Merriment & Wisdom
A Mansfield Park fanfiction
Part Thirty:
A Ball, Not As One Would Best Like
The following morning, among whatever last-minute provisions were being brought in for the ball that night, the servants also delivered a box to Tom and Fanny's sitting room (Tom was still wearing his nightcap, complaining of a cold head) – at the sight of which Tom's eyes lit up with pleasurable recognition.
He opened the box and drew out its contents. "Come, Fanny, look at this."
It was a pocket pistol, new and sleek and decorated with an elegant finishing of silver filigree.
Fanny came over and smiled admiringly. She was not particularly fond of guns, nor did she possess any real interest in shooting, but the pleasure on Tom's face made it a source of felicity by mere association. Nothing which had brought such total contentment to her husband's countenance, which excited him so obviously and innocently, could be anything but a friend to Fanny Bertram.
He held it out to her by the handsomely curved handle, so she might take it. "Feel the weight, it's like a feather."
Fanny disagreed; she thought it quite heavy herself, felt its pull on her wrist the moment Tom loosened his grasp, but she knew his hand and hers were quite different things, and so she only said, "Yes, how very fine it must be!"
"Indeed." He was gratified by her response. "Perhaps, sometime, though only if you'd like, I will show you how to fire it. I can't see the harm in your knowing a useful thing like that."
Fanny giggled, "Am I to fight in a duel?" The image, unbidden, of defending her own honour against Henry Crawford popped into her mind and she flushed – her cheeks heating to roaring fireplace levels of hot – just thinking about it.
Nonsense, though, really.
"God, I hope not," Tom said with an affected shiver. "Duels are nothing but a bloody mess over a lot of stupidity and indiscretion, if you ask me. A person would do better to ignore an offence, and jolly well move on with their ridiculous little lives, than to start up a thing like that!"
Well, in that case, she might be on her own when it came to Henry Crawford, after all. But Fanny wouldn't have wished any differently; she loved Tom too well to want him in that kind of danger for any reason, let alone for her sake.
"Have you ever seen one?" she wanted to know. "A duel, I mean?"
Affectionately brushing his fingers against hers as he did so, Tom took the pistol back into his own hands. "I was someone's second once."
"Did he die?"
He looked shocked she would even suppose such a thing. "God, no! What are you thinking, Fanny? This is modern-day England, after all, and you – perceptive little mouse that you are – can't fancy yourself married to someone who'd waste their time with some dullard clueless enough to let it get that far? I think you know me better than that."
"I suppose so," she demurred. "What did happen?"
"Myself and the other man's second managed to prevent it from taking place – we all shook hands and made a lot of pretty speeches – and then the gentleman who'd named me as second accidentally shot himself in the foot."
"Oh!"
"Yes, one must be very careful" – he motioned with the pistol, pointing the barrel towards the wall – "when these things are loaded. The blasted hair-triggers can be tripped very easily."
Fanny nodded emphatically – her brother William liked it, when he explained the safety of an object to her, if she nodded to show she was listening, to show she understood; he looked worried if she did not.
She took it for granted all men felt that way when making a cautionary statement in front of a woman.
Tom didn't seem to be watching her reaction, however; he was not peering down into her face to be sure she comprehended his warning, his mind already having moved – gone quite ahead without the slightest halt – to the next point in his continuing line of thought.
His lips puckered into an appreciative whistle. "Damn beautiful workmanship."
At Lady Bertram's order, Mrs. Chapman came in to help Fanny dress and style her hair (Tom had already vacated their chambers by this point, and was downstairs pouring himself drinks from the decanter in the drawing-room), and she submitted with good grace until it was time for the final touches.
What jewellery she would wear being a tender subject to her at the moment, Fanny – concluding this was a matter best settled in solitude – quietly said, "I thank you, but I shall see to any ornaments for myself."
"As you will, madam." And Chapman gave a polite curtsy and left her.
In one near-trembling hand, Fanny held Edmund's simple, perfect chain and relished the comfortable memory of daily wearing it, of wearing it to the picnic, and felt a rush of happy warmth. From the opposite hand, held so loosely it slipped from her shaky grasp and dropped onto her dressing-table with a chunk, fell the Crawfords' oppressively ornate gold necklace.
Someone must be pleased, and someone else must be slighted. Even if that someone was only herself. Even if the wounded feelings and discomfort were all in her own heart alone.
There seemed to be no escaping her miserable fate.
"What can I do?" she muttered, heart pounding. "What can I do?"
Her misting eyes settled, then, on her open workbox.
She saw, side by side, a length of ribbon left over from the trimmings she'd been using to make small alterations to her chosen dress for the ball and Tom's handkerchief.
"They won't like it," she murmured, about to brush the idea off as soon as it came. "Everyone will think it most unsuitable – it may not even be allowable." Sighing, she touched the tip of her little finger to the ring of William's amber cross. "But if it really is my night..." She swallowed. "If it really is my night, perhaps Sir Thomas' guests will indulge me and see it, only this one time, how I used to prefer."
"Tom, for pity's sake, where's your wife?" hissed Mrs. Norris, when the room was starting to fill with guests and Sir Thomas' subject of honour had yet to make an appearance.
Tom shrugged unhelpfully.
Susan – nearly unrecognisable with her fair hair done in Grecian curls and piled atop her head, well-attired in a wine-coloured, high-waisted dress decorated with paler red beads – walked past them and Mrs. Norris caught her arm. "Where's your sister?"
"Pray excuse me, aunt, I do not know." She fluttered her eyelashes demurely, casting her gaze downwards and reaching to catch her slipping shawl. "I might easily imagine, however, she is still dressing in her room."
Lady Bertram, overhearing this, called, "Yes, I sent Chapman to her."
"The folly of young people," muttered Mrs. Norris, shaking her head. "Keeping everybody waiting, as if the world existed solely for their amusement."
"What are we talking about?" Mr. Yates approached their circle, smiling and holding a drink – which Tom immediately took out of his hand and downed in a single swallow, throwing back his head and gulping vigorously, before returning the empty glass to his startled friend. "Oh. I did not know you wanted one, old bean."
"She's here." Susan tapped Tom's arm and motioned to the slim figure which had just that moment appeared at the top of the stairs.
A slight hush spread over the guests as they all looked up – perhaps taking a hint that this was who they were supposed to be admiring from the fact that all the Bertrams, even Edmund and Julia, were simultaneously staring in her direction upon her making an appearance – and watched Fanny walk down towards them.
Fanny wore a familiar gown of white muslin sewn up with glass beads. A longer train had been added, and simplistic lace trimming (including a slight flounce) and cream-coloured ribbons adorned the hem of the gown's skirt where they had previously not, but it was very obviously the same dress she'd worn to her wedding – the dress Tom had bought for her.
From her neck dangled her brother's amber cross, but it was not strung upon a chain, tied instead to a bit of creamy ribbon the same as that which decorated the hem of her gown.
"She's dressed far too plainly," remarked Mr. Yates. "And she could smile more – your wife looks positively petrified, poor creature." There was no immediate response. He turned his head. "Bertram?"
Tom gazed. "What kind of nonsense are you spewing, John? She looks downright angelic."
"She's like a princess," sighed Susan, starry-eyed. "She's so beautiful!"
"What can that girl be thinking?" gasped Mrs. Norris, one fluttering hand hovering dramatically at her throat. "Showing up in front of these people under-adorned like that! Is is trying to humiliate Sir Thomas?"
Tom had already left them and was walking to the stairs to take his wife's hand when she reached the bottom step. "Words fail me, creepmouse – you're a vision."
Blushing several blotchy shades of scarlet and ruby, she placed her hand in his and stepped down amongst the others.
"What a brilliantly clever idea, Fanny!" exclaimed Edmund, beaming with approval, when he reached her. "Most girls would wear every jewel they owned to their first ball in a place like this – you've shown such sincere modesty in your appearance that I daresay everybody else present will seem over-trimmed in comparison. You look so humble and penitent, like a saint from a Bible story. Not that you have ever had anything to be penitent about – you're all goodness, through and through."
"You do not think it too fine, then, cousin," said she, threading her fingers through Tom's as she spoke.
"Oh, a woman can never be too fine when she is all in white – I always say so. One cannot help loving a lady in white. Is that your wedding dress done over?"
She nodded. "Yes – I thought it appropriate, since I'm being introduced in company as Tom's wife."
"Miss Crawford" – and Edmund turned to the Crawfords, brother and sister both, who had appeared beside them while Fanny yet spoke – "you said you had a dress something like this one once, did you not?"
"Indeed, I had." Mary smiled and approached Fanny, reaching to touch the ribbon at her neck. "But, dearest Mrs. Bertram, why on earth should you do this in place of a good necklace?"
"I-I wished to appear something like Mr. Bertram first saw me," she said, clinging tighter to his hand. She hoped desperately this excuse would ward off any ready offence on Mary's part. "I had no chain when we met in Portsmouth."
"How sweet," sighed Mary. "Your reverence, Fanny, could – I think – make even the most unromantic, sensible person feel a twinge of real longing to be loved. Don't you think it's sweet, Henry?" A pause. "Henry?" She elbowed her brother. "Henry!"
"Yes – you must forgive me," he coughed out. "I was simply admiring the enrapturing sight before me in silent contemplation. Mrs. Bertram is truly a marvel to behold this night – I quite declare she's the sort of woman a man sees and at once wishes to stand nearer to."
Tom beamed at him. "D'you know, I was saying to Charles Maddox – just yesterday – Fanny really has become too beautiful for safe society. If ever I take her to London with me, I fear I must disguise her or some rogue will run me over with his carriage-horse in hopes of getting at my widow once I'm gone."
"But," Mr. Crawford said with an admiring, lingering smirk, "how would you manage it? Such loveliness is not easy to hide."
"Well," Tom mulled jovially, a teasing glint in his eye, "I must buy her another gown – the opposite of the one she wears this evening. Less flattering, to be sure. Mr. Yates must advice me, as I've personally always thought one dress looks very like another." He snapped his fingers. "Wait! By Jove, I know! I've got it now. It must be brown with a white apron, and she will wear a mob cap to complete the look. Then we shall borrow Chapman from my mother – what a day that poor woman will have of it in London! – and have Fanny made over. We must make her a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of her eyes. She will be a very proper, little old woman – no one will ever suspect just what a sublime and pretty creature resides underneath."
Mary, Edmund, and Henry all laughed at this – and Henry added, with cool eyes which did not compliment the over-tenderness of his tone, "I should never hide your beauty, Mrs. Bertram, were I in his place; I would parade you, as you are at your best, shamelessly before le bon ton" – Fanny winced, disentangled her finger's from Tom's, thinking only to get away, and blurted, "Please, you must all excuse me, I beg you–"
"Oh, we've quite mortified her – the whole group of us – I'm afraid," sighed Mary. "How beastly we've all been to tease her so. Our dearest Fanny Bertram, I think, fears notice and praise the way every other woman in this room tonight would fear neglect in her place."
Tom turned his head and flexed his hand, as if realising – for the first time – it no longer held Fanny's. "I only jest."
"Never mind." Henry held out his own hand, as though he expected Fanny to take it, and she goggled at it helplessly. "Come, Mrs. Bertram, if you will allow me to lead you off for a moment or two, I have such a surprise as I know will bring a felicitous smile back to that face we've cruelly mortified and relight the joy in your distressed eyes."
With a jolt, she took a step back, keeping both her hands out of his reach. "No, I cannot. You must pardon me, Mr. Crawford, but I believe Mr. Bertram has need of me just now, and–"
"I?" blurted Tom, brow furrowed; he was misunderstanding her entirely. "What? Certainly not, Fanny, it's all right – go with him, have a nice time. See what this grand surprise of Mr. Crawford's is all about. Tell me about it later, if it's anything very exciting. You're under no obligation to nail yourself to my side."
So, that was it, then. Tom was leaving her to her fate. Her heart sank; her stomach churned. She was – down to the unshed tears and dreary resignation – as one being led to the chopping block, or to the guillotine.
Oh, Tom, why?
She gnawed miserably on her lower lip. Her expression was pleading and desperate, even as Henry Crawford was leading her steadily away from the others, pulling her across the room, yet her husband took no notice.
Mr. Crawford stopped before an alcove – Fanny scanned for other guests nearby, but there were none. Once taken inside, once the curtains were drawn behind themselves, they'd be quite alone.
What sort of acceptable surprise could be hidden here?
He must wish to say something to her – something shocking – he desired the others not to hear. It was in her mind, then, how he had called her by her Christian name, how he'd said Fanny and not Mrs. Bertram at Sotherton, right before Tom came and carried her off. That could be the prelude to nothing good. And yet he was a gentleman; he surely could not be foolish enough to...to...
To what, exactly, she could not even venture a guess. If asked, if anyone had spared her and asked directly what it was she was so frightened of, Fanny could not have said.
Only, she knew she was frightened, all the same.
I shall have to tell him, she practised in her frantic mind, I do not welcome his attentions – that there is no way he could have reasonably supposed I did, though I'm very sorry if there's been some mistake, if I've done something to make him think the contrary – and he really must let me go back to my ball now.
"Here," said Henry, coming behind her and putting a blindfold over her eyes before she could get a word out. "Now, step forward, over to the little sofa, and sit down a moment – trust me, I won't let you fall."
His hands were on her arms which shook violently.
Then she was sitting in the dark, terrified, wanting anyone but Henry Crawford to come and put their arms about her and tell her it was all right and she was working herself up over nothing and they'd never let anything bad happen to her.
"Mrs. Bertram" – still only Mr. Crawford's relentlessly brilliant voice – "do you recognise the voice of the person sitting next to you?"
Fingertips – strangely warm and friendly and familiar and very unlike Mr. Crawford's – brushed against her hand.
Even comforted by this touch, she longed unceasingly for Tom, or Susan, or Edmund, or–
"Hello, Fanny."
"William!" she cried, her terror forgotten as she reached up and ripped the blindfold off and saw, indeed, it was her most beloved brother sitting beside her.
The siblings turned at the waist simultaneously and embraced, clinging to each other like two entwining ivy vines, squeezing and clutching without the slightest worry over mussing their best clothing or – in Fanny's case – hair that had been very greatly fussed over by Mrs. Chapman.
"Oh, look at you!" murmured William, holding her to him as if he would never let her go again. "You're the same as when I saw you last! Exactly the same, I think" – she was indeed even wearing the same dress, though he did not properly recognise it, being a man – "but much healthier. I believe the country air has done you wonders."
Henry looked on with a wistful, contented smile. "Yes, this is my surprise."
Letting go of William with reluctance, Fanny beamed, all forgiveness and felicity, at the very same gentleman she had so feared moments ago. No one who would do a thing like this could have wicked intent, surely! She'd mistaken him. A sporting, flirting man he might be, but his character must not be truly a lost cause if he could think up such a kindness as this – such as bringing a brother all the way from Portsmouth, a brother she had not even known was back in England – for a woman who was, really, nothing to him. They were not even related by means of Mary's attachment to Edmund, since evidently nothing was happening there; he had no reason to do this for her, and yet he had!
"I cannot tell you, Mr. Crawford, how obliged to you I am – it is beyond what words can express – I shall never forget you have done this thing for me."
"Oh, but there is more," said he, smiling softly, his gaze warm.
How could there be? And yet she inclined her head slightly forward, willing to hear.
"Your brother is made – he is a lieutenant. And I have brought him here, not only for your ball, you see, but also so you might congratulate him in person on his promotion."
Fanny gawked. Her eyes darted from one man to the other in stunned, mouth-parted silence. "Is this true, William? Can it be?"
"I have the letters – Henry has given them to me, placed them personally in my hands this very night before bringing me to this alcove to see you," said William, alight with joy now she knew his happiness and it was no longer a surprise which must be kept from her for the sake of suspense. "I will show them to you tomorrow at breakfast, if you wish to see them. I'm no longer a midshipman; I'm Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush."
She grasped her brother and kissed his cheek. "Oh, William! I'm so happy for you! After all this time – after you had so nearly lost hope of it ever happening!"
"Oh," cried William, tears of mirth streaming down his face, "look at us, Fanny, look at us! Look what's happened after all! We've grown up to be all right! You're a Bertram – it's not a near-secret marriage any more, they're throwing you a party unlike anything I've ever seen. And I'm a lieutenant. And, most importantly, we're together again."
"It's wonderful," sobbed Fanny, overcome. "Isn't it all so inexpressibly wonderful?"
Henry waited their shared bewilderment out with good humour and no small level of satisfaction. He had made the woman he loved happier than he'd ever seen her. Happier than he'd ever imagined her in his wildest dreams. Happier, he fancied, even than Tom Bertram had made her by giving her that beautiful grey horse. He'd given her not only William – her most precious William – but a promoted William who was set for life now.
He'd known he could make her happy if given the chance. He'd known together they could be–
Fanny seemed, then, to remember he was still there. "Oh, dear Mr. Crawford, has this been your doing – every bit of it – from start to finish? Good Heaven! How very, very kind! How was this done? I am stupefied."
"I can explain the particulars over breakfast tomorrow, if you'll invite me to dine, while William reads you the letters – I shall present myself at half-past nine – for now, I think, you must have your night."
Fanny felt a pang of unpleasantness pierce her. She wanted breakfast with William to herself. She wanted her brother's company, for who knew how long it might last, all to herself. She wanted no one else there as they breakfasted – hardly even Tom, let alone Susan or Edmund or Sir Thomas – but they themselves. William Price, as he always had, trumped all. Perhaps it was not right, certainly it was not fair, and Fanny knew it, yet still...
Well, it would have been an impossible indulgence anyway. She could not have asked the others not to eat with them – there was no reason Mr. Crawford should not. No reason and yet, somehow, every single reason in the world. She hated herself for her selfishness, for her unbending wish, but there it was.
To make up for her true, deepest thoughts, she forced herself to be all kindness to Crawford, to show him every civility, so that he might see how grateful she truly was despite her not wanting him around.
He must not suspect himself an unwanted friend, an undesired member of their party, not after what he had done. Surely not. Such would be unspeakable rudeness.
She rose, slowly, and she offered him a near-sisterly embrace and said he was welcome to breakfast, and thanked him once again, and agreed to save two dances for him this night, though she did not really want to dance with Mr. Crawford – even only twice – when she could be dancing with her husband or brother-in-law instead.
Someone pushed back the curtain, then – Fanny still had not quite let go of Henry, yet partially embracing him and not allowing herself to think (for she must not think badly of him tonight after this) he was clinging to her unnecessarily, especially not with William watching, as no gentleman in the world could be so crass – and Maria Rushworth was standing there, lifting a fistful of tan velvet and tawny tassel, her brow severely lowered and her exceedingly blue eyes stormy.
Things progressed from merely ill-fated to positively grim – from what would have been Fanny's prospective, if she were not distracted by the pleasure of seeing her dearest William, anyway, though it was all rather a carefully calculated boon from Henry Crawford's – as the dancing was about to begin.
It started inconspicuously enough, with Henry walking across the length of the room and whispering with Charles Anderson, who seemed to be asking him something – he then pointed Mr. Anderson in the direction of Tom Bertram, who appeared to be the man Anderson needed to speak to and had been looking for. Innocent, surely, though interesting, also, how Henry had not managed to speak to Charles earlier and tell him where Tom was; indeed, it was strange that Charles should not have found Tom himself before, unless someone arranged for them to be standing in the wrong places at the wrong moments. At any rate, Anderson's urgent message could only be related to Tom as the dancing was to commence, forcing him to choose between opening the first dance with Fanny or conversing with his near-frantic companion who'd just come down from Newmarket.
Henry, however, gallantly and with smooth ease, offered a ready solution. He should open the dancing with Mrs. Bertram – she had promised him two dances anyway, he pointed out, when they spoke between just themselves and William Price, and it should matter very little to anybody present whether these came at the start or end of the night – while Tom conversed with Mr. Anderson and settled whatever the matter was.
"You can then come in for the third dance of the evening," Henry finished.
Tom nearly hesitated, glancing uncertainly between Charles and his – currently blanching – wife, only to disappoint Fanny by declaring Mr. Crawford's scheme 'no bad plan' and asking 'if she minded' in such a way that did not actually leave her room to say she did mind very much without causing offence, whether he realised it or not.
Despite being willing to dance with Henry Crawford in a spirit of friendship, Fanny was not keen on opening with him – indeed, she was not keen on leading the dancing or opening at all, and had comforted herself with the knowledge that it would be all right since Tom would be her partner – and so made a last-ditch effort to save herself yet.
Turning to William with her most desperate expression, one she knew he would not ignore, she said, "I believe William wished to dance the first set with me – he has come such a long way."
But Mrs. Norris, overhearing, spoiled it before William might even have taken his sister's hand in his own and begun to lead her off. "A brother and sister opening the dancing together? I should think not! It's much too improper. It would look absurd. You cannot think of shaming Sir Thomas – first with your plain attire, and then–"
Susan put her oar in, perhaps more acutely aware than their brother – who, perceptive of his most beloved sister's feelings or not, still thought rather too well of Mr. Crawford for the service he had rendered him – of Fanny's real distress. "But William and Fanny have danced together many times in Portsmouth. Not only at assemblies, either, but in the street when the hand-organ was out. Nobody minded."
"And besides," William added, "nobody knows who I am here, and would not think twice of my being her partner."
"Oh," sighed Henry, shaking his head. "Oh, dear. I fear that is not quite so – in my happiness for Mrs. Bertram, as I knew her felicity would be great, I may have told many guests who you were, telling them of your promotion and connection to the family. I did not know you meant to dance together. I should not have thought of dancing publicly with Mary in society, much as I love her, and I thought – foolishly, it seems – you would be just the same. You must forgive me the error, for it was not my intention to spoil your fun."
Fanny was dismayed, but Susan gave it one further try. "If not Fanny, though, aunt, who will dance with William? None of the women here have been introduced to him, even if they know who he is from conversing with Mr. Crawford."
Henry's eyes flickered over, almost imperceptibly, to his sister. Help me.
Mary took his cue. "Indeed, I should be delighted, if you will lead me, Mr. Price." She offered her hand to William who – despite himself – blushed and looked, for all the world, very like his favourite sister as he did so.
One could almost wonder if – even had Henry been kinder and kept his knowledge of William's identity to himself – Sir Thomas' guests wouldn't have worked out exactly who he was just from seeing his and Fanny's faces in close proximity.
Edmund was indignant. Mary Crawford, who he had once – and truly still – hoped to marry, would not dance with him because he was a clergyman, yet she was all but throwing herself at a new lieutenant. He couldn't, try as he might do for the sake of not spoiling the evening, bear the slight, not even for Fanny's sake. In another situation, he would have adored Mary for her sacrifice, for aiding Fanny's family, but as things stood, as he could not shake the insult to himself, his fury made him too cross even to speak.
No one would have paid Edmund's hot, growing anger much mind, and he might have been left to brood in peace, not only for that minute but for the rest of the night unless Mary took some small mercy on him, had Mrs. Norris not felt it her duty to remark on his apparent sulkiness, which in turn drew Miss Crawford's eyes to him.
"Oh, come, do be civil," sighed Mary, gazing on Edmund's icy countenance with weary annoyance. It was not her idea to force Henry and Fanny together – it was only sisterly duty, as anyone who loved a brother as she did Henry would do, and could not be helped. Surely even Fanny would have done the same had William's heart been on the line.
"Pardon me, Miss Crawford," he said coldly, making as if to remove himself from their circle. "But I am worn out with civility. If you intend to have me talk all night with nothing to say, I should do better, I think, to give my attentions to someone with whom there might be peace."
So it was, as he had arranged it, Henry Crawford who opened with Fanny – Henry Crawford who was watched and admired, and basked in the pleasure of hearing whispers regarding what a lovely pair they made.
And, to be sure, they were more striking together than one might have expected.
For all that Henry was not a well-looking man, he had a very pretty countenance when he was happy or else amused – and dancing with Fanny delighted him to an extreme which put his features to their best advantage – and she, despite being nearly as tall as Maria and Julia and certainly taller than Mary, was not too tall to complement him in public.
Her light curls and pale complexion were a fine contrast to his ruddy brownness; they made people want to look at them again, after a first glance, if nothing more.
Fanny wished she could be more grateful, after what he had done for her, and not long so for the dances they shared to be over.
Her eyes strayed often to the corner of the room, looking for Tom and Mr. Anderson, fretting over her husband's drawn, worried face. Her anxiety over Tom and her dislike of Henry Crawford making such a fuss over her – being so close to her and taking her hands and lightly touching her waist by turns when it came to spinning her about – prevented her from seeing the way Maria, seething, watched them together. She might have understood, if she had seen her sister-in-law that exact moment, why it was she was so despised despite their having exchanged so little communication.
Henry and Fanny spoke precious little during their dances, save the once, when Henry said, "You dance with elegance and lightness."
And she, struggling for a reply, managed to stammer out, "One cannot dance elegantly alone, Mr. Crawford."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed he, rather mortifying her by the raising of his voice. "She complimented me! Mrs. Bertram – the reserved, quiet Mrs. Bertram – has given me a compliment."
Crimson, she glanced over her shoulder. "I complimented your dancing, Mr. Crawford, pray keep your composure. People are staring."
Henry threw back his head. "Let them stare – for I have had all I ever truly desired given to me in one single moment."
"Mr. Crawford–"
"Remember, Mrs. Bertram, people will stare at you anyway, whether my voice be too loud or too soft – not just because of who you are, but because you are nice to look at."
And she choked up and closed off, wishing again for Tom – or even Edmund. Why could Edmund not have volunteered to dance with her when William was made to be out of the question?
She could not understand it.
Should his anger at Mary Crawford's dancing with William put him out of sorts with her? She'd believed them dear companions on both sides. Excepting Susan and Tom – who were dear in different ways and could not touch her other purest loves any more than a little blue star in our sky can collide with a great golden sun in another galaxy – apart from William, there was no soul more beloved in this world to her than Edmund. She would much rather have been opening the dancing with him. She was not ashamed to dance with a clergyman, even if the likes of Miss Crawford thought herself too grand for the honour.
She had, finally, her third dance with Tom, and it was in all outward respects perfect, but the damage was already done – she had opened the ball with another, he had been made unhappy and visibly distracted by whatever Mr. Anderson told him.
Moreover, unable to secure a dance with Mary, Edmund would not dance with anybody – which left Susan, who could no more dance with William than Fanny had been permitted, seated without a partner for most of the night. Mr. Yates might have asked her, as he'd done in Portsmouth, but he was not unselfish enough to forsake dancing with his dearest Julia, who had made him her particular partner that evening despite Maria mocking her for it.
Mr. Maddox asked for a dance with Fanny, simply because she was so much on display and he wished to compliment Tom as a friend, and during that set Tom did – in turn, though almost as an after-thought – have the decency to recall Susan's existence and ask her, as he had done for Sophie in Weymouth, but she was forgotten again as soon as the music came to a halt and the partners stepped apart and clapped their farewells.
This put Susan in a unique position to converse with Maria Rushworth when she noticed the woman looking on with pure venom as Fanny was handed over from Mr. Maddox back to Tom, who dragged her to the front of the line, ready for the next set.
Under her breath, so as not to make a scene (though part of her would have liked nothing better, given the appalling progression of the night thus far), Susan muttered, "Mrs. Rushworth, why are you so cross with Fanny? Are you really as angry as all that she's married your brother?"
Maria might have denied it – lied very prettily indeed – to another sort of woman, but she thought Susan below the level which might require such nicety, and remarked, with a disgusted little snort, "You think I care about Tom?"
"Then, why–"
"I couldn't care less if she wishes to make a cuckold of my brother – she can take as many lovers as she wants, provided she can get them," she snarled, turning and unfurling her fan to hide her lips from any guests whose eyes might have been upon her, attempting to read them as she spoke with her cousin. "But she did not have to steal Henry from me!"
Susan was aghast. "Fanny has never encouraged Henry Crawford – she only wants your brother."
Tightening her grip on her fan, Maria pursed her lips. "Then she's the most foolish girl who ever lived, in addition to whatever else she is – it was clear, from the moment I saw them both at Sotherton Court, Henry was hers for the taking." She sucked her teeth. "So that's it. What I couldn't work out before – how she keeps him without so much as a look or touch. She's captivated him and, in a fit of provincial piety, won't finish it so he can get what he wants and move on." Her nostrils flared. "The insipid little tease!"
Susan's mouth formed a perfect O of revolted surprise, but whatever she was about to say to her cousin once the ability to form words returned to her remained unspoken, because Lady Bertram came up between them and remarked, "Tom and Fanny have learned a new dance." She blinked twice in their direction. "I do not know these steps at all." Then, she added, "Fanny's train looks very well as she holds it up – she looks very well, truth be told. She's the finest girl here, easily." She took Susan's arm. "I sent Chapman to her, you know."
"Yes, aunt, I know – you've told us."
Maria rolled her eyes and fluttered her fan rapidly.
"Have I?" Lady Bertram sounded astonished. "Heavens, Susie! I am glad you keep track of these things, for I did not recollect if I had mentioned it previously."
And how was Fanny and Tom's dance going closer up?
Well enough, discounting how Tom – when he spoke – spoke of nothing but his sick horse.
That was, as it happened, the news Anderson had brought him. One of his horses at Newmarket was sick with some mysterious aliment or other and the – it would seem near-useless – gentleman who was his current proxy, in charge of keeping 'that damn fool of a jockey in line' as Tom put it, did not know what he was supposed to do.
"The groom is as bad as any of them; he had the wherewithal, barely, to have Charles ask me," huffed Tom, as Fanny moved under his arm and they stepped apart, "if there was a special kind of mash he was meant to give the beast – mash! To which I said, 'Charlie, old fellow, you may tell that sorry imbecile the only mash in question is the wasted grey matter between his stupid ears, and if he poisons my horse with some old wives' remedy I shall take great pleasure in stringing him by his thumbs'. That's what I told him. Fanny, did you ever hear of such incompetence?"
She confessed she had not and delicately held off from pointing out this was not a particularly romantic topic, seeing him to be greatly upset and perhaps understandably so.
"I thought grooms were supposed to know about horses."
"I'm sure the situation is much to be lamented, Tom."
He smiled, for – unguarded and a little too winded to think clearly – she had avoided calling him Mr. Bertram, despite their being in public. But then the smile was only a tiny smirk and was soon gone altogether.
"And to think," said he, "this has been going on a while without my being informed – he's been trying for hours, he told me, to have a word on this matter – Charles Anderson, I mean – and was repeatedly prevented."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not only the one horse, either, as I hear it – Francis won't run. He's healthy as – well, a horse, naturally enough – but the blasted creature will not run alongside the others. Something has spooked him, and so he cannot be raced."
The dance slowed and their hands touched.
"What can you do?" whispered Fanny.
"I must go to Newmarket in the morning, after breakfast," he said. "There's nothing else for it."
Her heart sank. No. No, no, no. Not again. She could not bear to be left alone in this place – with the Crawfords so near – again. Henry Crawford's generosity this night could not change that.
"I'm coming with you," she squeaked out, her lungs feeling constricted.
"No, Fanny." Tom shook his head. "I'm afraid that's not possible. This is quite serious, and you would only be a distraction. Besides you're better off here, with my parents – and Edmund, until he goes back to Thornton Lacey."
"I-I cannot stay."
"Don't be absurd, of course you can – I shan't be gone long."
"I want to come."
"And I want my horse not to be taken sick in the first place, creepmouse – we all want things."
"I'm more than a distraction – I'm your wife." And she fled the set, despite the music beginning to speed up again.
"Fanny! Fanny, wait." Tom nudged the gentleman to his left out of the way so he could see which direction his wife headed off in. "Fanny, get back here, for God's sake!"
"Fanny?" Susan freed her arm from Lady Bertram's grasp and ran after her sister.
"Oh. Oh, dear," murmured Lady Bertram.
A few feet away, Mary and Edmund stomped by in a heated quarrel of their own.
"If I never hear another word about William Price," snapped Mary, "it will be too soon – I do declare you speak of him more than Fanny and it has bored me to distraction."
"I ask, Miss Crawford, that you not be flippant and change the subject." He glowered darkly at her and – taking her arm with uncharacteristic firmness – spun her to face him. "How could you snub me as you did? D'you expect because I am a clergyman now I have no feelings? Were you told, by some ignorant spoiled little London friend who has never once spoken to a man who's known the inside of a pulpit in the whole of her life, how they take away our hearts when we take orders? And were you fool enough to believe it? I think better of you than that! Yet, I find myself asking 'am I not a real man in your eyes now that I've taken the cloth?'
"Do you not know how I suffer for your sake? I have endured your endless degrading remarks about my profession; I have smiled forgivingly while you, again and again, put down all I hold dear, simply because of my tenderness for you, my respect and admiration and fondness – I have reasoned, without being moved to anger, when all you would do in return was ridicule – and for what reward?"
"I am not flippant, nor do I exist merely to offer you a reward, Mr. Edmund Bertram." Mary wretched herself free and shook him off emphatically. "Now unhand me at once and do not make a scene – not here."
"Answer me this and I shall have done with it," he insisted, nearly spluttering. "How can you willingly dance with him and not me?"
"William Price is a first-born son, is he not? And he moves up in the world, doesn't he? Why shouldn't I dance with him over a clergyman who will never rise beyond a podgy parish?"
Edmund staggered back, visibly pained. "So that's it – that's been it all along, has it not? And I was blind, thinking you cared for me under all your teasing. Here I bitterly discover, however, my only sin towards you is being born after Tom. My profession, for all the hatred you express towards it, only repels you because I am not in line for a baronetcy."
"Don't do this," she pleaded, her voice cracking with misery she could not hide behind her usual easy laugh. "Don't spoil everything. I cannot speak to you when you are being irrational and ranting like a madman, dampening my spirits and thwarting my gaiety." And the sound of Mary's heels slapped against the floor as she made her way out of the room. "We shall see one another later, when you're not so heated and cross with me over so little a trifle as my choice in dancing partner!"
Edmund groaned and covered his face with his hands.
Maria, turning her head and cutting her eyes in his direction, sighed, "Oh, please – women shall be, in one way or another, rejecting you all your life, Edmund – it is the female prerogative, you know – there is no need to make such a horrid display over it in public."
Lady Bertram's expression was softer, kinder – she'd not heard what her eldest daughter just said and doubtless would not have known how to go about properly reprimanding her even if she had. "What's happened, Edmund? Have you and Mary quarrelled just this moment? I thought I heard raised voices. Can I offer any assistance?"
He took his mother's hand and kissed it. "No, of course not, madam. All is well, I assure you. Where is Fanny?"
"I do not know," said Lady Bertram, giving a puzzled shake of the head. "She has fled the dance – and she had no reason to that I could see. She looked so well. I sent Chapman to her."
Tom Bertram spent the rest of the ball playing cards with the gouty gentleman and lace-cap donning ladies who were – most for quite obvious reasons – disinclined to dance.
It was not a merry group, no one had anything very nice to say, and most of them understood whist about as well as they understood algebra – which was not at all. There was disturbingly little distinction between the old married women who'd had the life drained out of them by life's disappointments and the bracket-faced ape leaders who were only sisters and cousins, if anything, to the gentlemen present.
Tom won a great deal of money and – despite his competitive spirit, made only rawer and stronger by the unresolved quarrel with Fanny chafing away at it – was then inclined to lose it all back to them by playing badly during the final hand of the night (morning, really, by then) simply because it seemed the – at least – two working brain cells he possessed which they did not gave him a most unfair advantage.
He would have felt less guilty about winning pocket money from a damned chimpanzee.
And while he drank and stewed and blinked blearily at his cards, Fanny retired to an alcove to cry tears she would only permit Susan to see. When Sir Thomas, William, and Henry Crawford discovered her there, she blamed the redness of her face on being overtired, and Susan faithfully kept her secret.
She would have told William the truth, if he'd come to her alone, but she could not bring herself to admit to having a disagreement with her husband in front of her father-in-law and Mr. Crawford, of all persons.
So she could only force a weak smile while William expressed amazement at her being so soon knocked up. "The sport has but just begun, sister!"
"By my watch," said Sir Thomas, with a glance at the gleaming face of a gold watch he drew from his waistcoat, "it is three in the morning. Your sister is not used to these sort of hours, you must remember. We've never had a ball before this in all the time she's been here; we are a very sedate family, usually."
"Are you sure you're quite well, Mrs. Bertram?" asked Mr. Crawford. "No one has hurt you?"
"Who would dare?" exclaimed William, not understanding.
Fanny – swallowing back bile – assured them she was altogether well, wanting only for sleep, and was given leave then to retire to her chambers. Her dishonesty as well as true exhaustion shamed her and made her lower her head.
She felt certain the word Liar (or perhaps Ingrate) would appear above her brow as though from invisible ink revealed and that Mr. Crawford would be foolhardy enough to point it out to anyone who might fail to notice.
In the carriage, Mary furiously dashed away tears with the back of her wrist. "I hope your dances with Mrs. Bertram were worth it, Henry," she hiccuped, turning her head. "Edmund will never speak to me again – this time I feel quite certain of it."
"Oh, dearest" – Henry's face was the very picture of compassion, and he moved across to her seat and put his arms about her – "I am sorry." Then, speaking softly into her hairline, "But, sweet Mary, you knew you would have to accept or reject him outright someday or other – you were permitted your fun, but you cannot play 'will I, won't I?' with your favourite gentleman forever, and he is going home soon."
"That is rich coming from you," she muttered. "You will never leave off your pursuit of Fanny, when her choice is already made and cannot be unmade."
"Oh, Mary, you can't understand; she called me dear Mr. Crawford tonight and my heart was stung. I have waited forever to be dear to her. She is perfection itself. I can never cease to pity her situation," sighed Henry, his voice pure misery. "Married to a drunkard – a loose fish, in all ways but perhaps one – who would rather play at cards than dance all night with his beautiful wife. Once my two dances were done, my glorious opening triumph, I knew my portion of felicity was gone for the evening – but there was yet so much pleasure for him which he tossed aside as if it were worthless. She did not say, yet I am convinced he made her cry tonight. I cannot forgive him for that."
"Do not pity her for quarrelling with Mr. Bertram – all couples quarrel," sniffed Mary, shifting and straightening the skirt of her gown pertly. "Rather, pity her, if you must, for having the misfortune to leg-shackle herself to the kind of man who – I feel quite certain – would unironically put his hands over your eyes at breakfast or while you were dressing and ask you to guess who it was."
Fanny, despite her exhaustion, was still awake when Tom came stumbling into their room at nearly quarter-past five in the morning. Her discarded white muslin dress was left on the floor in a crumpled state, and he nearly stepped on it as he approached the bed. He noticed her breathing was not the rhythmic, slow breathing of slumber and – easing down beside her – put a hand on her leg, stroking it through the blanket.
Pulling herself into a tight, curled-up ball in an unwelcoming fetal position, she swatted him away, shrinking from his touch.
He was clearly hurt by this. "Fanny–"
"What would be the point?" she murmured into her pillow, tears leaking from her eyes no matter how desperately she attempted to blink them back. "All you know how to do is take."
A/N: Reviews welcome, replies may be delayed.