Merriment & Wisdom
A Mansfield Park fanfiction
Part Twenty-Eight:
A Day-Trip, To Sotherton Court
A thick fog had settled over the lawn – it was so dense Tom could barely see the house in the distance – and a man (or, he thought it must be a man, surely, simply because he judged the figure too tall for a woman's and what other option was there?) with a scythe was bent over a few feet away.
There was nothing unusual about the scythe, it looked like any other the lawn's grass would regularly be cut by, but Tom failed, even close up, to recognise the man holding it – and here he had known the servant tasked with that duty by sight, the very same man who'd been cutting the grass since he was four years old.
This clearly wasn't that man.
Furthermore, he was puzzled by the figure's strange long robes – one minute black, the next a streaky grey reminiscent of the pitiful colour he sometimes ended up with in his sketchbook if he pushed down too hard without enough charcoal left – in place of the normal labourer's style of clothing.
"Oi!"
The head turned; he had no face, no eyes, he was all bone and no skin, yet he looked at Tom.
"I beg your pardon, but I don't think you–" I don't think you work here.
The robed figure spoke without a mouth. "I'll be seeing you soon."
Tom furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes in annoyance. "Not bloody likely."
"Tut-tut." The figure twirled his scythe and tsked, sounding not unlike the ticking of that wretched long-case clock Aunt Norris had gifted him. "Best to be on your guard. There's no need to be smug about it. Pride before a fall, what. Your last appointment with me may be far sooner than you imagine."
An inexplicably heated and prickly shudder ran through him; he crossed his arms. "Do I know you?"
"Everybody does – eventually."
"Ah."
A flick, flick, flick of the bony wrist under the dark sleeve. The scythe swung downwards like a falling guillotine blade, slicing the lower part of his leg when it landed.
"Ouch!" Tom swore. He put three fingertips to the wound. They came away bloody.
"Mind you don't neglect your falls, Mr. Bertram."
And then–
Tom awoke with a pounding in his head. He tried to call to mind what he last remembered from the night before, dredged up a vague and hazy estimation of supper with the Crawfords still present and rain still battering the windows, and then found nothing further in the blank recesses of his throbbing skull.
He moaned and lifted his arm, feeling something small and lumpy and breathing under him.
"Oh!" – a mussed golden curl sticking up from under the coverlet informed him it was only Fanny.
Of course – Of course it was his wife, what else would it be? But in his muddled, hungover state – half-remembering he wasn't sure what from his feverish, drunken dreams – he was rather relieved all the same.
She stirred, pulled her head up from under the covers, and looked at him for a long moment. "Good morning."
"My head," moaned Tom, blinking to clear the grit clinging to his eyes. "What exactly happened yesterday?"
"Nothing very remarkable." She blushed and readjusted her pillow. "That is, you injured Mr. Crawford's foot while juggling billiard balls" – and she tried to look sorrier for it than she actually felt – "and you talked in your sleep rather a lot."
He gave the blankets a sniff and recoiled, gagging. "Merciful heaven, Fanny, did I soil myself at some point?"
"I-I don't think so," she stammered, though she appeared uncertain.
"My father saw me intoxicated?" He grimaced, fairly positive he'd never hear the end of it.
"I don't think he could have failed to notice, especially as you'd already been drinking when he stopped you playing at the pianoforte," she said softly, with a ring of tenderness in her tone, as though she wanted to be truthful yet not too hard on him. "But he didn't say anything."
Yes, he recalled the pianoforte. He even recalled his father's cool eye on the wineglass he'd left beside the piano-seat, now he thought on it. That – all that – was clear enough in his mind. He was still cross over the whole incident – truly, it had been an innocent enough pleasure, one even his sister-in-law Susan enjoyed, which both his father and Edmund had grossly overreacted to.
And yet...
He was silent for a long moment, before throwing himself back onto the pillows and flinging an arm over his face. "Why must I always make such a complete fool of myself?"
"Tom..."
He lowered his arm partway. "Did I injure Mr. Crawford very badly?"
"Oh, no," blurted Fanny. "I do not believe so – he acted as if it were a trifle at best." She cleared her throat. "Indeed, I do not think his suffering was so great as that."
"My head," he moaned again.
"Can I do anything?"
"Mmm, actually... If you could ring for the servants to get me a glass of water..."
Of course, Fanny – loath to bother anyone, and well aware now of where the best route to the kitchen was in proximity to their chambers – got it herself and put the glass in his hand with a reassuring pat on his tense, splayed white knuckles.
"I suppose," said he, when he'd downed the glass and forced himself to stand, still trying to gauge where the smell on the blankets came from, "I must go down to the parsonage today and make my apologies to Mr. Crawford."
She made a little throaty noise of acknowledgement.
"I'm sure Edmund would wish to come with me, an excuse to see Miss Crawford." He grinned bitterly to himself. "Which is why I'm asking Mr. Yates instead. Or else going by myself."
"You're still angry with him about the music."
"He's such a self-righteous prig!" exclaimed Tom.
"Edmund was only doing what he believed best," Fanny said resolutely. "You cannot fault him for following his inward guide as well as he should."
"One day all his pretty, perfectly rigid morals are going to fail him, you know." Tom tore off his sweat-plastered shift and began looking for something more fresh to change into. "And then where will he be?"
"That's rather a terrible thing to say." Fanny put a hand to her brow and pushed back her dishevelled fringe.
"Well, you would take his side, wouldn't you?"
"I'm not taking anyone's side, but what can I do? He knew it would displease your father, and he was not mistaken in judging it so."
"And that makes it all right, does it?"
She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and said nothing.
"Forgive me, Fanny." Pulling himself into a pair of questionably clean breeches, he stumbled towards her and chucked her under the chin. "I don't mean to quarrel with you – not like this."
And, all things considered, they parted amiably that morning after breakfast. Tom was glad of it – for all that he had been playfully trying to pick a quarrel with her, her disconcerting yet unflagging preference for his brother, her tendency to defend Edmund over himself, was not the topic of something he could take so lightly as to toss it aside once it had served his purposes, when they'd made it all up again. It was a thing too raw and fragile to be faced head-on.
Mr. Crawford did not seem particularly resentful of him for having caused bodily injury the night before, yet there was a lingering coolness Tom could not account for when he visited the parsonage.
There was nothing so very different in Henry Crawford's manner – and no change at all in Miss Crawford's – but the gentleman was more subdued, as if on the verge of headache or cold.
Perhaps it was only the sore foot which caused the trace of sourness.
They talked for merely five minutes about the incident – and both managed to laugh, if not with real merriment – before the subject changed to something else entirely.
Mr. Crawford wondered if Tom was aware Mr. Rushworth and his sister Maria were to be at Sotherton Court by the week's end. Tom was not aware of this – indeed, he was surprised, knowing Maria's preference both for town and for keeping a distance from her husband and her mother-in-law. Mrs. Rushworth could be somewhat overbearing, by nearly anybody's standards. For Mr. Crawford's benefit, he acted as if it were not so great a surprise, really, though he had not yet been told of it.
"Mr. Rushworth has long been after me to take a look at Sotherton and help him judge what improvements to the grounds are needed," explained Mr. Crawford. "Indeed, before his marriage to Maria – I think you might still have been in Antigua – he'd meant for us all to go down there as a party – Mary, myself, your sisters, Mrs. Norris... The lot of us. Only it did not quite come together as planned for some reason or other. I don't seem to recall what did the mischief, but there was disappointment on all sides."
"So, you're thinking now to... What, exactly?" asked Tom. "Have a party of us go down there and meet Maria and Rushworth for a tour and tea?"
"Precisely that."
Tom almost asked Mr. Crawford if he thought that wise, given what had transpired between him and Maria in the past, but his common sense alerted him to the danger, in time enough to swallow it back and make it seem as if he were merely clearing his throat; he – as Maria's brother – was not strictly supposed to have noticed the prior flirtation between the pair. If he ever did acknowledge his awareness, to anyone save Maria and Julia themselves, and it became public, technically, he might find himself forced into a duel – if Rushworth refused to take it up – with Crawford. And getting himself killed over his stupid sister's indiscretion was the last thing he wanted.
"If the Rushworths," Tom said finally, unsure what else he could say, "have no objection, I don't see why the lot of us shouldn't have a merry time exploring Sotherton."
"Your wife will accompany us?" Henry inquired in a tone which struck Tom as strangely arch, made doubly odd by the look – though it was only a flash, and he thought he might have been mistaken – Mary shot her brother as he spoke.
"If she wishes it." Tom shrugged. "I'm not in the habit of dragging my wife about to various places against her inclination."
"No, of course not." Mary touched his arm and smiled. "Henry loves to jest – and can be very silly sometimes."
Henry's expression to his sister was almost pleading.
She sighed, then, "Though, I suppose, Mr. Bertram, you will want Fanny to meet Maria – and perhaps if Julia comes Maria will take her back to London with her. We shall miss her society very much should that occur, but Julia does languish so amongst the roughness of the countryside – I hate to see her unhappy."
Tom was uncertain. He could hardly care less – couldn't give two figs – about Maria meeting Fanny, beyond that it was expected and admittedly overdue, but – save for Mr. Yates' sake – he would not mind ridding himself of Julia, having one less person to please – one less sour face whenever he failed to comprehend some slight or other – about the place.
"I'll ask her, of course – and if Fanny wishes to come, she shall."
"Well," said Mary, using all the charm that would have already worked its magic had this been Edmund and not his brother, "do endeavour to persuade her if you can, Mr. Bertram. For her dear company will be deeply missed by us all if it's not to be had."
And when the question was put to her, later that day, Fanny almost declined to go against her own inclination and desire.
Although she would be glad of an outing, one further than she could could contrive to ride to on her own – even if she took Shakespeare out very early in the morning – and was curious about meeting Maria as well, it was made known to her from the beginning of the plans that Henry Crawford was the author of this venture; she felt sure he would find some means of making her uncomfortable and believed herself much more comfortably employed at Mansfield – for Crawford could not, for all his many talents, be in two places at once, and if he were at Sotherton, she should be assured of one full day without being surprised by him and forced to endure him. But then she spoke to Edmund – innocently enough, he praised the natural beauty of Sotherton which it had never occurred to Tom to mention, stirring up, however unintentionally, a genuine longing in Fanny's heart to see it. Indeed, she was very sorry the purpose of the visit was in regard to changing what already sounded like perfection itself.
Yes, she finally agreed, she should like to come – should like to see the place before it was forever altered.
Back at the parsonage, earlier, as soon as Mr. Bertram had left them, Mary whirled on her brother. "What are you thinking?"
"I assure you, my dear sister, my intentions are as innocent and pure as Fanny herself."
Mary's mouth was a grim line. "But you are plotting something – you cannot hide it from me."
"Indeed I am," he confessed, running a hand back through his hair, "though it's a harmless scheme. I shall require your help, of course."
"I wish you could learn to like the ladies who are available to you and spare us walking about on eggshells every moment – it spoils all the fun of having the Bertrams to play with."
Henry cocked his head and twisted in his seat. "Oh, Mary, all I want is a chance to speak to her alone – on no important subject, you needn't worry of my making any shocking speeches – without fear of her taking off or rebuffing me. If she should see that I am a friend to her, that she can confide in me, I feel certain–"
Mary began to pace the length of the floor, fluttering her hands. "Henry, Henry... You don't understand the sort of wife Fanny is. If you are forward with her – if you speak directly, even in what another kind of woman would take as only playing, mere harmless flirtation, if she has the slightest reason to suppose her honour at stake – she will go flying to Mr. Bertram with the tale in a heartbeat, believing herself in need of his protection."
"I'm not an imbecile." Henry rolled his eyes. "Do give me more credit than that."
"I do give you more credit, when I know you are thinking with your head – where there is Fanny Bertram involved, your thoughts come from another direction altogether."
"And which direction do you suppose that to be?"
"It would be trite – even maudlin – to say the heart," said Mary, slowly, "and yet I would not do a beloved brother the disservice of implying the other possible member of his body was doing the thinking for him – I could not be so crass, not to you. You are too dear to me for that. So, pray, draw your own conclusion, unaided by my supposed implications, and let us keep peace between us."
"All you need to do, and I know you'll be glad to do it," Henry insisted, "is go for a walk with Tom, Edmund, and Fanny about the woods at Sotherton. Fanny shall tire easily, as is her way, before you come to the avenue. There, some suggestion might be made that she should rest. The three of you will contrive to go on without her – persuade Edmund you will be fatigued if you rest, and drag Tom with you by some pretence or other – and I will come and sit beside her for whatever happy hours you spend wandering."
Mary admitted, with very little leading on her brother's part, she could see no real harm in it. "It would do Fanny some good if she were a little more comfortable about you – if you could make her less jumpy in Tom's presence whenever you walk into a room. Tom might not have noticed yet, but I'm beginning to believe – despite my efforts to convince him he is mistaken – Edmund has, if only in the broadest way."
"So you will help me, Mary?" His eyes sparkled with hope.
"Yes, but I swear – if you touch her, Henry" – her countenance darkened – "even in play... And we come back from walk to find her out of sorts... The ruckus which would be kicked up does not bear thinking about. So, your hands must keep to themselves, do you understand me? You must give me your absolute word and shake little fingers with me as we did when we were children."
Henry lifted his little finger and locked with that of his sister's. "I promise – let that be enough."
And all went to Henry Crawford's planning, at the start. Mary strived to do all she promised her brother, so long as he kept his promise in turn, and she soon had left Fanny behind on a bench under the trees as she marched away, one of her arms under Tom's and the other under Edmund's.
But no sooner had they reached the avenue than Edmund exclaimed, "Such a pity Fanny misses this – she especially wanted to see the avenue."
Tom blinked at him in amazement. "This is the first I heard of it! When did she say such a thing?"
"Many times, Tom," sighed Edmund. "She spoke of nothing else to Susan at supper last night. Avenue this, avenue that; she was rhapsodising and quoting Cowper all evening. Poor thing. It is a shame she should miss it, after so much build up; her health–"
"Then why the deuce did we leave her back there?" exclaimed Tom, waving an arm dramatically at the path behind them. "A jolly mean trick, on my word! And no one told me a thing about it."
"She was tired, Mr. Bertram," said Mary, realising where this might be going and trying to salvage the plan even yet. "You would not have had her walk all this way when she could scarcely catch her breath, only to see some trees?"
"No, indeed – to be sure – I would not have had her walk!" He was already beginning to turn. "But she needn't have walked; she might have been carried. And all too willingly." He was moving away from them rapidly. "She still might."
Oh, bother, thought Mary, as Mr. Bertram disappeared from their sight, poor Henry will be most dreadfully disappointed in a very few minutes.
But Edmund was there, before her, smiling, waiting to be enjoyed, and she consoled herself with the thought that she'd done her best; her brother would have to make use of what short time she'd managed to give him with Fanny.
Perhaps Tom would be slow in getting back, or be waylaid. It mightn't be all gloom and doom for poor Henry – it really mightn't.
Mr. Crawford had indeed made the most of his time. With a salutation of, "What, Mrs. Bertram all alone? How comes this?" and his most dashing smile, he had sat down beside an admittedly rather lonely Fanny and spoken to her softly, as recompense for initially startling her nearly out of her wits, offering her a pretty purple flower.
He claimed to have picked this flower on his walk though such seemed impossible given it was clearly of a hothouse variety and no purple flowers remotely like it grew in the Sotherton Court gardens or woods.
She accepted it stiffly, taking the stem between two trembling fingertips, as there was no way she could see to refusing so small an offering without causing offence, and placing the flower in her lap before turning her head away, looking desperately to the place where she'd last seen the others.
Someone must come back for her – someone surely must.
"And how did you like your eldest sister-in-law?"
Fanny's shoulders tensed, then sagged. No one was coming. She was forgotten. She must resign herself to having only Henry Crawford's company for now, to answering him as amiably as she was able. "I think Maria very beautiful."
"That she is, though it's nothing whatever to your disservice." He cleared his throat to rid it of the excessive tenderness he was in danger of showing. "You all come of such a fine-looking stock, to be sure. Your mother is aunt to Mrs. James Rushworth and Miss Bertram, is she not?"
"Yes."
"You might all be three sisters in a fairy-tale, golden-haired and light-eyed – the youngest is always the most beautiful, kind, and pure of heart in those stories, you know. She is the one the prince wants to win."
"Yes, to be sure." Fanny swallowed, feeling as though she were trying to force broken shards of glass down her throat. She was longing to believe he did not mean what she knew he must. Thank heavens it all amounted to nothing – that he could never really... Part of her was inclined, nearly, to point out Susan was younger than herself, and as light-eyed and blonde as any of them, but she would not have set her beloved sister into Henry's evidently insatiable notice willingly – not if you offered her the world.
He spoke on the subject of the beauty of the day for some moments more, before acknowledging a chill and remarking she had her beaded, mustard-coloured shawl rather low about her arms. He then made some motion to pull it up for her, but she demurred, saying she liked it as it was.
"I am not cold, but I thank you."
He turned on the bench, eager even for a moment to dispense with formality, "Fanny–"
Before she could be scandalised by his addressing her thus, before she could even be properly frightened, they were interrupted by Tom's halloing as he approached them from the path.
Fanny was so inexpressibly happy to see him she started to rise automatically from the bench, obliging Mr. Crawford to give her a bit more room as she rose, only to sink back down with a strangled yelp when her still tired legs protested in jabbing pains and an overpowering weariness about the calves and ankles.
"Ah! I've got back to you at last. We'd only just reached the avenue," said Tom, catching his breath, "when Edmund mentioned you'd wanted to see it."
"I had, but–"
And Fanny was immediately swept off her feet, lifted up into Tom's strong arms. "Come, wife, if you will but put your arms about my neck, I shall carry you the rest of the way – we'll have quite missed whatever nonsense Edmund and Mary are blathering on about, as they'll be well beyond the avenue themselves by now, but I daresay we don't need them!"
With a tightening of the chest and a heavy disappointment, Henry watched them go, then – once they were long out of sight – bent down to pick up the purple flower which Fanny had let fall unheeded from her lap when she first attempted to stand and greet her husband.
He meant not to follow them, truly, but despite himself ended up walking forlornly in that very direction, wondering if he would run into the pair when he reached the avenue.
He imagined them discussing botany and Tom Bertram – being something of a dunderhead – not realising that, yes, every one of those 'green things' did in fact have a name of its own.
Whether it was to his relief or else disappointment, Henry couldn't say, but he began to believe he'd missed them, that they'd gotten quite the start and he would not have an encounter, when he came to walk among the trees – the trees he was meant to survey and give his opinion on the cutting down of – and saw no signs of anyone about.
Until, that was, he discovered Fanny's bonnet on the ground beside one of the more inward-facing trees.
Then, bending to pick it up, he heard a series of soft moans from the same general direction, and a light but somewhat guttural grunt that sounded like Mr. Bertram, following by Fanny's soft murmur.
"Tom... Oh, Tom..."
And had Henry the tiniest iota of self-awareness, just enough to see what he wished not to for reasons of his own, to put aside the inclinations of his heart, he might have realised then he was not the hero of the situation at all – not the failed rescuer he fancied himself to be – but fully the opposite.
Instead, as he sadly set her bonnet back on the ground where he'd found it and – disposing of the purple flower in the taller grass – soundlessly made off in the other direction, he pitied her and felt sorrier still for himself.
"Well, Fanny," simpered Mrs. Norris, as they were arranging the carriages to take them home to Mansfield Park again, "this has been a fine day for you, upon my word – nothing but pleasure from beginning to end!"
"Indeed, ma'am." And Fanny could not help going dramatically scarlet, for it had turned out to be just that, despite a shaky, unhappy start, born first of suspecting Maria Rushworth did not like her – did not care a fig whether she was here or not, dead or alive, and wished her brother had not brought her along – then added to by having Mr. Crawford's company thrust upon her while she rested, utterly abandoned, left to her fate by both Bertram brothers and Mary Crawford.
But from the moment Tom had come back from the avenue and carried her off to see it, she had been in raptures of unlooked-for delight. Nothing was too good for her all the rest of the day.
Perhaps because he was sorry for Mary and Edmund's seeming neglect of her, unable – in his usual way – to see it was a smaller neglect than some he himself inflicted on her in the past, to wholly distinguish between the selfishness of others and his own, Tom had become most devoted to promoting her happiness.
He'd kissed and caressed and – as they'd both gotten rather carried away in the pleasure of the moment, swelling gratitude on Fanny's part leaving her in state in which she might refuse him next to nothing – done some small manner of things beyond that as well with her under the canopy of those beautiful trees which stood a bad chance of being long for this world, all the while murmuring how dear she was to him, how beloved.
And when they sank together into the loam and grass, she'd laid very still with her eyes half closed while he teased her by plucking a little leaf, slipping it down the front of her dress, and tickling the space between her heaving breasts with it.
"Poor Fanny – my poor, breathless Fanny," he'd whispered, leaning beside her, propping up on his elbows, when he'd stopped and she'd opened her eyes again. He twirled the leaf's stem with his fingers. "You're so wound up. Do I sport with you too often? Am I too terrible?"
She'd regarded him, then, from the corner of her eye, peering up from under her eyelashes. "You're like a cat with a mouse."
And he had laughed so heartily at her quip – the sweetest, soberest laugh she'd ever heard from him; it was a laugh so pure and reassuring, Fanny truly felt she might live off the sound of that sweet burst of unsullied merriment for years.
When they'd returned to the group, they were clinging giddily to each other, arm-in-arm, and Fanny had a wreath of daisies Tom had strung together in her hair, pinned to her plaits like a white-petal tiara, in place of her bonnet, which hung loosely by its ribbons from her opposite hand.
Mrs. Norris might not have cared overmuch about this, save that – by such dramatic comparison – the manner between Mr. Rushworth and Maria looked so much the worse.
Maria couldn't stand to be near Mr. Rushworth, or touch him affectionately without due cause, while Fanny and Tom never ceased to touch – to make some small contact – in one way or another. There was such a great deal of easy affection between them. And Rushworth had been her choice, the match her doing; Mrs. Norris could not bear that it should not look well, should not stand out as the perfect union of the two.
Fanny had no business looking happier with her husband than Maria did with hers.
So the conclusion – the only one Mrs. Norris could live with – was simply this: Maria was proper with her husband, while Fanny behaved like the wild, ill-trained thing from Portsmouth she was and Tom, being only a man, refused to rein her in.
And when Mr. Rushworth's mother – who, by some oversight or other, had not been properly introduced to Fanny when the party arrived – remarked how she had supposed the girl to be only a visiting relation to the Bertrams and wondered in astonishment at Tom's being so overly familiar with her – was it quite all right for him to behave so very tactile in manner with that girl? she'd mused worriedly – Mrs. Norris was convinced she had the right of it.
She felt certain if Tom and Fanny had acted as a decent husband and wife ought in public their connection to each other would have been obvious. She did not consider, for it was not her way to consider such rational things, how Tom's not having a wedding ring while Fanny very visibly did likely contributed more to the mix-up than anything the couple had done.
"I was," she said, climbing into the carriage and sitting across from Fanny and Tom and a subdued Mr. Yates (they had left Julia behind them and she would not be returning to Mansfield for the foreseeable future, which accounted for his being Friday-faced), "quite appalled by the state of your formerly fine silk stockings when you came back from your walk – I so hope that Mr. Rushworth's mother was spared noticing that – and you seem to have some dirt or stain, or something very like, on the side of your neck. Tom, why did you not make certain your wife cleaned up before you both took tea with us?"
Tom coughed and his shaking shoulders gave away his amusement despite his best efforts. "Right. Eh. It's... It's not dirt, Aunt Norris."
Mr. Yates, with one coy glance in their direction, broke down into a volley of what could only be described as tittering giggles, slapping his knee and wiping away tears of mirth while Mrs. Norris glared her disapproval.
And, a great deal of embarrassment aside, Fanny thought she had never been fonder of her husband's companion than she was in that very moment. Dearest Mr. Yates!
The following morning, Mrs. Norris saw her opportunity to attempt to set matters right.
She felt she must look to Sir Thomas to straighten the pair out before any further damage to the family's reputation might be done – before they should risk marring poor Maria, despite her high-standing as Mrs. Rushworth – and found herself at a breakfast table which lent itself to open conversation with her brother-in-law.
Fanny was not present. Due, perhaps, to having taken too much sun at Sotherton Court, she was suffering from one of her more vicious headaches and disinclined to eat anything at the moment. Susan was upstairs nursing the bedridden Mrs. Bertram, and Tom – in lieu of taking breakfast himself – had decided to go for a morning ride with Mr. Yates, who'd cheerfully volunteered to exercise Fanny's horse.
Edmund was at the table, and watching her warily, but Mrs. Norris did not think twice of speaking her mind regarding this matter in front of him. Where she thought of Edmund's opinion at all, though it was only in the smallest degree, she naturally assumed her nephew – being a parson – would be inclined to share the one she herself held: Fanny and Tom must be made to behave with more propriety, for all their sakes.
To her horror, however, Edmund not only voiced disagreement with her view, he also defended them. "Aunt Norris, I may not always agree with the manner in which Tom conducts himself, but as he has Fanny's infallible good judgement to guide him – provided he doesn't take off again, now the racing season has come around – I cannot see him as doing anything unseemly." Casting a glance over to his father, he added, "Sir, I've never witnessed Tom go out of his way to be so agreeable as he was during tea at Sotherton yesterday to anyone. It was all Fanny's good influence. There's no other explanation for it."
Mrs. Norris sucked her teeth and tightened her grasp on the butter-knife she held. "I do not deny Tom's manners were exceptionally good, overall, yesterday – I find him more than tolerably improved from what he was but five years ago. He was a proper credit to yourself, Sir Thomas, in that regard. But as to it being Fanny's doing!" She gave a little laugh of disbelief. "Well! Indeed, I should say not! That is the furthest thing from what I saw. Why, he couldn't manage to rein her in one bit, for all his pretty manners! She soiled her stockings like an ill-bred child – she returned to the house for tea without a bonnet on! Her hair was half-down like a ragamuffin. She was looking quite rumpled indeed, if I do say so."
Sir Thomas made longer work of cutting his sausage and spearing at his eggs than he strictly needed to, attempting – it would seem – to give himself time to decide whether or not it was worth it to point out to Mrs. Norris a girl did not venture into a wooded avenue alone with a man and discombobulate herself.
It took two partners to dance, as the old saying went.
"I simply say," Mrs. Norris pressed on, taking the silence for encouragement, "something must be done. Fanny carrying on with Tom as she has been, before the marriage is widely known in public... Mrs. Rushworth was quite scandalised... Tongues will wag. Depend upon it, Fanny will get herself into a delicate state – as I've often feared and remarked upon – and the good name of your family will be at stake while people slyly count back on their fingers. Something must be done. We are not yet free from the chance of there being a true and proper scandal."
Sir Thomas' mouth twisted and he blinked pensively. "D'you know what, my dear Mrs. Norris? You're absolutely right."
Mrs. Norris straightened, clearly pleased with herself, and Edmund tensed, his jawline tightening. "Father, I really don't think–"
"You may wish to hear my suggestion for handling this matter before you decide you disagree with it, Edmund."
"Yes, Father." He lowered his head respectfully, staring down at his plate.
"Indeed, Edmund," said Mrs. Norris, all but preening, her countenance one of glowing relief and satisfaction, counting her chickens well before they were hatched. "Your father knows best."
"We must have a ball," Sir Thomas declared. "Here at Mansfield. For Tom and Fanny in name – a belated celebration for their marriage – but in actuality all for Fanny's sake, so everyone who matters can see her and know she is a Bertram now. There can be no whisper of scandal, not if half the county has seen Mrs. Bertram at a ball and knows her to be Tom's wife." Struggling against a smile at the widening eyes of Mrs. Norris, he added, "Then Fanny can comfortably get into as many delicate states as she sees fit and you, dear lady, won't have to work yourself into an ulcer over it. Naturally, I would have greatly preferred Tom wait to sire an heir under this roof – you know very well I had every intention of preventing it when he first brought Fanny here – but c'est la vie. I wash my hands of that. I know when a cause is lost."
"I think a ball is a wonderful idea." Edmund beamed. He was no doubt already imagining himself persuading Mary Crawford to dance with a clergyman against her general – and formerly very vocally expressed – inclinations. For the one night, surely, she would set aside her silly, prejudiced view on men of the cloth – for the sake of them all looking well at Fanny's ball. "I suppose we might invite the Grants and Crawfords?"
A guest list was cheerfully discussed, then, between father and son, and Mrs. Norris' face changed from a outright rosy hue to what was very nearly a sour-apple green.
A fancy ball for Fanny – a lavish party for an indigent niece who'd entrapped Tom into marriage and been nothing but trouble since – was not what she'd had in mind when she brought up the subject.
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