had a full change of heart when he saw the lyrics from the song-sheet Mr. Yates provided him with upon his return.

"Blow The Candles Out? Are you mad, Tom?" he hissed. "You expect me to stand in front of the present company and sing such words? I'm certain our father would not approve."

"He's in his study," said Tom, coolly, making a sidestep as if towards the door; "why don't we go ask him?"

"It's trash, and you know it," insisted Edmund, unrelenting.

"It's old," argued Tom.

"And did those in the old days have only pure thoughts to spare a pen for?"

Tom pouted sardonically. "So serious."

"That is the worst charge, isn't it, Tom? And where, might I ask, did yourself and Yates obtain such a song?"

His expression hardened. "From an acquaintance of mine we shall call shut up."

Fanny's heart was again jaggedly divided, as it so often was, between the two differing opinions of the pair of gentlemen in this household who were dearest to her.

She had not yet heard the song, and so could not discern for herself if it was acceptable or not – and she so did want to hear her husband play – but she trusted Edmund's judgement in matters of taste over Tom's as a rule. Edmund would not have thought it all right, for any reason, to paint women unclothed in a house of ill-repute, whereas Tom was more flexible – always had been – in his mortality. Moreover, given his reaction, and what he'd said to Mr. Yates, mentioning Weymouth, Fanny felt certain those from the sketch she'd seen were the very women who had provided the music currently in question. She could not make herself – however badly she wished to please Tom, to promote his happiness and express her pleasure in him and his talents – like anything which came from them.

"I won't sing it." Edmund moved away from the pianoforte. "I have no wish to make a fool of myself in the present company."

"Never mind – I don't need you." Tom made a little popping noise of dismissal with his mouth then snapped his fingers at Mr. Yates. "Your voice is good enough for this, John, and it's your music – come here."

As Tom seated himself and began to play, Fanny's expression lighted with surprised recognition. She knew the song – so would Susan, if she recalled the tune – she remembered as one of those which her father had sung from returning from The Crown after a night of drinking.

It was an old one.

Mr. Yates' singing voice was a low baritone she would not have guessed from his timbre of speech.

When I was apprenticed in London, I went to see my dear...

How she ought to feel eluded Fanny in that moment. She was sorry for Edmund and Tom both, respectively, and she knew she ought either enjoy herself to show solidarity with the one or be still and expressionless to support the other. Yet her own emotions, those unconnected to their disagreement, left her in some distress she could not explain. Tom was not Mr. Price. For all she had fretted over making the same mistake as her mother, save in reverse, wedding a wealthy drunkard for love where a heartsick Miss Ward had chosen a poor drunkard for the very same desperate reason, she had seen starkly different qualities in her husband than those in her father. Tom was refined where her father was more inclined to be gross and crass; Tom was a gentleman, and – even when provoked – of another disposition to Mr. Price entirely. Yet every once in a while, when she was with her husband in unguarded moments, she would have an unpleasant reminder of her parents and feel ill at ease.

She wished it were another song, though she could not, after all, dislike this one for all that.

Your father and your mother, in yonder room do lie...

There was a sweetness in Tom's playing, ill-trained though it was, and a cheerfulness in Mr. Yates' singing, which were impossible for her heart to dismiss without experiencing a bit of the merriment they both possessed being passed onto herself.

...so why not you and I?

Mr. Yates halted – Tom had the music, from which he was playing, and Yates' memory was not his best attribute. "Damn, I forget the next part."

Rolling his eyes indulgently, Tom began to take over, singing and playing together – much to the relief of a grateful Mr. Yates, who pressed his hand to his throat and sighed.

I prithee speak more softly of what we have to do, lest that our noise of talking should make our pleasure rue.

Having the uncomfortable sense of being too closely observed fall over her, Fanny turned her head to see Henry looking at her intently. No one else seemed to notice, as they were all employed in watching Tom – even Edmund, who leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest.

Willing herself to ignore the boring, relentless eyes of Mr. Crawford, Fanny let her gaze drift back to Tom as well. Even when following an afternoon of undeniable over-drinking, he had rather a nice voice – he was certainly musical, if not the clearest in enunciation – and she had great pleasure in listening to him. She liked to hear him sing. Regardless of the rest, she liked it, as she liked him.

The people walk about... They may peep in and spy, love. So blow the candles out...

At that line, Fanny was certain Tom had turned the smallest fraction in his seat and let his eyes flicker directly to – then linger on – her as he sang, and she, already vividly coloured, became momentarily crimson from hairline to collarbone.

And if we prove successful–

"Thank you, Tom, I do believe that's quite enough." His father's reproachful hand clamped down and closed the pianoforte so that Tom had no choice but to withdraw his fingers from the keys if he didn't want them stuck underneath.

Oh! Fanny had not seen him come in – she'd been so focused upon Tom, and briefly and unpleasantly, Henry, as well, that she had failed to notice the latest addition to their party enter the room.

Doing his best to recover from this, and show it did not affect his spirits, Tom stood up and gave a little bow while Edmund – stomping over and muttering – dragged him off and Sir Thomas took up the sheet music and tossed it, without a backwards glance, into the glowing warmth of the fireplace.

Mr. Yates was downcast, but tried to make the best by declaring they'd only been playing a silly tune for fun, the subject of which was–

"Yes, Mr. Yates." Sir Thomas rubbed his temples. "While I appreciate the attempt at amiability on your part, I believe I'm most capable of comprehending the general idea without spoken aid, thank you."

"We had hoped, father, to beg your indulgence," said Tom, pulling roughly away from Edmund, who was shushing him – or, rather, attempting to, at any rate. "As inexperienced musicians."

"You have my indulgence, freely given," he told his son, with an eye cast past him to the wineglass he'd left by the piano-seat. "But without the sing-along."

"I did warn you," muttered Edmund, shaking his head.

"As if it matters to you, one way or the other," he snarled. "You're just a prude who can't sing."

Edmund was visibly stung, and Fanny – watching him attempt to hide his wounded expression at his brother's jab – pitied him greatly.

Tom plopped down dourly between Fanny and Susan without another word.

Susan whispered, "I thought you were rather good. And Mr. Yates, too."

Tom smiled tightly and patted the back of her hand. "Thank you, sister." His other hand took the nearest one of Fanny's. He bit back a yelp. "God, creepmouse, your fingers are like ice" – he dragged her hand into his waistcoat breast pocket with a tinge of vexation, attempting to thaw it – "why do you never speak up when you are cold?"

Later, after supper that evening, when the rain had let up (or else Sir Thomas, despite his general preference for familial privacy, really might have had the Crawfords to stay the night, carriage or no carriage) and it was time to be taking their leave, Henry had it in his head to say goodbye to Mrs. Bertram before departing, but he could not see her anywhere about him.

Susan was with Lady Bertram in the drawing-room, and – perhaps because he found the cosiest nook unoccupied by anyone else and enjoyed the tranquillity of sitting with the ladies – Mr. Yates had wound up there, too, reading some newspaper or other.

Edmund, Mary, and Henry himself had been in the library, for Mary insisted the location of a particular country was in a place Edmund swore it was not, and – after some playful banter about the matter was exchanged – they'd all flocked to the atlas to be sure of who'd had the right of it.

According to the atlas, Edmund had been correct and Mary mistaken, but Mary flatly refused to concede to this point; she was certain, she told them until the very last, the atlas must have been outdated. And Edmund, with a small shake of the head, laughed and said Mary was in a very teasing mood indeed that evening. Henry did not bother telling him he knew his sister to be wholly in earnest.

Where Mrs. Bertram had gone was unknown to the lot of them.

Indeed, Henry had supposed her to be in the drawing-room with her sister, and was surprised not to find her there when he came to make his farewells.

"You'd best leave it, I think, Henry," Mary whispered to him, when he decided to look for her. "If she wished to hear your goodbyes, I'm sure she'd have waited up."

Henry was adamant. "I'll only search the lower floors – I'm not indiscreet. But I shan't be at peace all night if I haven't said so much as a fare-thee-well to the one person worth looking at here."

Mary, grumbling about what a fool he was, trudged loyally at his side all the same while he peered into various doors.

"If there's no light lit," she said in a horrified hiss, grasping his shoulder, "there's no need to peek your head in! What can you be thinking? We'll both be taken up for nosy adventurers – the very worst sort of guests – and never invited here again, whatever Edmund Bertram might plead in our favour for my sake, and it shall be all your fault. And I won't forgive you for it, either."

"Look," said he, pointing, "the billiard room is lit."

"Yes, fine" – Mary blew out her cheeks in exasperation – "if she's in the billiard room, you can wish her goodnight, otherwise, we're going to the carriage!"

Fanny was, in fact, in the billiard room, seated in a corner and employed with sewing a little cushion for her as yet rarely seen puppy, as was Tom who had decided to keep her company when Mr. Yates refused to let him have a turn reading the paper and the rest of the blasted party got into an exceedingly boring quarrel over something to do with geography.

And perhaps he was a little ashamed – or so Henry supposed – to be out-and-out drunk, as he quite visibly was, in his mother's presence (not that she'd noticed).

For whatever reason, Tom had decided to show Fanny he was capable of juggling the billiard balls.

The Crawfords in the doorway watched as she glanced up from her work. "Tom, do be careful – you'll hurt yourself."

"Nonsense. S'easy," he slurred. "I've been doing this since I was a child. I never drop them. There's nothing t'worry about, on m'honour. Look."

"They're too heavy."

But for the first five seconds or so, Tom did all right – Henry thought he really must have been juggling them since childhood, as he'd claimed, for him to be able to succeed even that much in his inebriated state.

"Mr. Bertram," began Mary, "we've come to take our lea–"

Crash. Bang. Clonk!

Henry was already biting back an oath, bent forward, and clutching at his ankle before he knew what had hit him. "Ow!"

"Oh, s'unforunate," said Tom, grimacing. "You really shouldn't sneak up on someone juggling heavy objects – that's just asking for trouble!" He hiccuped twice, blinking blearily. "Fanny, perhaps you'd better get somebody to help Mr. Crawford. S'got to hurt."

Swallowing back an oath and limping to his sister, Henry insisted he was all right – nothing broken, he was fairly sure – and if Mary would take one of his arms, and Fanny the other, he would make it to the carriage and Mrs. Grant would attend him at the parsonage.

"Well, you heard t'man, Fanny."

Fanny hesitated. She glanced over her shoulder at Tom with widened eyes. "Must I?"

"For pit'sake, I'd do it if I could manage t'stand up straight." Tom – as it happened – had been leaning against the side of the billiard table the entire time, even while juggling, and when he stepped away, he swayed rather too much to one side or the other, as if he might fall over. "Damn room does seem inclined to spin so tonight." He pressed his hand to his forehead.

Fanny tensed.

"He shan't be too heavy for you," Mary said, beckoning her over sweetly. "Not with me holding his other arm. I assure you the load will be nothing worth fretting over, Mrs. Bertram."

Giving, at last, a shaky nod, Fanny came over and took Henry's arm. He smiled at her touch, and wondered that she – shy thing – would not suffer to look at him for longer than a couple of seconds at a go.

Henry thought it the most bittersweet of partings when they arrived at the carriage and she let go of him. He should have liked to take her back with him to the parsonage, away from her intoxicated husband, and he lamented that – in another time and place which was not modern England where such things were quite unheard of – he might have done so.

It was then, spying the cross dangling from her neck as she helped Mary settle him down and pulled away, he realised, with disappointment, she was not wearing the necklace he'd bought her but rather her old thinner chain again. For, yes, in actually, he had bought it for her and her alone – Mary had never come into the picture at all except as a sly go-between.

As the carriage took off, and Fanny disappeared back inside the house, vanishing from the departing view of Henry's window, he sighed, "Ah, Mary, to leave her like this!"

"Not this again." She groaned and brought a hand to her brow. "I begged you to stop tormenting yourself – I positively implored you, Henry, and you promised me to try."

"He's a shameless drunkard."

"That bothered you very little when you thought I might marry him."

"I hadn't noticed then."

"Thank you," she quipped.

"But, seriously, to drink to excess like that – and in front of so many people, including his own parents!" cried Henry, aghast. "His poor lovely wife. Poor, most grievously put upon Mrs. Bertram."

"Think sensibly for a moment, and your heated blood may well cool off." She shifted forward in her seat. "Fanny, you forget, was not raised among the gentry – I'm sure Tom is not the first intoxicated man she's ever encountered."

"She was upset all day – did you not notice?"

"Indeed, she seemed herself to me."

Henry shook his head. "She was not; she was in distress from the first moment we walked in, I saw it plainly. She was so relieved when Tom let go of her. And you did not see how she looked at me, poor sweet innocent, when Tom was playing the pianoforte – as if she longed to be rescued. She is caged and cannot get out."

"Henry" – Mary's voice was almost a growl – "no. Don't you even think like that. Not about her. You cannot change your spots and play the white knight for Fanny Bertram. It is only a dream of yours – a dream you must endure leaving unfulfilled. D'you hear me?"

"If there was ever a way to get her away from that place honourably–"

"There is not, and she is far from languishing in a dungeon." Mary pulled back the curtains on her side of the carriage to see how much further they had until they reached the parsonage. "I helped you when it was innocent, and with a good will. I was delighted you thought of her with that necklace and eager she should accept your pretty gift. But you must not betray me by taking it too far now. Really, I could not bear it if–"

"Peace, Mary, you are right" – he pressed his hand over his mouth and shifted his gaze away from her – "I have done with it."

She would have rested easier that night if she believed her brother's words as she longed to.

Fanny didn't much care that night how drunk her husband was, or the manner in which he stumbled into their bed and immediately slumped into a near-comatose state without a word or the slightest acknowledgement of her presence.

She desired only consolation from what had been a long, exasperating day, and from having to endure so much from Mr. Crawford. She took one of Tom's limp arms and placed it around her waist and curled her back against his warmth. She ignored the smell – both from the wine and the unfortunate release of flatulence relaxation after intoxication seemed to frequently produce in him. Instead, she listened to his breathing and his incoherent mumbling in his sleep, of which only one word in ten was remotely intelligible, until her own bloodshot eyes could close of their own accord.

It might have been foolish – as foolish as putting one's hope in a thin fragile pane of glass to protect one from a wild thunderstorm – yet she felt safe with him, even when he was like this.

"Please don't go away again," she whispered, though she knew he couldn't hear her. Truly, she would not have had the courage if she supposed he could. "Please. Not while the Crawfords stay with Grants. Pray, don't leave me with those people. I don't trust them."

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