Those Prevailing Happy Stars

A Mansfield Park & Stardust fanfiction

Chapter Two:

Fallen Stars

While Edmund attempted – by peering into the little sliver of mirror above the washbasin under the staircase – to knot his cravat in a more becoming fashion (one he hoped Miss Crawford would like), he could hear his father and brother arguing on the landing above his head.

Since Tom had given up the colour of his hair in order to pay back some of his incurred debt to the family, their father had been – for lack of a more apt description – softer towards him, but it was a manner of softness – of held back temper – which, when met by Tom's natural tendency toward goading and chafing at figures of authority, Edmund had been aware from the first would not last.

Sure enough, Tom desired permission to leave Wall early – he said it was because his friends in Newmarket wanted him, and that was probably true enough, but they all knew it had more to do with the increasing number of local townspeople he owed money to here in Wall. He had cut some corners lately, had tried – perhaps even tried his best – to make up for it, to earn back what he might of what was lost, but he had also been undeniably extravagant and careless. Moreover, his 'cut corners' had not meant he quit gambling and taking wagers altogether – he'd come stumbling back from the Seventh Magpie, after an obvious loss, only the night before, with nothing in his pockets but a lump of near-gone black candle and a silver chain without a clasp attached; these were his winnings from the single good hand he'd had all evening.

It might have been Tom's own fault, still his brother couldn't help but feel pity for him when he – after their father had given his sound scolding and stormed off – happened upon him looking out of the window, staring forlornly into the general direction of his lucky star, half-hidden and partially blurred that night by streaky grey clouds and a weak crescent moon like a pale white sickle suspended in the sky, as if he were wondering how it could have let him down so spectacularly.

"Sir, I fall to comprehend why you refuse to allow me to join the party at Newmarket. As I shall be among friends, there can be no real objection?"

The stairs creaked as Sir Thomas turned to face his eldest son. "Tom, we have been through this, have we not? When we return to Northamptonshire, your time is your own – and I've no doubt you will squander it as thoroughly then as you might now – but until we quit Wall for the year, you are to remain with us."

"With respect, I really think–"

"At any rate," he cut him off, "there isn't a respectable party for you travel with at this time, and you've given me little reason to have confidence in your travelling by the mail."

"I mean to go with John Yates – he is to pass by here on his way out of London."

A sigh. "You know perfectly well I've never approved of your Mr. Yates – among other faults, however minor you think them, the lad lacks access to his own senses half the time and is far too easily guided by your whims."

"Very well, permit me to travel with Mr. Elliot, then – he leaves Wall tomorrow; he's to spend the summer in Ipswich after the first races are over."

"Good gracious, no" – Edmund could hear the growing horror in their father's voice – "he's even worse."

That was true enough – the hapless Mr. Yates was somewhat bird-witted, but he'd never be dangerous on his own merits, only when under the influence of others who liked to do his thinking for him, whereas Mr. Elliot... Well-dressed, gorgeously spoken, manners and bearing as smooth and sweet as fresh cream, but with a look about his eyes you couldn't put your finger on... Sometimes it lingered; often enough, it was only a flashing flicker – a passing shadow on his face. But, all the same, undeniably, something about the man had always struck Edmund – and their father, too, apparently – as not quite right.

Mr. Elliot knew his own mind, but one couldn't help but wonder if it was a mind worth knowing, or if it was a mind almost imperceptibly tainted.

"I don't see how," argued Tom. His fingers drummed sullenly on the banister. "He and I ought to be suitable companions, given all we have in common. He's in line for a baronetcy, too. He shall be Sir William someday."

"And when he's settled down, remarried, and become Sir William, and I'm put to rest in my grave, you can visit with him all you like and be a happy set of baronets together. Until then, I don't want your two heads conspiring. You're already in deep – in Wall and London alike – let us not make it worse by pairing you up socially with the most notorious spendthrift I've ever met. Do not forget, Tom, that Mr. Elliot's late wife's lavish fortune shall not hold forever – not if he keeps tossing it in every direction that takes his fancy."

Edmund was not obliged, from here on, to listen further – he was as satisfied by the state of his cravat as he ever expected to be, even if he should have remained before the mirror an hour longer (an occupation he would have found tiresome, given his natural inclination and vices were not set towards vanity but rather the excessive cautioning regarding the allowances of vanity in others) he could not, he thought, have got it any better. He only hoped Miss Crawford would like it.

Could she ever accept him? Would she agree, at last, to take him as he was?

"What, Miss Crawford, would induce you to take me for a husband?" he asked her as they walked together down the lane past the butcher's shop, towards the meadow, after an afternoon spent at Wall Parsonage, where he'd been listening to her play upon her harp most prettily.

It had been a happy, long afternoon of contentment, ending only by a darkening sky and a – not unkind – hint from Dr. Grant that, if Edmund were not staying to dine this evening, he ought to be headed out before it grew too much later. Yet, every strum of the strings, every movement of her white, fairy-like fingers, was also pure agony as he wondered if this was the end of the line for them – if this was the last time she should ever play his favourite song for him and look upon him, after she'd finished, with lidded eyes and a sweet smile.

"You could go into the law, Mr. Bertram." Her brow lifted, and her tone was arch.

"Besides that," Edmund nearly snapped.

Mary sighed and, for a moment, looked truly mournful and discomfited. The teasing expression left her face and her eyes shone a trifle less. "There is something you ought to know, and I really think you must hear it from me first rather than anyone else."

"My dear Miss Crawford, aren't you well?" He noticed she had blanched slightly, as one will when delivering bad – even grave – news.

"Please, Mr. Bertram, this is not easy," she sighed. "I pray you will allow me to speak my–" She broke off, her mouth forming an O of astonishment as she stared over his shoulder. "Oh!" She seemed to quite forget herself. "Oh, Edmund, look! How beautiful! Oh, and there's another – there are two of them!"

Edmund whirled round, and was amazed to see a pair of shooting stars. Mary had some excuse for being so struck, for they truly were extraordinary. Although Edmund had, of course, seen a shooting star before – he'd never seen one (let alone two) like this. They did not appear as a tailed beam of light streaking across the sky, as one expected a falling star to appear, but like a pair of perfect diamonds dropping down towards the earth. If he hadn't already been a religious man by nature, he would have been ready to convert on the spot – nothing which was not formed by an intelligent creator could be so achingly, hauntingly beautiful.

The stars vanished beyond the horizon – if indeed they landed on earth, they landed beyond the wall, somewhere in Faerie.

Mary's hand was pressed to her heart. She gradually began lowering it as she returned to herself – the spell was broken. Almost in that moment she could have thought the falling stars were a sign telling her to take Edmund – for clearly he was offering without actually offering, clearly he was hers for the asking, and he was such an agreeable, handsome man – but she was too sensible to...to...to let a thing like...well, like that, sway her.

She must be strong. He was not for her.

But Edmund, for his own part, struck with such awesome beauty, was entirely overcome. He took up Mary's hand again and declared he should do anything for her – anything save give up his plans for ordination. She would have to be satisfied with a parson, but this parson would not be an indolent sit-about who moped over green geese; no, for her, he would go anywhere and bring her anything she asked, simply to see her smile.

"I would go," he told her, "to the arctic and bring you back a polar bear cub to be your lapdog at Thornton Lacey."

Thornton Lacey was to be his living – he ought to have had Mansfield's, as it was the superior living and his father had always desired he should have it, but Tom's gambling had made such occupation impossible for the time being.

"And what," sighed Mary, rolling her eyes, "would I do with this great white bear when it had grown too large for my lap?"

He paused; then he coloured vividly about the face and neck. This came of – for just once in his life, caught up in his passion for Miss Crawford – thinking impractically and speaking whimsically. He was unpractised, and he had not gotten that far. Mary's witty mind was – and always would be – leagues ahead. He wondered if he had forfeited, with that polar bear cub remark, any chance now of her taking him seriously.

"And," laughed she, "would you reform all the wayward penguins, those flightless pagan birds, for want of any congregation in the snowy wild, while you were at it?"

Oh, yes, he'd lost her, all right. She mocked him dreadfully. What an incomparable fool he was!

"Mary," he said softly, hoping she would not take offence at this usage of her Christian name but also thinking it could hardly make things any worse – could hardly humiliate him any further than he'd already humiliated himself. "Mary, please." The words yet unspoken were beating in his despondent chest – I love you, Mary, I love you! Can you not feel how ardently I love you?

Mercy. She couldn't bring herself to tell him her news – not with him looking at her in this imploring manner. She must think quickly – she must come up with some jest, something to make him see...

Ah, she had it!

"You say you would do anything for me?" Anything but give up his silly notions of becoming a parson however much she'd begged and teased and wheedled and hinted. "Truly, anything?"

Edmund nodded.

"Would you go beyond the wall and bring me back one of those stars? One of the very stars we just saw fall together? Would you make that my wedding present?" She smiled, and not very sweetly, because she knew – from her years living in Faerie with her uncle – a thing or two about what stars were over there, versus what they were here, and was aware it was impossible for him to simply pocket a Faerie-landed star as he would a pretty pebble. He'd never go, anyway, and having this jest at his expense made her feel a little more in control of the situation.

Poor, most unlucky Edmund! There was not the least wit in his nature, and he'd only just used up his imagination and whimsy in one go with the bit about baby polar bears as lapdogs; he took Miss Crawford entirely at her word. So matter-of-fact was he, it never occurred to him, even as she giggled and shook her head, to think she was simply laughing at him as opposed to making a true request.

"And," he murmured, gazing down into her lovely, rapt face, "if I made you an offer, holding out one of those – one of those very two we've seen tonight, and no other – stars in my hand, would you accept me?"

"What woman," sighed Mary – she was full of sighs this evening – "could resist such an offer? What feeling lady could resist having her very own star?"

"Then..." He reached with the back of his hand to stroke her cheek, praying she would not think it too forward of him. "Then, I shall go and fetch you one."

For Mary Crawford's hand in marriage, he would pluck one from the heavens if she asked it of him. It seemed almost a little thing, in comparison, to simply be asked to go and pick one up from wherever it had landed.

"You do that, then – you go fetch that star and ask me again after you've done it." Mary pulled away and touched his arm.

She never did impart the news she'd been withholding, and maintained, forever after, she still – even then – hadn't believed Edmund Bertram would really do it.

Two burning, shimmering stars – in a flash of blinding, silver-white light – landed, following a thunderclap of a bang, in a smoking crater in a bog somewhere within Faerie.

The light dimmed slightly and two women – little more than girls, really, the eldest with the appearance of a lass of perhaps eighteen years – groaned and shifted.

The younger rubbed her at her hip, feeling a spreading bruise, and tried to sit up.

The elder was sick on the ground and, recovering herself – though she was painfully pale – looking to the younger, whimpered, "My leg – my leg – I fear I have broken it."

The younger, here, let out a choice oath a sailor would have coloured at.

"Susie!" exclaimed the elder, who then – her eyes rolling to the back of her head – promptly fainted.

"There is absolutely no cause for your coming with me," Edmund grunted, buckling a leather pack and slinging it over his shoulder.

"Well, certainly I am!" cried Tom, reaching over and tossing a couple of bruised apples and half a loaf of bread into a much messier pack of his own. "Naturally I'm coming."

Edmund exhaled sharply. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I cannot imagine it would be consistent with our father's wishes for your whereabouts at the moment – he doesn't want you gadding unsupervised in Newmarket, or even as near as London, and yet you think he'll let you follow me into Faerie?"

Cocking his head and pursing his lips in an obstinate fashion, making a little indulgent smacking sound as he opened them, Tom replied, "I wasn't planning on telling him – I'm not an imbecile – unless, of course, you're leaving a note and wish me to sign it. That might be all right."

"I'm perfectly capable of finding one little star on my own," insisted Edmund.

His brother arched an eyebrow. As this eyebrow was several shades darker than his colourless hair, it looked rather funny below his flopping white fringe when he did that. "Truly? And how were you planning to get past the guards at the wall?"

Swallowing, Edmund began to stammer – he, admittedly, had not thought this part of his plan through.

"See?" Tom said triumphantly. "You need the extra muscle."

"I was thinking of asking them nicely," Edmund came up with, at last, smiling lamely.

"Tell you what, we'll call that plan a," said Tom, drolly, rummaging under the table – cursing as he nearly bumped his head – and pulling himself back up with a sword in hand. "But I've got a plan b, just in case."

Edmund's eyes narrowed. "Is that not a prop from the play Mr. Yates wanted to put on the last time he visited us at Mansfield Park?"

"Lover's Vows?" He nodded. "Yes. It's a slight piece, I know, but–"

"Even if you did accompany me, you can't suppose I'd let you bring–"

"Not modern enough, is it? Hmm, I take your point." He tossed it aside – disappeared into another room – then came back holding a handsome pocket pistol polished about the gleaming wooden handle and silver accents to a blinding shine. "Here." He dropped the weapon onto the table, headless of if the safety was on or not. "This should ease your anxiety, brother."

"Somehow," snapped Edmund, "it doesn't. Why are you doing this?"

"Oi, that hurts, Edmund! You've cut me deep. You really think I'd permit my only brother – my baby brother, whom I love – love more than life itself – to go into danger on his–"

Edmund unslung his pack and crossed his arms, folding them over his chest. "Someone's coming after you for money tonight, aren't they?"

He popped his mouth. "Yes."

"Right. I supposed as much."

"That is to say, I am still a caring brother."

Edmund's voice went flat and he let his hands drop to his sides. "To be sure, I'm deeply moved."

"Well, write your note or whatever it is you mean to leave behind us." He clapped his hands together before picking up the pistol and stuffing it into his bulging pack and struggling with the fasten at the top. "We've got ourselves a star to find, and you've got a reluctant lady love to appease with an ostentatiously lavish gift. No time like the present."

"And, might I ask, will you require us to leave via window in order to avoid your creditors, or will the front door suffice?"

"Oh, upon my word, that is very funny, Edmund – très drôle, as say the French, " said he, not as if he really found it even remotely amusing; "but as we've settled I'll accompany you, might we please just get on with it?"

When they reached the wall, they discovered two young men slouched at their posts. Tom was of the mind they should just sprint past very quickly, convinced even their mother's Pug could outdistance them if she made up her mind to do so, but Edmund was too polite to try it.

"Just let me speak to them," he hissed, and waved his brother off like he was swatting a fly on his shoulder. "I feel certain they will see reason if I explain my errand."

They did not.

"Listen 'ere," chortled the one on the right side of the gap, lifting his cudgel to ward them off, "I'ma fixin' t'ah tell you exact-lee what I told my sick grandmother who wanted to cross to buy some Faerie charm to ease her gouty complaints, ain't nobody crossin' when it ain't a ninth May Day. Not on m'watch!"

The one on the left merely grunted his assent.

"Right." Tom yanked his pistol from his pack – which he tossed to the side – and cocked it. "Ill-bred townsperson, meet plan bloody b."

"Tom!" exclaimed Edmund, indignant. "For pity's sake!"

"Ay, that's a gun, that is," said the one on the left, sounding almost as indolent as Lady Bertram on a good day. "And a handsome one, too."

"Thank you," Tom replied nonchalantly from the corner of his mouth. "I had it ordered special. I'm very partial to it."

"Well, tis brilliant workmanship."

"Again, thank you." The guard on the right, the one Tom's pocket pistol was pointed at, gulped and took a couple steps to the side. "That is better." He motioned at his pack. "Edmund, be a lamb and get that for me, would you?"

Muttering under his breath, Edmund complied – Tom was waving that pistol about rather too freely in his direction as well, truth be told. There were some things only a fool would take their chances with; Edmund did not consider himself a fool.

"Lovely evening, but I fear we have urgent business on the other side of the wall." Tom waved the pistol between the two guards with a hand Edmund was forced to grudgingly admit to himself was remarkably steady, all things considered. "My best to your rheumatic grandmother, Dicky, if you please."

The guard glared. "S'gout she's got."

"As you like it." Tom gave a little shrug with one shoulder. "Bid good evening to the nice gentlemen, Edmund."

"Good evening, gentlemen," muttered Edmund, more than a little mortified as he hobbled between them, and the gap in the wall, teetering like a donkey under the combined weight of his pack and Tom's. His cheeks were flushed scarlet, but he doubted they could see this in the dark. "I really am very sorry about this, Richard."

"Jest du'nt let it 'appen again."

"I wouldn't dream of it," murmured Edmund, and he and Tom stepped – from patches tall grass looking purple in the night into patches, practically stalks, of tall grass looking silvery-gold in the night and winking with strange lights which were not fireflies – into Faerie.

Tom – halting mid-saunter – was smirking. "Well. That was fun."

"B-but," stammered Mary, ashen as she stepped towards the shivering ladies who had just handed their coats and umbrellas to the housekeeper, "he cannot have gone – he cannot really have gone!"

Julia and Maria, however, both adamantly insisted this was what the note their butler had given their father – after first discovering it himself in the breakfast-room before the house was awake – said.

"Because he mentioned you, Miss Crawford," said Julia, her voice a worried treble, "we thought we'd better come to the parsonage straightaway – in case there was some mistake, in case he came to see you first, and he was still here."

"Edmund has never done anything like this before," added Maria, though she sounded more intrigued and less anxious than her sister did – still, her hands were clenched and her knuckles were quite white. "He's never run off for a lark."

"He's taken Tom with him," added Julia.

"In that respect, at least," Maria cut in, blinking placidly and – with a flick of her wrist – unfurling her befeathered, cream-coloured fan and fluttering it in the general direction of her face, "the news is, of course, not all bad."

"Simple boy!" cried Mary, quite dismayed, turning frantically on her heel and beginning to pace the length of the carpet. "I shall never forgive him! Why could he not have realised I wasn't in earnest! He's just run off on an impossible errand. If I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times, no matter how hard he shakes me nothing serious will fall out – I am supremely shallow. I was only playing! Now anything might happen to–" She broke off, recalling – with more tenderness – the present company, particularly Julia, who looked stricken at her words. "That is, he has done something rather foolish, but the evil of one reckless moment may be blotted out – varnish and gilding hide many stains, as they say."

"Whatever can you mean, Miss Crawford?" Julia's hands were clasped together now.

"I have a brother on the other side of the wall, in Faerie; if I could get word to him..." Her feet slowed but did not stop. "Certainly, he would protect our dearest Mr. Edmund Bertram from coming to any harm, if he only knew I wished him to." She moved her dark curls away from her forehead. "Henry would do anything for me, and he's a very powerful man."

"And Tom?" Julia almost whispered – she was, perhaps, thinking of the time, as a little girl, when Tom bought her a beautiful crepe-and-chiffon shawl, all sewn up with sparkling black beads along the edges, at Christmastime, and presented it to her so very prettily; he could be a loving brother when the mood struck him, and for that she might have been missing him almost as much as Edmund.

For a flashing second, Mary looked annoyed – as if Julia's question had broken her concentration and she might never get her lost thought back again – then she composed her features and said, "Yes, of course, Tom as well – we mustn't forget Mr. Bertram in all this." Though part of her, as it always had, desperately wished he could be forgotten.

If he were not in the way of their happiness... Well, she could not be ashamed of her feelings, such as they were, little as she felt inclined to express them now, in front of the Bertram sisters – she could put it to anyone's conscience, if pressed to do so, whether Sir Edmund would not do more good in his life, with all the power and positioning of a baronet, than any other sir.

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