Merriment & Wisdom

A Mansfield Park fanfiction

Part Twenty-Nine:

Picnics, Such As May Precede Grand Balls

Fanny was not half so pleased as Edmund when she was told there was to be a ball held at Mansfield in her honour. No amount of cheerful coaxing from Edmund, her father-in-law, or Susan could convince her it was her due, something to be enjoyed rather than merely endured.

She was clever enough to ascertain this would be nothing at all like the balls held at Portsmouth, and her inclination was to shrink from the horror of being looked at by several important persons rather than hope for it with all the delights of expectation.

Would her happiness have been greatened – buoyed by optimism – if her cousin and sister-in-law, Maria Rushworth, the dark spot on that otherwise bright day at Sotherton, had shown the slightest liking for her, if she had even been something like tolerant in the way Julia was when Tom brought her to Mansfield from London?

Possibly.

And possibly, also, if she were not told from the start – by Edmund, who believed he was giving only the best news – the Crawfords would not be forgotten when the invitations went out.

Poor Fanny could envision only misery for herself.

The other girls her age – married or unmarried – would no doubt all be finer than herself and think her not worth talking to if she were not on Tom Bertram's arm; the Crawfords would cause some mischief, which would never give her a moment free of agitation.

She never could work out to her satisfaction what they thought they were doing.

Henry Crawford sported with her, obviously, but to what end? What could he possibly imagine his eventual reward for such behaviour to be? Did he truly think she would – or even could – reciprocate his attentions in even the smallest measure? And Mary! What was she about? How could she have refused Edmund – long before Fanny even was thought of by any of them – and yet even now linger about so, keeping him – perhaps holding onto some vain hope she might, given enough patience and affection, change her mind and make him happy – from returning to Thornton Lacey as he ought.

Fanny would miss him, deeply, if he left them, but her dearest cousin – that dearly beloved brother-in-law – would be safe from the likes of her – safe from the cruelly pulled strings of someone who did not deserve him.

Tom was selfish, Fanny's even yet still daily growing love for her husband did not conceal that fact from her consciousness, not for the tiniest moment, but his selfishness knew no malice. She knew, as much as anyone can know, what she'd married. He was the cat who might, in play, very easily torment a mouse forever, keeping it up at least until the mouse fainted from exhaustion or fright, a conclusion which would leave him honestly astonished; he was the manner of cat that would smack a mouse upside the head with the pad of its paws should the creature stop reacting, cease even for the slightest second to amuse him. Because of course the mouse lived for his amusement. Of course it did. What Tom was not was the sort of creature, the cunning and hungry manner of cat, which would rip the mouse – once caught – open and devour its insides while it yet screamed for mercy; that was what Fanny saw in Henry and Mary both, behind the smiles even they believed were so real and generous, and it made her cold down to the very bone to think of.

What manner of being is it that does know know its own nature, its own power over others smaller or lesser than itself, or – worse – knows it at a glance, casually, and yet is not once shrinking back from the mirror in terror, in reverence of its own power?

Such, Fanny believed, was the beginning of a true monster.

Yet she herself could not run – could not shrink back – from being introduced to society sometime – she must be looked at by those who were both Bertram and Crawford in nature – and she longed to keep the suffering to a minimum.

She had the idea of having the ball changed into something less formal – an outdoor picnic, where there might still be dancing and merriment and important visitors, but where nature could be all about to comfort her as the gilding and vaulted ceilings of a ballroom never could.

Sir Thomas – with a refrain of, "A picnic? Well, well. A picnic, d'you say, child?" – thought it such a good idea, however, that it rather backfired on Fanny more than otherwise.

He settled it that there must be a picnic the afternoon of the day before the ball, a kind of causal prelude to the real introduction of Mrs. Bertram to all their friends as well as an extra source of felicity for the young people.

Fanny fervently wished she had never mentioned the idea – wished she had never thought of it, either.

Mrs. Norris wished so also, complaining of everything from the added expense, to the alleged vulgarity such informality showed, to the doubtless noncompliant weather they were sure to have.

Susan, who overheard the complaint regarding the last, made a small snappish remark about how neither Fanny nor Sir Thomas – who were both being blamed for the inconvenience in turns by an especially erratic Aunt Norris – could control if it rained or shined, or was too hot or cold, for pity's sake, not unless they'd been keeping secrets.

Mrs. Norris called her impertinent, but she stopped complaining for nearly an hour, too angry to say anything more, a reprieve for which everybody was exceedingly grateful.

Even Lady Bertram sighed, when her sister had returned to the White House in a fit of fury, "I am most obliged, dearest Susie, for what you said today – my sister means well, and I don't say you should not respect her, but she does bray on so very heartily when she gets into a temper and my nerves do not like it."

When it came to what Fanny would wear, she shocked everybody by announcing she did not want a new dress made up for the occasion.

Mary Crawford, who was visiting them in the drawing-room when the discussion came up, nearly fell into a swoon out of sheer horror. Mrs. Bertram not wear a new ballgown to her first real ball in proper society? Was the girl mad?

"Oh, Fanny," she'd cried, with more real, ardent feeling than strictly did her credit. "You cannot mean it!"

Sir Thomas, misunderstanding, concluded Mrs. Norris' fussing over the expense had gotten to the tender sensitivities of his daughter-in-law, which showed her to be a very good girl indeed, to be sure... But she must have something made up for the occasion – it was not a thing which might be skimped on. "You must remember it is to be your night, my dear."

"Then," said Fanny, glancing about them all, "may I not have my own way?"

Sir Thomas' brow furrowed. "Certainly not – I wouldn't have the wife of a future baronet – my own daughter-in-law – appear shabby."

"That is," she pressed on, dropping her gaze, "I already have a dress I should very much like to wear – it means a great deal to me – and I would only ask for some trimming... And... I wish to add to the back, the train, a bit... I would do the alterations myself..."

"Oh." Sir Thomas blinked. "That is rather different. If you had your heart set especially on a particular dress which is already in your possession. I can see nothing wrong with it – if that's truly what you desire. As long as you think you can make it properly presentable, remembering who will be there, there can be nothing amiss."

"Indeed there shan't be," said Lady Bertram, from her place on the sofa, giving Pug a little squeeze. "Fanny's stitches are very delicate. So small and neat. She sews such pretty cushions. She does her needlework quite economically, too. I do not think she will ruin or waste any trimming she is given. And I shall send Chapman to dress her the night of the ball."

And, with this, Fanny contented and comforted herself. It was a small victory, but precisely that – a victory – all the same.

"Mary?" Henry Crawford looked up from the London Gazette and snapped his fingers delicately to get his sister's attention.

She had been at the window, thinking about her own dress for Fanny's ball, also in the back of her mind debating if she would practice her harp or go out in search of some amusement, when her brother signalled to her. "Hmm, yes, Henry?"

"That brother of Mrs. Bertram's – the one she loves so dearly and never ceases to mention near daily." He sighed at her blank expression. "You know, the one who's a sailor. What was his name? William Price, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes, I believe that is him."

He tucked the London Gazette away into a leather satchel. "Good, good. I shall be leaving Mansfield for a few days – you'll be so busy with all your planning, I daresay I'll scarcely be missed even by a sister so doting as yourself – but I'll be back in time for Mrs. Bertram's ball."

"No, indeed." Mary rolled her eyes. "You would not miss that."

"Indeed not, for I plan to dance with sweet Mrs. Bertram – not for the world would I give up my opportunity to do that – I may even get to open the ball with her, if fortune proves kind – proves willing to smile upon me."

"Henry," said Mary, slowly, her voice affectionate but laced with caution, "I think Mr. Bertram will want to open the dancing with his wife, don't you?"

He waved that off. "It cannot matter to him – he, lucky devil, who has her company every day – whether he dances with her first or last, can it?"

Mary thought it could, and that Henry was pushing things a bit far, Tom Bertram not being dim enough he could fail to notice another man opening the dancing with his wife in front of half the county, but she only replied, "And the picnic, you'll be back in time for that as well?"

"Mmm, there I can make no promise." He did sound mildly regretful. "I may be too late for it. You'll have to make do with Edmund Bertram to keep you entertained that afternoon, sweet sister."

"What are you up to?" Her brow lifted; curiosity burned within her so intensely she could not even worry as much as she felt she otherwise should. She had never seen her brother in love before, and his resulting behaviour stunned and dazzled her, with its near-endless intrigue, as much as it startled her.

"I can't tell. Not at present. Not even you." He smirked, rose from his place, and – coming to the window – tweaked his sister's nose between his thumb and middle finger. "It's a surprise."

The night before the picnic, Tom also had a surprise – one he expected would delight Fanny, yet seemed only to make her grow oddly quiet when he presented it to her. "Fanny, I've had your chain – the one I broke – fixed for you."

They were in his sitting room by the fire, and although she had not been the least bit cold before he spoke, she shivered rather heartily, then, and pulled her shawl tighter about herself.

Tom, surprised but unshaken, barrelled ahead, drawing the necklace with the fixed clasp from his waistcoat pocket and holding it out to her. "I don't know much about women's taste in jewellery, but it seemed fancier than the one my brother gave you, so I thought you might want to wear it to our ball."

"What can I say?" murmured Fanny, more as if she were anxiously asking herself than addressing the question to her bemused husband.

"Eh... That is, you might..." He broke off, laughing. "Fanny, you are such a funny little thing sometimes! You kissed me as if you couldn't bear to stop when I snapped the blasted necklace off your neck, yet – now – when I have it repaired for you..." He shook his head. "You act as if I've given you news of a death in the family. Perhaps I simply understand nothing about women, is that it?"

"Forgive me for being ungrateful." Lord, if only he knew. If only she dared tell him – dared explain. He could not think less of her, surely, for being loath to wear another man's necklace, regardless of the fact that the giver had technically been the gentleman's sister rather than the gentleman himself. Oh, it was foolish – dreadfully foolish – to want to cry, and yet she did.

She wished she'd hidden it after its being broken; she wished she'd thrown it out the window and a bird had carried it off; she wished–

"I don't think you ungrateful," he said. "I think you're many things. Most of which confuse me and I expect I'll never puzzle out. But I don't think you're the least ungrateful. I think I could very well hand you...Christ, I don't know...a mackerel...and you'd tell me what a thoughtful gesture it was."

"A mackerel?" gasped Fanny, leaning forward in her seat, nearly doubled over.

"I said I didn't know!" he cried, still laughing. Then, with a melancholic sigh, "If I'd given you a mackerel instead of that chain restored, would you have kissed me?"

"I'll kiss you without a mackerel," she said tenderly, her eyes softening as they gazed at his furrowed face in the firelight. "If you'll come closer to my chair and swoop down very sweetly so I can reach you."

The picnic proved a greater source of felicity, on the whole, to Fanny than she anticipated.

Her dress was one of her newer ones but it was casual for the occasion and even Mary did not seem to mind that she was wearing Edmund's simple chain for her cross, no-doubt expecting (if she knew what Tom had done) her brother's more lavish necklace to be saved for the ball.

Eyes were on her, yet Fanny felt more curiosity than judgement from the young persons who sat down beside their hampers on the lawn to sip champagne and be merry; they did not, particularly the young men, seem to care over-much where Tom Bertram's wife had come from and were simply glad of the excuse to sit out of doors on a fine day.

She was introduced to Charles Maddox who declared her, "Yes, very pretty, as you've told us, Tom," before asking if someone might top off his glass and remarking on the commendable lack of goose-droppings on the lawn. He evidently had a relation who attended picnics frequently, weather permitting, and – per him – one always had to be very care of goose-droppings. Picnic scenes, he insisted, always looked quite well from a distance, only for there to be unpleasantness up close, but Mansfield was as pretty close up as far away. "Not unlike your wife. Proper diamond of the first water, as you like to say."

Fanny blushed crimson from chin to hairline, though she was not distressed. Mr. Maddox was not like Henry Crawford; his appraising, admiring looks lasted no longer than they ought and one got the reassuring impression that while he was glad enough for his companion's good fortune he should not particularly like to be married to Fanny himself.

Indeed, Mr. Crawford's absence was another source of happiness granted her on this bright day, proving to be far more hers than her alleged night of triumph would likely be. She did not expect Henry to miss the ball, but she relished his absence from this prelude, basking in the freedom of not glancing over her shoulder always to see him watching her, eyes fixed and expression drawn, and could not make herself look properly sorry when Miss Crawford and Mrs. Grant gave ready apologies for his being away. Fanny barely succeeded in biting back a smile and managed to look politely sombre. Tom seemed far sorrier about it than his wife, disappointed in his vague, selfish way of any possible jolly companion being unavailable for his amusement on such a day as this.

Julia and Maria came from Sotherton, and – at first seeing Mrs. Rushworth again – Fanny's joy was temporarily marred. She wanted to like her pretty cousin, and to earn her good opinion in return, for her own sake as much as for Tom and Edmund's, but the cold look behind the eyes she'd encountered during their first meeting had not thawed in the slightest.

If anything, Maria's eyes were only icier still.

True, their initial meeting had been so unremarkable it was nothing worth recounting, nothing so very shocking nor dramatic, little more than one of life's dull footnotes at best, and yet it had stung Fanny down to the very soul.

And it was not until she saw her arriving with Julia and Mr. Rushworth for the picnic that Fanny realised where she knew the expression on Maria's face from; it was a look of settled, unwavering offence.

It was a look that said, plainly, I will not you – I am determined not to like you – the same look Fanny herself had so often reserved for Henry Crawford.

Why Maria should be so absolutely set against her, Fanny could not begin to imagine. To be sure, Maria was not pleasant to Tom, exactly, but she was notably more civil, and she waited, quite pointedly, until both her brothers' backs were turned before shooting her pale, fluttery-handed sister-in-law a look of pure withering scorn.

Clearly, she knew what she was about.

Susan was visibly disgusted by her cousin's behaviour, and if she'd heard Maria did not care for her husband she would have thought a poor marriage no less than the cruel snobbish wretch deserved, but Fanny refused to show emotion – to reveal her disappointment. There was something deeper here, to be sure, which she could not quite put her finger upon.

Julia, buoyed by their previous acquaintance with each other, was better – both to Tom and to herself.

"And here I'd foolishly supposed," said Tom, upon seeing her arrive, "we'd just gotten rid of you," but he was smiling – with glinting, playful eyes – and received an actually sweet sisterly kiss on the cheek in return for his quip.

Julia seemed very happy to see Susan and Mary – if not strictly Fanny – again and perhaps she really was.

Mr. Yates was unreservedly ecstatic – wholly over the moon with jubilation – to see 'lovely Miss Bertram' again, even after so short a separation, and his contagious joy put them all in good spirits with one another, making for a joyous reunion, as if they were one great big group of friends meeting again at last.

There were games after the eating was finished, which Maria did not join in though Julia did, including a game of blind man's bluff, during which a blind-folded Edmund caught Fanny – the only one not quick enough to dodge the parson's outreached arm – and – mistaking his sister-in-law for Miss Crawford – lost the game by incorrectly identifying her as such.

Mary thought this hilarious and could not stop laughing about it, teasing Edmund mercilessly, for nearly a quarter of an hour. "You were mistaken, Mr. Bertram," said she, chortling into her champagne, "quite vastly mistaken. Why, I think even Henry would have known it was Mrs. Bertram he'd caught in your place rather than myself!"

Sometime after, when the sun was lower and hotter, Fanny felt the urge to relieve herself and slipped away from the lawn, closer to the woods, so she might go among the trees. Only, she became rather self-conscious that the place she'd chosen was not far enough from the guests and someone would see Mrs. Bertram, the very lady in whose honour this fancy picnic was being held, squatting by a tree with her skirts hiked up past her knees.

No, she decided with an anxious little shudder. This would not do.

And she ventured a little further, then a little further still, trying to come upon a place which seemed secluded, a place free from any wandering guests.

She nearly tripped over Julia, who she'd thought – wrongly, it would seem – was yet with the others on the lawn.

"Shh! Be quiet Fanny – don't give me away," her cousin hissed, yanking her downwards and forcing her to crouch, winding her before she could yelp. "They will hear you."

"But what–" began Fanny, in a low, breathless whisper, before Julia cut her off with a soft little huff of frustration.

"Some of the gentlemen have sneaked off to go swimming." She gestured past their hiding place towards the pond with her chin.

"Oh." Fanny saw for herself now, though she was not sure only three men stripping down to their skivvies by the water's edge – Mr. Maddox, Tom, and Mr. Yates – strictly qualified as 'some of the gentlemen' in the way Julia spoke – she'd said it as if she meant a full quarter of the picnic's guests.

It appeared Julia's keen interest in watching them was to get a good look at Mr. Yates in a state of near undress – she did not care what Maddox did, and she softly groaned, "Oh, for mercy's sake, must you stand in the way, Tom? Why won't you move your posterior out of my view! We all know what you look like!" under her breath when her brother blocked their line of vision. "Bother, Mr. Yates has stepped too far to the left again! All I can see beyond Tom is that silly Mr. Maddox flexing his arms – waving them up and down spastically – like he's a water fowl about to take flight!"

Fanny, though, was rather enjoying the view at that moment, her embarrassment at being forced to spy giving way to genuine interest in what she was seeing, and entirely missed what Julia snapped to her after the initial comment about Tom's posterior, completely unaware anything more was even said until her cousin pinched her arm impatiently and yanked her further back.

"Julia? Fanny?" exclaimed a concerned voice behind them. "What are you both doing on the ground all the way out here? Are you hurt?"

Fanny, startled, let out a sharp squeak of distress and, losing her balance, tumbled forward. She went rolling head-first out of the bracken, through some brambles, and down into the clearing by the pond, coming to an abrupt stop flat on her back in front of Tom, who stared down at her with a single eyebrow arched.

"Oh, well done, Edmund!" snapped Julia, glaring over her shoulder at her other brother, who blinked helplessly after Fanny with an expression of utter confusion on his face.

Fanny gave her husband a weak smile. "Hello."

Tom offered her his hands and, bending over, raised her back onto her feet. "You simply can't get enough of me, can you, creepmouse?"

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