Snowbear

A Mansfield Park and Pride & Prejudice fanfiction

Chapter Sixteen:

"I confess, I can't work out where I've gone wrong," said Tom, keeping his voice low as he spoke to Bingley so Mr. Owen, who he regarded quite as Edmund's spy and so did not trust in the least, wouldn't overhear. "Not for the life of me."

It was their second night in town and the gentlemen had all retired to Bingley's study (seldom used as anything save a gathering room, for – although Charles earnestly wished he read more – there always seemed so many other things to do, his wife holding much the same viewpoint, and of course they had the housekeeper look over the accounts on their behalf unless there was some exceedingly dramatic deficit which required special attention), while the ladies remained behind to have dessert and do their sewing in the drawing-room, after dinner.

There had been no earlier opportunity to confide in Mr. Bingley; no sooner had they arrived than Tom was hustled into a large room off-limits to the other guests and given what would have been an inordinate number of drops of laudanum if he was not about to turn into an enormous bear within mere moments – certainly more than a human who was to remain a human ought to take at once.

And Fanny was taken to the guest room, kindly informed by Mrs. Bingley that if she were too tired from her travels she mustn't worry about coming down to breakfast, something would be set aside for her and the housekeeper could prepare a makeshift meal at any hour, even should she not appear until well before or well after tea.

She did come down for breakfast, however, and met Kitty Owen, who she got on tolerably with but did not on the whole like so well as she did Mary.

When Tom saw her again, that night, he meant to reassume his flirting with her, hoping at last she would take some notice, only she immediately judged any change in his manners – those very few she might have picked up on – to be due to being groggy and ill-affected by the laudanum. She asked him several times if he were feeling quite well, if there was anything she could do for him. She was all wifely concern, which he thought was promising, but oblivious still to his efforts at romance.

Bingley and Jane, despite the lady's natural reserve, were very affectionate, and Tom rather hoped his friend could point him in the correct direction.

"Perhaps you're being too subtle," Bingley suggested, reaching up and rubbing the faint line of carroty stumble on his chin pensively.

"Subtle? I took her sewing scissors out of her hands and asked for a lock of her hair, for pity's sake," protested Tom, patting the breast pocket where the single fair curl she'd – looking at her husband with perplexity – nonetheless granted him very voluntarily presently resided.

Bingley whistled.

Across the room, Mr. Owen lifted his head and Tom narrowed his eyes from behind his mask, wondering if the odious man were listening to them after all, despite his best efforts to exclude him.

"It is too bad," whispered Bingley, inclining his head, "you are already married, because you might have declared your intentions with an offer."

Tom scowled. His friend's statement of the obvious did him no good. "Never mind," he sighed, rising. "I'm going to ask Wickham – I want his opinion. He knows about women. George, my dear fellow, let us talk a moment!"

George Wickham had arrived directly before dinner, along with his giggling, lively wife who – if his affections were not so intently fixed upon Fanny, his own pretty wife – might really have turned Tom's head, for she was exactly the sort of high-spirited lady he'd once thought he would want to make Lady Bertram someday and – at least by her own claims during the meal – a fair hand at cards.

Bingley had been right about her, if nothing else.

Having long forgiven his old acquaintance for stealing the silver and for several other small misdemeanours incurred over the years, even if his father had not, it was without any trace of resentment Tom went to him as a friend and sought his advice.

As they took a turn about the room to avoid Owen, Mr. Wickham smiled wryly, rather amused to see Mr. Bertram in love; the man had always been too busy with his horses and his scribblings and his gambling to fit the pleasure of ladies in, a difficulty he'd never understood given he managed to play cards and break hearts at the same time without the slightest of scheduling conflicts.

And now poor Bertram was in love with a mousy cousin he'd married out of convenience.

"Well," he said, taking a sip of his drink, unable to resist needling him a bit, "you must be doing something wrong – I have to fend Lydia's affections off with a stick." He gestured at Tom's face with his glass. "That mask isn't doing you any favours."

"The mask is unavoidable, I'm afraid."

"My suggestion, if you want this woman's affection, is to plagiarise some love letter or other and pass it off as your own; ladies are easily charmed by pretty words, it scarcely matters if they're not your own. She shan't know it."

"What love letter?" snorted Tom, not repelled by the suggestion of forgery so much as annoyed by the more practical aspect of acquiring such like.

"There's a very useful one floating around, originally penned by some sea captain to his wife," Wickham told him. "A great deal of soul piercing and agony and hope, all that sort of flowery nonsense. Shall I acquire a copy for you to write out in your own hand? I can have it by tomorrow."

Of course, it wasn't free, nothing from this friend ever was, and Tom had to open his purse and grease Wickham's fist rather lavishly, but he thought it might be worth trying.

Unfortunately, Fanny saw the letter in its original form, well before Tom could try copying it out and making it relevant to his own situation – he unthinkingly left it upon the desk in their room after Wickham had Lydia smuggle it to him in the hallway – and he was obliged to tell her it was a curious object in circulation at the moment and had just come into his hands as something to be speculated upon. Her opinion of simply reading a letter intended for somebody else, a love letter no less, was so severe, he didn't dare let on that he'd intended to plagiarise it. The old Oxford tricks weren't going to work with her, this much was certain. Really, he might have guessed! He wondered why he'd been so foolish as to solicit Wickham's advice and waste his money in the first place.

The next attempt was a bit more successful.

Tom asked if the shop a few streets away Bingley occasionally bought some pretty bauble or other as a gift for Jane from was still in business and, discovering they were, had one of the servants go in his place and pick out a present he dictated.

Originally, he meant to have them pick out something extremely ornate, but recollecting, first, he had lost a great deal of money already to Wickham's useless letter scheme, and second, how Fanny had all but gone to pieces over the simple chain for her cross, the one Edmund's suggested, despite its not being anything particularly eye-grabbing, he asked for a simpler item.

The end result was the acquisition of a little gold hair comb with a very modest design, one sure to look very nice with Fanny's white ballgown and amber cross.

Tom gave it to her the evening before Bingley's ball, was granted a kiss on the cheek for his thoughtfulness, told it would exactly suit, and – although her manner was the same as before, grateful and sweet and the like, with no notable alteration – decided to consider their resulting tête-á-tête as being solid progress.

It was something of a wonder nobody took pity on the couple and simply told Fanny her husband was trying to win her affections, as – by the end of a couple of days – everyone in the London house seemed to know of Tom's bumbling attempts excepting herself and Mr. Owen.

The night of the ball, Tom was pale and a little out of sorts after oversleeping following his transformation from bear to man (perhaps the laudanum held some of the blame for this) and was trying to get some feeling back into his tingling and momentarily uncooperative hands and feet by warming them with a fair amount of drink before joining in the next set (hopefully as Fanny's partner), the first having been opened rather elegantly by Kitty and Bingley.

But a familiar short and dark man appeared, Mr. Crawford himself, after so long, and – much to Tom's annoyance – eagerly pressed Fanny into dancing with him and with such unyielding perseverance as obliged her to join the set by his side or else to make a scene.

Never one for confrontation, far less so in public and before so many people she didn't know, Fanny reluctantly – glancing about the immediate vicinity for Tom and not finding him – stood up with Crawford and hoped the dance would conclude as quickly as it was beginning.

The reason Fanny had failed to see Tom when she looked for him was, he had, as restored as he judged himself likely to be, gone from where he'd been standing by the refreshments to seek her out for the set and – mistaking the back of another chair for hers at a most inopportune moment – found himself without a partner as the dancing began.

When he saw her with Crawford, he sought out Bingley, who was in the process of bringing Kitty and Jane lemonade and snagged his arm rather roughly. "The devil is he doing here?"

"Steady on, old bean!" he protested. "You will make me spill. Now, who can you mean?"

Tom motioned, angling his head in the direction of the dancing.

"Oh, Mr. Crawford – yes, he was in town and heard about the ball and asked to come." Bingley was all smiling innocence, all brightness. Of course, he never would have invited that gentleman if he'd realised dear old Bertram had anything against him, but he never suspected such to be the case even for a moment. "It was all right, wasn't it? I'd thought it would be well enough. After all, we were all of us friends together in Northamptonshire when Jane and I visited you."

Tom grumbled something icily civil about Mr. Bingley certainly being allowed to invite whoever he liked into his own house, have whoever he liked at his own party for his own sister-in-law, but his bitter tone was far from convincing.

And if Tom was made miserable, how much more so Fanny?

All throughout the dancing, Mr. Crawford was speaking to her in an increasingly flirtatious manner – unlike with Tom, she did not have any difficulty in understanding his meaning.

Again and again, he would allude to how they had opened the ball at Mansfield together. How unlucky they were fate tore them apart so soon after, denying them their happiness.

"If matters had been so as we might have indulged ourselves, we should be far more felicitous, you and I, than any Mrs. Owen standing across from a bored, dutiful brother."

Finally, in a soft voice, as the steps brought them nearer one another, Fanny told him, "Mr. Crawford, pray stop, I beg you, you have gone far enough – that is not appropriate."

He blinked as if she had said something utterly surprising. "And, what, pray tell, makes my kind attentions this evening inappropriate?"

"Sir, you know I am a married woman now." If only there were not so many people, and the dancing was not bringing them together and apart so quickly she must raise and lower her voice so frequently and thereby lose hold of the direction of her thoughts, she might have reminded him – as delicately as possible – of her thorough past rejection of him.

He gave a laughing little snort. "Dearest Fanny." He smiled impertinently, all teeth and cheek, making her turn scarlet with mortification. "D'you really suppose I care about your fake marriage to Tom Bertram?"

Relief seemed to be imminent, instantly within reach, as the musicians stopped the present tune and struck up the next dance and partners began to rearrange themselves.

Fanny prepared to flee, unashamed even to lift up her skirts and run off into the crowd of guests if she needed to, already too embarrassed for her humiliation to be increased by something so comparatively minor, but Henry snagged her wrist and would not let her go.

She was on the verge of tears when a handsome, well-dressed gentleman she had never seen before suddenly stepped in and asked her for the next dance with a very grave sort of valour.

Despite knowing she oughtn't dance with a stranger she had never been introduced to, anyone was preferable this moment to Crawford and – before, as she saw he was on the point of doing, he could say she was already engaged as his partner for the next dance as well – she agreed.

"You m-must think me very f-forward, I suppose," she stammered – as Henry released her wrist and she took her new partner's arm and allowed him to lead her to a new place in the line of dancers.

"And why do you suppose that?"

"Because I have agreed to dance with you, and you don't even know who I am." She could only assume he asked because he saw her distress and thought to come to her assistance in the only polite way possible.

"I know exactly who you are," said he, simply, almost curtly. "You're Mrs. Bertram. I am acquainted with your husband."

"Oh." She glanced down at her feet as they moved leadenly.

"Generally, I am much the same as you in my opinion of dancing with a partner I am unacquainted with, and I should be as afraid of appearing forward and ridiculous as yourself. Yet, as I gauged who you must be at once, your former partner confirming it when he named Tom Bertram, and you seemed distressed in his presence, I thought it could be no imposition, no particularly bold step."

"Oh," cried she, ducking under his stiffly raised arm in time with the music then spinning back into her former place standing opposite him, "no – to be sure! That is, I was – I am – grateful to you. I cannot express my thanks for your kindness. You are very good."

He smiled, though it was a tight smile, nearer to a wince, but for how well Fanny liked him as her rescuer, he could have scowled, and she'd have forgiven him even as she would have quivered under the severity of such a look had he given it.

"If you cannot express your gratitude, you needn't make yourself breathless with the effort to manage the impossible."

"M-might I ask," she managed, a little quaveringly, "only what persuaded you to aid me? Mr. Bertram never mentioned you." He could be no close friend of Tom's, or she might have been able to venture some guess as to who he was rather than be left with the firm conviction of his perfect estrangement to her.

"I know Mr. Bertram through my own friendship with Mr. Bingley," he explained; "it is by him we are linked rather than by sharing any common tastes."

Yes, this made sense; this man was very unlike Tom, to be sure.

"But I know your other cousin, Edmund, as well."

Recognition flickered in Fanny's eyes, her light irises sparkling faintly with delight at making the connection at last. "Then," she exclaimed, flushed, curtsying. "Why, then, you are Mr. Darcy of Pemberley!"

He admitted to being exactly the gentleman she named and, having by necessity left his wife at home, could not help thinking he should be very put out if – in his absence – someone pressed themselves upon her as Mr. Crawford was doing to Fanny. He did not know Crawford's character well, but he knew enough of the gentleman's reputation to know he mightn't be trusted with the delicate wife of an acquaintance – indeed, he should not have let even foolish Lydia dance with him more than twice if it could be prevented.

"Do you stay on for the rest of the week, Mr. Darcy?" Fanny wished to know, and hoped she was not being impertinent in asking.

"No, I leave tomorrow morning to return to Derbyshire." With most women, Darcy would have concluded the sentence there, but feeling an unexpected, if vague, sort of trust and good-will towards Fanny as a lady, he added, "I miss My Pearl."

She knew instinctively he must mean his wife and was touched by his devotion. A pang began in her chest as she thought: Edmund belongs to another now, and Tom will never miss me, should he find himself away from me, as Mr. Darcy misses his wife.

It almost made her laugh to try and envision Tom sombrely stating to a dancing partner, "I miss my creepmouse."

Mouse rather lacked something of the tenderness of my pearl.

When the dance was ended and Mr. Darcy, discovering her husband's whereabouts, handed her over to Tom with a dutiful nod, she looked over her shoulder at the departing gentleman, who did not take up another partner in her place, and realised, doubly, how very honoured she had been.

Tom was initially a little jealous of Darcy, because it was clear Fanny liked him rather a good deal, and he feared she might by nature prefer a gentleman of this sort to himself, but it was far better, of course, she should dance with Fitzwilliam than remain within Henry's reach all evening.

"If you are not yet knocked up, Fanny," said Tom, when he could find the words, for he was still feeling a trifle shaky, "I should be glad to dance with you."

She was surprised to be asked, had not expected it, particularly, half thinking he'd rather stand up with Lydia or Kitty, or pretty Mrs. Bingley, and – flushing all over again – confessed she wanted very much to dance a set with him if he was not inclined to join the card tables for a rubber instead.

Mr. Crawford was dancing with another young lady a few couples down, and was paying his new partner very little attention, as he kept glancing darkly down the line at Fanny and Tom.

He was sure there was nothing between them, marriage or no marriage, and therefore was of the mind there wasn't any reason they should be partnered up when Mr. Bertram ought to be doing his duty leading out unmarried ladies where they'd be seen to their best advantage by potential lovers.

Nor did he understand why they should take so much obvious pleasure in standing up together as if they were not, surely, already tired of keeping one another company.

But Tom and Fanny did not grant him so much as a single look in return. Whatever conversation they'd struck up between them was obviously giving them much amusement; Tom said something, with a half-smile upon his face, to make Fanny titter and nearly miss a step. A certain gold hair comb fell partway from her hair, where it would have tangled in her curls if left to its own devices, and he reached over and adjusted it for her.

The tune seemed to be an especially long one, despite their pleasure, and Fanny was walking more than dancing by the end of it, so Tom took her apart and they sat together.

She told him what had transpired with Crawford and then Darcy, and he – very attentive – handed her a filled wineglass and apologised for not finding her before Henry had.

"I looked for you, but I thought you were seated over there." He pointed, indicating the chair he'd gone to.

Fanny sighed and agreed it was an unfortunate mistake. "But, if you like, you don't need to sit with me – he will not ask me again." At least she fervently hoped he would not. "Someone would notice. I should be quite safe, if you wish to be with Bingley and the others." She knew, after all, to be away from Mansfield, to spend time with his old friends, was the reason he was here, taking such a risk during the day.

"Oh, hang Bingley – I do not want Bingley – I want to stay here with you."

"I have nothing so interesting to say as your friends, and you will want the racing news."

"I'll read the paper upstairs some other hour – the servants will have left it for me."

She took a sip of the wine. Not Madeira, but something rather like.

Tom moved his chair nearer and placed his hand over hers.

Thoughtlessly, Fanny turned over his wrist to let her fingers trace the lines of the scars on his palm.

Her tenderness – running over the lines made by the sea captain's whip – was almost too much for him. She must be fond of him, under it all, she must, to be so gentle with his hand.

But then, Fanny was always gentle.

Never since she had come to Mansfield Park as a frightened child had he known her to be otherwise, not even once. No matter what he or Maria or even Julia on occasion did to her, she remained good and gentle.

Only Edmund, Tom was forced to admit to himself, of all of them, had never vexed her. Only Edmund had encouraged her natural gentleness. He might even have to thank his brother for that, someday.

The musicians gave him, at last, his looked-for opportunity; they struck up a waltz.

Tom stood, bowed a little, and offered his hand to Fanny again, this time to lead her off into the dance.

A flush of delight turned her entire face pink before she faltered and recoiled, uncertain. "It would be a great honour, but..." She lowered her voice and leaned toward him. "But, Tom, is it allowed?" There were rules about waltzes, she knew, and she could observe from the corner of her eye young couples – but only those upon the point of engagement and given permission by their guardians – stepping out together.

Tom gave a teasing laugh. "I'll ask your husband and get back to you, shall I?"

And Fanny couldn't help smiling, realising how silly she had been – of course, they were married, so there could be nothing inappropriate about it. How foolish of her to have forgotten. Tonight was muddling her mind dreadfully.

She set aside her glass – perhaps it was the wine which confused her so. A little exercise, a new dance, might be sufficient to clear her head now she was rested.

In truth, however, Fanny only felt the cloud around her mind grow hazier yet as she followed Tom out.

The only other married couple waltzing were Bingley and Jane, though Lydia tried with a great deal of squealing and tugging to wheedle Wickham – who was quite unwilling, shrugging her off and finally snapping at her to go to the devil – into leading her out as well.

Tom placed his hand on Fanny's lower back, drawing her close. These were not the quick steps of a country dance, pulling them away from one another frequently, teasing with the touching of hands before they must be passed onto another's partner and then back again, meeting with a laughing glance. No, these were slow moves, deliberate, and Tom didn't look at his feet as they moved, not even when Fanny made a small mistake in her judgement and nearly stepped on one of them. Instead, he looked through the slits of his silver mask, eyes riveted, upon her face.

When the waltz quickened just the slightest measure, Fanny found the only way to keep herself from becoming dizzy and mistaking her footing all over again was to gaze up into Tom's face – as much of it as could be seen – with equal attentiveness.

The song ended, but both of them would have preferred it to go on rather longer.

Fanny's heart raced at such a pace she half feared it would kill her. "I wonder," she panted, a hand lifted to her chest, "that I should be tired after so relaxed a dance."

"Come with me." Tom took her by the wrists and led her off again.

At first, she was convinced he was only taking her back to their former seats, about to offer her another drink as well as a rest, so she might cool down and think, but instead he took her from the ballroom entirely.

"Will we not be missed?" she asked, as he bade her sit on a polished bench beside a long-case clock.

He shook his head and eased down beside her on the bench, putting an arm around her shoulders. Fanny rested against him gratefully until her rapid breathing slowed, though her heart still seemed to be beating much faster than it ought.

She wondered she had never realised quite how strong Tom's arms were before. She marvelled that it should matter, of a sudden, that she should speculate on how easily he might lift her up if he wanted, as if she weighed little more than a doll.

He'd carried her on his back as a bear, but he was strong as a man, too.

The recollection came to her, unbidden, of his ripping her dress and hoisting her into the saddle in the driving December rain. There had been nothing untoward about the action, she thought of it very little now, in truth, even if she'd been in tears at the time, yet tonight the memory was plaguing her and making her go scarlet.

His hand rubbed her arm, quickly at first, as if simply trying to warm it in the slight chill of the hall, but then slower, deliberately so, and with affection.

Another memory made her feel as if the floor were removed from beneath her – Tom in bed, injured, her fingertips on his chest, his hand holding her hand in place while she struggled to find the words to ask him to let her go...

"I-I've left my shawl behind." But to go back among all those people looking and feeling as she did was not what she wanted, either – she could not know what she wanted, and it was making her head spin.

"If you're rested, we can go back to our room – the fire will be lit."

Fanny nodded her assent.

He grasped her by both arms as he helped her up and led her through the dimness of the hallway and those beyond, then up the deserted staircase, eerie and faintly blue with shadows.

It was better to be with him, in the pretty guest room (where, indeed, a cheerful fire was crackling away) than in the crush of all those other people; it had not been his way before, but Tom seemed to think it better to be here with her, too, showing no impatient signs of plans to deposit his dazed wife into a comfortable place and then go back downstairs on his own.

He stood so close Fanny had no notion what on earth he wanted, what he was waiting for, and was about to move away from him herself, thinking he must wish to be standing where she was and she'd got into his way somehow, when he began, most gingerly, removing the pins, and then the comb, from her hair and letting it fall about her shoulders and down her back.

She gawked as he ran his fingers along her curls, tucking one behind her ear only for it to spring out and settle near her face as the Bingleys' maid had arranged it to.

Again, Fanny tried to think. Tom had been oddly fascinated with her hair of late – he'd asked her, quite out of nowhere, for a lock of it without any indication of what he could possibly want with it. She'd still given it to him, of course – he was her husband, he was Mr. Bertram, and he'd asked. There had never been a thought in her head of refusing the curious request.

His fingertips were on her neck now, caressing.

She stared at him, trying to read a hidden face.

"Is it all right?" he murmured.

She swallowed. What was she to answer?

"One word, creepmousy, and I'll never place a hand on you again." Tom's mouth was mere inches from hers. "One word and we will consider the matter settled forever hereafter."

Her throat burned; no word would come from it. Fanny felt, quite irrationally, it would be better to die than to utter a so much as a squeak and make Tom leave off touching her.

"Well," he breathed, relieved by her silence. "I'm glad." And their lips met.

This kiss was different from the last, less thoughtless, more eager, and – in spite of herself – Fanny didn't break away in mortification. Her confusion still nagged at her, but it seemed such an ugly thing to make him stop.

She did pull back and look at him with considerable puzzlement when, encouraged by her hesitant gestures of affection in return to his own, his tongue attempted to poke its way into her mouth.

Poetry and grunting noises behind a wall in Portsmouth had not prepared her for this, and while she was not repelled, she was certainly surprised.

Tom sucked in his lips and tried, in vain, not to chuckle at the severity of her expression. The vaguely reproachful alarm in her countenance was too much for him. "I'm not laughing at you, I promise."

She glanced down and began to step back, shaking her head. "You see I don't know how... How...to..."

"I daresay far stupider people than ourselves have worked out how it's done." He reached out and gave the sleeve of her ballgown a playful tug, slowly pulling it off her shoulder.

"Mr. Bertram!" she cried, unthinking.

"Come." The flat palm of his hand settled on the middle of her back, and he guided her nearer the fire, sitting her down. "Sit a moment."

She trembled in place. "It's too hot for me."

In a tone which half suggested the interactions of a moment ago never took place, as if he were simply her cousin Tom making certain she was all right, he said, "Won't you tell me what's the matter?"

Her bottom lip quivered. "I'm afraid."

"Ah," he said; "of me?"

"I told you before you frightened me sometimes," she reminded him frankly. "I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it."

"You know I wouldn't hurt you."

Did she? Well, she knew he would never intentionally harm her, but that wasn't really the same thing. The whole situation made no sense.

"I don't believe you really want this," she murmured at last.

"Oh? Why's that?"

"You did not used to."

He shrugged, a trifle discomfited by her continued frankness.

"I don't think this is the sort of..." She wrung her hands. "...That is, I don't imagine this sort of thing can be undone once..."

Another shrug. Why the deuce should he wish it undone? A pretty end to all his efforts and hopes that would be!

Behind his mask, his eyes drifted to her bare shoulder, still exposed. Then he looked to her face, which had blanched, lacking its former blush despite the heat of the fire and the proximity to himself.

Tom held up a hand. "I have an idea."

The last idea he'd had resulted in them being married and, subsequently, very, very confused – at least, Fanny thought, she was confused; she couldn't speak for him. He, at least, quite unlike herself, seemed to have some kind of notion as to what he was doing.

Still, she said nothing as he removed his cravat, made a sort of blindfold with it, and, with a great deal of care and gentleness, set it over her eyes and tied it at the back of her head.

"What's this for?" It reminded her of games of blind-man's bluff with Julia and Maria as a child.

"I am going to take off my mask," he explained. "I don't want anything between us, but as I can't let you see me, and this room is brighter than the bloody sun..."

"You could have asked me to close my eyes." It seemed the simpler way, really.

"Would you promise?" There was an anxious catch in his voice. "I mean it – you cannot look, not even from under your eyelashes. A mere peek would be fatal."

"I promise." She stretched out a hand to touch his face. "Are you wearing the mask now?"

"No," said Tom; "I've taken it off."

She ran her fingers along his cheekbone, amazed how no matter how high she brought them she never felt the cold metal of the mask which was there, always, ever since his return from Antigua.

"I trust you, Fanny." Tom pulled her near, reached behind her, and unknotted the cravat, which fluttered soundlessly to the floor. "Do not blink." While he was at it, he unfastened the clasp of her chain and let the necklace and amber cross fall between her breasts then side down her belly and drop between her legs until it hit the floor with a tink.

They kissed again, lingeringly. He was crouched so Fanny could put her arms about his neck and cling to him.

"Are you still afraid of me?"

She nodded, eyes scrunched tightly closed. "A little."

"Hmm." She felt his hand sliding along the seam of her empire waist as his forehead touched hers. "Then let us see what we can do to change that."

Afterwards, Fanny never remembered the actual moment – occurring amidst further kisses, sometime after he'd got her ballgown off her and into a crumpled heap at her ankles and was working at undoing the stays of her corset – Tom carried her to the bed.

All she recalled was her determination not to open her eyes and to keep him close.

And, of course, him climbing atop her, his face buried in her neck, murmuring, "Fanny, I need you."

She had heard those words so many times from him in her life, always quick to respond, to show her gratitude and give him whatever he required, only this time it was utterly different – never had the words been said with such an inflection, such lack of self-regard.

Before, whenever he'd said, 'I need you', it had seemed to mean he needed something done which she was placed in the most compliant, convenient position to do; it was never personal, never truly her he needed.

And as if they were a magic spell, those words spoken thusly made the last traces of fear curdled in her stomach disappear, made the fluttering dissipate.

She clung to her husband and sighed his name and, at least until the morning, nothing could trouble her, nothing could be wrong.

Directly before dawn, Fanny was woken by Tom shaking her shoulder.

She yawned and did not stir apart from rolling over. After what they had shared, their coupling, he had slept most of the night with one arm around her waist, and with the amount of talking and tossing about he did in his sleep Fanny had been unintentionally pivoted into several different directions in the course of her own attempts at slumber until the only way to bear it was to take no notice of it at all.

Because of this, it took him three tries to rouse her.

"It's all right," he said quickly, peering down into her face, into her still closed eyes. "I'm wearing the mask again; you can look at me."

Fanny – still more asleep than awake – regarded him from under her eyelashes. "Mmmm?"

"I know it's selfish to disturb you, but it can't be helped," he whispered, stroking her temple with the tip of his little finger. "See how I am placed; I had to see you once more before–" He swallowed. "Well, Bingley will be knocking any minute to remind me his man's waiting with the laudanum..." Pressing his lips to hers, he kissed her hurriedly, twice in quick succession. "I wish I could stay, but we will see each other again tonight, of course." He smiled and smoothed her hair away from her face, ruffling her fringe. "Goodbye – good morning – however you like it – adieu, mousy."

She managed to murmur something that sounded like, "Do be careful, Mr. Bertram." Perhaps she was thinking of those drops, still not at ease about him taking them to sedate himself all day.

By the time Tom left the room, beating Bingley's knock to the door, she was asleep again.

"You're certainly in high spirits this morning," Bingley told him as they made their way down the hall. "For one who is about to be put into a locked room and drugged, I mean. Where did you disappear to last night?"

Tom didn't answer him, but even with the mask hiding his expression his friend could tell he was beaming.

"Oh." Bingley rolled his eyes. "Of course! For pity's sake! I don't know why I bothered to ask. I might have guessed. I saw your manner when you waltzed with her. Dare I remark upon it?"

Tom tilted his head and stopped walking. "Not if you don't wish to be eaten by a bear before breakfast."

"Fair enough," conceded Bingley. "Come along, then. Sunrise is any minute now."

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