Snowbear

A Mansfield Park and Pride & Prejudice fanfiction

Chapter Four:

In her ensuing agitation, Fanny happened to glance down at her cousin's hands as she attempted to free herself from their grip.

She saw, then, despite the dim lighting – compliments of low-burning candles, currently put into effect, placed strategically all about the billiard-room in order to set the mood for a grand night of theatricals – crisscrossed scarring all along the wrist and his mount of Venus and up onto the underside of his fingers as well, and, being tender-hearted, felt all the worse; her throat constricted as she contemplated, in the short pause between entreaties, how she must, for the sake of all that was morally right, refuse to oblige him and be in the play, as it was very plain to see he had suffered, and – more shocking – suffered silently, as he'd never said a word about having his hands injured to any of them present (no complaints, anyway, which she had heard...), somewhere, as a loving relation could never wish the object of their affections to have suffered.

Even his open jest at her expense, which certainly mortified, could not make her feel less badly for his sake.

Still, she persevered. "You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me." If before she'd turned green, now she was growing more and more red. "Cousin, I pray you–" Her eyes found what they'd been searching for over Tom's shoulder all along, namely Edmund, and she looked at him distressfully. "I must be excused."

Edmund felt a poking at his arm, and – turning – saw Miss Bennet squinting at him as if she supposed him a touch slow. Or else, with her reading spectacles off, she couldn't, perhaps, properly make out his face in the weak light. "I do believe she is trying to get your attention, Mr. Edmund Bertram, sir – that is, Miss Price, I mean" – she gave a tight little smile, as if to show she meant no malice – "I observe her to be looking very hard at you instead of at those who she is speaking with."

Shame flooded him and he turned nearly as red as Fanny presently was. He had been kindly observing what was happening from the moment she and Tom entered the room, only he would not speak for fear of exasperating his brother by interfering. He knew Tom's moods rather too well. And yet, Fanny was in distress, clearly, and to think only a near-stranger should notice it and speak up, and rather obtusely at that, when it really ought to have been him and damn his worries about ruffling a few feathers where Tom was concerned...!

Maria and Mr. Crawford joined in pressing Fanny to be Cottager's wife – "You mustn't let us down, Fanny," implored Maria; "when do we ever ask anything of you?" – before Edmund made up his mind to do what he knew was right, to stop tussling with his conscience and simply act, and his attack of cowardice culminated in Mrs. Norris hissing, in what was a whisper only by her own claims and by nobody else's standards, as everybody heard her perfectly, so that she might as well have spoken at what she considered to be full volume, "I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny! I urge you be kind – and grateful, most particularly grateful – to your cousin, urge you to take the part with good grace, and let us hear no more of the matter!"

Edmund finally burst out, much louder than he meant to, "Do not urge her, madam!"

Mrs. Norris clutched and clawed at the fine lace surrounding the front of her evening gown, brought out especially for the occasion, and looked as if Edmund had just used the foulest of foul language before her and with no provocation.

"Well," she gasped, eyes shining as though severely wounded, "I am not going to urge her, as you so insist upon it, but I shall think her a very obstinate and wicked girl if she does not do as she is asked." Her gaze shifted back, cold as ice, to Fanny, who stood trembling at Tom's side like one condemned. "Considering who and what she is."

Mr. and Mrs. Bingley had just come into the room as Mrs. Norris finished speaking, unaware anything was as amiss as all that, quite pleased with themselves and their evening thus far, until they saw Fanny was on the verge of tears.

As soon as Jane understood the trouble, she made a small effort – a slight motion – as if to come forward and take Fanny apart from Tom and Maria and Mr. Crawford, thinking a change in proximity would cool them all down.

But Mrs. Norris was already not fond of Mrs. Bingley and, seeing what she was about, coolly positioned herself so as to prevent her doing anything for Fanny without being obvious and upsetting Tom and Maria.

Her strained effort crumbled, then, for she had never been good at confrontation and – at this – nearly persuaded herself she was mistaken about Mrs. Norris purposefully preventing her. More likely she had misunderstood the woman's actions, or Miss Price had done something else, albeit unintentionally – something more than refusing to be in the play – and it had caused a severe heating of tempers she, as a guest, was in no position to cool after all.

Miss Bennet, though, observing the same tears in Miss Price, and having seen a little more of what had transpired than her sister had, though how much she really understood could be put to question, to be sure, suddenly exclaimed, "I do not wish to act myself, I do not ask to act, but as it distresses Miss Price so, it occurs to me I could but read the part and–"

"Oh," said Mrs. Bingley softly, approvingly, "what a lovely idea, Mary! That should solve a great deal here. I wish I had thought of it!"

And Mr. Bingley began, in time with his wife, to also smile his approval, but the smile waned rapidly as Maria – glaring at Mary of a sudden – snapped, "Oh, do stop it, Miss Bennet, you only make it worse! Fanny must be Cottager's wife if Julia won't."

"I don't see why Miss Bennet could not do as well," growled Edmund, defending both Fanny and Mary.

"Because, brother, Fanny knows the play," huffed Tom, popping his mouth impatiently. "She was setting Miss Crawford right in place after place, near twenty times; it matters little if she is timid and no one can hear her, but it will matter a great deal if we put someone up there who has been reading – paying us no attention – and doesn't even know who Cottager's wife is!"

"To be sure," cried Mary Bennet, "I do know!"

"Yes?" said Tom, a little tartly, "And pray, who is she, then?"

"Well, she is the wife of the cottager, is she not?"

"Brilliant," he grumbled.

And Mrs. Norris gave Fanny her sternest, nastiest expression. "You see the trouble you cause, thankless girl."

The tears coursed down Fanny's face freely now, nothing to hold them back any longer. She did not mean to be thankless, truly, but she could not act, had said all along she could not.

Edmund finally gave in himself and said, "Dearest Fanny, I know it is disagreeable to you, and every effort – by Miss Bennet, at least, though not by those who ought to have been thinking of your happiness" – here he glanced, sidelong, at Tom, whose arms were now folded across his chest and who looked very sulky indeed – "has been made to spare you, but I fear we are overruled – do yield this once."

She did, and everybody was satisfied as quickly as they had been made angry, even Mrs. Norris left off being terse, and they all prepared to begin.

With a palpitating heart, Fanny was led off, Tom taking her hands again, to be made over into the image of Cottager's wife, to look the part upon the stage.

She was seated in a chair trembling while Tom – speaking absently from the corner of his mouth – urged her to not move about so much and made her a few wrinkles and drew a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of her eyes.

Finished, he stepped back and held before her one of Maria's hand mirrors. "What say you, Fanny? Do you not look a very proper, little old woman?"

"Oh," said she, unable to deny he had done his work well, "yes."

She was a little alarmed by his next move, which was to crouch by the side of her chair and embrace her, fairly oozing friendliness now he had got his way, murmuring how she was the best of all girls alive for doing this favour for them all.

Choked up by his sudden demonstration of – very real – affection, she found it difficult to respond.

Before she could even attempt it, Maria – already transformed into Agatha – had taken her away again, and she and Mrs. Bingley were being helped into their costumes, Amelia and Cottager's wife respectively.

Fanny was dressed in brown, given a white apron Mrs. Grant had sewn, and had her hair stuffed into a mop cat. She looked very plain and uninteresting indeed, next to glittering Amelia and Agatha, but she would not have traded places with either of them, not for all the world.

All were set to begin when Julia came rushing into the billiard-room in a flurry, panting.

Tom eyed her, his expression exaggeratedly dispassionate, from behind the slits of his mask. "Changed your mind, have you? Well, you have come much too late – Fanny has the part now and we begin presently."

"Never mind your play," blurted Julia, waving her hands. "My father is come! He is back from Antigua! He is in the hall this very moment – he has just handed his hat to Baddeley and is heading for the drawing-room."

Mr. Rushworth exhaled in relief, for his costume, despite all the valiant attempts and Fanny's best sewing, was fitting him ill and nobody seemed to want him very much, and this interruption was most welcome.

But he was the only one.

The rest were all in a flurry to change out of their (previously far more comfortable) costumes and were practically trampling one another in order to be the first in the hall, to seem to have had no part in what was transpiring here in the billiard-room.

Even Jane Bingley caught on, quickly enough, to the fact Sir Thomas would not approve of what they had been doing and was eager, for the sake of peace, to have every appearance of being far removed from it.

Fanny would have been rushed at, possibly crushed underfoot if she was not tossed aside, and might have been done some accidental but very real harm if Tom had not already had her arm grasped in his hands while they stood in the wings (really just the corner of what had been, before Jackson got ahold of it, her uncle's study) and simply dragged her along with him so she was not left behind or abandoned to fend for herself.

The same could not be said for poor Mr. Yates, who thought it best – not at all understanding the play was over before it had begun, never supposing he could be so unlucky as to have such an event occur twice – to stay out of everybody's way, if they were in such a frightful rush, and remained centre stage, looking out at where the audience was meant to be seated.

Julia did, in passing, wonder if she ought to say something to him, but then thought better of it, shrugged, and – even though she had nothing to fear, she was not in costume or acting – made her own way into the drawing-room.

As soon as he was no longer dressed as Frederick, Henry Crawford fled the house entirely, leaving his costume in a crumbled heap by a linen hutch. He thought the Bingleys and Miss Bennet could do as they liked – perhaps they had no choice, as they were staying at the house – and be introduced to Sir Thomas under such circumstances, but he had the protection of the parsonage to retreat to and there is where he went via a side-door.

Maria was in distress looking for him, as she'd been very eager to show him to her father, Lover's Vows or no Lover's Vows, and perhaps have him be admired instead of Mr. Rushworth, and to have him pressed upon her as a better choice once her father beheld how wonderful he really was. She turned cold when she realised he had gone and, grabbing Tom's arm as he and Fanny emerged into the hall she scoured, dressed as themselves again, "Henry" – propriety be damned – "is with you! I know he must be with you. He has not left me."

He had left, though, and this was undeniable as neither Fanny nor Tom – no matter how Maria urged them to – could produce him as they might a sweet from their pocket.

"How dare he?" she rasped, quite beside herself. "He did not even bid me good night or take his leave of me! He cannot be himself to depart without so much as a by-your-leave... He cannot."

"My dear girl," tsked Tom, tilting his head in her direction and trying to free himself from her grip before she dug her fingernails through his sleeve and into flesh, an increasing possibility the angrier she became, "a man like Crawford isn't so easily roped."

"You speak as if it were I doing all the chasing!"

Too soon did Fanny find herself lingering in the drawing-room door, watching all the others greet Sir Thomas.

The baronet was largely in excellent spirits – he initially mistook the Bingleys for the Crawfords, as he had not seen Charles Bingley in person himself for many years, and was delighted when he realised who they actually were, as well as very impressed by Jane's beauty (he hoped Tom's chosen bride would be even half so charming, though he did not think his son discerning enough to manage such a feat and supposed he must, resignedly, be contented with almost any sort of daughter from that end at all).

Her sister puzzled him, the little bookish creature who complimented him on his study as if she had been inside of it (and he thought surely not, surely his sons had not been so neglectful of his property as to let this raven-headed slip of a girl wander into his private rooms), and he supposed he misunderstood her but took the compliment as intended and thought her a nice enough sort of gentleman's daughter.

He was delighted with Edmund and was civil with Tom, at least before the present company, though he felt put out, placed upon the verge of having his mood spoiled, when after whispering, "And have you married? Or at least had the banns read out these past weeks in my absence?" he received a shake of the head for his answer.

What, after all, had he sent Tom home early for if not to have him wed and the curse set on the path to being righted as quickly as possible?

Maria and Rushworth, he was very glad to see, kissing his eldest daughter – as well as 'dear Julia, who carried herself so well, as prettily as a queen' – and telling them he had missed them and, in a low whisper, added he brought presents, some of them engagement presents, he would dole out later, when there was not company present, for he had brought some trifles for their cousin as well as for them, but had not expected the Bingleys or anybody else and had nothing to give in that quarter.

"But where is Fanny?" he cried next. "Why do I not see my little Fanny?"

She had no choice but to come forward, stepping into the room at this.

Sir Thomas stared agape, then he came forward, led her nearer the light, and peered into her face with clear puzzlement. "What has happened to you, my little child? When I left you – though you were already sixteen – you had the looks of a ten-year-old girl yet! Now you have turned into an old woman in my absence."

His eyes shone with concern for her. He might have even, clutched by passing terror, supposed this to be some ugly tentacle of the curse upon Tom, supposed the witch to have gotten to other members of his family as well.

Then, stroking the side of her face, running his thumb over the corner of her eye, he felt the crowsfoot come away upon his skin, saw it smudge upon hers, and laughed.

"Fanny, my sweet" – his voice was kinder than it had ever been towards her before, kinder than ever in her whole life with him at Mansfield – "when I said I wished William to see you older and more refined whenever he came to Mansfield, this" – and he rubbed his thumb and index fingers together, making a sound like scraping sandpaper – "was not what I meant." He touched the tip of her nose affectionately. "And I daresay under all this scribbling and goop anyone could see you have increased in health and beauty naturally since I saw you last."

"Tom, you complete dunderhead," hissed Maria, speaking crossly from the corner of her mouth, "why did you not make certain our cousin washed her face and erased your handiwork? Now it will all come out!"

He shushed her, but he ought to have been more worried regarding his aunt Norris, who – upon seeing Sir Thomas doting on Fanny – was eager for a diversion, as well as to cast blame where she felt it should be cast, for Fanny had been a very wicked, dirty girl not to scrub her face clean before meeting her uncle, and after she'd been taught for years to have a care for her appearance before her betters, too.

She was very quick to bring up acting, and – catching Lady Bertram's eye – soon had her talking about it excitedly as well.

Yes, yes, the young people were amusing themselves with acting – the whole house was alive with it – there was some rumour of a performance tonight, though it certainly was not to happen now.

Now they were much more diverted with his arrival and had no need of other entertainment...

"Oh, but they'll want to tell you all about it."

Tom forced an unaffected tone and said, "We will soon tell you all, sir, but it is nothing worth boring you with now – you are weary from travel and don't wish to hear about that. Long way from Antigua, what. And don't I know it firsthand."

Baddeley brought in the tea, and Sir Thomas declared – rather abruptly – that the sight of the tea-things made him think of all the hours spent in his own dear rooms, in his own study, and how he had missed them while he was away.

He could not be any longer in the house, if his guests and family alike would give him leave for just a moment, without just looking into his study beyond the billiard-room.

Tom turned so ashen so quickly even the mask could not hide the failing of his complexion in the least, but he could not prevent his father any more than anybody else might. His asking leave was a formality, not a true request. This was his own house, he might go – he would go – where he liked.

"I cannot help thinking," said Tom, once their father exited the drawing-room, "I am forgetting something."

"Why, it couldn't be the massive theatre you've had built in our father's study, d'you suppose," said Edmund, rather savagely, speaking into his teacup as he brought it to his lips (which gave his voice a little echo) and blowing onto the hot liquid within. "Or perhaps you are thinking of the Baron Wildenheim?"

Tom choked on his own tea. "Yates, dash it!"

With an emphatic clink, Edmund set his teacup down on his saucer, placed the saucer onto the nearest tray, and held his hands together in mock applause, brow lifted.

Fanny could not help smiling, despite all the present fears, nor loving him especially in that moment. She loved him best of all when he was sweet, when he was dear, when he was his best self, the self Mary Crawford would never appreciate as she ought to, but even like this, particularly when the other parties deserved it, she privately worshipped him for being so clever and pointed.

"I've left poor Yates alone!" cried Tom, sprung to his feet. "I will go and fetch him." And Fanny could almost have admired his loyalty, thought him a good friend, if he had not added, "He will be no bad assistant when it all comes out."

Tom – running down the hall in a great hurry – happened to enter the theatre, on stage right, just in time to see his father also enter, via his sheet-covered study, stage left, his steps slower and incredulous, and witness Mr. Yates, in one of his rants – his best, or perhaps one ought to say worst, yet – very nearly knock the baronet backwards.

He made frantic slashing motions and cleared his throat until Yates, mid pose, hand thrown high in the air, froze, then whirled, and was face to face with his host.

"Ah," he said. "Hallo."

"Tom, who is this?"

"My particular" – he coughed – "er – hem, hem – friend."

"You'll have to forgive me," said Sir Thomas, coldly gauging Mr. Yates. "But you're just another of the hundred particular friends Tom has smuggled into this house in the past. And it is difficult for me to become very interested in all of them." Bingley was an exception, because he rather liked Bingley. His son ought to keep in the company of more men like Bingley. He thought if Bingley were not so easily led, so afraid of putting forth his own opinion when it mattered, he might be rather a good influence on Tom more than otherwise. But he had no patience for any John Yateses, Honourables or not. "I vividly recall one George Wickham, from your Oxford days, who made off with the silver."

He swallowed. "One might call that a high-spirited prank, sir – he is in the army now, you know, and that sort are always driven to–" He choked off – his father's expression was stern, unyielding, and while he was about to add that Bingley's particular friend Darcy had grown up with Wickham and it must be a point in the gentleman's favour, he recollected, too, how Bingley had told him Darcy and Wickham were not friendly, despite having recently become brothers by law. There had been some unpleasantness there. This was not a subject he cared to venture on when he was already trodden onto thinning ice... "Hem," he managed, again.

"This" – and Sir Thomas gestured out at what should have been the audience – "I think is worse. The silver, at least, might be replaced" – and was at present yet being so, bought back piece by piece, painstakingly, from the hands of traders and shopkeepers and peddlers tracked down and discovered to be in possession of silver implements with the Bertrams' telltale script letter B engraved onto spoon-handles and elsewhere – "without nails and boards being yanked up."

Mr. Yates leaned with his head inclined towards Tom. "Is he taking it well? I cannot tell."

Tom shook his head.

"I require a private word with you." To Yates, he pointed offstage. "As you are my son's particular friend, you might as well join the others in the drawing-room. Tea is being served."

"John," croaked Tom, beginning to feel panicked. "John, old bean, you cannot just leave me to–" And although he made a grab for Yates, to keep him at his side, the gentleman was quicker and was off the stage and out the door before Tom could prevent him.

"You never stood a chance there, but it was a valiant effort," sighed Sir Thomas.

"Thank you," his son replied sheepishly.

"Nobody skirts responsibility as smoothly as you, Tom." He pointed upwards. "Now, if you would kindly draw the curtain for privacy's sake, as my study is no longer cut off from the billiard-room by a bookcase, I would greatly appreciate it."

What followed was a burst of ill-temperament which – however hard he strove to keep it down for the sake of their guests, only a few rooms off – still made the walls of the house fairly rattle.

What was Tom about? The devil had the young man been doing all this while?

He had sent him home to get himself married, not start up a theatre and turn a group of gentleman and ladies into a blasted acting circle! And while anyone might excuse the Bingleys presence, what was he thinking bringing home John Yates instead of a bride?

John Yates was of no use to anybody here.

Tom protested he had tried to get himself a wife, only it was proving far more difficult than he'd imagined. "I sent out missives."

"And that makes it all right, does it?"

He quailed, demurring; he'd forgotten how much his father, in the flesh, could actually frighten him. "N-no, sir, of course it doesn't, naturally it cannot, but–"

"I want my study back the way it was," Sir Thomas told him, tone dark and no-nonsense.

He nodded.

"And I want you married – if not to the bride of your choice, then to one of mine – by Christmas."

"Come now! Surely, I might beg your indulgence until the new year starts up; even the witch couldn't–" He backed down once more; he knew this was not an argument he could win. "Yes, married, that is, by Christmas, as you say – it shall be done."

"As we presently understand one another, let me regain my composure, with one minute more to breathe and to reconcile myself, and we shall rejoin our guests." Sir Thomas walked around Tom and flung open the length of green baize. "Let no one who comes into this house claim neglect, regardless of who invited them."

Sir Thomas was indeed good to his guests despite his upset. Even to Mr. Yates, now he'd calmed himself, he was all affability and generosity. He was the life of the party by the fire, regaling them with tales of his voyage home (and Tom was, admittedly, a little jealous of how it seemed pleasanter than his own had been) and left nobody wanting.

Lady Bertram's eyes sparkled, and she seemed less liable to fall asleep than usual; she truly was overjoyed to have her husband back, for all she'd been tranquil and passive in his absence, for all she'd thought Edmund supplied his place carving at table very well.

Nothing – well, nearly – was denied which was requested.

Mary Bennet wanted to play the pianoforte for them and was told she might delight them all whenever she liked. It ended badly for her, poor girl, in that she happened to choose, by pure chance, the very song Edmund liked best and to fairly butcher it with any number of great mistakes, and it sounded all the poorer when compared to how he had heard Mary Crawford play it upon the harp. Edmund had winced; he could not help it. And Mary – when the lid was gently lowered by Mr. Bingley and her sister suggested letting everybody go to bed now, for she was certain nobody could be awake enough at this hour to properly enjoy her playing – realised she was in disgrace and couldn't hide, not anywhere near quickly enough, all her tears of disappointment over the matter. But Edmund, sadly aware of his part in the offence, went to console her, after, as he might either of his sisters, and Fanny – knowing the soothing effect of his kindness, though she believed he really might have held back that dreadful wince – thought it would soon be all right between them all.

For herself, Fanny was comforted by Sir Thomas' unexpected but continued pleasure in her.

She had imagined, when her part in the theatricals was revealed, he would be cross and all his extra tenderness and feeling for her would evaporate, but this was not the case – Edmund had assured him Fanny was pressed into acting, quite against her will, and Sir Thomas was left with the impression she was the only young person – save the Bingleys – in the house with any real sense. She only furthered her own good by asking, in total innocence, a question about the slave-trade which proved intelligent enough to give her uncle pause.

So, he thought, she was a bright little thing, as well as pretty, for all he'd worried about her in the past. He was glad to know it.

Mrs. Norris was seething. Nothing was going aright. Maria and Rushworth were barely acknowledged, Tom was in disgrace, the Bingleys were the stars of the house and nothing was too good for them, Mr. Crawford was not there, Julia was barely speaking, and Fanny was being given a great deal more attention than was her due. She was comforted, however, by the fact that she was told – as she claimed to have such great, pressing need of it at the White House – she might take the stage curtain from the billiard-room and cut up all the green baize as she pleased.

The savings this would incur must be her balm, must placate her for the present.

She took her revenge the next day, however, quite early, by insisting she had immediate need – a need even more dire than her previous need for green baize, by all accounts – of burgundy truffles, she was ravenous for them, and Fanny – who wasn't needed elsewhere, she was sure – must go into Mansfield Wood and dig them up for her.

Fanny was subsequently loaned a very pretty hat by Mrs. Bingley, with a wide brim to keep the sun off when the clouds parted, and the day was fairly cool yet, so she should not have been too apprehensive, but she feared – at least a little – going into Mansfield Wood and would have much rather not.

Mr. Rushworth's request to shoot in Mansfield Wood had been the only major denial her uncle had issued; she'd noticed, too, an odd look exchanged between her uncle and Tom at this. One could not quite tell, not with the mask, but Tom appeared – if she had it aright – both chastened and grateful for his father's refusal regarding their guests being permitted to shoot as they liked among their trees.

Some flimsy excuse was given, by and by, about poachers and a bad year for birds, but it rang false.

So there was, most probably, something wrong in Mansfield Wood, and to be unceremoniously sent out, all alone, where the guests were not permitted, so soon after the incident with the bear and Tom's horse, did not make her feel at all comfortable.

Fanny persevered, all the same, tried to be brave as she went out with her basket to seek the black autumn for her aunt.

It was warmer and the digging and searching tired her and made her perspire greatly, so that – while the air itself was only a little more heated than previously – she was hot and turning very red in the face.

The basket was a quarter – then half – full by the time she heard something lumbering through the trees, tried to stand too quickly, and sank back, with a gasp brought on by a sharp spasm of pain running from her thigh to her ankle, into a crouching position. Mrs. Bingley's loaned hat was fallen back from her head, dropped into a tangle of brambles she would later have to retrieve it from with great difficultly.

It was the white bear again, and this time he did indeed look hungry, but to Fanny's astonishment, though he charged in her direction, the bear did not maul her – for indeed, she was all pins and needles still and could not run and would have been easy prey – but instead toppled over her basket and began munching – quite contentedly by all appearances – upon the truffles which rolled free.

Within a few seconds he had guzzled up the whole lot and was nudging the empty basket with his great black nose, clearly hoping for more.

Fanny laughed, then – realising – she turned a bit angry. She'd been digging all day for a bear to profit, for her aunt Norris to surely scold her, and... And, just as quickly, she felt sorry. This bear, wherever he was from, might be sorely lacking his usual meals in Mansfield Wood, so gentle and carefully cultivated as it was. She wouldn't have been cross with a beggar for devouring her dinner; she would have taken it as an act of charity to allow them to wrong her. The bear, too, was one of God's creatures, and had to eat, and – to its credit, dear thing – had chosen not to fulfil that need by eating her.

Nonetheless, she was still frightened of what Mrs. Norris would say, doubting she would see it that way.

Her anger and sorrow turned to real tears, at this, running down her face, and the bear – seeing her cry – cocked his head, grunted, sat upon its haunches, waved a paw (almost as a human might hold out their hand consolingly, imploringly), and – easing back down again onto all fours – began to sniff and dig.

She laughed once more; the bear was proving himself better than a trained pig or dog at smelling where there might be truffles.

On the onset of evening, the basket was overflowing.

She gave the bear all the extra she could not carry, and – almost sorry to leave him – turned, wishing to thank him somehow, with more than truffles, and found he was crouching, leaning to one side.

What could he mean for her to do? Fanny wondered, and tried to walk off with her heavy basket, only managing a few steps before she sank to the loamy ground. "Ahhhh."

The bear circled around her, leaning again.

"I do not understand," said Fanny, blinking away sweat and pollen from off her eyelashes.

Grunting, the bear nudged her elbow, bent, and leaned in her direction again.

He couldn't... He couldn't mean for her to ride him, perhaps...?

Yet, he certainly seemed to mean nothing else.

Unsure, fumbling to mount his bulk as she would the more graceful, easy shape of a horse, daring – despite her palpitating heart – to use great tuffs of the bear's fur as a hold to hoist herself up, she found herself seated upon his back – so high up she trembled – like a lady in side-saddle.

Did he carry his master – whether it be Lord Byron or some other member of the peerage – around their lands thusly?

In this manner, the bear took her back to the edge of Mansfield Wood, in sight of house, and left her there, just as the last rays of the sun were vanishing.

Fanny glanced at the house, knew it would be a long way to walk yet although she was immensely grateful the bear had spared her the unsteady trip from the woods to this starting point, a journey that might surely have done for her.

"Thank you, bear." But when she turned back round to look for him, he was gone. "Bear?"

She did think she saw the dark shape of a man – a servant or a poacher perhaps – in the trees beyond, but in the ensuing darkness, the haze of purple twilight playing tricks upon her eyes, there was no way Fanny could be certain of this.

She could only be sure it was too slight to be her white bear friend.

When Mrs. Norris had her basket, she said something about how it needn't have taken Fanny all day to appear with the desired truffles, how she'd wanted them in time for tea most particularly, and Fanny really oughtn't expect any tea herself after coming in so late, yet it was clear she was pleased with the quality and sheer amount her niece – however belatedly – had brought back from the woods.

A/N: reviews welcome, replies might be delayed.