Snowbear

A Mansfield Park and Pride & Prejudice fanfiction

Chapter Five:

By the time William's letter arrived, a few weeks prior to the first days of December, Fanny had not seen her cousin Tom for some considerable length of time.

There had been a heated quarrel between Tom and her uncle, which she had accidentally been privy to and heard nearly the whole of, and, in the end, it sent him packing off to London in a fit of pique.

Fanny would have known nothing firsthand about the matter as it was happening, except that one of the maid-servants (not the one Tom had made an offer and christened Sarah, not poor Sally who despite never having been exactly kind must nonetheless be championed as honest to a fault, but one slightly older than she) acted in a way (exactly what way Fanny was not told) so as to rankle Mrs. Norris.

This ranklement, such as it was, proving severe enough to warrant her aunt grabbing the maid by the arm and dragging her to the housekeeper to be chastened and put on probation, was dealt out, or at least brought to light, at the very moment the selfsame maid-servant was bringing Sir Thomas and his sons cups of chocolate and a few slices of toast with elderberry preserves upon a tray.

So violently as to almost spill the chocolate, the tray was yanked from the serving-maid's hands and thrust into Fanny's.

She was not given proper instruction as to what she ought to do, now the tray was in her keeping, for her aunt seemed to think it obvious and was much more concerned with setting the maid to knowing her place, and for several moments Fanny had stood, wrists shaking, as one in shock, rooted to the spot.

She managed to gasp out only one, rather hoarse, "Aunt Norris?" as the shrinking figures of both her aunt and the maid vanished down the hall and she was most definitely on her own.

It settled upon her servile mind at last that, had the maid herself given her the tray, without Aunt Norris intervening, she would have – near automatically – taken it as a sign she was to bring it to her uncle herself – and so she would do that, of course, as she could imagine no better plan.

Arriving outside the study, the door slightly ajar, Fanny leaned in, about to knock, when she had heard raised voices.

"Damn you for a cursed fool, Tom" – quite literally, apparently – "I've given you plenty of time and you've squandered all of it!"

"Nearly, sir, not all."

"Tom, please, don't play games with him now, you only make it worse" – this was Edmund. "Think of our father's heart."

Tom gave a snort, as if to say he did not think Sir Thomas had one, then promptly tried to disguise it as a cough. He was not yet so overcome he did not fear stoking Sir Thomas' displeasure overmuch.

"What," her uncle had roared next, "pray tell, was so intolerable to you about Lady Ravenshaw's niece? You could certainly do worse."

"D'you remember when I was a small boy – perhaps eight – and I went at a run straight for the local farmer's draught horse, and you grabbed my tailcoats and prevented me? You said she'll smash you flat, or something to that effect."

"Yes," was her uncle's slow, uncertain reply, as if trying to puzzle out where this strange thread of conversation was being unspooled to. "I believe I do."

"Well, dash it all, it's rather the same sort of thing – it doesn't appear so in her portrait, to be sure, it's a masterwork of art and no mistake, but in person Lady Ravenshaw's niece is roughly the size of a small elephant – and I am employing the term small relatively, you must understand." His throat made some noise of faint distress. "I dread to imagine what would happen if she rolled over me in bed!"

"When will you stop comparing your prospective brides to horses?" Edmund sounded tired.

Fanny could hear the chair dragged against the floor, no doubt damaging what Jackson's work on the theatre had left of the fine varnish, as Tom snapped, "When they stop looking like them!" And possibly for the only time in his life, he was not associating horses with natural beauty in making the comparison but, rather, being quite uncharacteristically derogatory.

"You behave as if this is all a merry jest, as if we do not all suffer the consequences of your indiscretion," growled Sir Thomas. "I have had enough! At this rate we will not even have time to have the banns read the required number of weeks before your wedding."

"But I can't just marry some spotty-cheeked, galumphing girl who looks as if she could lift me over her head, all too easily, and toss me out a window – you cannot wish it, truly, for me to make such an unrefined creature the next Lady Bertram! Even that insipid Molly – or was she Polly? – would have been better!"

A long sigh emanated from Sir Thomas. He had no more notion than Fanny or Edmund did who upon God's green earth Molly or Polly might be, but he was accustomed to his son's speaking a great deal of nonsense and thought it better not to ask, as he did not particularly think he wished to know. "You know I do not, that I cannot wish unhappiness in marriage for any of my children, but you have utterly broken me, Tom – utterly. You have damned us all, as well as yourself."

"But hang me, if I know what's to be done now."

"I believe Father has a suggestion as to the contents and recipients of your next letter" – Edmund's voice shook slightly – "and he will frank it himself."

"No." Tom's mounting panic was clear by the rising timbre of his voice. "No! Father, please."

A rustling of paper.

"You will write to Lady Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, and ask her permission to make your intentions known to her niece within the week."

"Sir, this woman – it's more than her looks, it is her manner, her very being, her temperament, her character as far as I can make out – repulses me."

"Write the letter, and I will see it before I frank it."

"You'll write it yourself, that is what you mean, isn't it?"

In spite of loathing his vanity and his ability to make everything twice as dramatic as it ought to be, Fanny couldn't help but feel truly, deeply sorry for Tom; he sounded on the verge of tears.

Whatever his reasons, however potentially shallow, no one should be pressed to accept the suit of somebody they did not love, somebody they knew they could never make happy and with whom they might themselves be miserable.

There came, then, the noise of the chair being dragged back – almost of it being flung – as Tom clambered to his feet. "I won't do it – curse or no curse – you will never succeed in making me!"

"Come back!"

Tom must, though Fanny obviously could not see him, have been on the point of quitting the room – she'd known he must be very near the door, very near to where she was standing, yet neither of them could perceive the position of the other.

"Tom! Restrain yourself, then become resigned. You will do as I say!"

His hand was on the door – Fanny at that moment could see his curled fingertips. "Even I have principals – even I have standards – sir."

If Fanny hadn't the sense to back away and stand pressed close to the wall beyond, the door, swinging open, would have knocked her – and a wild spray of chocolate and crockery and breadcrumbs – across the hall as both her uncle and cousin exited, shouting as she had never heard them shout, Tom for this once not backing down, not demurring, Edmund following helplessly, hands spread out after them, imploring.

Only the last noticed her – when they'd failed to take notice of him.

"It's no good," Edmund had said, shaking his head, "bringing them chocolate – they're both too angry – too warm in their tempers – to drink it." He'd reached out and patted Fanny's arm. "You had better have it for yourself, I think; you look piqued."

"I know it isn't any of my business, but..." Her lips, gone white, quivered. "What is happening? Is Tom all right? And my uncle...is he...is he quite well?"

He had only shaken his head once more – yes, it was very bad indeed, no he did not wish to speak of it any further, not even to her – and directed her to the nearest stair; it was a servants' passage, not in common use this hour. "Come, Fanny, we'll both have the chocolate together and sit nicely upon the staircase in peace and quiet – we will have what I think few in this household have had in a long time; let us have the luxury of silence."

And so they did, and – after they'd finished the chocolate and Edmund ate the toast – Fanny saw Tom's valet, newly returned from some errand – no further dead or ailing great aunts at present to keep him away from Mansfield – and acting very standoffish, rushing by in the hallway above their little sanctuary, while Tom bellowed a string of obscenities from several rooms away and told him not to bother folding anything, just to have it ready to be hauled away within the hour for God's sake.

That was when something most curious indeed occurred.

Fanny turned her head at the right – or perhaps wrong – moment and happened to meet the valet's eyes, and she could have sworn – for the sparest of seconds – they flashed brilliant, glowing green.

He did not seem unnerved she had seen this. He only put a finger to his lips as if to say, "Shh, little Fanny Price, it's a secret, keep it."

"I don't understand it – Roger Smith has brown eyes – they have always been brown; I am certain they have."

Edmund's ensuing glance, at the valet's back, had been one of puzzlement. "Yes – they are decidedly brown – what of it?"

"But Tom's valet...Roger...Mr. Smith..." Her hand was pressed to her heart; her elbow – dragged over the tray – unintentionally trailed in the dish of elderberry jam, which neither of them had touched. "Oh, Edmund, it was so frightful, I could have sworn–"

Smoothing away a fringe of blonde curls from over her brow and giving her a brotherly kiss in parting, Edmund kindly sent her to rest, supposing her merely overtired.

And so nothing was done about the valet whose brown eyes had glowed green.

She might have told Tom, of course, before he left, tried to warn him of whatever was going on with his man, but even if her eldest cousin had been in his right mind, she knew he would have thought she was addled in the head if she claimed his servant had glowing irises.

For days and days after Tom's departure, Fanny had fretted dreadfully over her silence and over her uncle's uneasiness and Edmund's manner of equal unhappiness – which she perceived to be as much from Mary Crawford's refusal to accept him as an aspiring clergyman as from Tom's troubles – but the arrival of her most beloved brother's letter melted her anxieties as warm weather and brilliant sunlight might melt a glacier.

William was in England again, at last, and he was invited – by her uncle, whose disappointment in his own children apart from Edmund, even Maria, whose wedding had not felt a happy occasion, whatever Mrs. Norris declared it to be, though she'd kissed everyone goodbye so they might feel her smile on their cheek and graciously took a waving, equally merry Julia with her and Rushworth to Brighton, had not clouded his new-found pleasure in Fanny – to Mansfield Park.

If William was coming, nothing could be wrong.

Oh, indeed not!

Nothing could ever be really, unbearably wrong again, not for months and months, not perhaps for years, for she would have so many memories built up with William on this short visit so as to keep her happy for weeks yet, to keep her in tolerable spirits no matter what blow she – or those around her – might suffer.

Further, even if it had not been William – her own wonderful, dearest brother William – Fanny would gladly have welcomed an addition to the party at Mansfield able to separate her a few degrees from Miss Crawford.

There was a tug there.

Edmund wished her to love Mary, and Mary – in turn, now she had neither Maria nor Julia for her first choices – wished Fanny to love her, to admire her playing upon the harp, to be her friend and share confidences with her.

Fanny knew she ought to love Mary as ardently as she admired her on a more superficial, stagnant level, as one would admire true talent and beauty anywhere one might stumble across it, but the desire – the pressure – to love, to love one who she knew was contrary to her own interests as well as morally grey at best, why, it froze all feeling.

This had always been Fanny's way.

She had been told – once or twice, in a well-meaning way, by her brother John – as a very young child, she ought to love her sister Susan, who had been left out sometimes, who she never had the chance of knowing very well, but it was the late Mary Price she'd naturally bonded with, Mary and William, because their love was not backed by any compulsion. They were good to her and she to them and they fitted together like pieces of life's own beautiful ineffable puzzle. And in that case, little Fanny of only eight or nine years had had nothing against Susan – no reason to feel apprehensive about her personally – so, how much more so must she dread having to love, being reminded of the obligation to love, in various ways, Miss Crawford?

The one-sided intimacy had only become more pronounced when – sent into the village an errand by Mrs. Norris – Fanny had been, on the way back, caught out in the rain near the parsonage; Dr. Grant had rescued her, holding an umbrella over her, and brought her in to Mary, who dressed her in her own beautiful clothes and played the harp for her and loaded her up with good things to eat.

After this, when she was sought out by Mary again for her gentle manner, they were believed by all who knew them to be the dearest of friends.

Yet, however much Fanny might repeat in her heart, "I do like Mary – that is, Miss Crawford – I do," she could not make it real or lasting. She felt she was acting, and acting badly.

If Miss Crawford had wished to see it, Fanny was sure she'd have seen the cracks in her best attempts rather than her own self winking back at her.

But now at last, with William's coming, here was an added excuse for their intimacy to be broken up for a time.

Selfish as Mary Crawford could be, she must at least understand – because of her own strong feelings for Henry – the bond between brother and sister who will have only a limited number of days together.

She must relent, give up her own desire to see Fanny every day to cut out the tedium, until William left Mansfield again.

William came, just when he was meant to, in December, and it was as glorious as either of them could wish it to be.

Mrs. Norris was not able to prevent Fanny from rushing out to the carriage – the moment she heard the horses pull up in front of the big house – and flinging herself into her brother's arms before his head was even fully outside of it, because Edmund, perceiving she wished to intervene, to give Fanny some sharp admonition, halted her attempt in so mild and reasonable a way neither his father nor mother could be applied to with shrill demands for them to control their son.

Kisses and formalities and handshakes were observed, the elders mollified and given their dues, manners all put forward most perfectly, but the very moment he was free, rather than ask to retire to the room put aside for his use, William took Fanny apart and led her down the lawn, which shone in the still fairly early daylight, and found a slightly secluded area where he could give her a present he'd brought all the way from Italy.

He bade her hold out her hand and placed within her palm an elegant and dainty cross made of amber. "I chose it when we were stationed in Sicily," he told her.

"William, it is beautiful," she breathed, curling her fingers tightly around it and throwing her arms about his neck and hugging him close. "Thank you." They broke apart and, from a reticule which had been a hand-me-down of Maria's years earlier, Fanny produced a length of silk ribbon and strung it through the cross's ring, knotting it at the ends to form a kind of necklace.

William sighed. "I wanted a chain for you to wear it on, more than anything – a simple, plain gold one, just as I know you would best like – but I could not afford it."

"That does not signify," said she, gaily. "Look how it catches the light at the end of the ribbon when it is fastened." She lifted it over her head to put it around her neck. "It looks like something from a fairy story. Is it magic?"

Stroking her cheek and chucking her under the chin, William whispered, "A gift from someone who loves you is always magic."

This was true, of course, but not quite what she meant.

"Although," he added, and looked both ways conspiratorially, "the men at sea do talk, do tell tales sometimes, about magical relics of amber from long ago which can allow one to see through enchantments – you can pretend, as we used to play pretend as children, it's one of those." His fingertips touched the ring of the cross almost reverently as it dangled over his sister's heart. "And you can remember always who gave it to you and know you have a loving brother's protection as well as that of whatever ancient magic lies within."

As everything was being done for her and William's comfort – Sir Thomas was even giving a ball at Mansfield near the end of the month, all because William had longingly mentioned a desire to see his sister dance – Fanny felt wicked indeed for being even the slightest bit downcast when some small inconvenience placed itself between her and unsullied, unshared, time with her brother.

She did not resent Edmund's joining them, not in the least, for he knew instinctively when to pull himself into the conversation and when to give them space to conspire alone, but the Crawfords were not giving her the full holiday from their company she'd happily anticipated, and it chafed.

Miss Crawford could not help being invited for dinner by Sir Thomas, or even by Edmund on a couple of occasions, and her natural sociability must keep her lingering and trying to be affable, Fanny didn't fault – didn't grudge her – that, but, oh, Mr. Crawford!

Henry was making himself a thorn in their circle she could not dislodge, wedging further and deeper by the day under her tender skin.

He admired William, and she could well understand and respect that he should, yet it was with a kind of puppyish envy nobody else seemed to even notice save herself. He was hungry for the stories, for the breathless tales of episodic danger, William shared, and Fanny could not shake the feeling he wanted to be William, quite literally, as he might be a character on the stage, more than he wanted to be in William's company. Add to this he had, since Maria and Julia left, been trying very hard to make himself agreeable to Fanny, as though he thought – now she was the only young woman left at Mansfield – she should forget how he had treated her cousins when they were also here. She knew it meant nothing, and there were moments, admittedly, where she could not help disliking him a little less than previously because he was being more than decent, because he was charming and almost good, despite being nothing like she thought a gentleman ought to be, and still she wished him – and his thousand compliments and his desire to be the one to fetch her shawl and greet her first at the parsonage – far away.

Mr. Crawford set out to vex her with his endless, often mortifying, flattery and now he seemed intent on being the constant companion of her brother as well!

She saw him, not as a lover, as those looking on – particularly her uncle – supposed she might in her modest way, but as a dog in the manger, yapping and fussing and constantly trying to lick and paw at everything. He must be loved by all present, he must strut and strive and show off and have the good opinion of everybody and never be content unless he knew he had it.

Such uncurbed vanity made even his sister seem humble in comparison!

Mrs. Norris, of course, saw none of Fanny's distresses, only the indulgences given her – she had her vulgar sailor brother on her arm (the very image of Frances' husband at that age), near-constant attention from everybody, including the Crawfords and her uncle, and that obscenely lavish ball looming on the horizon, and so she must be the most self-satisfied creature at Mansfield from her aunt's perspective, rather than the most persecuted. So, catching Fanny about to sit – one quiet afternoon – in the drawing-room with William, no work occupying her hands and her aunt Bertram asleep with Pug in her lap, she resolved to send the girl to the village on foot with some articles from the poor basket to dole out.

"I believe it seems far too likely to rain," said William, glancing out the window. "Fanny had better go tomorrow, or at least I ought to walk with her and keep an umbrella over her head."

"That is unnecessary," replied Mrs. Norris, in a tone leaving no room for further disagreement. "Your sister should be back in plenty of time before it rains – it is not set to rain until this evening, I know it is not – if she does not dawdle as she is prone to do on a clearer day."

"I shall walk with her, anyway." William began to rise from his seat. "I must take some exercise."

Stabbing her needle into a length of linen she was sewing a hem on, Mrs. Norris gave him a peevish, sidelong look. "I cannot sanction your going out today, William, because Sir Thomas might want you in his study – you know he does so much for you, it would be discourteous if he wanted you, when he finished his work, and you were not here." She set her sewing aside entirely, smoothed her skirts, and added, "Moreover, Edmund is out today, so what am I to do on my own if the Crawfords should come with the Grants a few hours before tea? I can entertain the Grants – one former parson's wife may speak very well to another, and I know my duty there – but what am I to do for the Crawfords if there are no young people to greet them?"

"I have noticed," tried William, "Miss Crawford is partial to my sister – she will be sorrier not to see her than not to see me." His smile was bright, full of true warmth, and would have melted nearly any other heart, any heart not so closed and determined against himself and Fanny both. "I can run the errand for you, Aunt Norris, with the poor basket, and be back soon enough, and Fanny might rest here and wait for them, if they feel like visiting today."

Unmoved, Mrs. Norris pointed out the folly and absurdity of a man – an unknown one, at that – carrying a poor basket into the village, clearly ladies' work, and frightening strangers who would take him up for a burglar or mad person.

"Then, pray, dear aunt, allow Fanny to go tomorrow."

"She ought to have gone yesterday, but she elected to ride Edmund's horse at a great distance off instead," simpered Mrs. Norris, eyes narrowed.

"But it was for my sake she did it," protested William. "I had never ridden the paths here in Northamptonshire and needed Fanny's guidance."

"You, William Price, are not in Mansfield regularly, so you cannot know how prone your sister is to neglecting her responsibilities to spend extra time with the horses." She released a sharp sigh. "Why, she once took Tom's hunter out quite unbidden and dear Julia was needed to bring her back, and then she–"

Fearing she would begin crying in front of her aunt and her brother and would, thereby, only make everything worse, Fanny declared she would go and took up the basket with the grace and poise of a saint, minus her trembling, clenched hands.

William yet loathed to see her go alone, glancing out the window at the blackening length of sky and hearing how much nearer the thunder sounded already. He kissed her goodbye as if she were going into battle, rather than into potential bad weather, and Fanny gave an affected laugh – forced out past burning tears she was still holding back – and reminded him she had his cross on her ribbon for protection, and so all must be well.

"Mind you don't lose that cross you've got so precious fond of crowing over and stroking," sniffed Mrs. Norris, in parting, bringing the edge of her linen back into her lap and examining a loose stitch she was seeking to blame, somehow, on Fanny later. "You never knot your ribbons correctly and things always fall off your work. You must learn not to be so scatterbrained. Though I daresay you took more care for your own present than for the things intended for the poor – that is the way of young persons these days, thinking only of themselves."

Fanny was not a fast walker, and the weather was more advanced and poorly than Mrs. Norris had allowed for, so even if she had not gone the long way to avoid the parsonage, thinking – if Mary and Henry had not gone up to the big house with the Grants already – she shouldn't like to be stopped by them and prevented from getting back to her brother for however long it took to speak to them and accept their hospitality, she probably still would have been caught in the ensuing downpour.

A gust of chilly wind blew her emptied basket away.

She did try to fetch it back because she knew her aunt would be angry if she lost it, but water droplets – sharp in the gale – stung her eyes and she could not see exactly where it rolled, and she imagined it was sunk, very quickly, into several inches of mud before it could be rescued.

Already it might be well beyond saving.

She had some pence – nearly five pence – she'd been saving, tucked away in one of Tom's work-boxes in the East room, hoping to purchase a small goodbye gift for William from a peddler, if one came near Mansfield, a trinket she might present him with when the time came for him to leave her again; she might, however, be obliged instead to spend it on a new poor basket to placate Mrs. Norris.

The sound of hooves came, then, and she thought it must be a groom from Mansfield – as the rider was dressed like one – only even under the stormy sky there was enough light to glint off the silver mask and reveal it was none other than Tom Bertram himself, astride his own roan hunter.

"Cousin," she breathed as he drew the horse – nearly rearing – to a stop and regarded her curiously through the rain as the creature's hooves came crashing down. "I thought you in London."

"As you can see, Fanny" – he sounded vaguely annoyed – "I am not in London, I'm here – now what the deuce are you about, walking in a thunderstorm? Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Aunt Norris bade me bring the poor basket to the village, and–" She broke off, needing to spit and splutter, and then sneeze, as water was running from her soaked bonnet into her eyes and mouth. "Achooo!"

Swinging his leg around from the other side of the horse and dismounting in front of her, he looked about for the basket, saw none, and drily stated he supposed she had lost it.

"Well, yes, I did, to be sure, but–"

"Nothing else for it, I suppose." Tom motioned at his horse; the rain pinged in a vaguely musical fashion off his mask, like keys of an out of tune pianoforte being played at random. "Climb up."

She struggled to do so, and he went behind her, trying to hoist her, though the rain kept weighing them down.

"Oh, and Fanny, recollect you must ride astride, I haven't the saddle you're used to."

Already ashen, she blanched further. "Indeed, I cannot – not in my dress."

Tom pursed his lips. "Which dress have you got on under that pelisse? Show me."

Hesitantly, Fanny unbuttoned and peeled back her pelisse to reveal her dress.

"Oh, good, it's an ugly one," he declared, giving the plain brown dress a brief half-glance of disdain. "Looks like it came from your poor basket as well – only the poor wouldn't have it. Yes, quite hideous. Worth burning. You won't regret its being spoilt." And with that, he bent down near her feet, grasped the hem, and ripped it all the way up past her thigh to her waist. "Now you can ride."

Humiliated beyond measure, Fanny wept silently to herself the whole way back to the house, Tom mounted behind her, speaking only in commands to urge the horse forward quickly to try and get them both out of the rain before they caught their deaths.

It was not the dress she regretted. The simple gown had been comfortable, and very warm, as well as well-made, but the colour was not good or suited to her, it had been passed through many hands and was much mended, and Tom wasn't wrong about its lack of prettiness, of anything resembling aesthetic appeal. No, it was her present state, and knowing the others might yet see her in it, that brought on the tears of pure misery. Her stockings, garters, and thighs were visible, as was her bare arse. Tom hadn't looked, sparing her that much at least, still she did not think she could bear the lack of decency.

When they reached the stables, Tom got down and – when he remembered to, after several confused minutes spent blinking at the horse as if he was wondering what he'd forgotten – helped Fanny down as well and allowed her to secure her bunched up pelisse around the exposed portions of her skin so she could stop feeling near-naked.

The pungent smell of the stables fortified her somewhat, making her think, when she could again think clearly, perhaps she had been childish crying so bitterly because Tom ripped her dress and she'd been forced to ride back with him with her legs showing; after all he had been very good to rescue her from the storm. She imagined Edmund or William might have managed the rescue more delicately, but Tom had still been very gallant.

Once the horse was taken care of, Tom surprised Fanny by removing her bonnet and helping her dry her hair – declaring it would be a pity if she took ill as she was wont to do without much provocation and missed her own ball – and then led her out through the way used primarily by servants, slipping into the back of the big house unseen.

"I was in London, for a while," he told her as they sat for a few minutes in the little space between the kitchen and two separate stairwells. "I had some idea of finding a bride on my own and rubbing my father's proud face in it – but, alas, no such good fortune." Drinking long and deep from a flask he'd been keeping somewhere on his person, he then offered it to her; she tried to decline, but he insisted it would warm her up. "One quick swig down, it'll do you senselessly good."

"It burns my throat," she said, taking an obedient sip and quickly handing the flask back to him.

"Don't fuss; it's good for you."

She supposed a change of subject to be in order. "Does my uncle know you have returned?"

"No, he doesn't – and, Fanny, I'd appreciate it if you did not tell him."

"But, Mr. Bertram–"

"Only my valet and two grooms know I'm here, and I've paid them off not to utter a word about it."

She shuddered, remembering Roger Smith's glowing green eyes. "But how have you lived?"

"Back here, in the servants' part of the house, primarily, during the day, and in Mansfield Wood at night."

Her eyes widened. "But it is December, and... And what of the bear!"

Tom smiled at that, and Fanny was amazed to think he must know something more about it, because he did not look disbelieving or shocked. "The bear, she says! Don't you worry about him."

"Will you come to the ball? Will you at least see William before he goes?"

He fiddled with his fingers, gone white about the knuckles, and shook his head. "I need time – I can't – I can't cope just now with my father, with Mansfield, with any of it, but London is..." He bit his lip. "Please, I did get you out of that downpour – if you're in the least grateful to me, let me tell my father I've returned when I'm ready to."

Fanny promised him, albeit with clear reluctance, and he rather alarmed her by taking both her hands and kissing them and murmuring God bless her.

"I do have something for you." Releasing her hands, he reached into his breast pocket. "Edmund will have my hide for spoiling his surprise, no doubt, but I'm rather put out with him for taking our father's part, so serve him right, I say." Withdrawing his hand, he handed her a tiny parcel, tied up with string. "Edmund paid for it, not I. I simply procured it. He sent me word while I was still in London. He wanted this for you."

Her fingers were numb, and it took a while for her to remove the string, but once she had, and lifted the object inside the parcel out of it, she was amazed to discover she held a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, in her hand. "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the only ornament I ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit the amber cross William has made me a present of!" Lifting her ribbon from under the front of her ripped dress and waterlogged pelisse, she showed him the cross knotted therein. "You see? It is exactly right, in colour and in size."

And Tom laughed – it was difficult to tell with the mask, but his eyes seemed to have lines of genuine merriment creasing around them. "My brother knows you better than I – I wrote to him and said it was too plain and he was addled in the brain if he thought any girl would want it. I was thinking of Maria's taste more than yours, I daresay. Still, d'you know, I think it will look well with your cross after all."

Fanny thought he was a little wicked to have written such a thing to Edmund, to have cast doubt upon his brother's great kindness, but – grateful nonetheless for his part in this wonderful scheme – she put her arms around him and gave him a tight embrace in thanks.

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