Those Prevailing Happy Stars

A Mansfield Park & Stardust fanfiction

Chapter Eight:

People In Love

If, despite finding unlooked-for felicity onboard the Perdita, particularly in Fanny's unwavering friendship and in cheerful talks with amiable Captain Wentworth, when he was not otherwise busied by his various cares, Edmund was too much preoccupied – always, at the back of his mind – with thoughts of Mary Crawford, until all the crew, right down to the cabin boy who scrapped the airy equivalents of barnacles from the sides of the ship whenever they were moored and swabbed the deck, were sick to death of hearing him murmur that name, none of them believing – even if she could play the harp like an angel – someone who caused so much acute distress in what was otherwise a sensible gentleman by all accounts to be worth having, it was a much less grievous time for Susan and Tom.

And that was just as it should be.

Tom had no lady-love – neither in Wall, Northamptonshire, nor in London – to be a source of distress to Susan as she began to like him. His lack of attachment made it so, in her stubborn way, she could pretend longer than she really felt, not to fancy him, and was permitted to grow in friendship with him very quickly and very healthily now their former animosity was resolved or at least set aside. Her only fear – and this she would only consider with trepidation when, at the very last, she could not but admit Tom Bertram, for all his faults, was also rather wonderful, even being rather angry at him for being so and making what had been easy incurably difficult – was the sinking knowledge she, in addition to probably being a bit young for him (despite star ages being different to morals), could not expect ever to have children with a human (stars generally do not have children at all, in the common, earthly way, and are all sons and daughters of the moon), making her an unsuitable match for a baronet who must have an heir someday.

However, prior to having to admit to herself this fact made her very, very unhappy, she was unprecedentedly contented in Tom's company as she never could have imagined – seething with resentment towards his very person, sworn in her heart to loathe him for all entirety – in prior days.

She sensed, in the sisterly way certain ladies can, Fanny wanted as much time with Edmund – before it must all end, and regardless of his gloomy moods – as she could have, and so withdrew all her time – when she was not associating with Anne, the only other person onboard she found a kindred spirit in, thinking her very like Fanny in many ways, if a little more easily persuaded in thought and opinion, into the very willing, very ready company of Tom Bertram. She sat with him when he ate, pretending to do so herself if one or more of the crew who did not know her for a star were in sight; she strolled by his side on deck and listened to him talk about art and horses and merry parties, and watched his eyes sparkle as he did so; she sat, posed somewhat stiffly on the rim of a water barrel, for his sketches when Captain Wentworth and Anne spared him some paper and charcoal; she explored – at his cheeky insistence – areas of the ship they technically were not allowed in, and often kept watch when he poked his nose about, trying her best to restrain her natural inclination to scold his curiosity which at times bordered on ungentlemanly.

Susan found herself engaged in a light game of 'what would you rather' with Fanny, one late night when none of them were inclined to sleep in the cabin they were obliged to share.

Anne would have liked to give the ladies their own space, but it proved impossible, even this present arrangement inconveniencing several sailors more than they let on, and had had to settle on setting up a cloth divider which Fanny – when nobody needed privacy for dressing or washing up – simply tied back so she could observe Edmund better; she liked to watch him read, with his intense concentration, the battered Psalter one of the sailors had been able to loan him. When he was pouring over scripture, spiritual ideas in his head, at least then he was not inordinately preoccupied with Mary Crawford; at least then he appeared at peace with himself and the world.

At the same moment as Fanny had gotten bored and failed to answer Susan's last question, about whether she would rather eat polluted light or sleep on a bed covered in dew, both Price sisters became aware, across from themselves, Edmund and Tom were doing something odd – odd, at least to their eyes, which had never seen it done before – with their hands.

"What is that thing you're doing?" asked Susan, sliding off the bed and making her way over to them.

After Tom expressed some wide-eyed amazement anybody could not know what it was by sight, especially someone as apparently bright as Susan, they told her it was Scissors, Stone, Paper and explained how it worked.

"Paper covers stone." Tom placed his hand over Edmund's fist, demonstrating.

"Scissors," said Edmund, removing his hand from beneath his brother's and forming little scissors with two of his fingers and opening and closing them, "cuts paper."

Making a tight fist, Tom dropped his hand over Edmund's finger scissors, which he then – playing along rather melodramatically – ceased to open and close. "Stone breaks flimsy scissors." He popped his mouth dramatically. "Smash." (Edmund, here, rolled his eyes.) Then – for good measure, since the fist was already formed and he did not like to waste it – gave his younger brother a quick punch on the arm.

As Edmund and Fanny were not competitive by nature, this diversion could not hold their attention long – Edmund had only been playing Scissors, Stone, Paper at Tom's insistence (near begging) to begin with, as well as for lack of another ready occupation save going over the contents of the borrowed Psalter again. Susan and Tom were another story entirely; they were competitive, especially against one another, and very soon she was seated in Edmund's former position, playing against Tom again and again, unwilling to concede to being the loser of the last round (he was just the same, which kept them at it long past the hour when their wearied, more docile, siblings had already fallen asleep).

Their endless rounds were only cut short in the end by the unexpected appearance of Anne Wentworth ducking into their cabin and informing them – if they liked – they might come on deck; the storm which had been crackling overhead, threatening to break near the ship for a while now, was right on them, and they were to capture lightning.

If they did not wish to come up, she wanted them to know what was happening and not to be needlessly frightened.

Susan stood at once.

Tom did the same, halting in place only when he realised neither Edmund nor Fanny were getting up to join them, though they were no longer asleep – wakened by the increased pitching motion of the ship – and had heard, as well as they had, Mrs. Wentworth's invitation.

"Well," said he, taking their hesitation for mere bleary-eyed tiredness, for having not yet rubbed all the remainders of grogginess and sleep from their faces, "aren't you coming?"

Fanny – quite awake and quite herself – shook her head. "It's too loud for me – I shouldn't like it."

"I haven't much interest in it myself, to be honest," was Edmund's reply, though he conscientiously added that, if he in any way believed there was something important to be gained by Fanny's going up, he should gladly encourage – and even accompany her – himself.

Giving them an odd look, Tom released a heavy sigh. "D'you know, there's a lot I admire about the both of you – only, sometimes, when it comes right down to it, you both – for the silliest reasons, I often cannot comprehend – miss so much."

"Upon reflection, you probably ought to remain below decks as well, Tom," Edmund pointed out, after a moment of staring at his brother in quiet surprise. "You have a responsibility to Mansfield Park; our father would not like it if you were to be accidentally swept overboard and fall to earth over a lark." He did not mean to, he was trying to be fair as anything, but it is undeniable he sounded a tad priggish. "Further, you might set the example – in practising safety – for Susan's sake."

"Don't come on deck yourself see the lightning caught, if you do not wish it, the Wentworths are hardly forcing anybody to do what they don't like," snorted Tom, turning but continuing to speak over his shoulder as he made his way out of the cabin. "But your preference needn't govern everybody else." He coughed pointedly. "Come, Susan."

In hopes, perhaps, of distracting Fanny from worrying about her sister – although, despite his apprehension, he was confident enough Tom and the Wentworths would look after her up there – he began to talk about himself, about Wall and England and Mansfield and Thornton Lacey, and for once he did not dwell overmuch on Mary Crawford.

He spoke, as well as he could over the noise of thunder and Fanny's occasional interrupting gasps as the ship pitched into an odd direction and nearly tossed them from one side of the cabin to the other, of his plans for ordination. Miss Crawford came up only as an aside, for he mentioned, as he could not avoid, how little fondness Mary had for his chosen career.

"I know little about churches, as there aren't any in the sky," admitted Fanny, "but I used to watch – I used to look down and watch families assemble for prayer together; I thought it was a very fine thing."

"I thank you for saying that, Fanny." He smiled gently. "And I do not believe you when you say you know little about church – you are too humble, too good. All of the sky is rather like a cathedral, in my opinion; you don't need a physical church, have no cause for a bell and steeple, because you are already nearer to God, up amongst his creation with no distractions, than we are on earth."

Fanny's cheeks were bright pink.

"But," he went on, "that all matters little, I fear, to Miss Crawford – she wants a fashionable life, a distinguished life. How I should let her down if I could not give her such a life, and it is no easy thing, I think, upon the budget of a humble clergyman. Could I, d'you suppose, ever live as she would wish?"

Her hand touched his arm. "But what," was her first and only thought on the matter, "about the kind of life you want to live?"

He did not have a ready answer and was forced to drop her gaze and transfer the rest of the conversation back to being about his friend Mr. Owen whose family was amiable and hospitable, the ideal sort of charitable Christians if he did say so (he left off saying he sometimes imagined they were the sort of family to change Mary's mind with close association, though he thought it, in spite of also thinking Fanny herself could do far better, and more, in terms of influencing Miss Crawford than any of the Owens had hope of) and who he hoped to be ordained alongside around Christmastime.

The imagination supplied what the ear did not hear, what was omitted; Fanny sighed.

The sky around them was purple with bursts of violet and blue, flashing almost azure at the brightest points; the crew showed Tom – and Susan, ever attentive at his side – how to fish for the lightning and then capture it in a copper box.

Tom nearly had an accident, jolted back with tingling fingertips, white hairs standing straight upon his head and giving off tiny blue sparks, but on the second try, Susan helping him hold the box steady (and overall doing more of the work than he could rightly be accounted for on his own merits, but their former competition, had – in this slightly more dangerous task than was a simple game played with hand gestures – melted somehow or other into teamwork, neither one – at least for the moment – claiming more credit than the other), the task met with greater success.

Forgetting themselves, the pair laughed, facing each other in the driving rain, arms outstretched, before locking into a tight embrace.

"We did it!" shouted Susan, screaming to be heard over the storm.

"I love you!" was his returning shout, and he – seeing her thus, dripping with rainwater, face red and hair slicked back, laughing – certainly, shamelessly meant it.

"What?" Although, actually, she had heard him – and plainly, moreover, understood – she was just too stunned, too shaken, to admit it.

To his credit, Tom did not attempt to take it back and let it stand.

Captain Wentworth, the following evening, happened to observe Tom teaching a certain – shamelessly, possibly unwittingly glowing – star (with which he had not yet discussed his former declaration of love in the slightest, though they both seemed strangely untroubled by this) to waltz on deck (Anne, here, leaned in and murmured to her husband that, technically, Susan should not be waltzing without the permission of her mother, but in all fairness, they could hardly expect Mr. Bertram to ask the moon for permission, and so allowances must be made to some degree, and the captain nodded his agreement).

"If only," lamented Frederick, "it could be so simple for the other two." As he spoke, he motioned at Fanny and Edmund, who had made a little makeshift table by placing a board over a barrel's top and were – more or less contentedly – playing cribbage with a sticky, battered old card deck loaned to them by the sailors.

"I don't agree – and I think you better than any living soul know why – with persuading away the feelings of the young," mused Anne; "but in Edmund's case, well, I do wish he had someone like my godmother – a person not unlike Lady Russell – in his life to warn him off his present path. Someone who could kindly convince him without having to resort to telling him about Mr. Elliot, or the danger his being the declared lover of Miss Crawford puts his elder brother in."

Frederick nodded, murmured it was indeed a shame, much to be pitied – in this one particular case so different from what theirs had been – then, more brightly, smiling, he held out his hand and asked if his wife would honour him with a dance.

After the waltz had become a country dance, one with easier steps which did not need as much coaching, Susan remarked to Tom that Fanny – stuck with her sticky cribbage – might be glad of dancing at least once tonight. He was not unwilling, but as it was only his affection for – his being in love with – Susan which kept him at it so long, Tom's offer to Fanny was very forced.

"Hem – if you want to dance, Fanny" – he barely looked at her as he spoke, his light gaze shifting over to Susan again, and with even more longing intensity, to a comfortable bench where sailors were sharing snuff and there was, very visibly, an empty seat – "I will stand up with you."

Fanny humbly declined. "I thank you, Mr. Bertram, but I do not wish to dance."

He exhaled, blowing out his cheeks with dramatic relief. "I'm glad." Then he walked away.

Fanny couldn't help shooting a quizzical side glance towards her younger sister, clearly the one to wring his arm and send him over, who – rather mortified by this – mouthed, "Sorry."

It ought to be mentioned, however, Tom was far from all discourtesy towards the elder star during their remaining time on the Perdita.

His offer of dancing might have been flippant at best and taken as very rude at worst, but he did have other ways – some admittedly small, others larger – of being kind to her.

One of which manifested itself quite oddly; he had it in his mind Fanny ought to know better how to defend herself if ever she were faced with another Henry Crawford, another person who wished to do her harm, and he endeavoured to make himself her tutor upon this subject.

Tom thought, if Edmund married his Miss Crawford, and if he were – for his own part – successful in keeping Susan by his side, she might be more alone, more in need of the means to become her own protector.

Sadly, she was not a promising student.

For Tom's best efforts, for all his springing and taunting, he could never succeed in getting her to fight him, even defensively.

At one point, he had her pinned to the deck, nearly his full weight (or as much of it as he could put upon her without actually hurting her) pressing her down, and she would only blink up at him obligingly.

"Fanny," he snapped, rather put out by then, "for God's sake, fight me." He adjusted himself and pressed down more firmly. "Shove me off. Hit me – aim a strike at my face – it's all right. I give you full permission." He shifted moods and smirked teasingly. "You won't spoil my good looks; I wouldn't ever let it come to that, I promise you."

"I cannot – it is good of you to wish to help me, but I have no desire to injure you."

Even accidentally, the thought of harming either Bertram brother was abhorrent to her. Tom – perhaps uncharitably – assumed she could never harm anyone, even if they deserved it; she was too docile, too generous to do it, and worry over this fact made him sharper and less kind an instructor than he otherwise would have been.

Edmund – seeing a cluster of crew members gathered and coming to view whatever was so riveting for himself – saw Tom on top of her – actually sitting astride her – and, rather grieved by the impropriety of the position, voice raised and gone slightly hoarse with indignation, urged his brother to stop being an ass and let her up.

"I'm all right, Edmund," Fanny assured him in a small voice, turning her head.

The most Tom made progress in was teaching her to block with a more defensive stance if someone made a grab or lunge or strike in her direction. With this, he must, in the end, he feared, find satisfaction enough.

Alas, poor Fanny – he only wished he might have taught her well.

Naturally, even with their increased mutual comfort towards one another, Tom and Susan could not go on forever not speaking of his declaration on the night of the lightning-catching.

It came up, at last, in a private moment when they had slipped into one of the lifeboats (Captain Wentworth had explained how they worked, on both sky and water, but Tom was still rather uncertain about the details; it sounded like a great deal of gibberish to him). Having slid themselves under the weighted canvass which served for a covering to keep the rain off, there was not much space, especially as they were wedged between metal boxes of emergency supplies, and they were pressed quite close together.

Resting his forehead against hers, Tom stroked the side of Susan's face – her cheek and chin – with this thumb and the back of his hand. She could feel the rhythm of his gentle breathing against her, the release of his breath so close to her mouth it was hard to believe their lips – although barely – were not actually touching.

"Nothing can ever happen between us," she whispered, trying – with little effectiveness – to sort of drag herself just out of his reach. "Please don't do this."

"I fail to see why not." He was crestfallen. "It's hardly as if you still hate me – I know you don't."

"Of course I don't hate you. But you're a moral man, I'm a star," she explained, adding – since he seemed not to grasp her meaning at first – they could never have children and trying not to go altogether scarlet from collarbone to hairline when she said it.

"Edmund and Miss Crawford can have children – clergymen are surprisingly good at have large families – why the deuce do I need any?"

"You would miss being a father, in time." She held his wrist back; his fingers were attempting to trail along her face again and it was more difficult to focus, to keep her thoughts straight, when he was actively touching her.

"No, I think not – I've always been more of an uncle by nature."

This gave her something new to consider. Supposing Tom truly did not wish – and moreover did not need – to be a father? Could she, in light of this, give up any notion of going back into the sky and remain here for always? Could she be a wife for him? The same as a human girl might? They would have to live in England, rather than Faerie, in his Mansfield Park he was set to inherit, and she was uncertain what it would be like; she wished she had paid more attention when she was hovering above the earth. Goodness, she would be Lady Bertram. But, then, she mustn't get ahead of herself; he had not asked her yet. He mightn't even mean to make her an offer. His affections might – sinking though the notion was to her spirits, out of character as it seemed for him – logically extend no further than what he desired in this one concealed moment. He might very well be trifling with her. It could be nothing more than a fancy. He might not desire her as a permanent companion. Further, even if such were definitely not the case, she couldn't fully rid from her mind how odd it was what difference a few days could make – how a few days ago, the thought of being with Tom Bertram forever was dismal, even repellent. Only a few days ago, before they made it pax and called a truce, she scolded him and he called her nasty names – like hoyden. Now she yearned, almost, for him to ask, yearned to be given the option of never being parted from him.

There was a lump in her throat. What if he didn't mean what he had shouted out before? What if he didn't love her? Her other hand, the one not holding back his wrist, found its way, almost involuntarily, to his hair. Her fingertips stroked it absently.

A trickle of light shown through a tiny hole in the canvass above their heads, practically going right through the transparent strands on his head.

"What colour was it before?"

"Mmm?"

"Well," she whispered, "you weren't born with white hair, were you?"

"What do you think?"

"Was it the same colour as your eyebrows?"

He didn't answer that question. "Oh," he breathed, his forehead pressed to hers once again, "do say you'll marry me. You have to."

She laughed – or attempted to, through quickening breaths of her own. "You have not asked me."

"I just did."

"When?"

"This very moment, now."

"That," she sighed, "was not a proposal."

"It jolly well was." He pulled back slightly, pouting.

Her rising glow was giving her away. "You said I have to marry you." That was not asking.

"That would be because you do. Or else I shall never be happy again." He spoke matter-of-fact. "But I would still like your answer. One has to make plans. There are banns – newspapers, what – and all manner of other dashed things."

She finally let go of his wrist, loosing her cramped fingers, no longer holding him back – his hands, she decided, could travel where they liked; if they wanted to stroke her cheek, or her collarbone, or anywhere else... He had her permission now.

Giving a little nod, Susan beamed at him, glowing so bright she was wary of accidentally blinding him by mistake. "Yes." A pause. Then, "But you, most certainly, did not ask me."

Tom's mouth clamped over hers, his arms encircling her waist and holding her as near to him as he dared.

When he pulled away, reluctantly, mostly at her wordless insistence, through pushing upon his chest, to allow her a moment to breathe again, Susan murmured that she loved him.

Smirking, he teased, "I know – and you should." He informed her, frankly, how utterly delightful he happened to be, as well as rich and handsome.

Scowling, she reached under him and gave his elbow a sharp pinch.

"Ouch – that was in jest," laughed Tom, nuzzling her. "I do love you, really. I meant what I said before. Surely you believe me."

"Hmm. I might. Tell me, when did you know how you felt?"

"Why, the first time I saw you. Naturally."

She blew out her cheeks. "Liar," she panted. "What a bag of moonshine and whiskers!"

How could she say that? He wanted to know, looking somewhere between amused and genuinely wounded.

"Because, the first time you saw me, you called me an insolent little chit. You didn't love me then. You are making things up."

"You called me grandfather, and you threw mud at me," he defended, shrugging, the motion vibrating through her in the small space. "All was fair enough after that, I daresay. Though I own to some lack of courtesy, if you must have it so. But, you forget, Susie, the incident to which you refer was not the first time I saw you."

One of her pale, shining eyebrows arched. "Oh?"

"The very first time I saw you, you were a point of light in the sky – my lucky star. I had no reason to believe you'd bring me luck, but I did – I might not have understood it then, might have had no bloody idea what I really felt, but I did love you already."

Reaching up, Susan grasped his face and dragged it to hers. One of his legs wrapped itself over one of hers, and he moaned softly.

"D'you see that, Captain Wentworth?" One of the sailors pointed, with clear puzzlement, to a lifeboat which appeared to be glowing (a sort of brilliant light was shining through the canvass) and rocking rhythmically.

"Aye," said Frederick, dryly.

"Well, ought I not to go and see–"

"Don't," was all he said, and in a tone which was not to be trifled with. He cleared his throat, adding it was an order, not a suggestion.

"Where have you been?" Edmund asked, sometime later, when Tom came sauntering into the cabin and sat beside him, his countenance distant and dreamy.

Stretching his arms over his head, joints popping lightly, he sighed, a little exaggeratedly, "Oi, I'm exhausted."

Somewhere south of Everingham, riding along the Faerie countryside in a black carriage, pulled by four high-handed black horses which would have made Tom Bertram go fairly green with envy (especially after the forced abandonment of his unicorn), Henry Crawford twirled a speckled falcon feather – once belonging to Maddison in his bird form – between his index finger, middle finger, and thumb, gazing pensively into the middle distance.

He was looking through the window but was not seeing any of the land he passed.

Not properly, at any rate.

His thoughts were full of the little star which had gotten away – full of Fanny.

He could not forget how she had looked at him before she vanished; nor how delicate and soft, how remarkably good, her skin had been when had been as he'd prepared to hold her in place for his uncle to begin the process of relieving her of her beating, glowing heart.

While he was still intent on capturing her, his plans were not – at present – to kill her.

He was uncertain he could do so now, to one such as her, even if called upon to.

Yes, perhaps it had started out that way, his trifling with such a creature – his planning to assist his uncle in her murder, as he had done with the last star – and that, he knew, was very bad of him.

But he had not known her before.

This must be some defence for him, surely.

There was more than one way, after all, one must allow, to obtain somebody's heart – and they were not all the sort which involved physical acts of violence.

"I can make her happy," he mused, again twirling the feather, positive he could make her – at the very least – forget her first poor impression of him, and forget poor Maddison (that was admittedly unfortunate, but he had been no one, after all). "I can make her happier than she has ever yet been, happier than she has ever seen anyone else be; I can make her shine."

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