Those Prevailing Happy Stars

A Mansfield Park & Stardust fanfiction

Chapter Five:

Mr. Crawford's Inn

Fanny wept bitterly.

It was a good deal worse than Susan anticipated, even as she'd been completely aware – acutely and painfully aware – forced separation from Edmund Bertram would upset her sister; certainly, it was enough to make her feel guilty and ashamed, loath though she was to admit it.

Perhaps she might have borne it – been able to stand it, at least – if Fanny had screamed and shrieked and demanded they return to the Bertram brothers. If she had displayed obstinacy and high spirits, it would have been another matter. Screams and noise, Susan could manage, could even ignore if need be. But Fanny – apart from her first anguished cry when she realised what was happening – barely raised her voice as she sobbed. She cried quietly, not like one who wanted attention or wanted a situation remedied; no, she cried as if her heart were in the process of breaking. Fanny's glow had never been a very steady thing – she was a pale, softly twinkling kind of star rather than a particularly brilliant one – but now it was as if her light was near extinguished.

It was as if dear Fanny were a candle and Susan had – regardless of her reason for doing so – gone and blown it out.

When they had gone what she thought – what she hoped – must be a few miles (a unicorn is very fast, and they'd been at it a while), Susan finally looked back over her shoulder to face her crying elder sister.

It was the first time Fanny spoke since Susan spurred the unicorn on and abandoned the Bertram brothers. "Cruel," she choked out. "That was cruelty, Susie. Absolute cruelty."

"Oh, dearest. We differ here. Please try to understand – I didn't act to wound you." Her own eyes began to fill with tears at her sister's distress. "You will be all right, Fanny – we don't need Edmund Bertram now we've got the unicorn. We'll find somebody else to help us. Nothing bad can happen to you."

"You're mistaken. I do not cry for myself," she sniffed, reaching up and wiping at her eyes with the back of her wrist. "It's Edmund – and poor Tom – all alone back there." Edmund would have nothing to present to that silly Mary Crawford, now they were both run away, and she would have sent him and his brother into danger for nothing. Her cruelty in this was worse, even, than Susan's. "I didn't even have a moment to say goodbye to him."

"Oh, Fanny, see reason – there is nothing poor about Tom, for a start." She darted her eyes forward, to make certain she was not directing the unicorn into a tree or off the path (a dangerous thing to do in Faerie) while she was turned away, then focused on her sister again. "I heard them talking. When they were carrying you and you were yet half asleep, you see. Tom is to be a baronet. He is to be a very, very rich man, as I understand it. And once Edmund has his Miss Crawford, he'll have twenty thousand pounds from her." It is perhaps worth noting here that the subject of Edmund's ordination had not yet come up in conversation and neither Price star was aware, at this time, he was to be a clergyman (and this was why Mary would not have him without an elaborate gift) and not some idle fop set on spending his desired wife's allowance (although, of course, the large Coverdale Bible he dragged about everywhere with him should have been something like a hint). "They are so far from destitute, it's no good worrying our heads about them."

This was no comfort whatever to Fanny, who miserably pointed out Tom could hardly be a baronet if a troll came upon the brothers, bewitched them, and ate them for its dinner.

And, moreover, Edmund would not have Mary Crawford and her twenty thousand pounds if he did not produce a star they'd seen fall together, as he had promised to do.

"And Edmund doesn't care about money," she finished, swallowing hard and beginning to tremble. "It's breaking our word – not going into Wall with him so he can keep his own promise – that will hurt him most."

Susan's rebuttal was if any troll came and ate Tom, the sour man would certainly disagree with him. "I'd feel sorrier for it and no mistake." Also, they were no protection to the brothers, who had been getting on fine – well, not fine, perhaps, to say fine was indeed laying it on a mite thick, but getting on without dying horrible deaths as of yet – without them. "And Edmund – I know you like him, sister, so forgive me – is no angel, either. Always going on about Miss Crawford this and Miss Crawford that. Aren't you sick of hearing the name? If I were you, I should quite detest the very sound of it. I don't mean to be wicked, you know, but I admit I am weary of all mention of her! For all we know, he meant to keep us in Wall and never do anything for us after he got his beloved Miss Crawford."

"If Edmund had any means of helping us go home," Fanny said resolutely, in a tone of complete faith, "he would. It is not his fault I lost William's cross."

"As you like," Susan conceded. "But supposing he could not do anything for us – as you say – what then? Did you think he was going to let you live with him and Miss Crawford? He shan't care a fig for either of us once he's got her. He wouldn't remember you long enough to ask you to carry Miss Crawford's train at their wedding."

Fanny – her head bobbing forward – began sobbing again, with the same quiet and unassuming abandon as before, and Susan – turning away red-cheeked – feared she had gone too far.

And what about Edmund and Tom? How did they bear up?

Tom expressed his opinion on the matter by letting free a volley of angry oaths, then declaring they did perfectly well without Susan – of course, good riddance to her if she'd rather be a fool – but she had no right to take Fanny from them, no right to waste their entire errand. Moreover, and this infuriated him about all the rest, the shameless hoyden had stolen – yes, stolen, with no hope of recovery now, no doubt – his unicorn, the best creature he'd ever possessed in his life, before he ever got to ride her. Did you ever hear of such wild ingratitude? What, oh what, was the civilised world coming to, if people permitted such shocking, inconsiderate behaviour?

Edmund was silent, stunned, for several moments; then he gave Tom a reprimanding look for all the oaths. There was, he insisted, no call for such talk. And for complaining so very much about the unicorn, when they had much worse to consider. With a forced, tight smile he reminded his brother he would have to learn to speak less coarsely in front of him once he'd been ordained.

This, of course, only convinced Tom he needed to get out as many oaths as he could before such an ordination took place – and when Edmund protested, not in the least because Tom was being shamelessly loud about it, he rolled his eyes and insisted there was plenty of foul language in the Bible, he'd have him know. "As a future parson, you really ought to have known of it already."

"There is not!" cried Edmund, fairly choking, ever the one to colour at the slightest hint of blasphemy. "There is no such thing in the Holy Scriptures!"

Tom gave a cool, impertinent shrug, sniffing pertly. "There is, by Jove! You really think all those Israelites simply said 'oh-wee, poo fiddlesticks' when Pharaoh had them trapped at the Red Sea?"

"There is something deeply wrong with you, Tom – you do know that? You cannot, I think, be unaware?"

"Never said I was – what d'you take me for?" Then, "You know, Edmund, I've been thinking..."

"Oh," muttered Edmund, groaning under his breath, "here we go – this will not end well."

"Hem..." He glared. "I know you're disappointed right now, so I shall let that remark slide. Now. As to what I was going to say! I know you had your heart rather set upon Mary Crawford, and I understand – she's certainly the most aesthetically pleasing choice, to be sure – but how would you feel about marrying a different girl with twenty thousand pounds? We could call it day, go home, and I'll introduce you to the not too bad-looking Miss Augusta Sneyd next time we're seen in London; erm, subject to if her family is still permitting her to speak to me after what happened the last time, that is. At any rate, she's a younger sister; that is much in your favour, as she won't expect you to go stalking about other worlds looking for fallen stars with broken legs."

No! No, indeed! Edmund was nonplussed at the very suggestion! No doubt Augusta was a very good sort of girl, pleasant and good-humoured and – if not long tainted by the company of the ton – possibly unaffected as well; but the likes of Mary Crawford, he insisted, and – and here was an interesting addition, even to Tom's less than attentive ears, which quite closed themselves off, at this point, whenever Edmund began to rhapsodise and recite the virtues of anybody with the last name of Crawford – little Fanny Price, too, timid star who wanted drawing out though she was, had spoiled him for the more common kind of female society.

"Spoiled for the likes of anything lesser, or not," sighed Tom, rolling back his shoulders, "I hope you have a plan for getting Fanny back if you – even yet – intend to have Miss Crawford." He spread his hands. "I, I fear, am entirely tapped out – I'm a good deal too fagged to come up with a plan b on this one."

For another moment, Edmund said nothing, only slipped his hand into his waistcoat.

"Perhaps, brother, you failed to hear me." Tom grew a trifle testy. "What I'm saying is you're on your own in regards–" His brow furrowed, and his tone levelled. "What have you got? Oh, why, it is the little cross I picked up when we found the stars! A funny object to make a keepsake of, upon my word."

And Edmund, eyes downcast, made quick work of telling him what Fanny said the cross did – how it had the power to bring her to the sky, return her to her brother William.

"If I had returned it," and he was thinking – on some level – perhaps he ought to of, because it would be better for Fanny in the sky than in danger with only Susan and a horse with a pointy horn for protection, "she would have, it seemed, used it to go back up. But there was Miss Crawford to think of, and I was loath to..."

Tom's interest was immediately piqued. "And, I take it, you are currently supposing – if it could take her to the sky, to this William of hers – it might have the power to take us to them. Something like how the candle worked."

He nodded.

"Well, go on, then!" And he grasped his brother's wrist eagerly. "Say your magic words or whatever and let's catch them up before Susan ruins my unicorn's perfect gait with her rummy riding. You will have noticed, I think, she did not even let her warm up before pushing her into a gallop to get away from us?"

"I don't know any magic words," hissed Edmund, a little put out.

"Oh," snorted Tom, "please."

There was a hot shimmer, a sort of amber-coloured flash.

It would be that simple, after everything, wouldn't it?

"Think of your unicorn!" Edmund cried, guessing – and rightly – they would need to be thinking of the person they wanted to reach, and if Tom kept his unicorn in mind, they would soon be with the Price sisters again by default.

They were before the unicorn, nearly dashed under her hooves as she reared up, within seconds.

Fanny nearly fell off, but Susan managed – with some skill but more dumb luck – to right the unicorn without trampling the magically reappeared Bertram brothers to death and without throwing her sister across the length of the dense Faerie forest, either.

While they all caught their breath – Tom and Susan frowning at one another and working through their mutual disappointments and rages – Fanny was, however briefly, in perfect ecstasy. Edmund had found her; he had caught them up!

Such absolute joy! Happiness threatened to overwhelm her.

Then logic brought her down to earth with a shattering, resounding thud harder and crueller and more painful – a thousand times over more painful – than her literal fall from the sky: how had Edmund done it? How had he achieved the impossible and overtaken them – simply appeared before them – unless he...

Unless he...

Yes, he held it in his right hand: her – that is, William's – amber cross. It glinted, a little less brilliantly in hue than it had before, from its place upon the broken bit of ribbon.

He had had it all this time; he had found and kept it. Kept it for himself! Never once had he hinted he had it, nor offered it back to her. He had gone on letting her suppose, all this while, she had lost it forever.

Their eyes met, and even before he'd seen them stray to his hand, Edmund was crushed by the realisation she knew. He had disappointed her beyond measure, irrevocably inflicted a brutal wound upon her. The expression she wore, as she shook her head (her buttery curls trembled and tears ran down her face in two thin streams), was the saddest he had ever seen on any living creature.

Even Miss Crawford's hand in marriage – the outcome he coveted, longed for, begged God for every night, above all others – was not worth, he was becoming bitterly aware, what he had just done.

It was not worth what he had been doing – not worth practically lying to a friend he...

Well, a friend he loved.

A friend who might truly be one of the two dearest objects upon the whole earth to him, even though he had known her so short a time.

Some offences, some means of getting what one wanted most, went deeper than any outcome – any happy ends – could ever dream of justifying.

When he saw the party – including, rather to his surprise, for Maddison had omitted mentioning it, a unicorn – Henry Crawford breathed a sigh of contentment. His plans were, thus far, perfectly on track – here were the two stars, and – presumably – Mary's young man, coming directly to him, approaching the magical inn which had just come into being – at his and his uncle's will – less than an hour before they were in sight.

They did seem, as they neared, a very sombre lot. More was the pity for it. Neither star was glowing – they both appeared as if they were downcast in spirits and utterly miserable. The elder of the two gentlemen, who Henry took up for Edmund (it was, in actuality, Tom) as he seemed to be – so far as he could tell – to Mary's general taste, would occasionally say something – seemingly curt in manner, and spoken over his shoulder – to the more promising – the more hardy-looking – of the stars, but this would only vex her and make her all the less useful to the Admiral's intended purpose.

A bitter heart – a heart of gall and risen spleen – is not only lacking the desired potency, for any magician who wishes to consume it, but it is near-impossible to digest without having severe stomach issues afterwards.

The elder, yet notably smaller, star puzzled Henry a great deal. He, of course, duly marked her out as the right one for his uncle despite her somewhat sickly looks compared to her hardier sister, simply because she seemed calmer, if still downcast; but there was, also, something about her manner which did not make sense to him.

He noted, with some disappointment, she was the only one of the four in her party not to brighten a little when he approached; she was quite indifferent to him, though polite enough.

After hallooing and shouting how they were most welcome, Henry introduced himself as the nephew of the innkeeper (not entirely a fabrication, since his uncle – as of the moment – more or less held that position), then – with a meaningful glance at Tom – added he was also Mary Crawford's brother, master of Everingham.

"Upon my word, what an exceedingly odd coincidence this is! I can hardly credit it! Lost for direction in Faerie, seeking shelter and a meal, we have found – unlooked-for – your future brother-in-law," and Tom clapped Edmund's shoulder, and Henry was made to realise his mistake. "What do you make of that, Edmund?"

Crawford considered Edmund anew from the corner of his eye. He was graver than he would have taken his sister for fancying, but his features were more or less, despite his sombre countenance, what they should be; he was undeniably a good-looking man, and it was far from impossible to imagine Mary liking his earnest face.

"I must confess myself relieved and honoured to have met you, though I'd not had any expectation of it," said Edmund, holding out his hand. "I have, of course, heard a great deal of you from Miss Crawford."

"And all this great deal has been good, I trust?"

"Oh, naturally, naturally – to be sure, by all accounts, you are a most devoted brother, and she expresses her fondness of you in a thoroughly sweet manner which credits you both."

"As it happens, Bertram, I am familiar with you – that is, a little – through my sister as well." Henry grinned. "She has, via messenger, told me of your errand and asks I offer you my protection through Faerie."

Edmund's eyes shone. It was as if, for the first time, he really believed his hopes were fulfilled – that Mary truly did love him as he had loved her since first their eyes met.

Shamefully, in his elation, he almost forgot his former regret over what he had done to Fanny, certainly he forgot to think of her, still sitting on the unicorn's back and watching and listening to them.

Tom dragged Susan off the unicorn, none too gently, while she thrashed and swatted disobligingly at him, hissing under her breath how she would make him suffer for this repeated indignity. If ever he touched her again, without her expressed permission, she vowed she would make him regret being born. In return, he growled he'd have her imprisoned for horse thievery once they reached Wall if she did not stow her nonsense and be quiet at once; it was no good, he insisted, haranguing him, when she was in his world, and he had all the power here. This was not entirely true – Faerie was not Tom's domain, not by any stretch of the imagination, but neither was it Susan's natural environment, not like the sky was, and so they were at a temporary impasse in their verbal sparring.

Fanny, still seated in place behind where Susan had been yanked off, was – as has already been touched upon – quite forgotten by all.

She observed Henry Crawford with uncertainty, thinking he could not look very like his sister (he was plain, and Edmund's praise had made Mary out to be an incomparable beauty) and wondering apprehensively why the master of Everingham – much less his elevated, no doubt distinguished and powerful uncle – should be running an inn in the middle of nowhere.

Even if Miss Crawford had sent them to help Edmund, this seemed to Fanny a queer way of going about it.

Her disappointment in Edmund's actions did not prevent her from looking from Henry to him – silently noting the difference in both men, one as good as a prince, despite what he'd done, the other inexplicably deficient and unfinished, lacking some vital goodness – and hoping this was no trick, no cruel joke meant to trap the Bertram brothers somehow.

She could not suppose Mary Crawford to have any reason to wish to harm them, much less go through the trouble of setting a relative upon them as means of doing so, and yet she felt uneasy for her friends.

Susan, plainly, did not feel the same. She – with a cold cut of her pale, almond-shaped eyes in Tom's direction – greeted Henry with, "A pleasure, Mr. Crawford – such a felicity it is, sir, to know – at last – there are good people here! To be in company, finally, with a real gentleman." Then she asked if he would please help her sister – whose leg was poorly, despite recently having been treated by the unicorn's horn – down.

Edmund flushed pink at the realisation he'd forgotten Fanny, and Henry – for his part – was obliging. He at once reached to lift her off the unicorn's back. She accepted his assistance, gladly, but looked upon him so grave he couldn't help recoiling slightly.

How could he make heads or tails of one who looked so severe? And it had to be her, because the other would not do, so he must figure it out very soon indeed.

Henry opened his mouth to ask why she stared so grave on him, but was cut off by Tom exclaiming, "Goodness, I have, here, suffered a wrong assumption, Mr. Crawford; I had thought you to be standing on lower ground than ourselves this entire time! Nay, though, it is level! Quite level. I do not jest, my friend, I had taken you up for a tall, strapping fellow at roughly the same eye level as Edmund and myself. But I have been mistaken. You are petite, just like your sister! What a strange, tiny lot you Faerie people are!"

"Tom!" cried Edmund, thoroughly ashamed and reproachful.

Susan glared.

"What? What have I said amiss?" Tom blinked innocently, plainly supposing himself to merely be making cheerful conversation at no one's true expense. "I daresay dear Mr. Crawford knows he is small-boned. It cannot be a revelation, my remarking upon it!"

"I am five foot eight," laughed Henry, his tone good-humoured.

"No, by Jove," choked Tom, shaking his head, "do not lie – you are never five foot eight – is he, Edmund? I think you nearer five foot six."

"If the gentleman says," sighed Edmund, testily, "he is five foot eight, then he is five foot eight."

"If had but thought to carry about a tape-measure with me," mused Tom, "we could be certain in a moment – it would make a jolly good friendly wager, too, as I should be staking my fish upon five foot six and would be sure of winning."

Privately, Fanny was of Tom's opinion – not about the wager, of course, but she was of his mind regarding Mr. Crawford's height; she thought him to be about five foot six by her layman guess as well. She would not say so, knowing it would doubtless upset Edmund and Susan, who both seemed defensive of their new companion, and would only inflate Tom's pride, but she did think it.

After he had completed his lengthy – ever more obtuse – dialogue upon the subject of Mr. Crawford's lack of height and obvious likeness to his sister Mary in bone structure, Tom laughed again and asked where his unicorn would be stabled.

They had a pen outside, as well as indoor stables, and Henry – privately thinking healing magic was not something they wanted in very close proximity just now, given what was planned – gently put it to Tom's conscience if he did not think his pretty mare preferred open grazing on what was already a fine afternoon and was sure to be such a very mild evening.

The indoor stables struck him as being more secure, but Tom wanted the unicorn to be happy, also, and was privately convinced the poor mare was half traumatised by Susan frightening her into a gallop earlier, so he relented and allowed Crawford's man (Maddison himself, in human form) to lead her away.

"Wait," croaked Fanny, very suddenly, catching his eye – his familiar gaze tossing her wits off guard. "I know this man. I have seen him somewhere before."

Maddison stopped in his tracks to gaze at her in stunned guilt and wonder; he had not expected to be recognised. At the same moment as Maddison recollected himself and blurted, "You are mistaken, milady, I do not believe we are acquainted," Henry brightly made some excuse for the delay in response by claiming his man to be mute and said the star should not expect a ready reply.

Edmund's brow furrowed; Tom's lifted.

"It..." laughed Henry, colouring a little, "...it comes and goes, I'm afraid."

Fanny was the only one of the party who looked back over her shoulder at Maddison's retreating back – and with some trepidation she could not explain at the departure of the unicorn from their side – but she followed the others and was aware, quickly, of Mr. Crawford's shamelessly trying to draw her out, to pull her from herself, to make her speak to him as they walked through the inn's front doors.

Inside was cosy and well-furnished, a great deal more ostentatious than the Seventh Magpie in Wall could ever boast of being (there were silver threads in the upholstery here, and the tables, even at the lower end of the room by the counter, were of the finest mahogany, so burnished a red as to be almost fire-coloured; they could reflect a peering-down face back to the viewer in a rosy, ember-hued glow which also, to a less calm mind, could potentially suggest the idea of staring at oneself in Hell) but there was something sparse and thrown-together about it which unsettled slightly (at least where Fanny was concerned).

Tom's first remark was upon the colour of the fire in the grate – it was violet with maroon and green sparks! What a marvel! He was eager to know if Henry had conjured the colour special with his magic. Susan declared she saw nothing so exceptional about a fire's colour, whatever it happened to be, so long as it did its task in keeping the room warm.

Fanny hobbled to the table and – though she supposed, perhaps, Henry meant for them to stand while he showed them about – felt weak at the knees and, not without hesitation, seated herself by a heavy-set man eating grapes as though he expected, if he did not make quick work of it, they would turn to raisins and not be worth his eating any longer.

She thought he might be the Admiral and was rather surprised he seemed less alarming – not only than Henry, but even his man she was still convinced she knew from somewhere – when he suddenly took notice of her and declared himself to be a guest here, same as she was.

He would have introduced himself, with a good will, but Tom – recognising him from across the room – did it for him. "Mr. Rushworth! What trick is this, upon my word!" He strode over, laughing merrily. "The devil are you doing here?"

"Bless me, if it isn't my dear Miss Bertram's brother!" He broke into a doughy smile of delight. "And how are you, friend? Oh, I see I have alarmed you – tee hee, bless me, I did not mean it, pray pardon the shock I've inflicted, do! But, you see, I always come to Faerie for my personal holidays, when Mother goes to Bath! I slip over here all the time – though I've never seen this inn before, I confess. But, you know, inns. An inn is an inn, what. I'd taken a wrong turn, my horse throwing a shoe, and what do I find but an inn where I had previously thought there was nothing at all! And I said, I said, this is more like! Mr. Crawford did not want me at first, would not have me, but I insisted I was bone-tired and as a gentleman he ought– Well, here I am, and I shan't speak too ill of my host, even if, between ourselves, I do not think him a well-looking man. You cannot call a man of five foot eight well-looking."

"No," agreed Susan, under her breath, "certainly you couldn't. No more than you could call a man thrice times wider than the Bertrams combined well-looking."

Rushworth seemed only to hear the first part of her mutter, but Henry heard the rest and smiled. He was glad, for her bitter heart and terse wit after all – glad it should not be her.

"What, and they – that is, the guards – never gave you any trouble at the wall?" exclaimed Tom, indignant. "Dick never said anything to you?"

"Bless me," cried Rushworth, "not a word. They said I was welcome to be a fool if I liked. They always say some variation of the same sentiment to me when I come to Wall and cross over. The dear men! Well, I do not mind it – I'm used to it – why, my mother made much the same kind of remark when I asked for her thoughts about making an offer to your sister, you know. But your aunt Norris seemed to think it a fine idea, at any rate – d'you think I have a chance there, Bertram?"

Waving off the part about Maria, as he really couldn't care less this moment (he could worry about the impending martial happiness of only one sibling at time, so Maria was out of luck until Edmund won Miss Crawford and put an end to it), Tom cried, "And you've never had to threaten them with a pistol to get through? Not once?"

"My dear fellow, what manner of lunatic would do a mad thing like that?" And he seemed truly concerned.

"That manner," said Edmund, dryly, motioning with his chin at Tom.

"Goodness," said Mr. Rushworth. "Goodness gracious."

"It seemed," muttered Tom, scarlet and turning his head so as to avoid the disapproving looks given all around, "a good idea at the time. It got us across, my plan b, and no mistake!"

Rushworth gave him a sympathetic nod. "Well, well. Come now, we aren't a single one of us perfect, Mr. Bertram." He held up his plate. "Ah, this will make amends. Have a grape. They've cheered me up tremendously. I could not tell you why, but they have."

"They are fermented, Mr. Rushworth," said Fanny quietly, for she could smell them from where she sat and had been silently trying to decide when best to say something about it.

"Oh." That explained a lot, he thought.

"For pity's sake, yes!" Tom snatched for the plate with renewed interest. "Give some here."

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