Snowbear

A Mansfield Park and Pride & Prejudice fanfiction

Chapter Thirty-Four:

"Charles, whatever is it?" Jane Bingley, having sat up in bed to find the hangings drawn and tied to the posts on one side, and her husband pacing by the fireplace, stopping occasionally to groan and lean against the mantel, blinked across at him with a look of gentle confusion.

She was the rare sort of beautiful woman who looks equally lovely dishevelled and first waking, quite caught off her guard, as she does when stepping into a ballroom with her curls properly arranged about her handsome face – such a true diamond of the first water in every way – and Charles, turning at her voice, couldn't help smiling at the invariable prettiness of his wife, despite his evident anxiety.

"I find myself dreadfully put upon," said he, at last, clenching and unclenching his hands and pulling his mouth out of shape. "Oh, Jane, what am I to do?"

"What has happened?"

"I've had a message at that door" – he pointed, and she looked, though she knew perfectly well, of course, where their bedroom door was without the direction – "just now. A serving-maid – not one of ours, not one I know and could question with any confidence, some cousin of Cook's the housekeeper had leave to hire on for as long as we had guests and could use the added hands – chanced to see a woman, a lady, entering Tom Bertram's room last night."

Jane waited with a slightly raised brow, certain there must be more to the story, for Mr. Bingley had not yet reached, in his narrative, anything that sounded particularly distressing, anything which should put him so out of countenance as he now appeared.

"This morning, my valet tells me he has heard" – he coloured, his brightened cheeks turning almost the same hue as his hair – "certain noises – hem, if you will – coming from that room."

"Oh, I think I take your meaning, but – come, do not look so miserable – you have as yet no reason to suppose it was Caroline, Charles."

His fingers uncurled and he dropped his hands to his sides heavily. "Oh, but I think have, you know! Apart from my other sister, which would be just as bad – though twice as confusing, I'll allow – a circumstance, there is no other lady in the house, and I don't think my friend is carrying on a dalliance with any of our servants." Kicking at a loose stone near the grate, Bingley muttered an oath which – coming from a gentleman who swore with anything approaching regularity – would have been laughably minor but was rather serious from him. "I cannot cope with this – I shall have to call him out, and you know how ill he is! I love Caroline and understand, as a brother, I must have her honour defended, but this moment I feel sorrier for my foolish, sickly friend – in truth, Jane, I could wring her sorry neck for being reckless enough to put me in this situation."

"Well, it sounds very bad, to be sure," allowed Jane, very grave; "but it may all be a misunderstanding."

"I confess I don't see how it could be," sighed Mr. Bingley, turning upon his heel. "I never approved Caroline's scheme of marrying Tom once he was free of his wife – not that it was my place to say – I shouldn't have stood in the way of their happiness, if I really thought – but, oh, confound everything–"

"Talk to him," urged Jane. "I am sure a rational discussion between two old friends – settling the matter gently between the pair of you – is better than any rash action could ever be."

Mr. Bingley wet his lips pensively. "D'you know, I wish Darcy were here – I wrote to him when Caroline first began to show an interest in Tom. It was his idea to suggest Tom wait on suing for a divorce from Mrs. Bertram until after he had some word of her having given birth. That's delayed them, at least. Given them to think – so we imagined. It was better sense than I could have ever thought up."

"Oh, Charles, I'm sure that isn't true," said Jane.

"Perhaps I ought to write Darcy again – or you can write to your sister?" Then, "Alas, I'm forgetting, I must do something this morning and cannot wait on letters going to and coming from Derbyshire."

"Talk to him."

"If I must challenge him," mused Mr. Bingley, "I hope I shan't be obliged to actually strike him – I don't like the idea of striking a friend, especially one who's been so poor of health as of late – will a simple reprimand suffice?" He muttered something, left the room, and a moment later returned holding what looked to be a very unimpressive old sword indeed. "This is the only weapon I can find – apart from my guns, of course – on such short notice."

Jane's brow furrowed slightly. "Where did you get that sword? I have never seen it before."

"It was over the mantelpiece in my study – I believe it was left here by the previous owners – it's blunt, I daresay, and thank the good Lord for that."


Meanwhile, Tom – quite unaware one of his most particular friends was in agony over him – was as content as a cat napping in a sunbeam.

He was still in bed, and Fanny was gathered in his arms, her head upon his chest. The dress he had so disliked on her was bunched down at her ankles under the linens, where he was no longer obliged to look upon the eyesore. She still had on her chemise and corset, though several of the stays were undone.

When she reached down to undo those which remained, Tom made a little growling noise and told her to let him do it.

"Indeed, I shall be glad to leave the task to you, just as you like," laughed Fanny, "if you would only use your hands, Mr. Bertram, instead of your teeth."

"You must allow it's a jolly sight more fun – more like a sport – with teeth."

"What must I say, husband," she sighed, smiling at him adoringly, "to induce you to let me unfasten my own stays and have done with it?"

"Hmm." He pursed his lips, as if considering, then gave them a thoughtful pop. "Flatter me."

"How shall I flatter you?"

"Say pleasant things about me – say Tom Bertram is the handsomest gentleman in Northamptonshire and London and Hertfordshire all together – or Tom Bertram is the cleverest gentleman who ever attended Oxford – barring those, if you find them too break-teeth for your liking, I will also accept Tom Bertram is the best at shooting pheasants in Mansfield Wood."

Fanny was far too honest in her nature to exaggerate, even in parroting a jest – she certainly could not say her husband was the cleverest gentleman who ever attended Oxford (she was still very much of the opinion that was, in fact, very probably Edmund; she was biased – forever – to believe the favourite cousin of her youth was the most learned man who ever attended that college, amongst other moral conundrums). She murmured, instead, that Tom Bertram was by far the handsomest gentleman capable of turning into a bear she'd ever laid eyes on – this was entirely true – and – this was teasing, one of her exceedingly rare attempts at sardonic humour – undeniably the most modest.

Tom replied she was a prim little mouse, one he intended to teach a very firm lesson to, before chucking her under the chin, raising her mouth to his, and kissing her. While he kissed her, he elected to use his fingers – they were quicker, after all – to undo the rest of the stays.

Fanny pulled back an inch, her chest heaving up and down, her heart set to racing. "Do remember we need to be careful."

"There is a great deal we can do – quite a lot of pleasures we might enjoy – while still being careful, mousy."


The occupants of Mr. Bingley's guest room were so wrapped up in each other, they never gave the slightest thought to the possibility their host was pacing outside their door.

This, however, seemed to bring the distraught gentleman no more certainty or clarity of mind than pacing before the fire in his room had done; he must simply get it over with.

He must burst into the room and demand Mr. Bertram act with honour.

And, to be sure, excepting the niggling fact he was not yet free from his first wife, Tom had more or less made it plain he meant to marry Caroline; certainly, even there was no talking it out, it wouldn't escalate to a duel between himself and his ill friend.

At worst, the time frame of the marriage would have to be moved up, the divorce sped along, if such was possible.

Unpleasant, but now inevitable and obviously not the end of the world...

Well, it was still a rotten business, making a brother suffer the humiliation – the sheer, unspeakable mortification – of having to confront a female relative's lover and themselves in bed!

Oh, how he wished there was time to write to Mr. Darcy and ask, gentleman to gentleman, if he didn't suppose it wouldn't do just as well to confront them when they came down for breakfast instead.

"I'll count to three, that ought to be all right," muttered Mr. Bingley, dragging in a long breath and setting his hand on the latch. "One – two – three!"

And, thusly, he charged in the room and – trying to keep himself from taking sick when he heard a very particular manner of feminine sighing and giggling, a sound he could have lived his entire life perfectly well without having known was coming, as he imagined it must be, from his sister – pulled back the hangings over the bed.

"See now, Bertr–" He stopped, confused to find not Caroline – nor Mr. Bertram – but only... "Oh, good heavens, Mrs. Bertram! Dreadfully sorry to disturb you, what." He was scarlet. "I hadn't realised you joined us, but it is of course a pleasure to see" – he coughed and tried to focus on her face and not the fact she was in her under-things – "no, no, not see – I don't mean it's a pleasure to see you – but it's a pleasure you're here – um, seeing me." No, that somehow sounded worse. The deuce was he even saying? "Um, I didn't see anything. Frightful sorry, what. Beg your Pardon."

Fanny, equally scarlet, managed a shy hello and attempted – to precious little useful effect – to cover herself.

"Pray, Mrs. Bertram, where has your husband gone to?"

Tom – closer to the foot of the bed – grunted and stuck his head out from under the linens, glaring. "Here, for the love of God, Bingley! Where else should I be? You find me in a state of preoccupation – I hope you shan't take this the wrong way, this being your house and all, but – for pity's sake, you complete dunderhead – get out!"

Poor Mr. Bingley gave an awkward bow of the head and obliged, wretchedly hurrying from the room.

Tom would have, without the smallest twinge of conscience, instantly resumed his attentions to Fanny, but she – attempting to refasten her stays, much to his chagrin – urged him to leave her and chase after his friend – he had her forever now, she reminded him, whatever came, curse or no curse, and there must be such a great deal for him to explain to Mr. Bingley at present.

Dressing quickly – sans cravat, which would have taken too long, the amber cross swinging from his bare, blackened neck – he soon, albeit with a great deal of stumbling and leaning upon his walking-stick, caught up with his friend in the hallway.

"I say, steady on," he panted. "Might I have a word, Charles?"

He slowed, of course, and his face was kind, but his eyes were conflicted. "Forgive me, but I can't imagine there is anything to be said – I'm frightfully glad for you, Bertram, you mustn't think I am anything but glad – but you have still – or is it shall still? – jilted my sister." He paused, looking over his shoulder and shaking his head. "It is all so very confusing, you must allow that I am confused."

"Where I have done wrong, Bingley, I am quite ready to make what amends I can – Fanny will hardly let me dream of doing anything to the contrary – oh, but it is like this" – he sighed heavily, throwing back his shoulders – "if you had a horse you loved so well you'd willingly ride no other, a perfect mare, and though it might be by your own neglect, she was stolen from you and the thief – even if known to you – unable to be brought to justice, what would you do?"

"Why, buy myself another horse, I suppose. I could scarcely do otherwise." He blinked; his lips pursed. "But I confess I don't understand your mean–"

"Right – now imagine, one day, the old mare, who suited you so much better than the new, came rushing back into the stable – are you imagining it?"

"Yes, of course I am, you've just asked me to."

"Good – which mare would you keep?"

"The first, to be sure and no mistake, if she suited me so well as all that – but, Bertram, old bean, you can have more than one horse at a time, you realise. It's not quite the same with wives." He rolled his eyes. "Your illustration is rather forced."

"Yes" – sighing – "I own it's a far from perfect analogy, but I'm jolly well trying to make a point here!"

"I know Fanny suits you better than any other woman," said Mr. Bingley kindly. "She always has – I never was keen on Caroline for you. Nor you for her. I couldn't see either of you being very happy. But, then, she was very set upon being a baronet's wife, once the offer was made, and I wasn't in any position to persuade her to give you up.

"Let us be thankful matters did not progress any further than they did." He placed a hand upon Tom's shoulder. "Alas, Jane and I will have to feel very badly for her – people will talk."


Naturally, Tom's comparing Caroline Bingley to a horse – an analogy he, perhaps unwisely, repeated, exactly as he had told it to her brother, upon seeing her at breakfast, knowing he must make some explanation for the presence of Fanny in the chair beside his own – was poorly received, and there was a great deal of hostility.

For all Mr. Bertram had first been Fanny's, Miss Bingley had come to see him quite as her own property as of late, feeling she deserved to marry him and become Lady Bertram in exchange for all she had put up with, having an invalid for her would-be husband, and how she had kept their relationship an open, unspoken half-secret the whole county knew of and endured the judgement of the rustics for his sake; she did not appreciate Fanny, who to her mind had all but cast him off, reappearing to claim him.

And for all Fanny pitied Miss Bingley's situation, any woman trying to claim rights to her husband – especially one she could not like for herself – must be viewed with icy mistrust.

"You mustn't imagine," said Miss Bingley, snapping her fingers for the servants to clear away her plate after scarcely touching the eggs and toast upon it, "I am the sort of woman who has need of degrading herself in pleading with a gentleman to keep his word of honour – if you will forsake me, Mr. Bertram, I turn my head – withdraw my eyes – from you this moment on, and we are as strangers."

"That may be for the best," said Tom drily. "I thank you for your lady-like compliance and understanding."

Her eyes cut in Fanny's direction. "It seems one must make allowances for errant wives who have been doing who knows what – it is a gentleman's own business if he will have his name besmirched by such allowances." Pulling her lips into a half smile, tight as a grimace, she added, to Fanny, "I trust you had a pleasant journey, Mrs. Bertram? And how long will you – as quite an unexpected guest – be staying?"

Tom put his hand over Fanny's, which had begun to tremble, steadying her clanking silverware. "As to that, we are not certain, Miss Bingley – she has only just arrived, after all – and how long are you staying? You have, I think, already been here at Netherfield at least as long as I."

Jane, eager to make peace, softly stated they were glad of all their guests, blessed with so many good friends, and in no hurry to part with any of them.

"Indeed," said Mr. Bingle brightly. "Now, it is a beautiful day – shall we discuss plans for enjoying it together?"

"You must excuse me, brother, from any plans which involve our newest guest," simpered Miss Bingley. "I fear I am unequal to venturing about with a woman so tainted as Mrs. Bertram. It would appear unseemly for someone in my position to be championing her return to polite society."

"If she is known to be anything but a model of absolute propriety," said Tom, speaking through his teeth, "it is only because people such as yourself have industriously circulated tales they really know nothing about."

"And where," she replied, coolly, "have I heard them but from yourself, Mr. Bertram?"

Tom coloured at this and lowered his head – he was deeply sorry for any pain his bitterness of spirit in having, as he'd then rashly supposed, lost Fanny might cause her now she was restored to him. Caroline – curse her! – did have a point – he had not always been the model of courtesy and discretion, especially when he had been drinking or was in a state of severe physical pain (often enough, both), speaking of the wrong he believed to have been done him.

"Never trust men, Mrs. Bertram – however devotedly they say they admire you – to speak of you as exceptional and without blemish if you are not with them." Caroline's look here was almost sympathetic, almost conspiratorial. "One cannot leave men – regardless of class or title – to their own devices."

"I have not found men to be so wicked as you suppose," Jane felt she must put in, when Fanny did not speak, "in my own experience."

"Indeed," said Mr. Bingley, faint relief in his voice at Jane's gentle comment, at its thawing qualities. "I think it rather hard to prejudice a married, sensible woman against her husband's entire sex."

Bristling, Caroline muttered it was kindly meant – she was only setting Mrs. Bertram upon her guard. "For, you might judge your own sex liberally, brother, and your wife does the same because it pleases you – I daresay she is a very good wife to do so, and I will not condemn her for it – but you will allow my experience of the men in this room, the very man I would warn Mrs. Bertram of, to be uneven at best. I little imagined he I thought grateful and sworn to me, was upstairs, no doubt taking his pleasure from another woman – estranged wife or not, it is, especially as a guest in my brother's house, still undeniably in poor taste – before I had even risen and arranged my toilette."

"I have been a fool," Tom said, closing his eyes and sighing, "and where I have hurt you, Miss Bingley, I ask forgiveness, but I will not allow–" He broke off, opening his eyes and blinking solemnly. "There is no sin in a man finding pleasure in a wife who has done him no wrong – a wife whose virtue he blushes to recollect he unfairly doubted not half a day ago."

"Not only have you been a fool – you are one yet – for the present Mrs. Bertram, look at her all red and mum, cannot end your curse; and, seeing how changeable you are, being so humiliated at this table, having made me learn a very hard lesson, you could not now lure me into such a task with a thousand baronetcies." (Of course, here, she was overlooking the fact Tom no longer wore a mask, the curse now placed beyond her power as securely as it was out of Fanny's.) "Poor Mr. Bertram – I hope you like being a bear."

"What did she say?" whispered Mr. Hurst, who – along with his wife, seated at the far end of the table away from the others – had been left entirely out of the conversation thus far.

"My sister says, Mr. Hurst" – setting down her knife and sucking her teeth with annoyance at having to recite the obvious – "she doesn't like Mr. Bertram's hair."

Whatever Tom was to say next to Caroline was cut off by a servant's entering the room with a very peculiar, dazed expression upon his face. "Mr. Bingley, sir, the butler wishes me to pass on a message."

"Very good, Jenkins, what is it?"

"Nothing excepting this, sir: a little fellow, scrubbed up and very respectable-looking – I tell you I never saw a nicer lad with a cleaner appearance – but not more'n five or six years, and eerily unaccompanied, claims relation to you and has shown up at your doorstep."

"Relation to me?" Mr. Bingley glanced at his wife. "Could it be one of the Gardiner children, my love? Were you expecting any of them today?"

Jane shook her head. "No, I don't believe so."

"He says he is your godson, sir," the servant informed him. "Says he was named for you."

"Heaven help me." Fanny, voice cracking, squeaked, "Please... Please, what name did he give?"

"Thomas Charles, ma'am."

"Oh." And Fanny rung her hands together and shakily attempted to rise to her feet, leaning upon the table's edge.

At her side, there was a thump.

"Oh!" cried she again, for two very shocking things had happened simultaneously.

A little white face had peered in at the doorway – a little white face very like to Tom's own at that age – accompanied by the butler who tried to keep the child's hand and hold him back until orders were given but kept finding his own empty for all his efforts; and Tom, at seeing his son for the first time since he was an infant in his cradle, was so overwrought, he fainted dead away, falling sideways from his chair and landing heavily upon the breakfast-room rug.

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