A/N: Crossover of Mansfield Park with Neil Gaiman's Stardust. Elements of all versions of both fandoms including the films, books, radio-plays, etc...

Eventual Edmund/Fanny, Tom/Susan pairings.

Also an eventual partial crossover with Persuasion.

Most of the "Stardust" elements are primarily the setting rather than the characters, as the events of Stardust would chronologically take place AFTER any adventures the Mansfield Park characters could have in that world, since they're from the Regency era and I'm fairly certain Stardust is pretty firmly Victorian.

So, no Yvaine or Tristran/Tristan, etc, in this fic.

Those Prevailing Happy Stars

A Mansfield Park & Stardust fanfiction

Chapter One:

Regarding The House in Wall

Upon Lady Bertram giving up the house in Town – that is, London – and Sir Thomas only being obliged to go there, with a fair amount of frequency, himself for the sake of his Parliamentary duties, it was somehow decided upon that another house – for the purposes of a yearly standing family holiday in the spring – ought to be purchased elsewhere.

Close to town – perhaps a little more so than Northamptonshire could claim to be – yet not too near.

At the time, Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram's eldest son had lived but eight years in the world, and so the places which would most attract him as an older youth had – as yet – no real lure, and his mother required quiet for her indolence (the reason for her giving up the London house to begin with) and his aunt Norris complained – though she said later she never complained in regards to any such thing – of upset nerves when jostled about too much in unsuitable company; the ideal place seemed to be somewhere which could rightly be called a town, a town in name, yet was also more or less in the countryside, where the children might play in the good air and their parents might simultaneously have a useful, desirable change of scenery.

They settled, therefore, upon the little town of Wall – a quaint, wooded sort of town not more than a day's journey (give or take; you could, perhaps, if you were desperate or else a little mad, do it in a night, at top speed in a fast, very light carriage) from London, should Sir Thomas be needed there.

Sir Thomas had heard a little of what he'd previously considered the 'superstition' of the town's inhabitants, regarding what the wall the town was named for concealed – and why there were always two guards stationed at the gap. His children had, too, and when his younger son asked him if it were possible, he told him, frankly, "No, Edmund, of course it isn't – Faerie is a lot of nonsense. Pray don't be absurd."

Tom, however, thought their father was wrong – even then, even as so young a boy, he thought his father was wrong about most things – and kept on about it, goading Edmund to ask again, to see if they'd get a different answer this time, until their mother raised her lolling head from her hand and sighed, "Dearest Tom, do try to not speak of Faerie so very much, and so very wistfully, too, in front of your father – and your aunt – they do not like it."

They took occupancy of their new house – a handsome grey structure with a high chimney and good windows, situated closer to their nearest neighbours than they should have liked, but otherwise suitable to their intended purpose – on May Day and thus – once Sir Thomas had stopped ranting about the unexpected crowd and Mrs. Norris had stopped urging him on at every turn – they had an early chance to be disabused of their former wrong assumptions.

"I told you it was real," sang Tom, bouncing around his parents.

"Yes," said his father shortly, cutting his eyes. "You did. Now pray be quiet."

Maria, a very prim little four year old, holding Mrs. Norris' hand, stuck her tongue out at Tom; Julia, perhaps feeling a little neglected, as certainly no one was taking any proper notice of her at that moment, occupied herself by repeatedly barrelling headfirst into Edmund, until he started to cry (as any oppressed boy of only seven will, however generally long-suffering his nature might happen be on better days) and their father – with a groan – separated them and, after a sharp scolding, made Julia stand on their aunt's other side, whereupon her hand was firmly seized.

So, indeed, the baronet had been mistaken.

It followed – after some discussion – Tom, little as he might deserve it, simply by merit of being the eldest, was permitted to go the fair in the meadow on the other side of the wall, and thus to visit Faerie, as long as he minded his aunt Norris, the only one of the adults at liberty to go with him. Lady Bertram declared herself in need of a nap; Sir Thomas had much that needed arranging, Faerie or no Faerie; the girls, the little Miss Bertrams, clearly needed a rest as much as their mother, however greatly they protested the unfairness of this; and Edmund got lumped in with them simply by merit of being a year younger than Tom as well as having, according to Aunt Norris' description of the event, 'put himself deliberately in Julia's way to be knocked into and disoblige everyone'.

For all her faults, Mrs. Norris was genuinely fond of her eldest nephew, and quite ready to indulge him, particularly if it was his father's wish she should do so.

And it was, though not for any real reason of the baronet thinking his son should experience such a treat; it was more a general wish to have Tom worn out – he really could be something of a loud, precocious child in close quarters and it was wearing his father to a shadow.

Edmund, on the other hand, could be managed with a mere look.

The marvels of this otherworldly fair entranced Tom. Initially they delighted Mrs. Norris, too – as much as she could be delighted – until she began to feel tired and commenced with wishing Tom would cease his excitable, boyish running to and fro and touching everything. He broke a delicate, tinkling set of glass-and-crystal flowers at one stall – which his aunt refused to pay for, flatly denying, when confronted by the seller, her nephew had had anything to do with the damage – and there was almost an incident.

She had him calmed – towards the end of the day, when dusk was falling – by announcing they should go back to the house, his father would want him, but he might, if he liked, get himself a souvenir before they departed.

Mrs. Norris had supposed he would select some small trinkets – and he did, though not for himself, but rather as something to give his sisters and brother (he was a generous child in his way, when he could afford to be) – however his chosen souvenir, for his own keepsake, turned out to be a pony with a soft, blue-grey coat and a shaggy mane the colour of moonlight.

The pony had lifted its handsome head and looked at him, and Tom had looked back at the pony with a mouth agape and eyes shining brilliantly – it was love.

This ill-conceived purchase, paid for in the end with his own pocket money Sir Thomas had given him for sweets (thus his aunt could not honestly say he hadn't enough, despite the number of broad hints she'd tersely dropped the charlatan who'd sold them the dratted animal), was conveyed merrily by the most well-contented of little heirs, already a firm lover of horses, through the gap in the wall, down the street, and directly into the front room of their holiday house.

Blocking him from getting into the more inward rooms, his father's butler Baddeley attempted to explain to Tom, who blinked at him incredulously, that he could not simply lead an animal into the house.

"Pug's allowed," he pointed out sulkily, patting his pony's muzzle affectionately.

Sir Thomas – drawn by the noise – stepped out of his little study, saw the beast stamping its hooves and kicking at the furniture – and occasionally at Mrs. Norris – while Tom clung to its neck and looked very stubborn – and more than a little sly – at anyone who tried to pry him loose, and immediately wished he'd allowed Edmund to go to the fair instead.

The younger boy would have had more sense than to bring a pony – any pony, let alone a Faerie pony – into the house; of that much, he was certain.

This pony was subsequently tied up outside (they hadn't, of course, a stable at their holiday house) and Tom was first dismayed – then inconsolable – to find his new pet gone in the morning.

No one had stolen the pony, either, it was simply gone.

Indeed, if it were a case of simple thievery, the little heir certainly would have confronted anybody in the town – and rather warmly, too – if ever he saw them with a blue pony so alike his own lost one, and demanded his property back, only he never did. Of course, rather than the magical explanation, there was always the possibility a foreigner – in town for the fair and soon gone – had employed stealth and taken Tom's pony, or that he'd been betrayed by someone or other in the family (Mrs. Norris, or his father, perhaps) and they had deliberately it loosed in the night hoping it would run back through the gap in the wall while Tom slept unawares, dreaming of riding it through the countryside – but, in fairness, how could Tom prove either of these possibilities?

The pony's fate therefore must be left forever to speculation.

Regardless, the disappearing pony disaster seemed to greatly sour him on Faerie thereafter, and – nine years later, as a young man of seventeen – when the next May Day fair was held, he didn't attend. Tom would have gladly – if he'd been permitted, only his father, for some reason he failed to comprehend, did not yet trust him on his own in London – avoided being dragged to Wall for the family holiday that year entirely. He had pressed any number of former Eton friends for invitations of the kind his father would think acceptable, or at least impossible to refuse without causing offence, to no avail.

Edmund attended, however, and met with – for the first time – what he later came to believe was his destiny.

A very pretty girl – short and brown like a pixie lass from a fairy story, dressed in dark pink and bright scarlet – with sparkling dark eyes passed him on his walk from a stall of crystal figurines towards a handsome saddle on display a few feet away he was thinking of buying as a gift for Tom. She caught his look, one of pure and open dazzled astonishment, gave him the most agreeable smile in return, and he was lost.

He was not helped in keeping his heart – or his head – by the fact that she purchased – he saw her do it, before she vanished prior to his getting near enough to speak with her – replacement strings for a harp.

The harp was, in fact, his favourite musical instrument in all the world.

For weeks, Edmund was desperate to find out who the girl was – he hoped she was a visitor to Wall, rather than a child of Faerie, as he did not think someone in his situation could have much hope of a future with that sort of person – but could discover no one who knew her or would admit to having seen her.

Maria and Julia teased him mercilessly, and Tom was (perhaps too) quick to join in, as he'd never thought the day would come when stiff-backed, straightlaced Edmund Bertram should fall undeniably under the power of a woman.

He liked best of all to pause dramatically and call her 'Edmund's fairy lady' whenever she came up in conversation.

Of course, all the fun was taken out of it by Edmund's not rising to the bait – not stammering and blushing and calling him an idiot as mortified younger brothers often will – so much as agreeing with him, making such strong remarks as, "You jest Tom, but I do not – I am in earnest when I say she is the only woman – well girl, as yet, I suppose, I could not say how old she was at a glance, it is hard to tell with some people, you know, but she shall grow – I could ever think of as a wife."

But the years went by without sight of the girl again; before he was quite aware of so much time having slipped through his fingers, it was the ninth May Day since the last fair and the whole town was stirred up again.

Edmund was beginning to think he must give her up and – if he did seek a wife, little as he was inclined to – look elsewhere.

Still, he could not will himself to stay away from the fair entirely, could not fully rid himself of the hope – even if she was of Faerie after all, as now seemed likely, and he should never have her for his own – of seeing his love again.

He attached himself to a couple he'd recently become acquainted with, a Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and walked with them to the gap in the wall at the appointed hour, trying his best to seem as if he were not in any obvious agitation.

Mrs. Grant, who took his arm, was telling him she had a sister – a half sister, actually – who was partially of an old family from the other side of the wall, a family of Faerie, and this stopped him in his tracks, halting their walk.

"Oh," said she, shaking her head at his clear astonishment. "Pray do not be taken aback – I'm as mortal as they come. I can heartily assure you of it! You can't suppose a sensible man like Dr. Grant would have chosen me, would have thought to make me an offer, if... Well! There's not a single drop of glamour in my blood. And she – that is, my sister – has only got such a very little Faerie blood in her, really. She's no heathen, no pagan magician from the other side, if that is what troubles you.

"I believe she has been taught to say her prayers and behave as any good English gentlewoman would." She lowered her voice slightly. "Between ourselves, she's too human, it seems, to suit the tastes of her uncle, with whom she has been living until now – he is, you see, sending her to me this day. I confess freely, I never knew him at all – this uncle, an Admiral – he is the Faerie connection on the father's side. Our common parent, my late mother, God rest her soul..." – a sad shake of the head. "Her unexpected passing following my wedding to Dr. Grant was what sent dearest Mary across the wall to begin with. The guards allowed it, as sometimes they do in such cases, for we were not in town ourselves, nor were we in any position to take in children at the time. Dr. Grant had barely gotten the living he'd been promised; there was some mischief or misunderstanding; it was quite unsettled for a while." She gave a sigh. "Well, tis no matter." Her smile grew bright again. "She is, hereafter, to live in Wall, with Dr. Grant and myself."

"This is an interesting piece of news, to be sure," said Edmund, resuming his former well-paced stride. "And how feels your sister about the business?"

"Ask her for yourself when you see her, if you like," suggested Mrs. Grant, giving his arm a friendly squeeze. "She's quite lively and will have much to say about it. She shall explain her own feelings far better than I!"

How to describe the raptures of delight in Edmund Bertram when he met this mysterious half sister of Mrs. Grant, was cheerfully introduced, and at once saw, in her merry eyes, the beautiful girl he had thought lost to him forever!

His love had a name – Mary Crawford.

She was not a vanishing figment of a pixie-muddled boy's young mind after all – she was real. Entirely, wonderfully real. She was an heiress of considerable fortune, some twenty thousand pounds, and had been living with her uncle who, although undeniably one of the fair folk, was reportedly gentleman enough to satisfy the scruples of most – or had been, before his wife died and he'd done something or other, some undisclosed indiscretion, which had upset Mary greatly and made it so she could no longer abide living in his home – and was, certainly, every bit as respectable and lady-like as Mrs. Grant anticipated her being. She had an elder brother, one Henry Crawford, still largely dwelling with the Admiral on the other side of the wall; he was the master of a handsome little northern kingdom called Everingham, just (as far as directions ever are properly fixed within the always-changing Faerie) north-east of the more infamous Stormhold.

Edmund was more than a touch dismayed to learn, firstly, that he'd grossly underestimated her age when first beholding her, as a lovestruck lad of sixteen, and – had he caught up with her all those years before and successfully declared his intentions – he would have unwittingly been declaring himself to one, as then, a considerable way off from being ready for the marriage state. Some girls do have such a face, of course, as makes them seem womanly and sensual before their time, and it causes no end of trouble. But there was no difficulty about her age now; there could not be; she was a woman grown, well past her eighteenth year, in full bloom, and they were – in this aspect, at least – perfectly suited. Secondly, and here Edmund was stung most bitterly, she held a strange – yet vehement – aversion to clergymen, to the profession of the church, to the taking of the cloth.

She would not say why.

At least, not seriously.

When it came to the subject of ordination, Edmund – to his endless frustration – discovered it was near-impossible to get Mary to respond without some play on words, double entendre, or pun.

He was forced – almost as soon as the thought first happened to strike him – to give up any romantic notion of this endless flippancy being some sort of magic spell that, upon breaking, would clear her voice to say all the words he wished to hear.

No, she was entirely herself – and herself, dear though she was in all other respects, would not love – nor, claimed she, cutting him deep – even dance with a clergyman.

It almost would have been better for him had he never found her again at all.

Even Mrs. Grant despaired, noticing the unexpected yet obvious attachment forming between her half sister and the younger son of Sir Thomas, and could only shake her head and sigh for them. When she'd first learned Mary was coming to Wall, she'd rather – unbeknownst to the Bertrams – staked out Tom for her; she thought they would make a lovely pair, imagined Mary's pleasure at becoming Lady Bertram one day.

But it was Edmund who loved Mary and who, clergyman or not, attracted her in return – there seemed little point even of brothering to introduce her to the elder brother after she had seen and liked the younger so exceedingly well.

"But she will not have me," lamented Edmund to Tom one evening as they were leaving the holiday house, preparing to go their separate ways, the one to his friends the other to his card-tables. "I am hesitant even to make an offer, for fear she would–" He broke off.

Tom, before making any sort of reply, rapped his knuckles against the wood of the door, kissed his fingertips, and looked up at the sky, one eye twitching into a wink – it was a superstition of his, performed every night before he went any place he anticipated gambling.

"Lucky star," said he, waving to a bright point of light hanging like a diamond in a purple haze over the rooftops. "Where would I be without her."

Edmund had given up any – always rather feeble, truth be told – attempts to remind Tom the star was arbitrarily chosen by him – while intoxicated, no less – over a year prior and so was probably no luckier than any other of the stars above their heads on a given night. Or that – star or no star – he usually lost more than he won. He might as well point to the little, slightly less brilliant (more faintly twinkling), neighbour of his selected star and ask it for luck. If his star of alleged good fortune made him happy, so be it – truly, if Tom's other habits and compulsions could have been so innocent as his attachment to that little star, for all its pagan fragility, there would be a great deal less trouble at home.

"Well, unless your star's good luck extends to proposals of marriage..."

"Do cheer up, Edmund." Tom gave him a little clap on the shoulder. "So serious! The worst she can say is no."

"Exactly."

"You could always make your offer to someone less particular." Not to mention, though he did not say it out loud, he expected his righteous uptight brother might truly be more contented, especially as time passed, with someone more inclined to piety, someone who didn't – by some reports even he'd heard – have a warlock brother on the other side of the wall. Everingham was an impressive kingdom, by all accounts, but it had a reputation for thriving on – at times, outright dark – magic, as did all the most capital places in Faerie. Went with the territory, what. "There are other women."

Not for Edmund there weren't. "Perhaps her aversion is only due to her upbringing – Faerie can't have been very fertile ground for spirituality and religious instruction, whatever Mrs. Grant believes – to her credit, no doubt. So. If I were to spend more time attempting to educate Miss Crawford on the finer points of my profession...? She is so tender in heart; she must soon come to see a parson can be as noble as a sailor or a lawyer. What do you think?"

Tom let his head loll to one side, lowered his eyelids, and – dramatically parting his slackened lips – made pointed snoring noises.

"Ah, but I forget" – Edmund cut his eyes – "I'm speaking of such things to a man who would never go to church at all if our father didn't drag him there by the ear every Sunday." He paused. "In fact, if I recall, you didn't join us at all last Sunday – were you ill?" He said the word ill as if he really meant suffering the headaches of one who overindulges in drink.

Glancing both ways, Tom proudly informed him he actually had an occupation – a paying occupation – and had been attending to it in the hopes of gaining back some of his recent monetary losses.

"What manner of honest work could you be doing on the Lord's day?"

Miming slinging a gun over his shoulder and striking a dramatic pose, which admittedly looked rather odd in the middle of the street, Tom grinned at him.

"Shooting grouse?" Edmund blinked at his brother in confusion. "In town? At this time of year?"

Snorting, Tom broke off from his pose and gave him a withering look of faint scorn. "No! I'm posing for portraits. It turns out I look extremely well while holding a gun and staring into the middle distance." He gestured at his person with pride. "This is something everyone wants a likeness of, apparently."

Edmund was convinced, and said so, that no one in their right mind wanted a portrait of Tom Bertram with a gun smirking down at them from over their mantelpiece while they were trying to enjoy a hot fire and nice glass of port; Tom declared him to be a jealous dunderhead and further accused him of having no artistic taste.

"Perhaps," said Edmund, a trifle priggishly, "you had better ask your lucky star to make certain Father doesn't find out – you know he wouldn't like it."

"He doesn't like anything I do," was Tom's rebuttal, and Edmund could not contradict him because he was not wrong.

The following week, Edmund had screwed up his courage, reminding himself their time in Wall for the year must soon end and he risked losing his chance at happiness, and settled he should make Miss Crawford an offer after church, if Dr. Grant would give him leave to walk her home following his sermon.

But no sooner had he halted, taken Mary's arm, and led her under a little tree alongside the road – then found himself obliged to listen to her give a teasing speech, a pretty girlish lecture, on how resting under trees fatigued her and she must move – than a commotion interrupted them.

Tom burst forth from a corner-set cottage in nothing but his skivvies, soaking wet from hairline to ankle, all about the front (as if someone had thrown a bucket of water on him), followed by a screaming, heavy-set man wearing a cracked quizzing glass about his neck holding up a drawn sabre, who – in his turn – seemed to lose track of his target after getting three feet from his doorstep.

Mr. Bertram was, to be fair, considerably more athletically built than his would be pursuer. And he didn't have any vision troubles to impede him, either.

Assured of safety, he slowed to an almost comically relaxed jog as he passed Edmund and Mary, recognising his brother. "Ah! Edmund, quick! Good! I need to borrow–" He noticed, then, the pretty little woman gawking at him. "Oh! Oh, you must be Miss Crawford – what! I've heard a great deal about you."

"Mr. Bertram!" exclaimed she, hand to her heart, dark eyes – darting up and down, taking in the full, slightly disconcerting yet not unpleasant, image he presented – quite shining. "A pleasure, I'm sure."

"Tom," snapped Edmund, willing himself to retain his composure – composure he could already feel slipping. "Dare I ask what happened to your clothes?"

Grimacing and looking down, cheeks darkening, as if he just himself recollected his present state of undress, Tom murmured, "I should not, in your place."

Then, before another word could be exchanged between the three young people, an older, shriller voice cried, "Tom – hide your shame, child, you tread upon the public street!"

Aunt Norris.

Edmund's eyes darted apologetically to Mary, hoping she was not too mortified by the scene unfolding before her.

There could be no hope of making his offer now.

It must be delayed, perhaps forever.

In truth, Mary took the spectacle in stride far better than Edmund himself – after Edmund was obliged to go after his aunt and brother, she – in nothing like low spirits – walked the rest of the way alone and entered Wall Parsonage in a state of complete calm and tranquilly, and took off her gloves and hat as if nothing untoward – or even unusual – had occurred.

But news travelled fast and naturally Mrs. Grant wanted to know if it was true she had met with Tom Bertram, and what did she think of him.

"Oh, indeed," said Mary, sitting down and smoothing her dress. "Indeed, I did see your Mr. Bertram – rather more of him than I could have expected to have seen – and there can be no objection to his person – not in the least." Here, another kind of woman would have coloured. Mary did not. "But it is too bad, I shall say it – for I must, once – only too bad he was not born second and Edmund – just as handsome and agreeable, and twice as...as... Well, as I'd like a gentleman I could think of seriously to be! It is too bad Edmund was not but one mere year sooner in entering this world and his spirited brother did not come along the next. He would have missed nothing grand in so doing, and Edmund would not have to throw himself – all his lovely talents – away on the church if he were but one year longer in the world and Tom one less."

Mrs. Grant could only take the seat beside her and put a hand over hers. "Oh, it is unfortunate. But there is no good wishing it were otherwise, my dear."

"The good Lord makes people born precisely when he means them to," added Dr. Grant, unhelpfully, leaning his bulk against the door-frame of the sitting room. "Pray don't blaspheme in this house." His was a voice a good deal harsher than he perhaps meant for it to be because he was – despite having just given the manner of uplifting sermon which usually put him into a good humour for the rest of the day – out of sorts over a green goose.

Lowering her voice as he ducked his head from the room, Mary fairly choked, "Sister, if Edmund Bertram should ever speak to me as Dr. Grant has, I should fairly die of disappointment – no, he is no good to me as he is. As he has determined to be! For he will not go into the law, though I've told him – given many hints – how he might! I must not think of him." And she was so sure, too, he'd been about to make her an offer. "I must not consider thinking of him – and we have been such friends that to set my cap at his brother now..." She shook her head. "The whole family must be forgotten, and never thought of again, though I'm sure I should love them all, for I saw Miss Maria and Miss Julia in church today and" – breaking off – "oh, though the size of Julia's nose is alarming; but, poor girl, she did not choose it." Mary's lifted fingertips casually touched the end of her own nose in a subconscious display of vanity. "Anyway, I saw the Miss Bertrams, and I was sure I should have got on with them as well... But they must all be given up. If I shan't be Lady Bertram, I shan't be any Bertram at all."

Mrs. Bertram – to sink so grand a name under a mere Mrs. – seemed a fate worse even than spinsterhood.

"I-I, that is, sir, I..." spluttered Tom, shamefaced. "I own to some indiscretion."

Sir Thomas gave him a cool look, brow lifting. "You own to it?" His voice, though soft, seemed to fairly drip with sarcasm. "What of it, pray, would you deny?"

Tom fiddled with his fingertips and made a light choking sound. This would, perhaps, be less mortifying if he'd had a chance to go to his own room, dry off, and dress himself before this inevitable confrontation.

A few feet away, playing cards at a little table they'd set up for the purpose, his sisters tittered.

Julia, Tom felt some forgiveness, some leniency, toward – they were on fairly good terms, and he felt certain his youngest sister only laughed from nervousness, from the nervousness their father's presence often oppressed upon them, particularly when he was in a foul mood and one of his children had managed to displease him, and no doubt he did make a comical figure standing in the drawing-room wearing only his under-things – but even in his fluttery, apologetic state he couldn't resist turning his head and sticking his tongue out at Maria.

Childish, perhaps, but traditional between them, and effective enough, so far as these things went.

This gesture – when caught – served only to exacerbate Mrs. Norris' already negatively off-set nerves; she'd seemed to be having some manner of apoplectic fit ever since first seeing him talking to Edmund and Miss Crawford without proper attire on, and now her face was bone-white and she kept drawing her hand to her forehead.

"Oh," she wailed. "The shame. The shame. How shall we bear it?"

"Steady on, Aunt Norris," said Tom, from the corner of his mouth.

She drew an inexplicably oversized handkerchief to her nose (both Tom and Edmund, who was taking this in silently, privately wondered if she'd, in her harried state, managed somehow to mix her pocket handkerchief up with the tablecloth from the White House in Mansfield Park) and blew. "Only think how this will look for Maria – she will have a very poor chance if this gets back to Mrs. Rushworth. She shall think us all heathens, wait and see if she does not."

"Tom, my dear, you really must learn," added his mother, tranquilly, lifting her head from the arm of the nearest sofa, "not to go out of doors when you aren't wearing enough clothing. Apart from it being unseemly, you know you might catch cold. Even this time of year, you might. Weak chests do run in my side of the family, though we are lucky enough not to be consumptive."

"Was it not great enough embarrassment to this family," began Sir Thomas, again, now he thought he might get a word in edgewise, "that you racked up considerable debts? You felt there was some need make this display of yourself into the bargain, when you ought – I shall add, and I hope you think on this – to have been with us at church?"

Wetting his lips and swallowing, Tom spread out his hands. "Father, I was attempting rectify the whole putting myself in the basket debacle – only that cheeseparing ninny, Smith, would turn up at a private meeting while I was occupied and demand immediate payment on my vowels! I told him, straightaway, I told him, sir, I shall have the money in an hour and pay you then, on my honour I shall – that was not good enough, despite his rolling in the lard, and he would have my clothing and shoes as his interest in lieu of money at once. So, I ask you, what was I do to save set down the gun, hold my finger up at the painter, and begin undressing myself?

"You must know I hadn't the foggiest notion of anybody's wife walking in at the wrong moment, or Smith faithlessly abandoning me to this gross misapprehension, or being doused by an overexcited servant, or having a bloody sword drawn on me – I mean, really, the gun was right there – I'd just set it down, as I said – why he didn't just use that, make a clean shot of it..." He shook his head, feeling he was getting rather away from the point. "Well, surely, Father, you're pleased I ran out in the state I did rather than stay in that parlour and have my head sliced open by an unhinged lunatic? It truly might have been a great deal worse."

Sir Thomas blinked at him and brusquely informed his son he had no idea what in heaven's name he'd just said – did not comprehend one bit, one single word, of it.

The argument continued, and it was brought up how he might well have ruined Edmund's chances with Miss Crawford, though not by Edmund himself, who still wasn't speaking, but rather by Sir Thomas who thought Tom was being flippant and absurd and wished to chastise him for all his faults; Tom, fed up, declared that if Miss Crawford – and he did not think it of her, finding her very pretty and lively, here winking his approval over at his scowling, red-cheeked brother – possessed no good humour for such unavoidable misadventures she was not worth having in the family.

Sir Thomas demanded he leave his sight. He expected his son would, at this dismissal, go and dress himself and they would see him at dinner, hopefully not merely shamefaced but genuinely remorseful and fully aware of his disgrace, only instead Tom gave a huff, declared he was not half so in debt as some of his friends he'd have them all know, and departed by the front door, banging it loudly behind himself.

Mrs. Norris shrieked and fell back into a chair. "Shame!" said she, with tears afresh. "The shame! I shall never, never live it down!"

"Mrs. Norris, please control yourself!" snapped Sir Thomas.

Julia rose and tugged upon Edmund's sleeve. "But where," she asked, "d'you suppose Tom would be going, at the onset of evening, without his clothes on?"

Edmund was forced to confess he couldn't venture to make any guesses; hers were surely as good as any of his.

They did not see him again until after dinner, when he walked back into the house wearing rather a well-looking suit of clothing and a top hat with a low brim, pulled down tightly over the back of his head in a manner which looked deliberate.

With a blasé look at their father, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy purse of clinking coins, setting them down before him.

Opening it, Sir Thomas found rather a considerable sum therein.

Peering over her husband's shoulder, Lady Bertram whispered, "Child, where did you get this?"

Tom blinked at her. "I traded for it, ma'am." Then he drew off the top hat to reveal his hair, though in all other respects exactly the same as it had been before, was white. Not the white of lamb's wool, either, but the white that comes from a complete absence of colour. "Hem." He gave a cough. "I'm only sorry no amount of pocket money I might procure will buy a fresh chance at Miss Crawford's hand for my brother."

Edmund could only stare at him; he wasn't even certain how he ought to take that remark, there was no telling from his flat voice if he was in earnest or not, and – moreover – like the rest of the startled family, he found it difficult to tear his eyes from Tom's conspicuously snowy head.

Julia put a hand to her mouth; Maria gasped, "Tom!" in a tone of considerable shock, before a thud to her right made her tear her gaze away and she added, in rather a more composed voice, "Has any of us some aromatic vinegar? It appears our aunt Norris has fainted."

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