Snowbear

A Mansfield Park and Pride & Prejudice fanfiction

Chapter Twenty-Eight:

The road was dark, entirely lacking anything like illumination unless you counted the half-moon – currently an odd golden, vaguely lamp-like colour – in the sky above them, but Mrs. Lydia Wickham wasn't distressed. She was not really the sort of girl who distressed herself over the dark so much as the sort of girl who would work herself up over not having an invitation to tea when she expected it, or at not having a pretty new gown to wear to a ball; and even if she were, she thought herself very safe indeed with a gentleman secured on each of her arms.

On her left she had her husband, dearest Wickham, and on her right his very good friend, the handsome and amiable Mr. Bertram (it was only too bad he was not a soldier; a uniform and regimentals were the only further enhancements his fine features were in want of), who was visiting with them during their extended time in the North this year.

They'd all had a merry evening and several good drinks and were now making their way home.

Mr. Bertram and Mrs. Wickham were still visibly enlivened by whatever had been in their cups, whereas George was bleary-eyed and his head kept drooping forward.

"No one can put away good wine," declared Lydia, "like my sweet Wickham – he swallowed ever so much more than those silly boys who could scarcely empty a single glass apiece – and he held himself upright so much better than they did, too! D'you not agree, Mr. Bertram?"

Mr. Bertram did agree with her, quite assuring her he would never be stupid enough to hold any opinion which was not in line with that of a damn fine little woman such as herself, and she beamed at his amiable assent.

"But, of course," she continued, "my Wickham is the best at everything, you know." Her cheeks were flushed red, though not with anything remotely nearing embarrassment – Lydia did not know what embarrassment was, unless it was brought on by her shoe roses not matching her dress. "I shall never admire anyone half so well as I admire my own love, Mr. Wickham."

Mr. Wickham lifted his drooping head and looked sidelong at his wife. "Nonsense," he slurred. "You talk very pretty prose, Mrs. Wickham, nearly poetry, all in my favour, but if I was to die tonight, you would be riveted – probably to Bertram here – before I was buried. You would have him settled comfortably in my armchair with my watch and snuffbox set on his knees like an offering to the old gods by half past nine, the very day of my demise."

"Oh, do not be absurd, Georgie," tittered Lydia, leaning towards him affectionately. "Mr. Bertram has already got a watch and a snuffbox – as well as a wife. A pretty desperate widow I'd look to be setting my cap at him! And my grief would quite prevent it, of course." Although the mental image of herself in a beautiful black-crepe mourning gown and gauzy veil, her hair done up in handsome, stoic coils, standing bravely at her soldier husband's honourable funeral struck her as an oddly alluring one – one which did a good deal towards alleviating thoughts of painful grief. She must look very fine indeed, thus decked out. "Besides, we are far too good of friends – are we not, Mr. Bertram? – and we never disagree.

"Married couples disagree upon everything – my mama, you know, never agreed with my father on anything at all.

"And while I absolutely worship you, Wickham, we've never had a single opinion in common – as well we shouldn't! Poor Mr. Bertram is much too agreeable; we wouldn't suit one another at all for that purpose. We are just alike, you see. He's practically my twin brother.

"Oh, but I should certainly keep him as my partner in cards, though not in life, even after you'd left me and gone to meet God, Wickham, for there never was a better hand at whist than your fine friend."

"Ah, you give our Mr. Bertram that distinction, do you, you false hussy? And here I thought I was the best at everything."

All three of them laughed heartily at this; they were very pleased with themselves, too ripe and ready to imagine there had ever been – or would ever be – a more witty threesome than themselves, cackling away with wild abandon right up until their riotous laughter was quelled, obliged as it was to stop short at the unwelcome sight of four lean men with leering smirks, each brandishing a knife that flashed faintly in the weak yellow moonlight, leaping into their path.

"Phoo!" cried Lydia, feeling more inconvenienced than anything else. "Oh, get away! I don't know any of you." A well-looking brigand might have held some interest, but these men – with their nasty leers and bad teeth – looked dreadful and were interrupting her pleasant walk home with the much more comely gentlemen who were making her laugh so. It was most disagreeable. "No, don't you tug at my reticule, you dirty goose, or you shall tear it! Stop this at once or else my husband's commanding officer will have you all horse-whipped!"

"Lydia," snapped Wickham from the corner of his mouth, fuddled, yes, but not so much so he could not tell there was danger afoot which she was only making more perilous with her careless sort of talking.

These unsavoury men wanted purses, watches, etc., and Wickham, whose current on-hand funds were not considerable, as he had just spent a pretty amount of coin on drink, was sorry only about the watch and how foolish he was being made to look. But he was shrewd enough to judge that getting stabbed to death wouldn't be any pleasanter than being robbed blind while so intoxicated you could hardly stare straight ahead without some otherwise inanimate object – even if it was only the road itself – pitching perilously towards you.

The robbers would have had their money – such as it was – without much resistance and been given Wickham's watch into the bargain (so much for Lydia giving it away to a future lover along with his snuffbox), if only they had not – in their boldness – gotten greedy.

One of them took it into his head he wanted to teach the prissy missus who – to the last – made a fuss and shrieked and spat at him using some surprisingly unladylike language she'd picked up from the soldiers whose company she liked best to surround herself with. Releasing her reticule (for a moment, she thought she had won, that he was going to let her keep it), he grabbed her arm, ripping her away from the two gentlemen.

Lydia was screaming in earnest now – shrieking, raw and wild, until her lungs might very well burst from the exertion – her attacker hadn't been quite prepared for her to claw at him like a cat, especially about the eyes, and was struggling somewhat to subdue her, though he had the upper hand with his superior strength and knew it – but Mr. Wickham was in no state to rush to her assistance; he'd been knocked backwards when she'd been taken and was sprawled uselessly in the road, trying and failing to get up.

He rather resembled a turtle turned upside-down onto its back.

Tom fared a little better; he'd only been knocked slightly to the side, jolted against something in the dark, and largely kept on his feet even though he swayed unevenly. He lunged to rescue Lydia, but one of the robbers – sticking their knife very pointedly at his neck – halted him.

An improperly tied cravat revealed a twinkle of gold underneath and the man grinned widely. "Give me the chain."

Tom swallowed, hard. "What chain?"

"The one around your neck."

Tom's brow lifted. "You are making a mistake," he warned.

The man sneered and stuck the knife a trifle nearer.

Of course, no sooner was the chain off his neck – indeed, the clasp was scarcely undone – than the transformation took hold and the men realised, too late, precisely what manner of trouble they had gotten themselves into.

The one who'd demanded the chain made a vain attempt to stab at the bear, and though he penetrated him a couple of times and drew blood which looked black in the darkness on the white pelt, these were not mortal wounds – far from it, the stabs only seemed to make the bear angrier.

The robbers scrambled in a state of intense confusion; two of them, seeing their companion's stabs did next to nothing, simply ran off – one of them still had the money he'd taken from Wickham, but the watch, held by the other, was dropped.

The miscreant who'd taken Lydia flung her over his shoulder and tried to get off the road, but he couldn't outrun a bear, and one blow from a massive white paw knocked him down and freed Lydia, who rolled out of his arms and came to a stop a little distance along the road, dazed but otherwise unharmed.

She stood up and brushed herself off, checking she still had her reticule and mourning a favourite hat-feather she was certain never to find again, just in time to see Wickham stand as well.

"Oh, Lord, we are saved!" she cried dramatically, lifting her skirts and rushing in the direction of her husband and the bear, ultimately running right by Tom and throwing herself into Wickham's arms as if he had single-handedly delivered her from their attackers.

Tom was slightly offended and wished – instead of wasting time quarrelling, for in all of two seconds the joyous reunion between husband and wife was ended and Wickham was trying to make Lydia stop grabbing at him, insisting he'd hit his head when he fell and was going to be sick and wouldn't she back up a pace or two and give a fellow room to breathe – one of them would have the good sense to acknowledge him and refasten the gold chain and amber cross about his neck.

It was a relief, of course, not to feel constant pain, but the stab wounds weren't much of a break from his usual anguish, and he was already tired of being a bear and – even more so – wary of somebody coming along, seeing him thus, and capturing him.

Even when Lydia finally took some notice of him – she did not seem to care much he was a bear, for all her swooning and fussing, she apparently thought this only an amusing development – all she wanted to do was exclaim over how gallant he had been and what a great lesson he'd taught those sorry, dirty-fingered vagabonds. As if to make up for going to Wickham first, she quickly had her arms about his neck with grateful fervour, as if he were no more alarming than a large dog might have been.

"Oh, dearest Mr. Bertram," she cried, her eyes shut and her face buried in his matted white fur, "you have my undying gratitude – I am infinitely obliged to you, and I shall stand by you always, no matter what may befall either of us, and gladly do any favour you might require of me, even if it should drain away my meagre abilities." She declared, further, for the sake of their friendship, she would climb mountains and brave a dragon's lair – to Lydia's credit, the few books she had bothered to read in her life, back in early childhood before she was old enough to walk to Meryton and found other more engaging ways of occupying her time, were objectively of just the right sort to aid such a melodramatic speech.

Yet for all her professed willingness to assist him, her insistence she would do anything – oh, anything at all – for his dear sake, Lydia didn't in the least pick up upon the hint – though he grunted and tried to make her open her eyes and look as he gestured in the direction of his wishes with his muzzle – he only wanted her to put the chain and cross back on him.

The desired useful action must have been beyond her meagre abilities.

Even Mr. Wickham, when he had finished casting up his accounts on the side of the road, picked up on what Lydia was missing and finally snapped, "For mercy's sake, can you not see he wants his necklace?" and made to do it for her.

Tom would have been a good deal more grateful to his friend for the assistance here rendered if the manner in which he said, "he wants his necklace" had not struck him as slightly mocking.

He growled, but only lightly, not willing to bite the only hand capable of doing him any real good at the moment.

A man again, spots of blood on his chest and a bruise near his mouth and along his jawline, patchily visible in the weak light, Tom rose up, gasping and righting himself.

"Quite remarkable!" cried Lydia, who'd only just relinquished her hold on him in time to witness this marvel.

The transformation from beast back into a handsome gentleman apparently impressed her far more than the reverse had.

To be sure, this might have had something to do with the fact a bear is covered in fur and a man, once his clothes have been torn off from two transformations in a very short period of time, has nothing to cover his finer, private features.

"You've been keeping secrets, my friend," said Mr. Wickham.

Rubbing at his sore jaw and flexing an aching hand, splayed knuckles contracting and retracting, Tom sighed, "Just the one."

"Well, it's a bloody lovely trick! We don't think any the less of you for it" – Lydia looped her arm through his – "do we, Mr. Wickham?"

"You may have just saved our lives, Mr. Bertram," said George, speaking more seriously. "You have my thanks."

"Consider it payment for lodging me and for the drinks I had at your expense."

"Done." Wickham shook his hand and gave him a short clap upon the shoulder.

"Oh, la! How easily you settle your debts! But men are so dreadfully unromantic," sighed Lydia, shaking her head and then fixing her gaze quite shamelessly upon Tom with obvious pleasure. "A handshake hardly seems enough for such a great service rendered. This is how you thank a gentleman, Wickham, who prevented the despoiling of your most beloved wife!"

Chuckling, Tom assured her, as far as he was concerned, a handshake and a profession of good will was quite enough.

And how was Fanny, back in Northamptonshire?

She fared well enough; she was firmly established at Mansfield Parsonage now, her sister supplying her place back at the big house, and she should have enjoyed herself a great deal more if she could have seen Sir Thomas every day, could have had the opportunity of asking him if he'd learned anything about his son's whereabouts, without having to wait – always faced with the chance he would not come at all that day – beside Edmund and Mary, hoping for his familiar tread upon the step and knock upon the door.

Thus far, Sir Thomas had learned nothing; nobody of their acquaintance had seen Tom in town, and he only urged Fanny to wait a while longer while he kept on asking around.

The Rushworths had seen nothing of him, but this surprised nobody, as Tom had never been fond of visiting them. (And Fanny, of course, knew he could have even less wish to do so, given he knew about Maria's affair with Henry Crawford, which his father was still ignorance of.) He had not contacted Julia or their Bloomsbury cousins. The Grants had not heard anything of his being near Westminster.

It was a source of private vexation to Fanny she couldn't tell Sir Thomas he was asking the wrong people, not without betraying – or at least very nearly betraying – so many involved, and she took this trial to heart as being further punishment brought down upon her from her foolish mistake at the inn.

Edmund and Mary were both kind to her. They made considerable efforts to see to it her life with them had very little to trouble her. Fanny was very quick, on her own, to take up whatever tasks might be useful, especially if these spared Mary any strain, but her hosts knew she was not very hardy (not to mention it was plain the shock of losing Tom to the curse had only weakened her constitution further) and tried – so far as they could without hurting her feelings – to keep her from overexertion.

Mary was glad of Fanny's company – she was always (or nearly always) perfectly amiable, and would sit and listen – as long as her attention was required – to her playing upon the pianoforte, only once or twice – and it was obvious Tom or her lost babies had come into her mind and made her mood turn melancholy quite involuntarily – looking, her eyes going blank and taking on a slightly glassy appearance, as if she saw and heard nothing at all and was really, in spirit, far, far away from the parsonage and from all of Northamptonshire.

Further, it was a true and proper blessing to have an extra hand with the light needlework and mending, and – even more so – the reassuring presence of a woman who had already given birth to three children herself; if they could have gotten her sister Kitty here to help her, as had been partly suggested before Fanny returned from London without Tom, Mary thought she simply mightn't understand, she and Mr. Owen not yet having any children, not so well as Fanny did.

If it pained Fanny to see Mary each day heavier with child, when she could not be with her own children, or to see Mary tenderly spoken to and comforted by Edmund when her own husband might never come back to her, she never said a word about it and – even when her eyes shone with unshed tears – was always ready with a gentle smile for either of her hosts if they should look to her to see how she bore it all.

It was somewhat surprising how extremely lacking in oppression the parsonage was when it was in possession of neither Mrs. Norris nor Mary Crawford – the present Mary obviously loved (in a quiet, unspoken manner) every stone of the place and never seemed to be looking, as her predecessor often had, for means of escape. Even playing at the pianoforte was a means of rooting herself to her present situation, rather than being carried away by the music to some other, grander place, as the plucking of the harp had always seemed to be with Miss Crawford.

Mrs. Mary Bertram's lack of restlessness, her natural contentment, put Fanny greatly at her ease, in a way she had never been in this house before, and if she were not so crushed by loss and guilt, she should have been very contented where she was.

She was useful, as well as loved, in this house.

She wished only that she could have been happy.

Edmund spoke to her just once about what she had done to his brother, and he had been very generous – too generous, she thought – in his continued estimation of her goodness in spite of this, and to have kept his good opinion despite a great failure, a great sin, once might have been enough for her.

Once, she should have felt absolved and resigned, blessed in spite of everything.

Now, however, these feelings were only a sort of waiting-room in her continued existence. She did not know what would become of her, or of Tom, and her spirit – although quiet and greatly eased – was never fully at peace. The unknown loomed large and dark in her life; it lay beside her at night, heavy as a stone in her bed, and cast a black shadow where there otherwise would have been sunshine during the day.

Sometimes, weather permitting, if there chanced to be no task she was needed for, Fanny would slip outside alone and sit under the very apricot tree – that troublesome alleged Moor Park – her aunt Norris used to make such a fuss over.

In her hands, she would turn over the silver mask – Tom had left it behind him when he took William's amber cross – and sigh.

She cut a pathetic figure, there before the parsonage, pale and grave, her fingers curled around the discarded mask, her bent thumb stuck, in a manner which was almost sacrilegious (at least, it felt so to her, even if a casual observer mightn't have shared the sentiment), through one of the little eye slits. She'd close her eyes and silently pray wherever Tom was he was safe and, if he was angry still with her, that such feelings of rage did not cause him suffering overmuch and he was relatively contented, despite the ongoing physical pain he must be in. Then she would conceal the mask between the folds of her dress, dab at her moist eyes with her free hand, and go back inside, endeavouring to be as useful and as cheerful as could be managed.

Once or twice, Edmund came out – having seen her thus through the window – and attempted to console her.

He should have done so with more frequency, but he had other cares to concern him. There were parish duties, always, and – gradually – it became apparent Mary was not doing so well as they had all supposed at first.

The physician who examined her suggested a change in what was served her at dinner and advised she spend more time in bed and endeavour to strain herself less, even over her books (her spectacles, he suggested Edmund take away from her for a while, to assist her in avoiding undue temptation in that regard). He was, he confessed, not entirely certain why Mary was getting along so poorly so suddenly – she had never been naturally weak – but childbearing did not agree with all women, and it could be something of a shock.

Still, she was not expected – if his advice was followed – to be in any exceptional danger when the time came for the birth itself.

Fanny saw Edmund's face – it was evidently very little comforted by what feeble promises the anxious doctor felt he could venture – and realised how she herself was now placed; she must, of course, cease looking with eagerness, nearly each hour, for Sir Thomas – should he appear at the parsonage – to keep his word and agree, at last, to accompany her to London in search of Tom. She could not think of leaving Edmund and Mary at such a time as this. There could be no suggestion of quitting the place, even should long-awaited word of Tom's whereabouts come, until the child was born and Mary was declared safe.

If she had betrayed one Bertram brother, she must make something like amends in not deserting the other in his greatest hour of need.

There was some true – if unfortunate – irony in the fact that, in seeking to disentangle her from being needed by Lady Bertram, Sir Thomas had made Fanny indispensable in a new household only a little ways off from the first.

Susan could not supply her place in both homes.

Nobody suggested sending for Betsey.

So, she waited – on and on – and the months passed as needs they must.

The birth was indeed difficult and after the child was with them – a rosy, squalling boy Mary softly named James (apparently Edmund had been reading to her from that particular epistle earlier in the day and it caught in her mind) before closing her eyes and entering a feverish delirium as her head sank back, limp, upon the pillows – the mother was disconcertingly ill for several weeks.

Apart from Edmund, who did his best but was petrified with fear and sometimes could be seen to just stare down at his wife with a helpless, broken expression upon his stricken face, Fanny was Mary's most devoted and attentive nurse.

Perhaps it was because Edmund loved her so well and anything loved by him must be cherished by herself; or perhaps, in this sad state, Mrs. Bertram put Fanny in mind of the other sister Mary who was taken by illness, the one she had not been with in her last hours; or perhaps she would have done as she did for anyone in such obvious need; but, regardless, no one could have looked after her half so well – or so tenderly – as Fanny did. She was with her day and night, at any hour required. She barely slept or ate herself, and usually only when Edmund – his waned spirit emerging from its despairing stupor at odd intervals, returned abruptly and only in short spurts to his frozen, zombie-like body – pressed her to do so.

So, when the letter came from Miss Crawford, addressed to herself, Fanny had no time – nor thought towards – opening it. The missive rested upon the table in the dining room untouched and scarcely recollected even as to its mere existence for many days.

There came, however, a morning when Edmund – acknowledging Fanny to have ever darkening rings under her eyes and be near to fainting whenever she stood up to change Mary's linens or place a cool cloth upon her hot brow – made her sit down and eat two boiled eggs with a slice of toast and would not think of giving her leave to quit the table until she provided proof of having emptied her plate.

She noticed the letter then, was aware the light was strong at present (though her eyes were weak, more was the pity), and – in a flash of curiosity – wondering what Miss Crawford could have written her about, and how the lady had come to hear she was living here at the parsonage, for the letter was not addressed to the big house – had it and a paper knife in her hands at the same moment.

The opening was the typical Mary Crawford brand of greeting – all excited flourishes of the pen and apologies which were not really apologies – and then there were, when all formality and shows of friendly feeling had been concluded, a dreadful passage which cut Fanny's sensibilities deep.

I beg of you, my dear Fanny, an immediate answer, though such a mercy is better than I deserve, I daresay. But I know you must take mercy on me, in your exceeding sweetness, for I am all in suspense – I can scarcely keep from trembling as I write to you.

I wish, above all, to know the state of things at the parsonage, where – I have it on good authority – you are living at present. Is it true Mrs. Bertram – Mrs. Edmund Bertram, I mean, not your own dear self – is extremely unwell? I really am quite agitated on the subject.

Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning, but, upon my honour, I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor Mrs. Bertram! If she is to die, there will be more handsome widower in the world – I shan't be the only woman to turn my eyes very quickly in that direction, I think, even if he is only a clergyman.

As to that, I have heard – excuse me, Fanny – there is a chance...

No one has heard from your husband – that Mr. Bertram – in some time, and in certain circles the worst is professed to be feared.

It may be nothing, I hope it is nothing, I am sure it is nothing, but if there were something to such unfortunate reports, you know, varnish and gilding would then be at hand to cover up many stains.

I would be a fool not to accept your cousin under such circumstances.

Pray, do not think, in all this, I have forgotten you.

Never, dearest! Never.

Even if Tom Bertram has indeed forsaken you, or been taken from you, whichever (I did not hear, I confess), you must know you should be no less desirable as a widow than your poor cousin is as a widower. You have been seen by a great many more handsome personages, I am certain, than you ever were seen by as Miss Price, but do not forget our darling Henry when they come around with their offers, I beg of you. He loves you still; he is constant for you and only for you. Even after so long no other woman has attached him as you have, you lucky, lucky girl.

Also, my own dear one, my one-day sister perhaps, if the state of things at the parsonage really is to be lamented and you are wearied by sorrow, at risk of grave lines forming upon your face, do not stay in so sad a home to lose all your pretty looks! Write to me frankly, when you answer this letter, and I – and Henry, also, for he is longing to see you – will come and fetch you at once! We will take you to London – perhaps, first, however, we will make a little circuit and show you Everingham – seeing a place makes such a difference. I should like that scheme. Only, when I come for you, you must do me the kindness of keeping Edmund from me – it is too early, and Mrs. Bertram may yet recover, so it is better if I am not tempted, you understand.

Fanny, her sore eyes burning hot, gaped down at the letter with contempt and horror; her fingernails dug into the paper, making little crescent-moon marks upon the offending page – she should have liked nothing better than to tear it into little pieces, or to cast it into the fire.

Was Miss Crawford mad? Did she really imagine Edmund was hers for the taking if his wife should not live? And she had not asked about little James – she could not ask for him by name, of course, but she must have known there was a baby.

That much must be as common knowledge as all the rest she professed to know!

Poor, poor sweet baby James!

Fanny hated to think of the manner of stepmother that gentlewoman should make, oppressing a child with her high spirits and endless bad advice, even as she swore – to herself and others – it was all for the babe's own good. Oh, she would be very like her aunt, the late Mrs. Crawford, had been, she supposed, but Fanny had long come to think the aunt in question must not have been quite the saint and fountain of gentle wisdom and goodness her bereaved niece presented her as. She must be as blinded by the memory of her aunt as Henry was by the remaining presence of their uncle – who, at least, had done William some good and had Fanny's gratitude so far as that went.

The rot and corruption – black as pitch yet outwardly glittering when the world's eyes turned upon it – ran deep through all the Crawfords, by marriage as well as by blood, it would seem!

And what utter folly she proposed, speaking with her brother's spoiled mouth, hoping to snatch up Fanny herself as well as Edmund as a prize if luck smiled upon them and two superfluous spouses should all but vanish into the ether!

"Fanny."

Dragged too soon from her spiralling thoughts by this interruption, she leaped, nearly falling from her chair, as a hand came down on her shoulder. Once this should have been the warmest hand in the world, but it was cold and clammy and almost a stranger's hand since Mary's illness.

"Edmund," she said, shaking. "Forgive me, cousin – you came upon me unawares. I thought you were with Mary." He had said he would sit with his wife while Fanny ate and would take no excuses nor accept any alternate plans.

"Have you received bad news?"

"What?" She was sure her face must be like scarlet.

"You have a letter in your hand – and your look is so miserable, beyond even the sorrows here, I feared for William."

"Oh – oh, no – that is kind of you – to think of him – but I have heard nothing – that is, I believe William is quite well – it is..."

Edmund gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Do not distress yourself, sister. If the letter is private, I've no wish to pry."

After a moment's inward struggle, Fanny made up her mind. "Nay, Edmund, but I think you ought to read it for yourself – at least, here, beginning at this line – and then the rest, if you like."

"But it is addressed to you, it should be discourteous of me to–"

"I give you leave," said she. "I would tell you, but I would not know how – I should blush – and, what is more, I think you should never really believe me unless you read it for yourself. It is quite shocking."

Thus persuaded, Edmund took up the letter. No sound or hint of a word came from him at first, then finally he gave a little sigh. "This hurts me a thousand times more than any protestation she ever made against my profession." He was glad, in the end, she had not consented to become a clergyman's wife, for he loved the wife he had now – the wife on her sickbed, who had given him a son – far better than he once fancied he loved her, and his circumstances should have made them both miserable after a time, but this – this – was inexcusable wickedness and corruption of the worst sort.

"I would have said nothing of this folly," Fanny told him. "Except it seems we must both be on our guard." She added, very quietly, "And I did not smile – I never was cunning."

"No," Edmund agreed, his voice hollow. "You never were cunning, nor smiled you upon evil, not once in your whole life. I can vouch for that much. In one woman I esteemed from those days, at least, I never was mistaken."

They had not much time to be gloomy over this – Edmund especially, who even after all which had transpired didn't find any pleasure in recollecting the woman who, in this very house, had played the harp so sweetly and given him such kind looks and being forced to associate with her, her of all, a cruel scheme for which she apparently had no remorse – because a knock at the door, and an absence of anyone else to answer it, took them from themselves almost at once.

The visitor proved to be none other than Mrs. Bennet.

Edmund cringed visibly when he recognised his mother-in-law – he could not help it. He was sorry for her, knew she must suffer at the illness of a daughter and that it was very good of her to come all this way to see her child, yet her tendency towards hysterics was unwelcome in the home of a man who had become so fragile a door slammed too hard or a foot's tread taken too heavily made him start (since James was born, Edmund was almost as constantly rattled in his nerves as Fanny had been when first introduced to Mansfield). But if he felt badly over this instinctive unfriendly reception towards a woman who meant only good, he had no lasting reason for such a feeling, as she failed even to notice his reaction.

Instead, Mrs. Bennet busied herself with a great deal of puffing, to catch her breath, and then proceeded to talk at Edmund nonstop.

She must know the full state of Mary's condition at once – she did not know how she would bear it, oh her nerves, but she had heard dreadful things – she must comfort him – he was crushed in her embrace – she must not hear of going again until Mary was out of bed – any spare room would do for her, but she must have closet space enough for her bandboxes; this modest request was the only one she would make, and she hoped it was no imposition.

"Cannot anyone be sent out just now to fetch them in?" asked Mrs. Bennet, unfastening the thick ribbon of her bonnet from underneath her double chin. "The coachman left them out and the sky is turned dark – it will rain. I am quite certain it is likely to rain." She looked pointedly at Fanny when she said this and kept trying to stuff her now removed bonnet into her hands, which were stretched out instinctively. "Mercy me. Why does your girl stand and gawp so, Mr. Bertram? My bandboxes will be drenched before ever she has taken my bonnet and cloak away and made it back out to the step. I don't think of myself as a critical person, the good Lord knows I should never think of criticizing the running of anybody's household, even in my own I've never interfered with anything Mrs. Hill took it into her head to do, but I must say, a servant who cannot–"

"You are mistaken, ma'am!" rasped Edmund, putting an arm around Fanny's shoulders. "This is no servant – this is my brother's wife. As for your bandboxes, you needn't weary her, no matter her place – surely you can see she is not very strong – I shall go myself or have the gardener bring them in."

Mrs. Bennet's eyes widened. "Oh! Good heavens! The future Lady Bertram." She gave her a lumbering, top-heavy bob, something between a squat and a curtsey. "I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Bertram." Then she began to laugh, sounding, as she tittered freely, more than a little like her daughter Mrs. Wickham. "Fancy my thinking you was a servant! Such a merry joke! I daresay you shan't hold it against me. You don't look the sort to. You have something of a sweetness about you which puts me in mind of my Jane. No, you will not be angry with me for misspeaking – your temperament is too good for pettiness. Although, I'm sure – I feel most certain – we shall have many a happy tease about it in future in your own drawing-room when your husband is a baronet."

Edmund turned his head at the neck and – his face briefly concealed from Mrs. Bennet – mouthed "Sorry" and "Pardon," to Fanny, who only shook her head to assure him it was of no consequence.

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