Snowbear

A Mansfield Park and Pride & Prejudice fanfiction

Chapter Eighteen:

On the morning of what was to be her last day in town, Fanny rolled over, one arm slung lightly over her face, moaned softly and, slowly waking, was astonished – as her vision cleared – to discover Tom, dressed and masked and seated with his legs crossed at the foot of the bed, reading a newspaper.

"Ah, Fanny – excellent." He folded the paper and set it down on the coverlet. "You're awake. Almost time for breakfast."

Convinced she must be dreaming, Fanny shook her head. "It's light out."

"I say, you're remarkably observant this morning," said Tom, smirking toothily.

"Should you not be a bear already?"

"Oh – that."

"Yes."

"No – that is, yes, I suppose I ought to be, right enough, but I'm not, because I'm going to be one tonight instead." He uncrossed his legs and rose from his place. "So, there you have it – now do get up. We've something of a busy day ahead."

"I don't understand," said Fanny, a little helplessly, rubbing at her eyes again. "Won't this mean you have an extra day cursed?"

He sighed. "I daresay it will, but it also will permit me to spend an entire day gadding about London with my wife. I was going to take you out at night – last night, as it happens, but then I thought, well, what's seven years and a day to town when you can actually see it?"

"You're doing it for me," she realised, sitting up and looking at him with sad astonishment. "Because I've never seen it."

He shrugged. "And you jolly well won't see much of it if you don't get up in the next five minutes, depend upon it."

"It is too kind a favour – besides, you are mistaken, for I have seen London – that is, a little – we stopped here on the way from Portsmouth when I first came to Mansfield. I saw a good bit being conveyed, and from looking out the coach window."

Tom snorted. "As if anyone but yourself would count that – count that as seeing town! – you are too exact, little creepmouse."

"I cannot let you do this for me."

"You certainly can – it's already done." This was true enough; he had already been a man for hours into the morning before she was even close to waking; he should have to be a bear tonight and add an extra day to his curse regardless now. "And I must confess I have no intention of letting it go to waste – so if you will not start getting out of bed this instant, it will be my – not at all disagreeable – duty to undress and climb back into it with you." He cocked his head teasingly. "Your choice."

Fanny pulled back the blankets and linens and slung her feet over the side of the mattress. There was a feeling of excitement bubbling up within her in spite of everything; she was to see London on the arm of a handsome, kind husband who desired her company. They would be ridding about in the lovely, familiar, and exceedingly comfortable Mansfield carriage which had conveyed them here; who knew but that they might even drive through a park, which would be a very pleasant diversion indeed. This was not a thing she could have wished – let alone ever hoped – for even in her wildest dreams. To imagine herself to be of consequence enough, to be held in great enough esteem, to merit such a sacrifice on Tom's part left her with a full heart; she hardly knew how to support herself. She wanted to fly, to run, to clap her hands together – her whole body tingled with longing.

Drying her face with a towel after washing it in the basin, Fanny looked to Tom – who, in his own excitement, was beginning to pace the length of their room – and said, "I shall remember this kindness until the last day of my life."

"I hope you will," he said frankly. "And" – observing her to have set the towel down and to be walking absently towards a screen with a dress over her arm – "don't you dare hide behind there! I quite insist upon watching."

He did rather more than simply watch, when all was said and done; with a good deal more attentiveness and enthusiasm than the best lady's maid would have managed, he helped her on with her stockings and garters and fastened the tiny buttons at the back of her dress.

Then, his breathing gone a little heavy, he grasped her from behind, wrapping his arms about her waist, and held her against him for several moments.

"Oh," whispered Fanny. Then, at some sudden squeeze and the feeling of his mouth nibbling on her earlobe, the cold press of the silver mask against the side of her face, "Oh!"

He sighed and released her – she spun out of his arms, her face quite scarlet but her light eyes involuntarily glowing from sheer pleasure.

"D'you know," he said softly, gazing at her from behind the slits of the mask, "sometimes I can scarcely believe you're really mine – my own darling little wifey. D'you think it's really possible for any man to be so happy in his good fortune? Especially one who never planned for it?"

Although she felt very much the same, she couldn't think how to answer. His regard and the resulting attentions from it were overwhelming. The spinning had made her literally dizzy as well. So she succeeded only in turning yet redder and murmuring – in an increasingly nervous stammer – something about how breakfast must be begun – the servant's knock would come upon their door at any second, surely?

A less confident man than Tom might have been rattled by this response, and indeed for a moment he was discomfited in the smallest measure, but he recovered quickly, simply because he took it rather for granted, at this point, that she must love him dearly.

Certainly she was inexpressibly grateful for her good fortune in finding unlooked-for affection in their union; such was written all over her lovely, blushing face!

Mr. Bingley's sisters were not at breakfast either to plague or amuse the couple – they'd gone to Mr. Hurst's residence for an extended stay the evening prior, and, given the recent trouble with Mr. Crawford, as well as the fact other straggler guests were at present popping in and out of rooms at will, leaving rather an abundance yet of indoor traffic to keep a cautious eye on as host, even Bingley himself was pleased to see them go unprompted – so there was nothing to mar Tom and Fanny's first morning meal together in quite some time.

Nothing, excepting Fanny's own conscience, which was still stubbornly unwilling to acquit her regarding concealing Crawford's unsavoury offer from Tom, in spite of seeing the sense in the Bingleys' reasoning.

She did her best, however, to put it from her mind and to be as outwardly content as possible.

And after they'd finished and gotten into the carriage, such an extraordinary day as Fanny had never had before followed.

Shops were visited, monuments were viewed, streets of merit were admired, and only once were they required to duck into an alleyway to avoid a group of unsavoury-looking persons Tom sheepishly confessed to owing rather a fair deal of money to. Sir Thomas had paid off the debts he knew of – at Edmund's future expense, more was the pity – but he admitted, now, there had been others – slightly less above board, so to speak – his father had not learned of.

They pressed close to the sun-warmed brick of the building, heat running up their prickling backs through their clothes, Fanny half convinced a hole must be burning through her pelisse, and were by some good luck not seen.

Nothing occurred to suggest another alarming situation would appear after they'd avoided this first ill-fated hurdle. Fanny privately was a little afraid of meeting up with the Crawfords, either Henry or Mary, as she was sure they must still be in London – Henry did not strike her as a man to leave town after leaving a house, regardless of the shameful manner of his quitting it. Then, certainly, it would all come out. But no such meeting happened, and she soon forgot her fear, great as it had initially been, as the hours passed so pleasurably.

Around noon they had something like a makeshift luncheon in a coffee-house, a simple fare, more sweets and treats than substance, to hold them over for the rest of the day until dinner with the Bingleys; Tom would have been glad to take Fanny to dine at the club on St. James Street, he thought she would rather enjoy some of what was served there, but females were excluded from such establishments, making this an impossibility. Besides, it was probably best Fanny never be put in a position to witness firsthand some of the behaviour of Tom's friends there; she would no doubt have been rather shocked, if not outright scandalized, by these young gentlemans' manners when they were away from their families. Heated quarrels involving hurling bread-rolls and riding upon an obliging mate's shoulders for leverage were not uncommon. Nor were contests where the unspecified objective seemed to be to hit your opponent with the blunt end of whatever useful implement was on hand to be considered out of the way occurrences. And, typically, these were precipitated by rather a good deal of drinking...

Not to mention, women – married or not – seen to frequent that part of town wouldn't keep a good reputation for long, even if accompanied by a trustworthy male.

But Fanny, light of heart in her ignorance, enjoyed every moment, as every street and smell and noise and experience was entirely new – she could not wish to see something she did not know about, and she knew nothing of gentleman's clubs.

If Tom had got it into his head to tell her the coffee-house they'd gone to was the only such one in all of London, she would have, in all likelihood, believed him.

Her greatest pleasure, however, so far as what man had built, was the visiting of a beautiful old church with high vaulted ceilings and a great many inscriptions of historical merit.

Tom had planned the visit as a rather sobering stop, nothing he'd expected to particularly impress, and was – despite being delighted at her pleasure – surprised by Fanny's rapturous expressions of felicity at every inch of the place.

With a furrowed brow behind his mask, Tom listened – a little incredulously – as his wife confessed this was exactly her idea of what a place of worship ought to be. She wished, sometimes, though she saw there was no direct need for it, since they had the parish church, the big house at Mansfield had a chapel; not, she explained, stuttering a little in her hurry to get her thoughts out before he perhaps mistook her meaning, an unused, sanitized sort of prayer-room with nothing awful about it, such as Maria had at Sotherton Court, but a proper, beautiful place where the whole family could assemble.

Tom couldn't help envisioning – smiling as he did so – carving a small heart into a pew of Fanny's imaginary chapel – a plump baby seated in his wife's lap and other fair children, a collection of all their handsomest features, in a row like ducklings, swinging their legs in their seats...

He was not a deeply religious man like his brother, but the idea of a family chapel still held charm for him when placed in the right context.

"Of course, Fanny," he said, shaking off these pretty visions, "Mansfield was built too lately for anyone to think of that – the house ought to be in collections of gentleman's seats, and it ought to have room for such lofty ideals as yours, but the land has not yet been long enough the property of the Bertram family." He added, "If you ask me, the billiard-room needs extensive work, and the greenhouse ought to be moved before anyone starts building chapels."

Fanny blanched. "I hope you're not especially keen on improvements." She knew Crawford – and, to a lesser extent, Rushworth – were mad for such things, for tearing down and rebuilding and modernizing, but she fervently hoped her husband was not. "That is, it would be delightful to see the progress of a garden relocated, so long as nothing grand was felled to make way for it, but I love Mansfield so dearly just as it is! I wish I hadn't said that about the chapel, if it makes you think I am at all discontent."

"I could never believe you discontent," said Tom, and chucked her under the chin. "Dearest!"

"But you love Mansfield, too, don't you?" It was her fear he mightn't, since he was away from it so much before being cursed.

"D'you doubt it?" He was surprised.

"Sometimes," she confessed; "for you never seemed especially happy there – except for..." And she broke off, having been about to say "except for when you were putting on the play," and the memory of the play brought Mr. Crawford and Maria into her mind again, as well as unhappy recollections of her uncle's displeasure.

"You never knew what my attachment to it was as a boy, before Eton – I loved it very much then. I daresay as much as you love it now. How I used to tear up in the woods and run about with my spaniels and pointers at my heels!"

"What made you change towards it so?"

He shrugged. "Growing up, I suppose – in part – but, truly, I believe it was more to do with a test of will." He glanced towards the altar. "A holy place is a good enough place for confessions, I suppose. Well, creepmouse, you won't recall – the practice was given up about the same time as you came into our lives – but we used to, all of us, come to town every spring. There seemed to be balance, you know, and coming home to Mansfield Park was a treat after the noise. But to be in the country always, to have no say in the matter – even as the future heir – I don't know, but I expect I let my resentment colour my views of our once idyllic home a little more than was right."

When – well after they'd left the church, though long before they'd forgotten the conversation which had occurred therein – they passed the house which had been given up all those years before in the carriage, Tom pulled back the curtains and slid the glass from the window, pointing to show Fanny. "There! That is where we lived each spring before you came to us."

She declared it a fine house, and said she was sorry if the loss of it had caused him any real unhappiness, but in her private heart did not lament she had never personally known the place – it was nothing to match Mansfield's glory, nothing! Not for any pleasure in the world would she have wished to come and live here – as a sickly, frightened child, never one single day away from home prior, newly taken from her mother – with her cousins instead of in Northamptonshire.

The cold stone and bustle coupled with some of Aunt Norris' less kind words to her in early youth would have done for her – only in the country had there been restorative natural beauty to offset the cruelty she could not name as such.

They walked a small portion of Hyde Park – which Fanny was amazed to discover was in fact only a small portion, for she'd supposed the length they'd wandered together to be its whole before Tom told her it was nearly four-hundred acres across. She had wanted a park above anything else, though he'd initially intended to take her elsewhere before she braved the suggestion, and so they'd come.

When she tired, Tom carried her – heedless of the stares he got from passersby – back to the carriage, rather than linger and search for a seat, convinced the dark clouds gathering overhead were on the point of bursting.

He wasn't wrong – indeed, the sky did rip open and pound the carriage with rain, so that even the coachman, their own Wilcox from Mansfield, quite abandoned them and took his own shelter in a nearby pub.

The couple were so cosy inside the shut-up carriage during this freak rainstorm that Tom was insistent – when Fanny, lifting her head, told him it had lessened – it carried on as before without faltering; he flatly denied there were blue skies returned above them, and was not persuaded to release his grasp on her until Wilcox – emerged from the pub repentant – returned and knocked upon the window to ask where they would have him take them next; and there was no more to be done but to clear his throat to give Wilcox directions while Fanny, turned away in the corner, hastily tried to re-fasten the buttons of her pelisse.

All of this felicity – stolen by day – was paid for when the sun went down after an early dinner at Mr. Bingley's table and Tom had no choice about being drugged and locked away for the night.

Fanny missed him – his tossing and turning and endless chatter and all – immensely, reaching out and feeling – despite knowing perfectly well the endeavour was fruitless before ever lifting her hand – for his side of the bed, where he ought to be beside her.

This should have been her first peaceful night since moving out of her attic bedroom after her marriage, instead it was unbearably long and the solitude she'd thought she still craved, deep down, was suddenly less than desirable.

The next night, after saying farewell to Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, they were loaded into their carriage again and set off for another seven-hour journey, and both were in happy spirits simply because they were together. Seven hours jostled about in a carriage felt much too short a duration this time around; for, after seven hours, they would be home and Tom would have to make his way into Mansfield Wood for his transformation and so they must be parted afresh. But that was the future; for now, at least, they could be together.

Fanny's brightness was only shadowed by Mr. Bingley, as he pulled away from a quick embrace – Jane dutifully distracting Tom so he could have a short word – whispering, "Remember, my dear Fanny, he doesn't need to know – it can only cause harm."

From the moment of their return to Mansfield, even in the brief duration between Tom's alighting and helping Fanny out of the carriage behind himself and reminding Smith to have a care with his lady's luggage as well as his own before the breaking dawn obliged him to make himself scarce, it was apparent to everyone some drastic change had occurred between the couple whilst they were in town – they were too different with one another, too affectionate and attentive, without (the poor lovers) having the slightest inclination that they were being so dreadfully obvious – for it to go unnoticed.

Lady Bertram did not make anything much of it, as she made nothing much of anything, only pleased they seemed to have enjoyed their trip and had returned in such merry high spirits – Fanny had never used to be high-spirited; since childhood, her tendency was toward melancholy.

Sir Thomas observed them with a lowered brow and a slight frown, unsure what to think. If Tom were being an attentive husband, that was well enough, it was certainly more than he expected, but there was such a thing as being too marked in attention too soon. They had seven years until the curse ended, after all, and Tom had a tendency to be rather foolhardy. His son never had quite lost the boyish habit of running into matters headlong, especially when he judged there was pleasure to be had therein. Tom hadn't learned much in the way of natural caution – he was yet, in his father's opinion, underneath his manly, grown-up exterior, the same child who would all but throw himself under the hooves of a horse if it meant he would have a better look at the creature in so doing. He could resolve only to keep a close watch upon the pair and hope to intervene, if necessary, though he was far from certain how he was to go about it if such an intervention were truly required. The terms of Tom's curse didn't leave the possibility of splitting them up at night – the most he could do was station a servant in Tom's sitting room and bedroom in the evenings as his own paid spy and he, uncomfortable at the thought, sincerely hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Mary Bertram's guess was likely the closest to reality, but when she whispered her suspicion to Edmund he told her the supposition was quite impossible – it was a fevered imagination at best; he did not think it of Tom, nor of Fanny – but he expressed pleasure over the fact Tom had evidently learned to show compassion and consideration for a being who was not a horse, a dog, or else a former schoolmate from Eton or Oxford.

"It is my greatest hope that he will take better care of her now he has – it seems, left alone with her long enough – learned how sweet her nature really is," concluded Edmund, smiling but still a little grave in his expression. "Though, in truth, I never can believe he will treat her wholly as well as she deserves."

It was Mrs. Norris who found the marked change in Fanny and Tom's behaviour the most vexing. She had not Mary's sense to suspect the truth, nor her sister's natural indolence to soften what she did suspect.

From the first hour of seeing them home again, she was convinced Fanny – in her sly way – had turned Tom quite against her.

Why else, she thought crossly, should they always be seated together and whispering – and giggling – with their heads bowed so close? Why else should they be contriving to meet in hallways and in unused rooms while everybody else – including herself – were congregating in other parts of the house?

The fact they were passing notes as well as whispering secrets was most apparent to her sharp eye as she observed them each evening, flitting about the drawing-room with self-satisfied smirks upon their faces.

She was forced to concede Fanny had had the decency to colour a time or two, but she did not think a flush of brief shame was adequate punishment for the continuous mocking and hurtful contrivance to exclude a well-loved aunt.

It never occurred to the offended woman they might not be thinking of her at all, too wrapped up in themselves – no, indeed, she was firmly convinced it was a personal slight.

She would have been shocked, no doubt, to learn, if only she'd had the humility to do so, how remarkably little she crossed either of their minds when she was not putting herself directly in their path in an attempt to catch them at their cruel games and tricks.

By sheer bad luck, the one scrap of paper – the singular note – she managed to intercept before it made its way from Tom's hand into Fanny's, was rather mocking her and only solidified her already unflagging belief in her rightness.

Tom had got into the habit of drawing little pictures for Fanny and secreting them to her either while they were at dinner or in the drawing-room. These quick sketches varied between being something innocent in nature – a flower, a horse, once even a dainty mouse wearing a bonnet that looked very like one Fanny herself owned and had worn in London – and being rather explicit; some so much so Fanny was, despite being loath to part with a gift from him, obliged to burn them afterwards rather than face the mortification of discovery.

The paper Mrs. Norris intercepted was neither of these, as it happened, simply because Tom – in a teasing mood – had noticed how sour their aunt looked that evening, wondered at her terseness, and – in an effort to make Fanny laugh – sketched an exaggerated cartoon of their aunt's profile.

The temptation had got the better of him, for she had looked exactly – in her position – like a fairy-tale witch, partly thanks to the oddest fold in her cap, and he, as he hadn't bothered to glance in her direction for several days, too preoccupied with staring at Fanny, was amazed at the discovery.

Fanny was ashamed, even though – deep down – she did think Tom's drawing was a little funny, since he'd gotten the pose and sideways expression just right, and she apologized for hurting her aunt's feelings, but Mrs. Norris refused to be mollified.

No, she kept the sketch – as her proof, which she intended to take to Sir Thomas and present herself as being most dreadfully abused – and schemed to catch them in further disrespect, never dreaming they ceased to recall – particularly Tom, who must have forgotten the incident within five minutes of her snatching the paper from his hands – her interception and displeasure long before the next evening she could contrive to spy on them.

Exactly what she imagined they were plotting against her, she couldn't have said, but she knew – simply knew – Fanny was determined Tom should never respect her again, some sort of petty revenge for imagined childhood deprivations!

She followed them, silent as a shadow, as they slipped – they thought unseen – into the hallway and for some reason into the billiard-room to talk between themselves, and she waited – unable to hear what they were saying through the thick door – with her hand on the latch.

When finally she burst in upon them, she was disappointed to have discovered nothing except for Fanny seated in rather an unladylike manner with her legs apart on edge of the billiard-table (she did not see Tom adjusting his clothes and coughing self-consciously less than a foot away).

"Fanny! The billiard-table is not made to take such abuse!" she cried, seizing upon the one infraction she could accuse her niece of. "What do you mean, treating your uncle's property in this manner?"

"Oh, steady on." Tom came forward. "It was my fault, Aunt Norris, I set her down there."

Fanny's face was like scarlet; she couldn't look at either of them, busying herself instead with straightening her rumpled skirts.

"Whatever for?" was the incredulous response.

"Hem." Tom coughed again, turning away – she was staring him out of countenance, gazing with such fierce intensity, until at last he was discomfited in spite of his best efforts to appear unaffected. "Eh..." He tugged at the back of his twisted, half-undone cravat. "That is, no particular reason."

"Such nonsense – and, Fanny, for mercy's sake, did you not hear me tell you to get down off there at once? Don't imagine I shan't carry this tale straight to Sir Thomas."

"Sir Thomas," breathed Mrs. Norris, her hands fluttering, "I don't know what is to be done about those two! Fanny has had the most unsettling influence over Tom lately, ever since they returned from town. I've never known the dear boy to be so disrespectful or disagreeable! Never since he was an infant held in my own arms and bounced on dearly departed Mr. Norris' own knee."

"It's hardly out of character for my son to create silly drawings," sighed Sir Thomas, doing his utmost to keep his expression unaltered. "He used to amuse Julia in much the same way when he was younger." He glanced down at the little drawing laid out on the desk in front of him. "Although, I confess, his skills are rather better than what they once were – the subject is now at least recognisable."

Tears shone in Mrs. Norris' eyes. And to make certain this fact, this evidence of how wounded she was in this wretched business, was especially apparent to Sir Thomas, she was raising an as yet still dry handkerchief and dabbing the immediate air around them.

"Of course, I shall remind him, in future, of the respect due to you and request he pick another subject entirely."

"He would not have done it on his own," she rasped out brokenly. "It was Fanny – she was the instigator; I am sure she was."

"Mrs. Norris, I understand you're hurt over this, and perhaps rightly so – the joke is not in the best taste, I concede – but let us not cast undue blame where–"

"Town has utterly spoiled her – that is all." She sat straighter in her seat. "I was right not to put her forward and bring her to balls with her cousins and to secure invitations so she might dine out, if this is how she behaves after one week in London. Ungrateful, unfeeling girl! And only think of your poor billiard-table!"

There, at least, was a subject of genuine concern for Sir Thomas, though not at all for the reason Mrs. Norris imagined.

The position Fanny was described as having been in when Mrs. Norris made her presence known suggested something more serious to him than the misuse of a billiard-table.

It was a rare thing for anyone, these days, to accompany Fanny during her walks in the shrubbery.

Edmund might, if he was not otherwise occupied, though he seemed to be very busy since her return from London, and Mary would have trod beside her loyally enough if only the excursions did not so often coincide with the hour she liked best for practising at the pianoforte – Tom, of course, being a bear in Mansfield Wood, was daily indisposed – but it was near unheard-of for Sir Thomas to appear at her elbow, take her arm gently under his own, and suggest they go a little ways together.

"Have I done something to displease you, sir?" Fanny wanted to know, when despite it being clear he had something in particular to say they had been trudging in silence – the only noise apart from the crunch of their shoes the swish, swish, swish of his walking-stick as he whacked a leaf or two out of the way of their path.

"No, my dear, of course not." He shook his head, but his distant tone failed to convince her. "I did have – well, rather a delicate matter, that is – herm, herm." He coughed, then recovered himself. "I wished to ask after your well-being."

"That is very kind of you," said Fanny, puzzled.

"Are you well?"

"Very, sir."

"Had a pleasant stay in town, from all I've heard?"

"Oh!" Her cheeks betrayed her by going quite red. "Yes. Very pleasant."

"There has been nothing distressing you as of late?"

"No, sir." But there was fear, suddenly, in her heart and in her face as she tried unsuccessfully to turn away from him – she was beginning, irrationally, to worry Sir Thomas somehow knew about Mr. Crawford's shameful offer.

After all, why else would they be having this conversation in private, in the middle of the day, instead of in the evening with Tom also present?

"You're quite certain?"

"Yes." She felt like a wicked liar.

"My son, he has been kind to you? He has been behaving himself as a gentleman ought?"

She exhaled a breath she didn't recollect inhaling to begin with. Her uncle was worried about Tom? The likelihood of this having anything to do with Henry Crawford seemed greatly weakened by this one simple question.

"Of course – he is all gracious consideration."

Sir Thomas looked at her with an eyebrow arched – Tom, all gracious consideration? This seemed to be piling it on rather overmuch.

"I mean it." Her cheeks darkened further, but she was stout in her defence of him. "Truly."

"We are talking about the same young man who woke myself and his mother up at dawn two days ago – barged in and yanked back the bed-curtains, sketchbook in hand – because he had taken some strange notion of designing a chapel – a chapel of all things, as if we hadn't already a parish church – into his head?"

Fanny's eyes widened and moistened. Her voice cracked as she whispered, "He did that?"

"Yes, and I still haven't fully succeeded in quelling my desire to knock some sense into the back of his head."

"I'm so sorry – I think he did it for me."

"For you?"

"I did not mean to, but I believe I was the one who put the idea of a chapel at Mansfield into his head – I should not have rhapsodised so!"

"Ah – well – I suppose enthusiasm to please you is to be commended rather than otherwise – it's an admirable quality in a husband, I daresay – but he might have picked a more favourable hour to fill me in on the details."

This much, Fanny conceded to.

"My child," Sir Thomas attempted afresh, "I fear I have done you a disservice and I wish to apologise."

She could not imagine what he meant.

"When you first became engaged to my son, I was not kindly disposed to the match – out of anger I said I washed my hands of you." His expression grew pained, as if looking back upon his own words troubled him. "I made it plain you must appeal to Tom for all your needs – pleased though I am he is treating you kindly, I hope you understand I am still very at your disposal, that I didn't mean my harsh words."

"Sir–"

He stopped walking. "If Tom has been...troubling you...in any way..."

"Troubling me?" she repeated. "I don't understand."

He sighed. "I hope you don't, Fanny, truly – you are not, I trust, merely being obtuse?"

She blinked at him, plainly bewildered.

"Well, never-mind it for now, then; there is no need to distress yourself."

Rolling over in the darkness on his side of the bed, Tom laughed heartily. "D'you mean to tell me," he fairly wheezed with merriment, "you endured this highly discomfiting conversation with my father and never once realised what he was alluding to? Oh, the joke is too good."

Fanny turned her head upon the pillow to face him, despite the canopy blotting out any good it would have otherwise done – she couldn't even see the outline of her husband's head, only feel his laughter shaking the mattress. "If there is a joke as funny as all that, you ought to let me in on it." Her tone was faintly wounded. "Won't you tell me?"

Tom sighed. "If you'll take off your nightdress and come nearer to me, mousy, I would much rather give you a demonstration."

"Oh!" It all became horridly clear to Fanny in a frightening and dreadful rush. "Good heavens! Is that what he meant?"

"Poor wifey," Tom relented; "I should not have teased you so. Yes, I believe that is what he meant."

"But I don't understand," said she, marvelling. "We're married – man and wife – why should that distress him?"

"I daresay my father imagines I ought to wait out the seven years, until the curse is over, if I touch you at all – or he fancies you aren't an entirely willing participant, if you catch my meaning."

"How terrible."

"You mean that my own father would imagine I – for all my worst faults – would ever do anything to harm you?" His voice cracked slightly before becoming upbeat again. "Oh, I suppose it is, rather, but I'm quite used to his thinking the worst of me. You will, no doubt, recall he thought better of Crawford when he proposed to you than of me."

She wished he hadn't brought Mr. Crawford into it and tried to put that portion of his comment from her mind as quickly as possible. "I'm sorry for it. It's unfair. But things might be easier for you if you put your best self forward more in his presence. You often make yourself seem a bit..." She tried to think of the right word. "A bit frivolous, I suppose, when he's around."

"Ah. So, frivolity is the damning charge against me, is it? Alas, I can only defend myself by saying when I try to be serious, try in earnest, my father always contrives to misunderstand me."

She thought of Sir Thomas' reaction to Tom's waking him up to show him the chapel sketches and found she could not deny this to be true enough, at least from one side of looking at the matter. "Can I do anything? You sound so sad."

"Press close to me and put your arms about me – and, here, let me kiss you and run my hands about the length of you, my obliging little creepmouse – nothing raises my spirits like feeling you so near."

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