Those Prevailing Happy Stars
A Mansfield Park & Stardust fanfiction
Chapter Nine:
Captives & Crosses
"If you are happy, Susie, then I am – unabashedly, absolutely – happy for you." As they walked the length of the deck, taking a turn together about the ship, Fanny reached over to squeeze her younger sister's wrist.
"I am happy," said Susan, then halted in step and in voice. "That is, I believe I am – I believe I will be – with him." She bit her lower lip, swallowing hard before she released it. "But, do tell me, Fanny: d'you think it a good match? You do not feel I'm making a dreadful mistake?" Part of her, though she could not bring herself to confess it, not to her prim, sweet elder sister, was vaguely insecure after being – admittedly – rather too familiar with Tom in the lifeboat before. "I love him, I am so certain I love him, and yet..."
"I think," said Fanny, slowly, "you would be good for him – and he for you. He is a good man, if very self-focused at times. Indeed, I think – I thought before, when you did not yet – it is impossible, in a way, not to like Tom Bertram..."
"Is it... Is it him you doubt?"
"How do you mean, Susie?"
It pained her to ask, but she screwed her courage. There could be no turning back; she must be brave. "You are much more intuitive than me, Fanny – it matters to me what you think of his character beyond simply liking" – or even loving, in her sisterly way – "him."
"You know yourself what is right, dearest; there is no better guide than that which we have already within ourselves. What is it you're afraid of being wrong about?"
"Supposing he only wishes to make me Lady Bertram to have someone to look after his family and responsibilities. He loves me now, as I love him, but he might become restless. Only, suppose, he leaves me after we are wed, in charge of a great many things I do not have hope of understanding?"
"You must ask him not to do any such thing," advised Fanny, "and hope he obliges you. There is no more you can do with a person, any person. Unless you are perfectly convinced you could live without him."
Susan was 'perfectly convinced' of no such thing. Her cheeks were hot at the memory of being near him, and the thought of never being so again was enough to threaten an attack of the blue devils the likes of which she'd never experienced on behalf of another living soul.
"There is something more," she said at last, giving Fanny a sidelong guilt-laced look. "Our impending marriage will mean..." Her chest constricted painfully – she was so afraid of wounding her sister. "Well, it hinges upon Edmund being allowed to marry Miss Crawford." She practically spat the name. It had become nearly as hateful to her as it was to Fanny. "So their children will inherit Mansfield Park one day and it won't matter if Tom and I can have none of our own."
"Susie." Fanny shook her head, eyes streaming. "Your goodness, in fearing for me in this matter, is too much. I love you for it."
"Say – only say – this will be too much for you and I'll tell Tom I can never marry him." She closed her eyes and exhaled. "I would never sacrifice my love for you for the sake of my love for him. You're my sister, Fanny, first and for always."
"I can say nothing of the kind!" cried Fanny, aghast. "Indeed, it is moot – for Edmund is to marry Miss Crawford no matter what you do. And to come between you and your true love would be wicked spite – I could never – I shall never!"
Susan's composure began to crack; her tear-brimmed blue eyes opened again at this. "Oh, Fanny. Dearest sister."
"This must be about your happiness – yours and Tom's – never mind about me." Edmund was not for her regardless. "Marry Mr. Bertram and be happy, and then I can never be unhappy a day in my life knowing you are so."
"I have your blessing, you mean?"
"Oh," cried she; "oh, always."
And so the Price sisters, shining together like a pair of girl-shaped silver beacons, turned so they were facing and embraced one another tightly, arms locking about their small, slender frames.
While Tom was busying himself fiddling with a scrap of silver chain (the same chain he had won gambling at cards on the night he unknowingly obtained the stub of Babylon candle), mentally contemplating the possibility – distinct, yet unlikely – it, too, might hold some enchantment, Edmund – catching him alone in the cabin – approached him with a wary expression upon his face.
"Tom."
Tom's pale eyelashes fluttered as he glanced up quickly then back down at the chain again. "You look grave and pinched, to be sure – who spat in your breakfast this morning?"
"You can hardly suppose" – he cleared his throat tetchily – "it has escaped my attention you have been making – as of late – improper advances upon Susan Price."
He let the chain fall into his lap. Clink. "Ah. Have I, then?"
"To be sure, you have! I witnessed you pulling her into your lap after a few drinks on deck with the sailors, and there was much petting and fussing from your end."
"And Susan herself" – Tom couldn't resist goading his stiff-backed brother – "did she seem unduly distressed by my attentions?"
Edmund was here forced to admit she had not. "But trifling thus with her..." He went a touch green about the face. "Oh, Tom, it's nothing shy of monstrous and I will not stand for it!"
"Hmm, trifling, you say."
"Upon my word, I do!"
"You say so empathically, Reverend Bertram?"
"To be sure!"
"Well, before you set about casting me from your as yet non-existent congregation as some manner of pariah, I have some news for you – I know something of this matter you do not, and I daresay such knowledge will make all the difference."
Edmund blinked. "Is that right?"
"Aye, indeed." He rose from his place; his smile was slightly nicer now. "And here it is. Susan Price is to be my wife – I have made an offer, and she has consented. There was no trifling, and improper, in this instance, is a matter of your opinion and mine and their differing; it cannot matter so much when there's to be no scandal and no hurt and no broken hearts."
"Well," breathed Edmund, in considerable astonishment. "Well!"
"Is that all you can say?" laughed Tom.
"You truly are in earnest?" He found voice enough, at least, to say this.
His brother nodded, grinning. "When you bring Fanny to the Grants to present her to your Miss Crawford, I shall ask Dr. Grant – apoplectic and ill-liked fellow though he is – to make Susan Mrs. Thomas Bertram as soon as the banns are posted and our mother and father have been made aware of my choice."
"What a change is this!" Edmund marvelled. "From you wanting nothing but to have fun, wishing for nothing above more fish at cards, and to – of course – avoid your debtors, to having found and secured the affections of the woman you wish to become attached to."
Tom laughed merrily. "I know." He gave an almost giddy shake of the head. "I can scarcely believe it myself, scarcely credit how I have been so fortunate, so moved, but I am won, heart and soul; I am happier than I have ever been, I think. She is my lucky star, and we will be together always now."
"She is to you," Edmund said with only the kindest meaning, "what Mary is to me, I suppose."
Tom coughed pointedly into his hand. "Hem. I would not say that."
Edmund was not stupid; he understood his brother's hesitance in agreement for exactly what it was. "You do not think she really loves me, nor that I really love her."
He shrugged. "If you must know, if you must force me to say so, let us have it out at once. Nobody does, Edmund – nobody has. But the opinion of others can hardly matter if it is true love – if you told me, presently, you believed I should be ill-matched to Susan, I should merely accuse you of having cabbage for brains, then I should wed her regardless and prove you mistaken.
"If this is what you mean to do with Miss Crawford – your own beloved Mary – then I shall never say a word against her to you. Indeed, I am quite relying upon you having a great number of well-brought up boy-children with her – Susan shall bear me none, you know, being what she is."
Not knowing how to respond, confused and worried in spite of himself, Edmund pouted, and grumbled Tom indeed had cabbage for brains.
"Prove it, then," was Tom's only cool response as he sat back down and resumed his preoccupation with the little silver chain (he was thinking, now, of fashioning it into some sort of bracelet, perhaps, for Susan, a kind of belated engagement gift; this would be no easy task without a clasp, however). "I would, in your place."
Frederick and Anne were both well pleased to hear of Tom's intentions to marry Susan Price, although they had – of course, not in the least because of the rocking and glowing lifeboat incident which had, much to Edmund's horror when he heard of it from the sailors, been repeated twice since – already guessed this to be the case by the time they were properly told of the engagement.
At any rate, they would have been glad to keep their rescues turned passengers, newly engaged couple and all, on the Perdita with them longer, but as they were soon coming down for a landing – there was a large lake some few miles off the southern border of Stormhold with a good place for the ship to safety dock – from the clouds and did not know when the next venture would bring them any nearer the path through Faerie Edmund, Tom, Fanny, and Susan would need to take to return, eventually, to Wall, it was becoming clear they must make their plans for a near-imminent parting.
They had their final pleasures – Anne allowed Susan to keep a dusty-rose pelisse with tiny mother-of-pearl buttons which fit her especially well, paired with a pink silken muff Sir Walter had given her upon her marriage to Captain Wentworth, as an advance wedding present; Wentworth himself taught Edmund and Tom some new fencing manoeuvres they had not yet heard of, and who knew when they would yet come in handy; the sailors had a last jolly with dancing and wine on one of their remaining nights in the sky and all of them drank, and a great deal at that, to Susan and Tom's happy, prosperous future and good health; and Fanny, amidst all the laughter and games and innocent frivolities, let herself almost gleefully pretend, for some joyous hours under the moonlight streaming through stretched and streaky clouds, Edmund was for her, that any moment might produce an offer for her such as Tom had made to Susan, that there was no Miss Crawford hanging over them all – and the ship lowered itself slowly to accumulate everyone to the change in pressure.
For all Frederick's attempts to land gently, to not jolt or overturn anyone onboard, there was still a tremendous splash, and Tom and Susan – looking over the side with wanton curiosity at the moment of final descent – had a thorough drenching.
They laughed and slicked back their soaked hair, looking at each other askance with conspiratorial smiles.
"Well, you'll stay with us, one night more, while we get her unloaded and re-watered for our next venture, then it is still some days' walk – all the better if you can find a lift on a trustworthy fae-farmer's wagon and take considerable hours off this journey, but I should not much count upon it this time of year, were I you – until you are in the meadow beyond which you shall find Wall as you left it," said Wentworth, as they all began moving about again, rows of fingers uncurling from surfaces to which they had previously been holding for dear life in many cases, Edmund immediately taking seasick over the starboard side.
"I should not think," mused Tom, draping a curved arm lazily across Susan's shoulders as he spoke, "we would find Wall exactly as we left it – it must be different, by now it must be very different indeed. It has been long enough – we have been away long enough – for it to change in our absence."
Frederick gave him a knowing shake of the head. "Nay, friend, it will seem different to your eyes, make no mistake, but it will be the same really – you and Edmund may find you have changed, the people you re-enter into company with are bound to notice it more even than yourselves, but that little grey town never will. Such would be the greatest surprise in my lifetime if one brick were to be notably altered."
"D'you want to take a wager on that, Capitan Wentworth?" Tom's brow lifted. He was sure, if there was money involved to make it interesting, he could find one measly change in Wall, if he intentionally sought it out, and with very little difficulty, too. We all have our vices, after all, and love – true or not – does not cure them at once for love's own sake.
Susan elbowed him. "No gambling, if you please."
"Yes, my love, as you wish," he said aloud, somewhat dryly, though he was mouthing, to Frederick, some monetary amount or other.
She craned her neck to glare up at him. "I saw that."
"How?" he demanded, pursing his lips.
"How do you suppose, Mr. Bertram? I'm your lucky star – I see everything."
"Hmm. Is that right? And how many fingers am I holding up behind your chin here?" He waggled the aforementioned fingers, tickling her and blowing tauntingly against her earlobe. "Tell me, and I shall believe you to be perfectly omnipresent." He shifted slightly, grinning. "Never again shall I doubt you in anything you say if you can tell me this."
"Two."
"The devil take it!" His grin retracted and he gave an incredulous snort, pulling back his arm from around her. "It was a lucky guess, wasn't it?"
"Exactly. What else could it be? Is that not rather the point?" He couldn't argue with her there, and she looked very satisfied with herself.
She shall manage him fine, Fanny thought, observing their exchange; for all his faults, whatever she fears he will do to vex or wound her, Susan can handle him, and he'll never give her troubles she cannot cope with. She will be a good Lady Bertram, always with something to manage but never inclined to henpeck her husband or be a busybody to those in service under herself, and he a competent baronet, provided he looks more to his wife and horses and property for satisfaction and less to games of chance or London pleasure-seeking.
Ah.
At least their happiness, though not easy, seemed as near to guaranteed – if they kept on as they presently were – as any young couple can hope for. She believed even William would have had to approve of the match, if he were down here (she was sure he would admire Tom's better qualities and not despair of his worst) – although, like Edmund, she imagined he would have had something very sharp to say to them about how warm and over-familiar they had obviously been with one another prior to uttering any vows or exchanging proper rings; that was not the right way of things, and they must know this perfectly well.
Fanny thought, mulling over this, as well as her own private misery – growing every moment she drew nearer to losing Edmund forever – she tasted the salt of ocean spray upon her face, the salt of the sea, before she remembered they were on a lake, and realised, subsequently, what she tasted was nothing other than her own tears.
"You weep," murmured Edmund, coming and putting an arm around her, unknowing twisting in the knife further. "And you tremble so! Fanny, what is – what can be – the matter?"
I'm going to miss you – I love you. Mary Crawford will never be worthy of you – never. She shook her head vigorously and reached up to dry her eyes. "Nothing, it is nothing."
For her last night in the cabin, Fanny made the effort to sleep despite – being a star – the fact she never slept at night, usually. Susan was already changing in that regard – since her first coupling with Tom, she'd begun sleeping regularly, in the evening, very like a human. The world – their world – was changing – and Fanny knew she, very probably, must change along with it or be doomed to exist in the fragments of the past alone.
So she slept, and she dreamed of Edmund, who in this dream was her own, and of a white dress (Edmund had told her he loved a woman in white, and wished all brides would wear it rather than the usual garish, unbecoming colours) and a cake of white sugar (though she could not taste it for herself), and not until the cabin door was banged brutally open did she stir, rousing from these sweet dreams.
Tom rolled over – still half asleep – and grumbled, "D'you know it's five o'clock in the morning?"
But of course, the intruders knew it – they simply didn't care.
They were a large group, all in black velvet capes, flashing swords drawn, mouths downturned, led by Henry Crawford himself, whose valet had a knife to Frederick Wentworth's throat and was leading him in to show them all his master meant business.
"You bastard," hissed Tom.
"Henry, please," tried Edmund, leaping up and flinging back his blanket; "you cannot wish to do this."
"Come no closer," Henry told him in an even voice. "One more step and my man shall slit the captain's throat." His eyes darted to Frederick apologetically. "Nothing personal, you understand. And I hope, truly, if I am not obliged to kill you, you will still look favourably upon my uncle's dinner invitations in future."
Frederick only scowled. The gentleman must be mad!
"You bastard," Tom reiterated, then he angrily suggested Mr. Crawford do something which made Fanny colour scarlet and which Susan thought might be an anatomic impossibility.
"Tom!" rasped Edmund, shocked and distressed at such language.
"Edmund," he said back sarcastically, cutting his eyes.
"What do you want with us?" cried Susan. And – looking to Fanny – she made a rash choice. "Let my sister be. If you must kill one of us, for our heart, take mine."
"Do it, Crawford, and I'll have your head off your puny shoulders," growled Tom through bared teeth. "I will hunt you down like a dog, and I care nothing for how long it may take me to accomplish – you shall never be safe, never be free of me, if you harm her – d'you hear me?"
"Susie, no," whispered Fanny. Her sister was Tom's true love – nobody loved her, save her siblings, only one of which was on earth, and was soon to begin a new life; if one of them must be killed, it ought to be herself.
Clearing his throat, Henry declared that both stars were to leave with him and his men this moment – and, to be sure they tried nothing amiss, Anne Wentworth would accompany them; but he would send her back with a good will in two days' time.
Frederick blanched. Although the rest of his body remained still, not testing the readiness of Henry's sharp blade, his bone-white hands shook violently. No. Not Anne. Not his wife. They couldn't take her. She might not be a star, they might have no material need to murder her, but how could he trust the Crawfords to do her no harm? To send her back to him.
They had killed their own before, simply for getting in their way.
"I will go with you," Fanny told him, "only if you spare these others and leave them here."
"For you, Miss Price," and his voice was oddly tender, "I would do more than this, if it were in my power, if it were only possible, but – as matters stand – this is how it must be – you must trust me. I promise you will understand later."
"You tried to kill her!" exclaimed Susan, incredulous. How could she have ever, for even a fleeting moment, thought this mad person a better, truer gentleman than good, honest, loving Tom Bertram? "You killed our sister Mary – and now you ask Fanny to trust you? Are you insane? She's not going anywhere with you!"
He went on as if Susan had not spoken. "And, I fear, it will be my sad duty to kill the captain – your kind host – if my instructions are not followed. And at once."
Realising he and Susan were to be separated, that he had no hope of overpowering Henry – puny man though he was – with his present entourage and his man's blade to Frederick's throat, Tom's tear-brimmed eyes met Susan's blue ones across the cabin for the last time before she was taken. "I will find you again." He would rescue her. Somehow, some way, he would succeed in getting her and her sister back unharmed.
This might very well be her last chance to say it, Fanny realised, not in the least lacking faith in Tom's willingness to seek them out and save them but very much doubting his ability to do so before her heart was torn from her chest, and she looked to Edmund and choked out, "I love you, Edmund Bertram."
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple quivering. "And I love you, Fanny Price."
Her heart managed to sink and soar all at once; he loved her, she was dear to him, he had said to her, in return, the words she dreamed of, those three words she most longed to hear in the whole universe, words she could embed upon her heart and carry with her to her death now (she might die, with these words to guide her into the light, a smiling star at peace rather than a frightened, miserable creature); he had not understood her meaning, he thought she meant in general, and his return was exactly that – the assurance of brotherly affection.
Even Henry Crawford, his countenance untroubled, clearly took this to be a purely platonic exchange.
Still, Fanny's hands clutched her chest, as if she could keep the dear, unbearably precious words there, as if they were physical things she might hold to her bosom and take away with her as she was dragged from the ship.
The last thing to be heard, before they were out of range, was Tom exclaiming, "And you wish to marry into this family?" to Edmund. "Best of luck to you, I say. You'll certainly have need of it, and no mistake."
In the black carriage, driven – up front – by Henry, Susan and Fanny huddled, one on either side, against Anne Wentworth.
Susan's countenance was more stoic, staring straight ahead, at the opposite side of the carriage, albeit with an ashen face and red eyes; Fanny, though, buried her face in Anne's neck and sobbed into her collar bone while the captain's wife stroked her hair and whispered, as convincingly as she was able, it would be all right.
"Shh," whispered Anne. "Hush, dear one. We will think of something."
"Tom is going to find us," Susan murmured, almost more to herself than Fanny or Anne. "He promised."
There was anxious conference between the men regarding how they would get to the kidnapped ladies before Crawford could do them any harm.
Frederick was thinking of fast horses, or the chances of finding a Babylon candle from a trader; he knew a few who could be bribed with a bit of extra lightning. Edmund and Tom, however, were of the mind there wasn't any time for that. Who knew, after all, how much back and forth, how much questioning and waiting around, would be involved before horses would be obtained? Let alone a magical candle. And if they did have horses within the next minute, even, how would they know where to go? Presumably Henry would have taken his captives to Everingham, but that was some ways away – and, how could they know, with any measurable certainty, whether they were to be kept at his own dwellings or those of his uncle? Not to mention, Henry was a powerful warlock; if they dared enter a place under his protection by normal means, there might be magic trappings set up to keep them at bay, to keep them from getting to the stars and Wentworth's wife.
Henry must have a carriage – had they any hope of catching up to it before the captives reached their final destination?
It was a cheering thought, but the more it was dwelt upon, the grimmer its odds seemed. They would still need to obtain horses, and Henry had transportation – swift transportation, no doubt – already.
"We have to use the cross," said Tom, jaw set in determination. "It brought us to them once before."
Edmund was apprehensive. "Yes, it did, but – Tom – you forget it is nearly used up – it will never carry all three of us to Everingham. Susan told us it could scarcely be counted upon to carry two persons, let alone three. And we can risk no mistakes."
"I could go myself," Frederick offered. He was, he pointed out, the more skilled fighter and swordsman of the three of them, as well as the eldest, and he was familiar with Admiral Crawford. "I feel at fault for ever admitting ladies onboard – it was loneliness for my wife's company which made me establish Anne at my side, a weakness I was warned, and vehemently denied, I should have once I was a married man – and it was I do not even know what to call it which possessed me to have those poor stars here for any extended period of time; other accommodations should have been made for you all after the rescue, that was inevitable, and this all might have been prevented. Once, I would have throttled myself for..." He trailed off. "No, I must remedy this. I must make right what I have..."
"You rhapsodise, sir, and speak a lot of nothing, and it does you little credit – hem – with all due respect," said Tom, dismissive of the captain's entire rummy speech. He judged it to be neither here nor there, at any rate.
"But if I am the one to go," Edmund argued, "I'm slighter than either of you and may use less of the cross's power. Moreover, Crawford knows how his sister feels about me."
"For pity's sake, Edmund, will you never get it through your thick skull? Nobody knows how Mary Crawford feels about you," snorted Tom, cracking his knuckles against the walls of the cabin. Pop, pop, pop. It was only by doing this he could resist outright punching them. "Not even Mary Crawford herself."
"My point being," he pressed, "he may think to spare me for his sister's sake."
But Tom was in favour of himself being the one to go – he had promised Susan to find them; he was older and stronger – though not by much – than Edmund but younger and stealthier than Frederick; his intended was in more immediate danger, being what she was, than Frederick's wife; he was more of a dirty fighter than Edmund by nature, who would – he felt – never be on guard against any sneaky attacks Crawford might spring upon him in his desperation not to lose the prizes obtained for his uncle.
The argument was not a terrible one, and this made Frederick go very pale indeed. How to explain to Tom it would be particularly unsafe for him to go – how to explain his being harmed, especially if could be claimed (all the more so truly) to be an accident, by Henry would only further the cause of the Crawford family, as it would put Edmund in line for a baronetcy and remove any lasting hesitancy on Miss Crawford's part in accepting his offer of marriage?
Words were insufficient and they were losing valuable time.
"I cannot, in good faith," said Frederick, at last, a trifle lamely, "advise Tom to go to Everingham."
"It ought to be me," Edmund declared again. "I feel certain I can reason with Mr. Crawford. Particularly if Henry is away from his uncle. Mary never liked the Admiral, I don't think, it was why she was in Wall to begin with, but she admired her brother – he may be reasonable if away from–"
"He's a bloody murderer. Or have you already forgotten that trifling fact? D'you suppose an hour's tête-à-tête will remedy the ways of a determined, twice-proven killer?" Tom looked very grave at his brother, whose own expression was wounded at his sharpness. "Fine." He let his head sag forward and gave a heavy sigh. "Tell you what." He held out his hand. "Scissors, Stone, Paper. On three."
Her lower lip trembling, Susan inhaled deeply and wrapped her fingers around the gleaming chestnut bannister, glancing down from the landing into the main banquet hall.
Although no servants were in view, objects yet moved into place, plates and goblets set themselves beside rows of golden knives and forks studded with blood-red rubies, candle's wicks flamed up unaided. There was an abundance of food – despite it being a waste, since none besides Henry Crawford, his men, and Anne could physically eat it without becoming ill – and music played, the highest notes of strings and flutes, without a single visible musician.
It had all happened so quickly.
Crawford had gotten them to his home, no Admiral in sight (and that was a small relief), explained his intentions, and – like magic, because likely that is exactly what it was – all the preparations were done before a refusal could be uttered.
Suddenly something was flying right at her.
Susan was obliged to let go of the banister twice as hastily as she'd grabbed onto it and to take several quick steps back.
A moment later, she was pinned to the carpet, Tom Bertram sitting on top of her, Fanny's cross – barely an amber-hued twinkle left to it – dangling from his neck.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she gazed up at him, her eyes brimming with warmth. "I knew you'd come."
"Naturally." He stood and, offering his spread hands, started to help her up after him. "I beg your pardon for the landing – I didn't realise thinking of you so intently would literally catapult me on top of you like a magical flying moron."
"It is no matter, but what took you so long?" she breathed.
"So long? What's that, has it been? How long can it have possibly been?"
"A couple of hours – time enough to..."
"I wonder if time works differently in Crawford's realm – we decided everything between us – Edmund, myself, Wentworth – in under fifteen minutes!" He started to spin quickly, searching for Fanny and Anne. "Fanny?" Did he dare ask? "Wherever is–"
A loud, wet sob escaped Susan, despite her best efforts.
Tom's reaction was visceral; he felt himself tremble violently until his teeth were set to chattering. Could he be too late? He was not much of a praying gentleman – that was all Edmund's area – but he had the urge to implore the good Lord to spare them now. God, let him not be too late... "Crawford has not already...?" His hands grasped her arms, urging her to face him and not turn away. "Susan, tell me what's happened."
Susan shook her head. "She's alive – Mr. Crawford isn't going to kill her."
"Forgive me" – he blinked, for the first time noticing how well-dressed Susan was, in a wide-skirted golden gown and diamond necklace and heavy silver earrings, as if for a formal occasion; she was beautiful, utterly breathtaking, now he studied her appearance properly, and no mistake, but this struck him as odd attire to be wearing for her sister's forthcoming execution... (The devil did Crawford think he was playing at?) – "I do not understand."
"Oh, Tom," she sniffed, "how...? How can I begin to explain? Something extraordinary has got into him since the last time – he claims to be in love with her – with poor Fanny – he's going to force her to marry him."
A/N: Reviews Welcome, replies may be delayed.