Snowbear

A Mansfield Park and Pride & Prejudice fanfiction

Chapter Two:

"Fanny, my dear, would you go into the drawing-room and light the candles for us?" requested Lady Bertram, bending to reach under the table and slip some small scrap or other to her whimpering Pug. "I thought we could sit up there a couple hours yet after supper – Chapman has the rest of the night off, and you've nearly finished."

Fanny glanced down at her bowl; this evening's last course was a light soup, and her bowl was barely half emptied, for all her aunt seemed to think she was done. Perhaps the way she'd been idly stirring her spoon around in the broth, only occasionally remembering to bring it to her lips, had misled Lady Bertram into thinking she didn't want any more.

Certainly, Aunt Norris had already accused her of being wasteful twice – despite being in the presence of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, who dined with them tonight – since the soup was first brought out...

But she couldn't help feeling melancholy and less inclined to eat quickly – all she could think of was the bear, the bear nobody believed she'd seen, though they'd mostly been very gentle, taking into account Julia's assertion she was sun-dazed and unwell, in expressing said disbelief. Their combined gentleness, right down to Lady Bertram's asking if she would like some of her aromatic vinegar and Maria's giving up the cosiest place by the fire for a good hour so that her trembling, teary-eyed cousin might benefit from a little added warmth in her bones, made her feel as if her heart were being squeezed in her chest.

"Mother, I believe Fanny ought to finish eating and recover her strength before you send her off on any errands," said Edmund, glancing up from his own bowl, which actually was nearly emptied. "She is looking much too pale, yet."

"Nonsense, she–" began Mrs. Norris.

"I do not mind, cousin," Fanny told Edmund.

"As well you shouldn't, Fanny," Mrs. Norris snapped. "Remembering all which is spared you on an hourly basis. If everyone in this house did only as much as you have today, and made themselves cosy as anything by the fire for no purpose other than to tell wild tall tales after only a bit of exercise out in the woods, I think we should get on very poorly indeed."

"I think you are mistaken regarding Fanny's day, ma'am," Edmund spoke up for her again. "She has had a very real upset."

"Oh, my dear, you do not suppose there really is a feral animal of some sort loose in the neighbourhood, do you?" asked Lady Bertram, her pretty eyes widening.

"I do not know for certain, though I've never personally seen anything bigger than a dog in Mansfield Wood this time of year," Edmund told his mother calmly. "But what I do know is the servants simply must no longer be allowed to use Fanny as an extra hand when they are short – she was made to take my brother's hunter out today in place of the experienced groom, and that is hardly–"

"What?" exclaimed Mrs. Norris, most indignant, glaring at her niece across the length of the table. If she had been within reaching distance, she might have been cross enough to pinch her to let her know she was in disgrace. "Am I to understand Fanny was given the use of the finest horse in the stables – a treat, I daresay, more than a chore – and had the ingratitude to make a complaint to you after?"

"Aunt, you do not understand horses, so you cannot comprehend the danger of putting someone of Fanny's skill set on an animal she is not–"

"She has been riding for six years; she ought to know her way about by now."

"Tom's hunters are not ordinary horses." Edmund sucked his teeth, hard. "They were not bred for a young lady's use."

"Dearest Maria would have managed the beast with ease." She smiled affectedly over at Mrs. Rushworth. "She is the most natural horsewoman I have ever seen – she began riding at only five years old and outgrew her pony within six months."

"If that's true, Aunt Norris, why did the coachman not ask her instead of Fanny? My sister Maria did nothing but easy needlepoint all day." She had been awaiting a message confirming Mr. Rushworth would come and bring his mother to supper as planned and had not troubled herself to stick to her usual schedule of duties.

"Edmund, child," – as, at five-and-twenty, he was far too old to be considered a child by anybody's measuring, especially before company, it was plain as day Mrs. Norris only used the term because she was particularly peeved with him, because he was at the point of winning an argument before witnesses whose opinions held some actual weight with her – "you border strongly upon marked insolence towards me." Her eyes darted to her sister, her sour expression pointed.

"Edmund, my sweet, pray apologise to your aunt," said Lady Bertram. "She does not like to be thus spoken to."

"I beg your pardon, Aunt Norris." His jaw was set tight as he spoke, even if the words did not quite come out from between clenched teeth. "No insolence was intended."

"There" – Lady Bertram brightened – "now all is well, and Fanny may go and light the candles."

Edmund coloured. "Mother..."

"Fanny has had all this time we were quarrelling between us, and she had nothing whatever to say for herself, to have finished up her soup if she wanted it," insisted Aunt Norris. "It is not our fault if she did not."

"I truly do not mind it." Fanny meekly rose from her place, pushing in her chair. "Shall I return once they are lit, aunt?"

"There is no need," Aunt Norris said coldly. "You may make yourself comfortable in the drawing-room as you are accustomed to. You're good for little else today."

Crunch!

The crystal stem of an empty wineglass was snapped between Edmund's fingers. He apologised sheepishly to Baddeley, who'd appeared immediately to clear it away.

"Happens all the time, sir." It was possible he, too, had heard Mrs. Norris's comments to Fanny and had been nearly as offended as Edmund. The butler rather liked her for her irrepressibly sweet nature – he always had – and was not accustomed, himself, to bossing his master's niece about the way his underlings did.

Mr. Rushworth forced a laugh to break the tension, thinking it might make Maria happy, and cheerily declared he was always accidentally breaking wineglasses himself at Sotherton and thought faceted crystal was rather rummy, insubstantial material to make drinking glasses from, besides.

Scarcely was Fanny out of the dining-room, carefully and quietly shutting the door behind herself and stepping into the dark hallway, when she felt a pair of hands slip over her eyes.

Before a scream could began in her throat and make its way out of her mouth as more than a squeak of terror, she felt the hands – familiar hands, now she thought about it – drop from her eyes to the sides of her arms in a friendly grasp.

"Fanny, who's there?"

"Tom?" she breathed, recognising the voice.

"Shh," he whispered, his index finger raised conspiratorially as she turned to face him.

"Mr. Bertram" – she looked him up and down, knew his clothes and stance as well as she had his voice, but was a little alarmed by the sight of a silver mask covering the upper half of his face, through which only his glittering light eyes were visible – "how are you come?"

"By the loan of a carriage from an acquaintance I fear you would not know by name, for you have never met him – one Mr. Charles Bingley of London – I came into harbour just yesterday."

"And my uncle?"

Tom shook his head. "No; Sir Thomas stays in Antigua – he has some business yet."

There came, then, from inside the dining-room, the carrying, half-snorted titter of Mrs. Rushworth.

Tom's lips pursed and he turned his head curiously in that direction. "What?" For a moment, he seemed a little confused by the timbre of the laugh, as though wondering who could make such an ungodly noise, such a donkey-like bray. Then, in a more delighted voice, for he was always a very social man by nature, "Is there company?"

"Yes." Fanny nodded and began to count on her fingers. "Dr. and Mrs. Grant" – who, honestly, had both been so uncharacteristically quiet tonight she might have forgotten them altogether if she did not have to think back on the full table to answer his question – "and Mr. Rushworth and his mother." It occurred to her as soon as she said his name Tom mightn't know who she meant, and she added, "Mr. Rushworth is engaged, or nearly, to–"

"I know," chuckled Tom, taking her hand. "I bring my father's letters with me." He patted his pocket with his other hand, the free one. "Shall we surprise them?" And he made to drag her nearer the door with him.

"Would not your mother be very much alarmed?" By the mask, she thought, if nothing else.

"No, no," Tom insisted; "she won't mind it."

Fanny wrested her hand free with a little squeak of protest.

Pausing an inch from the door, Tom gave her such a sharp look, or what she thought – it was difficult to tell with the mask – must be a sharp look, she wondered if he knew about her riding his hunter and had simply been repressing his feelings until she did something else to make him angry.

"I am to light the candles."

"Suit yourself, then, I'll go in."

It was too bad for Fanny – as it would have greatly eased her mind – she missed his genuine smile, truly friendly and forgiving, as she turned away, hurrying off to light the candles as she'd been ordered to do.

From her place in the drawing-room, completing her task, she could hear everyone's gasp of pleasure – their cries of "Tom! It is Tom come home to surprise us all!" when Mr. Bertram entered the room – and couldn't help smiling broadly herself. Their clear joy at his return flooded her with warmth and happiness.

Even Mrs. Norris sounded so exceedingly happy to see him – Fanny could picture her grasping him and kissing his face, or however much of it she could reasonably get to with the mask in the way, heedless for this once of Mrs. Rushworth watching her make a very unrestrained exhibit of herself – it was impossible not to feel glad for her.

"Yes, yes, I am but a trifle fagged," Tom was saying. "Hem, hem. Mercy, Aunt Norris, but there is no need to hang upon on my neck – you're choking me. I wasn't away for that long, now, really!"

"I ought to have remained in London. In town all I'd have needed to do was enter a crowded establishment, announce myself to be heir to a baronetcy, and, boom bang, engagement." Tom sat at his father's desk in his study behind the billiard-room, his chin propped up in his hand as he – with the other – shuffled through a pile of letters he'd spread out in front of himself. "Trying to find a suitable bride through missives in the countryside is a bloody nightmare – Miss Anderson declined; Miss Owen declined; Miss Sneyd" – he paused, unsure which Miss Sneyd he'd actually directed his generous offer to, not that it mattered, they both looked and sounded roughly the same to him – "declined; Miss Bates declined." He stopped again, frowning down at that particular letter, smoothing out a small crease, and squinting at it from behind the slits of his mask. "Declined into the cessation of her courses, I think. The deuce did I ask her for? She's old enough to have met Noah, seen the first ever rainfall, and to have helped him with his zoo-keeping into the bargain! I originally meant to solicit the niece, you know, she's more of an age with myself, but that blasted Mr. Churchill beat me to it."

No sooner had Tom left off complaining about Miss Bates and her niece than – following a brief knock to announce her presence – one of the maid-servants came in, at something of a slight waddle, thanks to the door's being heavy and her arms being full, carrying a tray laden with toast and chocolate, saucers and cups, the kitchen below having been aware their young gentlemen liked to have a sort of makeshift tea brought in to them if they were overlong in the office at this time of day.

Edmund thanked the girl politely, giving her a contented nod and indicating the place near his brother's elbow where she might set down the tray, if she pleased, but otherwise barely acknowledged her.

Tom, meanwhile, after assuring himself there was nothing on the tray stronger than chocolate to tempt him, regarded her with a fixed stare for a full minute before uttering, very decidedly, "Ah, Sarah."

"It's Sally, sir."

"What?" Tom blinked at her in clear astonishment; then he inclined his head to his brother, twisting at the neck, mouth agape. "Were you aware of this?"

Edmund just groaned softly.

"Hang me, I've been calling you Sarah for years."

"Yes." A long pause. She lowered her head and bobbed, not certain what else to do. "I, er, know, sir."

"I rather prefer Sarah," Tom mused. "Could it be changed, d'you suppose?"

"Tom, our maids are not paid nearly a substantial enough salary for you to go about changing their names."

"I pay you a salary, Sarah?" This, too, was apparently rather shocking news to Tom, who admittedly never had taken even half the interest in the running of Mansfield he should have.

"Sally – and, yes, sir – that is, your father does."

"How much?"

"You do not have to answer that," Edmund told her from the corner of his mouth.

"Well" – Tom waved it off as if he were swatting at a fly buzzing near his shoulder – "never mind names and salaries for the present; I have something very important to discuss with you."

"Sir?" Despite herself, her eyes widened slightly – this was perhaps understandable, given he had taken both her hands in his own and was bowing over them dramatically.

"Sar – Sal – you – from the moment I returned home from Antigua, your understated beauty and sensible, humble muddy hemlines have not evaded my notice, and I know you've long pined for me as well, so – now – let us drop this charade."

Edmund put a hand to his forehead. "Dear Lord," he muttered.

"Charade, sir?"

"Marry me, and I will make you a grand lady and you shall never have to empty a piss-pot or clean out the necessary house again – you can live like my mother and paint lopsided screens which have no discernable useful purpose and keep a lapdog."

This offer, such as it was, might have been tempting if it came from any gentleman other than Tom Bertram of Mansfield Park.

There was simply something, Sally thought, about having seen a man's runny, odorous defecation clinging to a lidded iron bucket after he'd gone and drank himself into a stupor at dinner and having to clean it up that made him less appealing as a potential husband than he otherwise could be.

Furthermore, while all his words were, or at least could be construed as being – in theory – pretty enough, and the offer undeniably a good one if it were genuine rather than in jest, the manner in which he delivered them was one which suggested, under different circumstances, he might well have had the words written on the back of his hand so as not to forget them and to remember to enunciate them correctly upon delivery.

Tom Bertram, simply put, was a bad actor.

Worse yet, he was a bad actor who delusionally believed himself rather a skilled thespian who had, by some cruel twist of fate, been denied his rightful place upon the stage.

If he lived in Shakespeare's day, he was utterly convinced he would have spent most of his time at The Rose, basking in the adulation of the unwashed masses. He was unaware, despite tutors and masters at both Eton and Oxford having told him so numerous times, that his grandest speeches were often spoken so quickly so as to be unintelligible.

This one certainly was.

"M-marry you, Mr. Bertram?" stammered the poor girl, when at last she trusted herself to speak without risking her position.

"We shan't get far in making our plans if you're simply going to parrot everything I say," grumped Tom, impatient for a proper acceptance or refusal.

Sally turned to Edmund in desperation. She was in very real danger of bursting out in a fit of riotous laughter and needed to be in the hallway as quickly as possible. "May I go now? Please?"

Edmund took pity on her and nodded her dismissal. He even mouthed, when he was certain Tom couldn't see, "Run. Make haste."

"Well, I like that!" was Tom's remark when Sally fled. "I thought servants were supposed to be romantic-minded, hoping to be lifted out of their bleak lives and into the gentry."

"The serving-maid? Truly?"

"Well, and what of it? Supposing she was my one true love?"

"She's not," he said flatly.

"You don't know that," was his snappish argument; "dearest Sarah well might have–"

"Sally," Edmund pressed, brow lifted.

"Right, right, you make a fair point," Tom conceded, albeit begrudgingly. "But I still like the name Sarah a good deal better."

Running his tongue over his dry lips and trying to wrap his mind around why his brother was acting even more unreliable and borderline mad than usual, he sighed, "Explain to me again how marrying ends this curse of yours?"

Behind his silver mask, Tom rolled his eyes. "It's really very simple" – it really was anything but – "I marry, in all haste. Then, the lady of my choice – my lovely bride – lives with me for seven years, never seeing my face, and if nothing goes wrong, I am to be clear and free forever after."

Edmund confessed he hadn't the slightest clue what all that was meant to achieve. He wasn't altogether certain this arrangement punished Tom especially – apart from his legitimate fear of being spotted as a beast, as it turned out Fanny had seen something on the edge of Mansfield Wood when she exercised the hunter – it seemed to him to punish his brother's bride, and rather cruelly, the whole picture considered.

"I didn't make up the terms." Tom shrugged. "Blame the blasted witch. Grouchy old bat can't bear the slightest critique – no, indeed, not even the smallest good-natured jest – and goes about casting her curses upon harmless young men who never did anything so very wrong as to deserve it."

"Perhaps," suggested Edmund, "this witch thought it would teach you to focus less on outward appearances."

"And what do you imagine I was trying to do with the dirty little maid-servant?" He threw up his hands in exasperation. "How am I to win? Am I never to succeed in pleasing anybody in this damnable household?"

"You know our father would wish you to marry a gentleman's daughter."

"Don't imagine that nobody can see or judge but yourself." Tom's tone grew cold, laced with detached anger. "I know my father's wishes as well as you do. What is most important to him at the present hour is the ending of this damned curse. Now, if you don't wish to help me to that end, have it your own way, but don't expect to govern me and my choices into the bargain."

Poor Fanny.

In her position, and her tender age of only eighteen, nobody could be called upon less to speak their opinion of newcomers in Mansfield Park.

But newcomers there indeed were, one Miss Crawford – Mary – and a Mr. Crawford, one Henry, who, after a couple meetings, being stared out of their former icy countenance by him, her cousins changed their decided opinion on and declared most handsome while Fanny herself could find nothing exceptional in his looks; she had, after all, been all her life around two men, her own gentleman cousins, the Mr. Bertrams, who, for all it was worth, were very nice to look at and of good stature which greatly exceeded that of the mean little newcomer.

But returning to Mary...

Having first heard the name from Mrs. Grant, Fanny had formed a secret impression – a hope, an idea – that Mary Crawford would be something like her favourite sister, Mary Price, who had died quite some time ago now.

It was exceedingly silly of her to think, she knew, a name could make two persons of completely different situations anything alike, but she'd hoped – she missed her own Mary very, very much.

And, of course, Mary Crawford was not anything like Fanny's dead sister, but she was delicate and little and beautiful – for all the features which did not look so well upon her brother looked very becoming on her – and her eyes were dark, the finest of such a hue Fanny – surrounded by the telltale Ward fairness of all her cousins, save Edmund, who took a little more after Sir Thomas and was very decidedly of Bertram stock in his appearance – had ever seen.

It was also greatly in Mary Crawford's favour that she had a cheerful voice and manner to match her pretty face – Fanny took as much pleasure in hearing her, in shyly wondering what the far livelier girl would say next, as she did in looking at her.

The trouble was, Fanny soon became keenly aware it was not she alone who felt this way – Edmund liked to look at Miss Crawford just as much, if not more, and this was far more dangerous than Fanny's own sort of admiration of a new addition to their circle.

You knew, she tried to tell herself, to quell her misery just a little, Edmund would fall in love and marry somebody else someday – you've always known he'd never be for you – can't you be glad she is so pretty? Can't you be glad for him?

She might have been, truly, if not for the nagging feeling Mary never could deserve him.

In and of itself, this fact would not have chafed, for what is the old saying? Nobody minds having what is too good for them? Only, Miss Crawford seemed wholly unaware of just how precious Edmund really was.

Oh, she could remark upon his looks – to be sure – but, then, surely a half-blind girl might have done the very same!

Did Mary really not see all else which was right with him? His shining golden goodness?

What did Edmund's being handsome even have to do with the sort of person he was on the inside? Fanny hated, all the more as she observed its exclusivity, Mary's stubborn focus upon his appearance alone.

Did her cousin's admittedly lovely countenance have anything to do with his being kind, or considerate, or gentle towards those at his mercy, or living a good, modest life?

No.

For what she felt to be a very brief moment indeed, Fanny began to hope Tom was in love with Miss Crawford as well.

Having returned from Antigua laden with some curse, the particulars of which had not been shared with his indigent cousin, for they were decidedly none of her business, even if she had been a real sister for him, Tom had been looking, with an earnestness he'd never displayed before, for a bride.

As Tom was as handsome as Edmund, if in an opposite way, and had his father's baronetcy and would inherit the whole of the park, he might have been a real temptation for Mary, and she – being physically agreeable – for him.

Fanny did not know it, but before coming to know Edmund better, Mary had rather set her sights – at her sister's urging, no less – upon Tom Bertram, having some vague memories of meeting him in town in the past and thinking him agreeable and an equal wit to herself, and financially an excellent choice, only as she considered him, hiding behind his mask and concealing his desperation with borderline melodramatic amplification of his own amiability, rather giving himself the air of a peacock in the process of displaying its glorious feathers, he dimmed in appeal.

Much in the same way Henry meant – again, at their meddlesome sister's urging – to look at Julia with a view to liking her, or at least to finding her an agreeable flirt, but found himself drawn – like a moth to a flame – toward Maria instead, more and more often, Mary couldn't detach herself from the faint hope that Edmund might yet have some fortune of his own – some childless uncle with an estate, perhaps, or the monetary security of a glamorous career of some kind – and she would be spared the bother of needing to mend the misfortunes of the cursed elder brother.

"Those who are showing the world what female manners should be," mocked Edmund, mimicking his brother's voice (though not very convincingly, for own his straightforward voice was never one created for natural inclination towards mockery), glaring across the length of Tom's sitting room as, in turn, the latter busied himself running back and forth from the adjacent bedroom, tossing various manners of mismatched articles into a battered valise and muttering curses under his breath at his absent valet and his constantly ill or dead, or else – often enough, though inexplicably – both, great aunts twice removed in Northampton, "are doing a great deal to set them right."

"Oh, do come off it – I was merely being gallant." He paused, hands on his hips, looking about himself in frustration. "Now, where the deuce has Sarah put my freshly laundered cravats Chapman sent her up with?"

"Pardon the vulgarity of the comparison, I know it to be unbecoming," growled Edmund, sliding into the nearest chair, still appearing extremely cross, "but you, Tom, are so full of excrement, you ought to open a necessary house for public usage."

Tom pursed his lips. "Oh, my sweetest, most darling baby brother" – his voice fairly dripped with honeyed sarcasm – "you do say the nicest things." Then, "But don't fret – I've had my go at it, and failed miserably, and so I've no intention of stealing away your Miss Crawford."

"She is hardly my Miss Crawford," he protested, colouring. "I can assure you, Tom – most honestly, I–"

"There is no need to assure me of anything." He grinned. "A beautiful woman comes amongst us, love one way or the other is inevitable. I'm that littlest bit regretful she did not choose me – if she loved me, she should have come with me to the races, to see my horse win, and cared nothing for dinner obligations in the country."

"Perhaps she is clever enough to discern, all the more as your curse, though not the details of it, are common gossip at the present, you are not really leaving Mansfield to see a horse win anything – that you search for a bride, and she is only one possible choice. Women do not like to be told they are to wait in a line for a man's heart."

Tom snorted. "And when did you become such a jolly smart expert on women's hearts? But it scarcely matters, for if she had shown real interest there, I would have remained where I am after all – it was only a test. She failed it. Now I must make good upon my bluff and go and hope for the best." He added, after a long pause, "I am glad for you, Edmund, she is very beautiful and much taken with you – believe me, I am glad. But I will warn you, heiresses tend to be mercenary with younger brothers, and if she gives you trouble, remember she is – however pretty – far, far from the only handsome filly worth riding."

His already strained composure nearly slipping, Edmund spoke through his teeth. "I do not like it when you speak in that manner – you know I do not."

"Which manner?" Tom thrust his backside down upon the valise, trying to make it close, though it was loaded far too high on one side and was refusing to do so. "Candidly, you mean? With the frankness your own prudery often lacks?" He bounced upon and down. "Lord, you really are going to make a marvellous priest, d'you know that?"

"Miss Crawford is not a horse" – Edmund glowered – "and if you will judge every lady which might suit your purpose as if they were a mare you were thinking of purchasing, you aren't likely to break this curse anytime soon, I daresay."

"And why should you dare say that?"

"If you don't already know, there's no good in my lecturing you further about it, not if you're set on being headstrong in this matter."

Hearing a slight riiiiiiiiippppppp from underneath him, Tom glanced down, pouting. He rose up, cleared his throat – hem, hem – straightened his mask, which had gone a little askew despite still covering half his face perfectly, and patted Edmund obtusely upon the cheek. "All I ask, your Holiness, is that you wish me luck in my endeavour."

Edmund sighed. "Good luck, Tom."

"Be a lamb and have Baddeley take that out to the carriage" – he waved back at the destroyed valise – "won't you?"

Under his breath, Edmund sighed, "Oh, are you ever going to need it."

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