Those Prevailing Happy Stars
A Mansfield Park & Stardust fanfiction
Chapter Ten:
A Neglected Fall
Marriage was it, not murder?
Very curious indeed.
Tom was stunned, then stricken. So much so he – uncharacteristically – refrained from making a jest regarding which could be the worse – the greater evil – of the two: marriage to a murderer or to be the murderer's next victim.
He did have the unpleasant thought, once Henry ceased to love Fanny – or at least ceased to fancy he did so – wife or no, she might yet become the latter; her heart, with its magical capacities, must always provide ready temptation.
Although, to be sure, Henry was an oddity, for Tom could not – despite seething near-hatred – be sure of his wickedness in light of this new information.
Could a murderer, twice over, retain enough of the gentleman in himself to restrain him from harming an innocent once he claimed reformation (or, as Tom grimly supposed, was a relapse inevitable)? Was he in the wrong to have insisted Edmund – after losing Scissors, Stone, Paper – give in and allow him to perform this rescue in his own way? Could Mr. Crawford have been reasoned with as Edmund had supposed? Tom had imagined this to be pure naivety, yet – for this one moment – he doubted.
If there ever was a woman in the world endearing and mild – and pretty-faced to boot – enough to temp a former sinner – wicked warlock or no – it might well, might easily, be Fanny; she was very sweet.
This was what frightened Tom most: Fanny did not – presumably could not – fight. He had tried, and failed, to teach her defence. Without intervention, it would hardly matter if Henry was truly in love with the poor star or not, he would have her in the end. If it were not for the fact he had murdered her sister Mary, had tasted that star's heart, Tom might even think Fanny would give herself voluntarily – even very voluntarily – to Henry Crawford, for lack of hope elsewhere.
"But, Susie, take me with you – I cannot comprehend – what of the Admiral? Has Mr. Crawford spoken with his uncle? Have they consulted? Is he a willing attendant of this mad wedding to be?"
The diamonds at her throat caught the light, flashing and twinkling, as she shook her head. "He knows his uncle too well to consult him – he is determined Admiral Crawford will know nothing of this until it is settled beyond all interference, until Fanny is his, wedded and" – Susan's cheeks darkened – "bedded."
Tom didn't think much of this plan. "Perhaps he is in love with her – only an idiot in love would suppose such a scheme could be successful! What, does he think his uncle will no longer want a star's heart once–" He paled. "Oh, God, yours. He's going to–"
"No," said Susan. "I do not think so. He claims he will not hurt me – or allow the Admiral to do so – for Fanny's sake. He means to let me go – says he means to let me go – when he returns Anne to Captain Wentworth."
"Queer fellow!" cried Tom. "What a mystery his mind is! But, again, what of that uncle of his? How does he think to manage him? With what can he placate him now?"
"Mercy! Keep your voice down, Tom, someone will hear – Mr. Crawford's servants are spies for him. They are not all as readily turned as Maddison was." Then, eyes darting, her own voice lowered, "He believes once Admiral Crawford knows Fanny as a person – rather than an object to be obtained – he will love her, too."
"And the moon is made of cheese," Tom snorted.
Susan gasped, ducking and dragging Tom down with her. "Someone comes below!"
Peering out, Tom laughed, "Why, it's Mr. Rushworth – he is not dead!" Maria might be pleased not to be a widow before she was even married. Good for her. "Hasn't Crawford killed him, too? He is not suddenly in love with Mr. Rushworth also, is he?"
They watched the heavy-set gentleman seat himself at the feast table, glancing about him as if wondering when the others were to show up, then sneaking a sample of what appeared to be a bit of pork in cream sauce.
"I had forgotten him," Susan admitted, "but he's here too – for the wedding."
"Dash it all – I suppose I shall have to rescue him as well." This did not appeal, was rather a damper to the plan. "So much for grabbing Fanny and Anne and running like anything – Rushworth cannot run very fast unless there is a dessert service involved."
"Look." Susan pointed. "There is Fanny now, and Anne."
To be sure, there they were. Anne in a handsome grey dress and bonnet with pink ribbons, Fanny in her wedding things, which appeared to be in a rather ironic and vivid shade of crimson.
"What's this, by Jove?" he exclaimed, trying not to speak too loudly despite his surprise. "Have we missed the ceremony?"
"Apparently it is a tradition in Crawford's kingdom – in Everingham – to have the feast before the ceremony."
"The deuce has Crawford gotten poor Fanny dressed up like a giant blood blister for? That shade is not her most flattering colour."
"I'm given to understand those were his and Miss Crawford's mother's wedding clothes."
"Musty old rags," muttered Tom, uncharitably.
Susan sighed. "I'm going to be expected any moment now. What is the plan?"
"Heaven preserve us, is Rushworth singing?"
Indeed, Mr. Rushworth had left his place at the table and – standing before them – begun to sing a cheerful wedding tune that was in style several years prior.
Susan snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Pray, focus!"
"Yes, yes" – Tom cut his eyes – "I'm with you. We shall descend together and put an end to this."
"You have a weapon?"
"Erm – hem – no."
Susan groaned.
"Relax – I'll improvise."
"With what, Scissors, Paper, Stone?"
"Oi, I don't criticise your tried-and-true methods of conflict resolution!" snapped Tom, glaring.
Gnawing anxiously upon her lower lip, Susan looked over her shoulder. Then she dashed to the other side of the landing, where she snatched a sword from the gauntlet of a decorative suit of armour. "Here, have this!" And she tossed the sword to Tom.
"I shall deny it if you tell anyone, but I haven't the foggiest idea what I'm doing."
Susan grasped the gauntlet itself, wrenching it from the suit of armour, and held it aloft as a defensive weapon of her own. "Hmm, well, I know what I'm bloody doing!"
"Lord help me, I adore you," sighed Tom, gazing on her with shining, sentimental light eyes. "Come on, let us get this over with."
Their arrival at the bottom of the staircase interrupted Rushworth's song, and the gentleman looked quite put out by this, but Tom hadn't the time to worry about his feelings – besides, Rushworth ought to be grateful they weren't simply abandoning him here; he was lucky to even be included in this rescue mission, all things considered – immediately rushing to Crawford and demanding he stand up and fight him (or, of course, if he felt inclined to surrender at once and release the ladies, that was all right, too).
Henry sucked his teeth in clear annoyance. "I am standing up, Bertram." He had risen to his feet the moment he saw Susan was not alone.
"Oh. Right. Sorry. I forgot – for a second there – how small you are."
"We have been through this, Bertram – I'm five foot eight!"
"You're certainly not!" laughed Rushworth, as if this were the funniest thing he'd ever heard in his life. "To be sure, Mr. Crawford, you are not."
"Oh, yes," blurted Tom, "and by the way, I demand you release Mr. Rushworth as well as the other hostages."
Henry sighed heavily. "This is a mite humiliating, but Rushworth is most assuredly not my hostage – I didn't even invite him to my wedding – I simply have not been able to shake the man's company since the inn."
"You didn't arrange for him to sing?"
"I did not."
"Oh. That is awkward – very awkward for you."
"I did not invite you, either," Henry pointed out, "but as you are here now – if you will put the sword down – you do look foolish, it is practically blunted – Fanny and I will be pleased to have you for a guest and witness to our marriage as well. I have been made to understand you are to marry her sister, as mine is to marry your brother, and we shall, soon enough, be family in more ways – more directions – than one."
Fanny gave a nervous, wheezing cough. She sounded dreadful.
"Fanny, are you all right?" Tom reached to put a hand on her shoulder before Henry swatted him away.
"She's fine," he insisted.
She certainly didn't look it – she was pale as anything under her red dress and veil. She glanced up at Tom with the most tired, most unabashedly pained eyes he had ever seen.
"Crawford, the blazes have you done to her?"
"Nothing – I made her an offer of marriage, and she became lethargic – but she will soon perk up – she will be better cared for by the people of Everingham, as a beloved leader, the wife of a respected warlock, than she has ever been in her life."
"You idiot, she's crying," exclaimed Tom, disgusted. "Can't you see she's unhappy? Let her go. If truly you love her as you claim, you can see – you must see – it is the right thing to do. She, you must allow, does not love you."
But Henry was too vain to allow for any such thing. "She does love me; only she does not know it herself yet; she has had a shock, no mistake, because of the past and never having thought on the subject before my offer, and – were it possible, were I able to delay my uncle's next visit – I should hold off the wedding until I had forced her out of this misery and made her see things as they are. As the matter stands, this must be for the best."
"I'm taking her home," said Tom with a firmness that sent warmth flooding through Fanny's formerly despondent heart – she began to shine a little. "She is not for you, Crawford. If she cannot return to the sky, even that does not signify. She will have a new home. Fanny is my sister-in-law and will live at Mansfield Park, as long as she wishes to, with my wife – she can be company for my mother and that yapping pug of hers – I will arrange everything." He coughed and looked at her. "With her consent, naturally."
"I consent!" exclaimed Fanny, flaring to life, eager for this manner of deliverance. To be with Tom and Susan – even having to see Edmund and Mary together – to be safe from Henry – was all she wished for, all she had longed for, all she had despaired of, over the last couple of hours. "Please, brother, take me with you." Oh, take me away from here!
"You realise, of course," said Henry, slowly, almost as if he truly regretted this, "I cannot let you take her from me."
Tom did see – he sensed – not without a twinge of fear – he was pitted against an iron will; Henry was as desperate to keep Fanny as he himself was to rescue her. Neither, bound by such a mix of honour and want, could back down. And he saw more than simply that – he saw what Frederick had tried his best to keep from him before; part of Henry desired this fight, for all he did not wish personally to harm Tom Bertram, for his sister's sake, because he knew he would – knew he must – win in the end, to the joy and elevation of all involved.
Tom was an obstacle which must be overcome, an obstacle which must be removed.
And yet Tom was still caught severely off guard, even knowing all this in an instant. He had supposed – warlock or no – Mr. Crawford would draw his own sword and they would fight, on equal enough ground, until one was the clear victor, and the girls were freed or forced to remain; he counted not at all upon the fact that, as he had declared the duel, Henry must – by gentleman's code – have the right of deciding upon choice of weapons.
It was not sword nor pistol Tom was up against, for Henry chose what Tom could not copy: he chose magic.
(Susan had lurched forward, thinking to help him when she realised there had been treachery, but the gauntlet in her hands had become nothing but iron dust and her blood ran cold with horror.)
A mere flick of Mr. Crawford's wrist called up what could only be called a contrary wind and sent the elder Bertram brother – limbs all sprawled – across the length of the room and high up into the air.
His body hit the wall at such a precarious angle, neck twisted about the wrong way, so near the moulding around the ceiling, that when Susan fancied she heard a sickening crack upon impact, she sank to her knees and shrieked – in that ugly moment, she was more than half convinced he was dead.
Henry had surely killed him.
Then (very much alive after all) he murmured, "Oof," and, still buoyed by the wind Crawford had called up, still held in place, he licked uncomfortably at the thin trickle of blood running down the side of his mouth.
Susan's heart hammered in her chest, and she tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't hold her and she sank back down again, her golden dress flared out around her. She would have been a striking sight if she were not so pale and grave. Anne was at her side, trying to support her by the arms, telling her to lean against her until she could rise on her own and urging her not to fall into a swoon.
Thinking she had lost Tom, and so quickly and senselessly at that, had indeed made hundreds of little black dots flood her vision.
"I do not ask for this," sighed Henry, holding an arm aloft. "Relent, Bertram, bless my marriage, agree to stand aside, and I will let you live." Ah, poor Mary would have to deal with either choosing Mr. Elliot or being wed to a younger brother with little fortune and a profession she despised. Unless Tom did not relent, of course – unless he even now refused. Let the choice be upon his own head.
Tom was uncertain whether the wind was actively choking him, via more of Crawford's magic, or if he'd simply been knocked to the wall and against the ceiling so hard he could not catch his breath by any natural means.
After several failed tries, he managed to wheeze out, more blood dribbling from his mouth, "G-go to Hell, Crawford."
"I gave you a chance, do not forget it."
The golden cutlery on the – now shaking – table began to rattle violently and to fly upwards. The sharp ends of many expensive, glistening knives and forks were positioned to aim straight for Tom's heart.
Susan nearly lost her head, screaming like a banshee, unwilling or simply unable to be quieted or even mildly subdued by Anne's frantic encouragement and attempts to muffle her, but it was Fanny who intervened – Fanny who rose from her place and flung herself at Henry, snarling.
Henry's focus no longer on him, Tom dropped – plummeting down from what must have been a considerable length of absent floors, for the ceiling was high and he was well above the point where the landing was situated – to the floor.
Susan and Anne were by him in an instant. He was clutching at his side, the fall had injured him there, but he insisted – as well he could – it was nothing so very bad; nothing, he groaned, spitting more blood, a few drinks when they got out of this damn place, wouldn't set right.
"There's no cause to be speaking of drinks – or anything else – just now," said Anne, practically. "If you are hurt you ought not to try to speak so. Are you hurt?"
"I've just," he wheezed, speaking hoarsely through stained-red lips, "fallen from an egregious height – it is not that I'm hurt, for pity's sake! Really! Upon m'word, women sometimes don't know which way to look. Can you ladies not see for yourselves I've merely been rendered unconscious?"
They carefully placed his head in Anne's lap while Susan fussed over him, trying to see where he was hurt – tugging at his shirt in an effort to pull it up and check – despite his shooing her off, insisting she help Fanny.
Anne, who knew enough about stubborn and injured people from personal experience to hold her tongue, refrained from commenting upon how he was making a great deal of fuss and giving his fiancée rather a lot of orders for a man who claimed to be unconscious.
Turning his head, the crumpled folds of Anne's skirt pressing into his sore cheek as he moved, Tom witnessed the oddest sight in the world: Fanny actually fighting someone, albeit Henry – tooth and claw, biting and raining blows like a deranged savage.
How could this be the same endlessly docile creature he had sat on and taunted in every manner he could think up and who wouldn't – for all of that effort on his end – raise even a finger against him onboard the Perdita?
And yet...
Here was the evidence, before his very eyes.
Now, at last, she was angry.
Fanny landed sharp kicks which made Henry cry out involuntarily, and – evidently – Tom had successfully taught her something, because even the small defences Henry attempted to subdue her – the most he could manage before overpowering her without doing her accidental harm – were blocked with the efficiency of a student who had certainly been listening if not performing at the time.
Being of short stature did not mean, of course, Henry was not still taller than Fanny herself, nor that his strength (even if, unlike with Tom, who he'd pinned to the ceiling with only the smallest hesitation, he was unwilling to use magic against her in case it went awry) was not superior to her own. He used this to his advantage as best he could, and he managed to back her into a corner, trying to subdue her while she fought as if everything depended upon her winning.
She wore him down in the end.
Moreover, she was glowing more silver than grey, radiating an angry, defensive light like an aura all around her person.
"What are you doing this for?" Henry demanded when he could speak, gazing at her in awe as she tried to duck under his outstretched arm and spin away from his grasp. "Fanny – dearest Fanny – I cannot change what happened to your sister, but I can mend myself – I can be better – I can make you happy. I can be worthy of you and your forgiveness."
"But you have learned nothing," she cried, reaching behind herself, groping for something to use as a weapon in case he lunged at her after this speech. Regrettably there seemed to be nothing suitable within reach. "You do it all over again! This gallantry you present me now is but a trifle! You mean to deceive me for the hour, to obtain your wish – to have my hand." And this she was certain he would soon tire of once he'd gotten it; she could not make him happy, even were he not a murderer. "Improper, unworthy! Such cruelty, and you act as if you are a reformed gentleman."
"In what way am I unworthy? Have I not proved myself?" He stood stunned with rising incredulity. "I shall let nothing harm the sister you have with you now – no harm will come to Susan; I have promised you."
"Yes, you have promised to spare my sister" – for now – "but you nearly did in my brother before my eyes. A brother who did no more than defend a sister from an unrequited suitor!"
Ah, Tom – yes. Henry began to understand her. This was her naturally tender heart at work. Although, how to reconcile this tenderness, this gentle manner and pure goodness which had captivated him so, with the vicious creature who kicked and bit and was still looking at him with the light eyes of a crouching wolf ready to spring... That much was still well beyond his comprehension.
"There is," he marvelled, caught somewhere between hope and defeat. "That is, you have – oh, dearest – you have some touches of the avenging angel in you."
She did not know about angels, but she concurred she would never give him a moment's peace, even should he succeed in wearing her down, stopping her escape; he would have a wife not only taken by force but with an endless desire to obtain justice for the siblings he had killed.
"I can make you forget – in time."
She almost – almost – felt sorry for him. It must be dreadful to be trapped in a mind whose natural inclination was such thinking. How could you – even fancying yourself loved – not be, in reality, cut off emotionally from the world if you were so uncharitable towards those you claimed to esteem about the rest? Was it so with his uncle, with his sister?
"Henry." She used his first name, and he started at the sound of it on her lips and in the timbre her soft voice. "In the little you have seen of me, do I at all appear to you as finding opposition charming? Can you think it will make me love you? Consult your understanding." She knew him to be intelligent. There were no stupid warlocks who could control winds and successfully track a pair of stars across Faerie. "Henry, think. Please."
Set jaw trembling, Henry looked from her to Tom – his bruised head still lolling in Anne Wentworth's lap – and to Susan, who approached them with a gold knife in her hand, prepared to join Fanny in fighting him if they must reassume physical battling.
He could fight them; he could win; he could drag Fanny away as a captive bride.
Her heart would be his, but it would be a jaded, angry heart – useless and hard and shining only with malice, never with real warmth, never with the kind of love he wanted from her.
Fanny was right; he was, for all his faults and sins, intelligent.
He had sense enough to know he had blundered here; he had, in his eagerness to have all agreed upon and set before his uncle could know of and prevent it, introduced an unwelcome novelty.
He was yet her oppressor when he declared himself her lover.
She must have time, away from him, to consider his great love, then he might find her again and find her heart receptive.
If her attachment to Tom was so great, she must adore Edmund as well – indeed, he had heard her say how she loved him, in her parting words on the Perdita; she must be his reward in a reasonable time from this beloved brother of a brother marrying his sister. They were – if Mary's dislike for the clergy and poverty could be overcome by Edmund's perseverance and displays of great love – to be linked irrevocably; he was to have another chance.
But not if he – despite longing to, and in more ways than one, for fighting had got his blood pumping and somewhat aroused him – forced his affections upon her now.
If he released her, allowed Edmund to present her to Mary... Why, perhaps Mary herself might plead his case; friends of his sister were always inclined to be fond of him!
There was considerable risk, though.
His uncle might get some notion of what was occurring and take matters into his own hands...
But what of the risk of losing her heart – of it being closed to him for always – if Tom died here...?
If Susan were made a widow before she was even a bride, Fanny would be prejudiced out of his favour.
Everything in him resisted, but he pushed the words past his teeth and lips. He stepped aside, allowing his shoulders to relax. "Go – I free you. All of you. Leave and go where you will; I have done."
"Truly?" breathed Fanny, scarcely daring to believe the good in him – such as it was – had won out when it was most needed.
"I have one condition, however."
"What is it?" She was frightened and struggling not to show it. What would he ask of her? Something she couldn't give to him?
"You must grant me forgiveness for the death of your sister."
Now she was pained. Even for her, this was not an easy thing. Still, the words she spoke came from her heart. He was a warlock and would have known if she lied. "I forgive you, Henry Crawford, and I do hope your uncle will be kind to – shall not be cross with – you."
"He will be put out, but never mind that, Fanny – what matters is you go now, but we shall meet again."
She could not fathom another meeting, but only nodded.
He seemed to guess at her doubt. "When we meet again, you will like me better – absence, distance, time shall speak for me. These three shall prove that, as far as you can be deserved by anybody, I do deserve you. Even in your great anger, my star, I am not frightened. For he who sees and worships your merit–"
"Hem, hem. Do speed it up, Crawford," groaned Tom. The blood around his lips had dried, although he still looked rather terrible. "I'm jolly grateful you're letting us go, what" – however much he wished Henry might have reached this magnanimous conclusion before pinning him to the damned ceiling and nearly snapping his neck – "but is this lengthy soliloquy necessary prior to your doing so?"
"Fine. Go, and I shall say no more, but take Rushworth with you for God's sake and spare me as I have spared you."
Mr. Rushworth was mildly offended, thinking Crawford – proving to be the mean little gentleman he had suspected at first – offered him uncalled-for insult considering he'd generously attended and sang at his wedding feast, expecting no great gift in return save a meal and a bit of a jolly, however he could reasonably say very little when he had done next nothing this whole time apart from hide under the feasting table, arms above his head in a ducking position, whimpering, "Kill me last, kill me last," while Tom was being flung into a wall and a star, an unarmed young lady who shone like there was a lantern under her pale skin, battled his warlock host after he crashed to the floor.
Yes... This day was hardly his finest moment. The less attention he drew to his own conduct, for the time being, the better. What would he say if an unfavourable report were to get back to Tom's sister Maria, who he still hoped to marry?
Fanny looked back at Henry as they made their way to the end of the hall, limping and leaning on each other all except for sheepish Mr. Rushworth who walked at their side wringing his hands – a sorry-looking party indeed – although none of the others did so.
"Fear not, dearest sweet Fanny, we shall meet again very soon to great mutual satisfaction, this is but a pause in our acquaintanceship," called the warlock, as if this could be her only remaining worry.
Even now, he did not understand the object of his affections – did not comprehend her heart – at all.
"I hope I do see him again," murmured Fanny as soon as they were out of doors, and Susan gawked at her in astonishment.
"Do you?" she asked.
"Indeed, I do; I hope to see him again very much – I did not realise it until this moment, but I truly do – only I pray it shall not be until he is the husband of some other woman." Then, she imagined, almost at peace as she tore the remains of her dark wedding veil from her head (it was ruined from her fighting and scuffling, but the dress was mostly intact and she had the idea, as it was a family heirloom, she would send it back to him somehow), she would have nothing left to wish for.
Nothing left to wish for if one did not count the manner in which her pulsing, glowing, beating heart always and forever wished for Edmund's in exchange, as if his name were inscribed upon it.
As they had not known where Tom would find the ladies, the plans made at the last minute on the Perdita were somewhat fluid – flexible, hardly set in stone – but the overall idea of them was, if Henry had indeed taken them somewhere in Everingham, Tom was to bring them – if he succeeded – to an inn Frederick knew of just on the opposite side of the south-west border.
It was, technically, out of Henry's domain – little as that counted for – and they were less likely to be surrounded by spies for the warlock who were set on capturing them and returning them to their master in hope of lavish rewards.
How practical this would end up being, they had not guessed, but worn as he was and with no better option occurring to him as they stood outside of Mr. Crawford's residence, this was where Tom told them all they should be getting to.
How was a bit trickier. Susan and Mr. Rushworth were the only ones who seemed strong enough presently to walk any great distance unaided – even Anne was fagged.
Still, Tom was loath to accept the first offer of a ride from a passing carriage; it was a nobleman who claimed to be of the court of the King of Stormhold, and he was willing to take passengers a ways down the road for a price (which Susan forced Mr. Rushworth to pay in the end by sticking her hand into his jacket pockets and pulling out a fistful of coins she did not herself understand the value of), however, Tom was unconvinced he was not employed by Crawford, either the nephew or the uncle. It was Fanny who made the final call to accept the offer, right before her sister produced Rushworth's coins; she didn't trust him, exactly, but she believed Henry Crawford meant what he said, about wishing to meet her later (it was extraordinary, but she was almost starting to think perhaps he really did love her, in his selfish way, because of how unhappy he had looked in that final glance they shared), and thus could see no benefit to his purpose in such a mean trick.
Susan spent the journey in great fear for Tom's well-being; he had not even stopped to briefly glance at the horses pulling the carriage before they climbed inside – that was not like him at all.
It all seemed intolerably long – they all seemed to be holding their breath, save Mr. Rushworth – wondering what, next, was to become of them.
They did eventually reach the inn and Frederick and Edmund met them there half a day later, much to their relief.
Frederick and Anne embraced, and the captain stroked his wife's hair and cupped her cheeks, kissing her repeatedly and demanding to know if she was all right.
Edmund put out his arms for Fanny, but it somehow became more of a group embrace, as he happened to pull a very unsteady and groggy Tom into it as well. Then he wanted to know Susan, too, was unharmed.
She started to say she was fine but was unsure about Tom, only her fiancée cleared his throat and cut her off, not letting her finish; he insisted all he needed was a good drink.
"You've been drinking a great deal," whispered Susan, "ever since we got here. Edmund is going to imagine you are only intoxicated, why not show him where you were hurt and–"
But Tom waved her off.
After another round of strong mead at the tavern on the ground floor of the inn, Tom took her hand and began tugging her towards the staircase; Susan thought she would rather not go with him, only she was afraid of his falling down again or choking on his own sick even if he did make it up to his room.
He did in fact almost slump over the railing and crash down a full flight of stairs for his best efforts, Susan luckily being on hand to catch him; then she, after dragging him through two sets of double doors, deposited him onto his bed.
She meant to pull herself away, to leave him to sleep, if he would, but he grasped her shoulders and held her to him.
"Tom–"
He silenced her with a series of – rather rough – kisses. All of which tasted like drink and foul breath and were not very nice or enjoyable for her. The touch of his hands, feeling and groping at her, while clumsy and demanding, were not nearly as unpleasant. It was difficult not to automatically respond. She didn't push him back into his pillows in a huff of annoyance when he began lifting her golden skirt (she still wore the elaborate wedding-feast dress from Everingham) and feeling up her layers of frilly petticoats underneath, although – as soon as his mouth moved from being over hers to being on her neck – she murmured she didn't think now was the best time.
"I don't think I want to, Tom – please, not like this."
His hands withdrew themselves obligingly, and she felt the heavy skirts tumbling back down into place save where her position made them bunch. Her chest heaved up and down, and she felt a twinge of regret; whatever he was doing there had begun to feel good even as he was slobbering all over the side of her neck and onto her shoulder in the bargain.
The mixture of pleasure and vague disgust melted away when she saw how he was looking at her – his eyes were more unfocused than they'd been in the carriage, or in the last day, or even since helping him up the stairs a few minutes ago.
There were beads of sweat rolling down his face.
She touched his brow with the back of her hand and found it was fairly flaming.
He was acting – somewhat – irrationally because he was ill, not merely because he was trying to mask his injury with bravado and drunkenness.
"What is the matter?" she whimpered, giving him a little frightened shake, not knowing what to do. Stars didn't get these types of illnesses. As a matter of fact, they had cures in the sky for almost every serious aliment save general frailness and delicacy (such as Fanny was unfortunate enough to suffer from). "What can I do?"
His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he slumped back onto the pillow, breathing shallowly.
"Wake up," gasped Susan, shaking him again, harder, agitatedly. "Oh, God, please no – please wake up. Don't sleep like this, you idiot, you aren't well!"
For all the good it did, she might as well have been shaking a Tom-sized ragdoll. He was utterly unresponsive.
With a shriek of terror, she leaped off the bed and ran to get Edmund, hoping he would know what to do.
Edmund came at Susan's bidding into the room. "It's not your fault," he assured her, while Fanny – who had followed them in – put her arms around her and rubbed her back. "My brother has brought on a fever from a neglected injury. I take it he got this while fighting Mr. Crawford?" He peeled back Tom's shirt to reveal a putrid gash surrounded by purple skin and rapid swelling. "He's barely even bound it to halt the bleeding – and all the drinking he's done this evening alone..."
"He said," Susan choked out through her sobs. "H-he said it made the pain less. I thought something else needed doing, but I wasn't sure what."
"He's hard-headed, and you know it," Edmund said softly. "You couldn't have dissuaded him."
Susan didn't believe that – she was going to be his wife; therefore, she should have been able to dissuade him. She should have been able to make him listen to her.
The injury which caused all this was because he came to rescue them! This was her fault. If she could have protected her own sister from Henry Crawford, Tom wouldn't have been...
She had never supposed...
"We need to send for a doctor," was Edmund's next statement, despite his being uncertain about the quality of Faerie doctors. A Fae doctor mightn't even know about bleeding or leeches; surely, all their magic aside, they must be behind the mortals in regular medicine. "In the meantime, something must be done to bring down his fever."
Fanny – and later Anne Wentworth, when she needed a break – was elected to sit at his side, holding his hand and moping his brow with a cloth dipped in cold rosewater. Susan wanted to be the one to do it for him, but she was too hysterical, shaking uncontrollably, and Edmund was convinced Tom could sense her manner and it would do – in the end – more harm than good.
Edmund and Frederick rolled him over twice and changed his linens with fresh ones, and a chambermaid washed out his wound more thoroughly than it had been, wincing when a stream of pus seeped out.
This was followed by a quantity of blood which made Frederick think to send Anne from the room, afraid it would make her woozy, only for her to gently remind him she – being a woman – saw blood more often than he did and never once fainted from doing so.
Why some girls, including her own sisters, Elizabeth and Mary, got light-headed around blood and made tremendous fusses, Anne had never properly comprehended. Mary could give birth, a bloody business to be sure, but that same baby years later, with a cut on their knee in childhood from tree-climbing resulted in swooning and Charles having to catch her – provided he was paying attention to do so.
And eight out of ten times, he wasn't, resulting in Mary knocking herself out and then claiming, upon regaining consciousness, Charles neglected her horribly and was a most unkind husband.
Anne's advice was to stop constantly playing at trust-falls whenever she saw blood and try to land on a sofa, just in case, but this always went unheeded.
When he arrived, the Faerie doctor – a man in flowing silver robes with long blue-black hair and footfalls that made no sound – examined Tom and shook his head.
Fanny wondered if Henry Crawford could heal Tom, if he ought to be asked, perhaps a note could be sent along with the returned wedding dress, all done properly so no expectations were given, but Frederick gravely assured his little friend – regardless of Henry's change of heart towards her – it was not in the warlock's interest to heal Tom and he would never willingly do so.
An hour after this, when Edmund had asked about an application of leeches and the bewildered Faerie doctor looked at him as if he were mad (and this probably did more good than harm in the long run, ironically), Tom had a moment of waking lucidity, even as his fever worsened and he could barely open his eyes.
He wanted Susan, and she was brought to his bedside.
He reached up and stroked her cheek. "My whole life, lucky star, I've never stuck with anything – Edmund will tell you. I had pianoforte lessons and swimming lessons – I can barely play, and Baddeley once had to save me from drowning in a bathtub."
Edmund here pointed out in a low voice Tom was never a weak swimmer, and Baddeley had had to save him the once at age nineteen because he was so intoxicated (and high on opium) he thought he was at a bakery in Paris rather than at home in his own bathtub.
"Regardless," he rasped out. "That is neither here nor there. My point is it would have been different with Susan." His thumb rubbed her chin. "I would have stuck with her – I would have loved you, Susan Price, all my life." His chest rose and fell. "My lungs hurt so. I don't need to be told what the doctor said when he was in here a moment ago; I can guess well enough. I'm not worried about Mansfield, or the family – Edmund will do better for them than I would. And now he will have won his heart's desire – Mary will never refuse him once I'm gone. I am glad for him. There's no call to be bitter on that front." Save for hoping Mary Crawford knew the enormity of what she'd damn well won and respectfully appreciated the meaning behind it, as Fanny would have in her place. He would, in truth, have felt better if he knew his brother was going to marry Fanny – apart from Susan, she was the best girl alive. Alas, one couldn't have everything. "But – oh, Susie – I'm so sorry I spoiled everything for you – for us. Here I have led you a merry dance! We would have been together always. And you would have been such a remarkably beautiful Lady Bertram."
He sank back into the pillows, muttering to himself in this same vein before falling silent again.
Susan blinked back the last of her falling tears; she had finally stopped trembling, and a new thought came to her. She turned to look at Edmund. "William could heal him and make him well again – or our brother John. He is my nearest neighbour-star besides Fanny."
"But how–" began Edmund, before Susan leaned over and began to unfasten the ribbon (how it had held she hadn't the foggiest) knotted about his brother's neck.
(As a point of interest, this was not the same broken and frayed ribbon bit of Fanny's upon which she'd originally lost the amber cross, this ribbon, black in hue, had actually been part of a mourning wreath for another Fanny – Fanny Harville – and it had come into Frederick's hand by a series of odd mistakes; he had loaned it to Tom when he went to rescue the ladies from Henry Crawford.)
"The cross barely has one use left," Fanny reminded her. "It may not carry you both."
"You can probably never come back to earth again," Frederick pointed out.
All this Susan knew unaided. It was all true enough, to be sure, but they would be together – so, what else could really matter? Did it matter in the least if it was at Mansfield Park or in the sky that they remained side by side? The only thing she feared was the fact it belonged to Fanny – that it was Fanny their brother had given the cross to – and perhaps Fanny had been holding some idea of returning to William with it yet.
But Fanny shook her head and sniffed brokenly; Susan could keep it – indeed, Susan must keep it – for Tom's sake.
"Wait!" Anne saw Susan was in earnest. She had a cross, a little gold one of no magical properties, hanging from her own neck by a chain; she made haste to unfasten it and slip her own cross off it. "If this is the only chance you have, don't keep it on a ribbon to be dropped accidentally. Take my chain for it."
She accepted this gift, strung Fanny's cross onto it (for a terrible moment, she thought it would not go through the ring and all she'd done was waste time), placing it securely about her neck.
After bidding everyone goodbye, and kissing Fanny farewell with much weeping on both sides, each knowing they would never see the other again, Susan threw herself across Tom and, her arms around his torso as far as they would go, clinging to him as though for dear life, her head on his chest, hearing his slowed heartbeat and continued poor breathing, whispered, "Tom, if you can hear me – if you hear me at all – hold me tight and think of home."
A/N: reviews welcome, replies may be delayed.