Snowbear

A Mansfield Park and Pride & Prejudice fanfiction

Chapter Thirty-One:

He did not look well.

Were it any man in the world other than Tom Bertram – and if only Tom Bertram were not an obstacle, and he hoped not an insurmountable one, to his gaining Fanny – Henry should have felt something rather like compassion, in his way, for such a sorry-looking fellow appearing like this at his uncle's door.

Tom's clothes were nothing if not gentlemanly – there were no holes, no tears, nothing about his person was misaligned – and yet there was an unmistakable and inexplicable sense of incorrectness about them; they did not flatter, alike to something borrowed, or like to the clothes one has frequently worn without such apparel being anything extraordinary or making any kind of real impression other than a generally positive opinion, prior to an illness and then finds, on the other side of their affliction, these articles no longer suit as they used to.

That his hair was long at present, in and of itself, did not signify much – for many gentlemen adopted styles dependant on some degree of length; Tom himself had worn long hair, depending on the changes in fashion in a lazy, sort of absent way, plenty of times before now. But the fact it was uneven and unstyled and lank, that it didn't curl nor wave, or even look particularly clean, tied in the back loosely and falling untidily in his eyes at the front, didn't give him anything akin to the air of a real gentleman.

His eyes were wide and pained; he moved, whenever he must raise a hand or make a gesture, as one whose bone and marrow are of nothing stronger than cheaply made glass and might crack and shatter at any given moment.

"Well, Crawford," he said, after near to a minute of their staring at one another – Henry's dark eyes taking him in with an expression not dissimilar to Baddeley's whenever Pug deliberately pissed upon something – had gone by, "are you not going to let me in?" He swayed slightly, then righted himself. "Or'm I meant to stand here at the door all day?"

"I'm afraid, in my uncle's absence, I can only invite you in so far as the breakfast-room." This was not true – Henry had leave of the whole house so far as the Admiral was concerned, and could do as he liked, but it sounded polite and deferential without promising Mr. Bertram he should be admitted far enough into the house to seek Fanny; he narrowly resisted the urge to touch, to pat for the sake of feeling more secure, the bedroom key in his breast pocket. "But, come, if you will; let us talk in private, if you have anything to say."

As soon as they were in the breakfast-room, and a manservant who had been cleaning up was dismissed, leaving them alone, Tom – inhaling deeply – said, "I shall come straight to the point, Crawford – I have reason to believe my wife is in this house and, if such is the case, I must insist you produce her immediately."

"Might I inquire who told you she was here?" Henry's brow lifted.

"If you must." Tom sighed, rolling his eyes. "Bingley heard of it from his wife's maid; apparently one of your uncle's recent visitors to this house is a distant relation of hers, comes skulking about the back of Bingley's place, more and more often, to beg the loan of a shilling from his loose-pursed cousin. He said there was a room he wasn't permitted entry into during his stay here – because, and I quote, Mrs. Bertram was resting.

"So either you have my wife – or, less likely, Edmund's – and I insist upon seeing, at once, whichever Mrs. Bertram you care to own to as your visitor and call downstairs.

"Either one ought, for the sake of propriety, to quit this place and accompany me to Netherfield – I go thither with Bingley by the end of the week."

Henry admitted, a trifle reluctantly, it was indeed Fanny upstairs, yet made no move to send a message to her to come down.

There was, at this revelation, a slight darkening in Tom's countenance. "Why the deuce is she here?"

Henry folded his arms and gave a cool reply, asking what Tom imagined she was doing here.

"Don't play games with me, Crawford."

This was the moment – if he only cared to – Henry might have done the noble thing. Instead, he chose to do – however much he convinced himself it was for the best, for himself and Fanny – what was ultimately the cruellest thing he might have done to Tom and Fanny in their unfortunate situation.

"She is here, Bertram, because" – he straightened – "I have won her to me at last. You abandoned her, if you'll only recall, and in your absence I've offered her my protection. She lives here with me now – she stays in my room at present. Soon, she accompanies me to Everingham for a more permanent establishment."

"That," Tom spat, "is absurd – Fanny despises you; she's just too gentle to say it to your face!"

"Oh." He blinked, utterly tranquil. "You think so, do you?"

"What can you possibly offer her that would ever induce her to go against everything she–" He shook his head, cheeks flushing. "You have nothing, Henry."

He decided, then, to risk all on one stroke. "On the contrary, Tom Bertram, I have her daughters."

Tom staggered back, as if struck. "You bastard," he snarled through gnashed teeth.

"I say! I've only just realised what it is which seems so odd and unfamiliar to me about your face," said Henry; "you aren't wearing a mask."

"No."

"You may wish to reconsider that." One of his eyebrows arched itself.

"Oi, not stoop to your level – oh, yes, take that as a pun, if you will, I don't conceal it – I shouldn't remark on the appearances of others, not if I resembled you – at the very least I shouldn't have to stand upon a foot-stool in order to look out the windows at Mansfield Park."

Henry coloured a little but did not rise to the bait. "Fanny does not seem to mind my stature."

"When you say she has lived with you, that she stays in your room," began Tom, "d'you really mean to convince me–"

"That I and the woman you cast aside are lovers?" Not even the smallest twitch gave tell to the bold-faced lie; his face was unmoving. "Yes."

Tom sagged – his knees briefly knocked together before he steadied himself by gripping the arm of a chair, then he cried, "But listen to us quarrelling like dogs over a bone! We accomplish nothing glaring and simpering, in each of our turns, at one another! This is easily settled! Bring my wife before me, let me hear her say she loves you now and has forgotten me." The corners of his mouth curled, then, almost into a smile – or at least the unborn ghost of one which might yet come to be. "You can't manage it, can you?"

"She has no desire to see you," was Henry's weak response – but, simply for its being glaringly unsatisfactory, he still had no intention of backing down and complying with Tom's wish to see Fanny.

His sweetest Fanny was too tender-hearted; she should take one single look at Tom, in this sorry state, and no doubt immediately hold out her arms to the cursed man, vowing to forgive all, and he would carry her off to Netherfield Park, to an unknown fate, and never – so long as it remained in his power – let Henry come near her again.

He couldn't permit that to happen. She deserved better! She should have her children – her estranged daughters so cruelly taken from her – about her always, and she should have a lover whose affection was unfailing; one who would not abandon her for the simple act of looking at him, for the sake of an innocent wish to see his face.

"Well," said Tom, with affected obtuseness, that little ghost of a smile banished before it could claim its haunt, "I have a desire to see her, then."

"Your desire isn't my concern," Mr. Crawford countered. "Can you not accept defeat with a gentleman's grace and wish us happy?"

"Wish you happy?" he cried, aghast. "D'you know, I previously thought you were blockheaded – now I expect you were deliberately dropped by your nurse as a small child."

"Wish us happy, make your peace, and leave," insisted Henry, rolling back his shoulders – he may have been attempting, rather in vain, to stand taller than his opponent.

"I wish her happy," he retorted; "I wish you every possible torment of hell twice over." A sniff. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Crawford – I can speak any way I jolly well please – I'm not the clergyman in the family, you know; this isn't Edmund you're dealing with."

"I shan't stand back and allow you to hurt her again." He was resolute. "This is my uncle's house – I can toss you from it."

"Your servants can, no doubt," snipped Tom, cutting his eyes. "You couldn't."

"What can you want with her now? Unless I am mistaken, she no longer has the power to break your curse." Henry tilted his head, as if he meant to appeal – in some small way – to his sense of reason. "Hadn't you better cut the loss?"

"Hang the curse – Fanny is still my wife."

"Yes, but that can be remedied if you will but admit defeat and free her."

"The devil makes you think–"

"What life can you offer her? Lady Bertram sounds very fine, still, I'll grant you, but it must be a cold title if her children must be estranged from her – if Edmund's son will become a baronet after you. And as for yourself, you're falling to pieces – you'll probably kill yourself yet if you carry on as you are. What husband can you be to her now?"

"If it were anybody save you," said Tom through his teeth, "and if she told me she was in love, I would let her go – I would consent, even, to see my children – for God's sake, those girls, they're mine, as much as Fanny's, don't simply call them hers as if I had nothing to do with them – but I shouldn't willingly relinquish a dog or a horse to your care!"

Henry gnawed his lip; he was scarcely listening to Tom's rant against him, far too busy was he trying to find something – some excuse – which might repel this stubborn man and leave him with Fanny.

"I tried not to wound you, Mr. Bertram," he said, a plan of sorts coming to him at last. "I did wish to spare you."

"Spare me from what?"

"Your wife is in a delicate condition at present."

Tom's face changed; the nastiness fell away from his countenance, revealing enough love to prick, albeit minimally, at Henry's conscience. "If she's ill, you must let me see her. Have mercy, fellow – do call it pax, do. I'll ask pardon, if you like, for all the sour jests I made at your expense. I will take it all back and make amends with the opposite of each insult; I'll swallow my spleen and say you are tall and brilliant. Just let me see her – never mind about her coming down, never-mind about your uncle and breakfast-rooms, man; take me to her."

"She is not shut away in this house because she is ill, Mr. Bertram – I spoke true when I said she was my willing guest and is to accompany me to Everingham – she's with child."

For an awful moment, Tom's expression was so blank, his lips twisted and parted at such a queer angle, Henry thought he might have unwittingly caused his rival an apoplectic shock.

"That is why, you see," he pressed on, nonetheless, twisting in the knife, even if he should in so doing make the wound fatal, "I was so eager to make Fanny's daughters my wards – they are to have a half sibling – of my name and blood – and my only desire was to make the woman I love happy by keeping the whole family together."

"Damn you, Henry Crawford – may you truly burn forever, if you lie to me now," breathed Tom, barely speaking over a whisper as he lifted a shaking hand to his brow.

"It's also why I refuse to let you see her – you know her to be delicate – the excitement, you must allow, might cause..."

"And I am to believe Fanny – that pious creepmouse – is a willing partner in your shameless perversion? She knows what you are. Is my sister also to continue as your mistress?" His voice was a little stronger, picking up increased strength bit by bit as it went on. "What of her?"

"What of her? Rushworth is welcome to her – I sincerely hope he may keep her better in future than he has in the past."

Tom was at war with himself.

He did not believe Mr. Crawford – Fanny would never.

But if she had been driven to it in desperation, if he had – deceitful slug – really persuaded her to love him and promised her every happiness...

If he fought his way to her now, to wherever Henry had her sequestered – even if he avoided being tossed out upon his arse by Crawford's servants in the process – and he should see her, at last, pale and grave and with child and unable to bear, without injury to herself, beholding him again and in his present state...

Oh, Fanny – oh, Fanny, what am I to do? Can you not call out for me, in some way? Some small way? Give me some sign, some hope?

He drew out a chair – dragging the legs deep into the breakfast-room carpet – and sank into it, burying his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry," said Henry, approaching him stiffly and making as if to put a hand on his shoulder, then thinking the better of it and withdrawing a few steps.

"No, you aren't."

"You had better go."

"Will you at least be good enough to give her a message for me when she is well enough to hear it? Will you tell her I came to fetch her away before I was made to understand what–" He took in a ragged breath, trembling from his shoulders down to his emaciated waist. "Before I understood she–"

"When she is well enough to hear it?" echoed Henry, realising as sole judge he might well conclude she was never well enough to learn of this visit – never strong enough to endure such strain – without breaking his promise. "Yes, Bertram, I can do that for you."

Biting onto his lip, hard, then releasing it, Tom rose and began, slowly, to walk to the door.

There, he stopped. Without looking back at Henry, he said, "If ever I come to learn you treat her badly–"

Henry made some noise of indignation. He was obviously thinking Tom had treated Fanny – nearly all her life – far more abominably than would ever be in his power, even if – by some wicked perversion, some up-springing vice as yet unknown – he should mean to be so unfeeling as to wound his dearest love.

"If I ever do," he insisted, vehement, turning now. "If I hear even a whisper – I shall come and find you and throttle you within an inch of your life."

"Within an inch?" His tone was almost coy. "It is quite as I always expected – you never loved her as she loved you. You wouldn't even hang for her."

"Oh," said Tom, his voice gone from warm to icy in a twinkling. "I would hang for her – for Fanny – a thousand times over – but for you? For your own sake, Crawford, not taking her honour into consideration, you would scarcely be worth a fine, let alone the drop and dangle from a rope. Pray don't accompany me to the door – I shall see myself out."

Tom had walked – staggered, more like, looking almost as ravaged and defeated as one suffering from late-stage consumption, no doubt wordlessly convincing more than a few persons he passed he was not long for this world – nearly two streets from Admiral Crawford's house before a thought struck him which almost made him turn straight back around.

Even supposing what Henry Crawford had said to be true – supposing Fanny really was carrying his child and was resting upstairs in his uncle's house in a weakened state because of her condition – what proof would that be she had come to this situation willingly?

She had refused to become Crawford's unofficial mistress before, and aside from the offer of having two of her children returned to her, an inducement which surely must have come after the conception of this Crawford bastard in her belly, if Henry's vague timeline was to be believed, what could he have said or done to induce her to submit to him this time?

Tom's mind drew a perfect blank as he considered this question.

Still, as bad as Henry Crawford's character was – as dubious and wretched and unprincipled as he knew him to be – it was rather difficult to imagine him forcing himself upon Fanny.

An opportunist Mr. Crawford certain was, and a shameless seducer, but a rapist?

By Fanny's own account, he had indeed grabbed her in Bingley's library, during his first lewd offer, and she had found this attack alarming, but apart from Fanny's obvious distress at the forward action, even Bingley, brought to the room by her wordless scream, had apparently seen nothing solid – nothing in the way of evidence, when he thought it over afterwards – to properly indicate he would have done anything worse than catch her to prevent her falling as she swooned.

However, if Henry – this time – had caught Fanny alone unawares, if he had managed to initiate a touch without her screaming, might he have taken that – her mere silence – as her consent?

Fanny might have never agreed to be with him, only feeling bound to remain at his side after the worst occurred and could not be undone.

Why else – save such possible guilt – should she willingly choose to live with a man whose person she did not like, a man whose way of life she was repulsed by, instead of remaining at Mansfield Park, her most cherished home?

Mulling upon this, his pity for her – already quite strong – increasing tenfold, Tom nearly made up his mind to return to the Admiral's house and kick down every door in the dratted place till he came upon her.

He wouldn't demand an explanation; he would accept her in any state she happened to be in; and – if she was not unwilling he should – he would take her away with him to Netherfield after all.

Even if she should be carrying another man's child in her belly, Bingley was a discreet fellow; he would protect her – conceal her, if need be, without betraying the slightest hint to anyone, save perhaps Jane, of what he was up to – for Tom if he asked him to.

He was certain he would.

But the thought of her health, of what the shock of his dramatic entrance could do to her – whatever she did or did not feel for Crawford – if she was indeed poorly, halted his steps afresh.

Would he be selfish to take her from that house now, to force such a risk upon her?

What if she lost the child? Could he bear being the cause of her separation from yet another baby which would have been so beloved by her?

And would quitting the place mean her forfeiting their daughters again? Had Crawford gotten any real legal hold, as yet, on them?

Supposing – just supposing – he gave up and left her where she was.

Despising Crawford as he did, he had – nonetheless – to admit to himself if any woman in the world could induce him to be, while certainly not faithful, a more cautious and settled sort of gentleman, that woman would be Fanny, hands down.

The thought of Fanny living without devoted, lasting love, when he could so readily recollect her visage – the look of one starved for affection – and how instantly she responded to him the first time he'd kissed her as a lover would rather than as a cousin or brother might, made his heart sink.

Crawford could never give her what she wanted, let alone what she needed – she did not like him, whatever he claimed; Tom knew she did not.

Then, a traitorous turn of the mind; he had to admit, also, she had loved Edmund and not himself when they married; she had learnt, thereafter, to transfer her affections well enough.

Could it not, with a little patience on Henry's part if he could but manage it, happen again?

Could she – still, perhaps, loving her cursed husband at the start – be brought into a new relationship with Crawford and come by-and-by to gain, if not anything like respect, a begrudging but ultimately blooming affection, brought on by gratitude for the man who restored her daughters to her and offered her a comfortable home and a fresh beginning?

Henry would never be worthy of her – never – but could he make her happy in spite of that indisputable, niggling fact?

If Tom thought more like Edmund – and, to be sure, rather more like Fanny herself – he might have reasoned the vice alone, the knowledge of sin, an unsanctioned union, even with the eventual promise of hurried marriage, if it were made possible, could have never let her conscience rest in peace, regardless of any feelings she developed.

But he was stuck upon all Henry could now give her, especially if she was the mother of his unborn child, which he could no longer hope to provide her with himself.

It was literally the most difficult step of his life to, at last, walk decisively, in the opposite direction from the Admiral's house, yet Tom forced himself to endure it.

Curious, he thought, how the pain from that one little movement was equal to – if not a bit greater than – the pain he suffered wearing her necklace to keep himself from transforming.

Leaving her – again – leaving her, his own high-strung, sensitive, delicate little wifey, in the hands of Henry Crawford, no less – was a far more agonising cross to bear.

After her aunt died, it was a source of the greatest vexation to Mary Crawford to learn the late Mrs. Crawford's own maid, the very one who fixed her hair – and her niece's, too, often enough, cooing admiringly over Mary's beautiful brown tresses and stating how remarkable well they took to plaits and yielded to the curling-paper as if it were a point of pride for the entire household – and shared endless confidences with the ladies, was ordered to serve her uncle's newly established mistress as soon as she was good and moved in.

This – coupled with Mary's spleen rising when she saw how docile and willing the traitorous maid was in her new assignment, apparently valuing a continued position in the Admiral's house over anything like loyalty – had started an eruptive quarrel between herself and her uncle.

Henry had – in his way – tried, in a real bid for peace, to smooth it all over, but for once he'd carried no weight with either party, though both uncle and sister loved him so well they might have done anything else for him – for the sake of making his home-life happy, if not their own – save apologise to one another.

It was a lucky thing, in one respect, Mary Crawford's late aunt had had such a changeable companion, who, all these years later, was still trusted attendant to that mistress of Admiral Crawford's; if she had not been so adaptable, Fanny might never have learned anything about Tom's visit to the house; Henry certainly would have had it that way, had intended to contrive it that way.

The manservant who had been cleaning the breakfast-room was the maid's sweetheart, and he – in a roundabout manner – told her about it.

Although he couldn't say what the conversation between the gentleman and their master's nephew had been about, since he'd been sent from the breakfast-room, he'd recognised Tom Bertram (despite his looking to be in very poor health), having seen him in passing in another part of town years before.

The maid had heard the mistress refer to her charge – who was mostly known below stairs in that house as 'Lieutenant Price's pretty sister, the one Admiral Crawford's took in for a spell' – as Mrs. Bertram, and she put the pieces together, later mentioning the visit to the mistress herself.

Henry had – in his intention the Admiral should love Fanny and desire a union, whether of established lovers or of marriage, between her and his nephew unprompted – been careful to leave no traceable hint for his uncle or his uncle's mistress which should too easily guide them into the relation he was himself madly in love with their little patient upstairs. So, the mistress had no idea she was doing her Admiral's nephew an ill-turn by mentioning Mr. Bertram's recent visit to Fanny.

It was in complete innocence she, bringing her charge some tea-things, cheerfully declared, "I expect you were happy to have a guest in to see you – it must have made a nice change."

Fanny blinked at her, quite puzzled, and said she wasn't at all certain who she could mean – she had seen nobody but herself, the maid a couple of times, and Henry Crawford.

It had been a few days even since she'd last seen the Admiral, let alone anyone else.

"Your husband, to be sure, mon chéri!" said she, surprised at Fanny's blank looks. "Weren't you glad of seeing him?"

Gone white – even her quivering lips, draining rapidly of blood, turned chalky – Fanny murmured she had not seen him at all, no one had brought him to her, nor she to him; indeed, she had not even been told he was in the house.

"Well, most likely you were sleeping," her friend decided brightly, trying to appear as if she had not – for a moment – looked very much as if she were of a sudden uncomfortably aware she had revealed something she ought not, "and they didn't wish to disturb you. Or perhaps Henry didn't wish to bring him upstairs with his uncle out – he is very respectful of the Admiral's house, you know."

Fanny found that last statement in Henry Crawford's favour as difficult to believe as all the rest – indeed, he had not been very respectful of her uncle's house, when he was at Mansfield and insisted upon encouraging Tom and Yates to turn the place into a theatre – and this while Sir Thomas might have been imperilled upon the seas for all they'd then known, driven off course by a contrary wind – in order to flirt with Maria under poor Mr. Rushworth's nose and pamper his own vanity.

Yet he could be spoken of so casually as being wonderfully respectful – as being all he ought – to his own uncle? As if such behaviour were his common practice, his truest nature?

Fanny was ashamed for him – almost more than she was ashamed of him.

"No doubt they were in the breakfast-room arranging for a time Mr. Bertram could come back and see you – I am sure Henry will bring him to you, or have you meet him in the drawing-room, if you're well enough, soon." She placed a hand over Fanny's, seeing, with gentle concern, how it had gone white also, every bit as white as her face, and that her knuckles were splayed tensely as she clutched at the coverlet like one who has had a disagreeable shock.

"No doubt," rasped Fanny, a little colour returning to her cheeks, but she didn't believe a syllable of what she parroted.

She had softened towards Mr. Crawford, for he had been kind to her in giving her the address of her daughters, in his attentions to her in this house which had not – as of yet – seemed particularly improper, or suggestive he should require something in return from her; but now she was angry with him anew.

He had as good as told her a lie, in his keeping silent in this matter.

Tom had been here, so very close, within her reach at last, and Mr. Crawford had, she was sure, even if the Admiral's mistress was not, selfishly sent him away – perhaps forever – and she might never find him again, not till all was lost between them, if it was not already.

To think she had been so blinded with felicity at knowing where her daughters were, she had ceased to think of Tom, only to discover, now, he was lost all over again!

No, Mr. Crawford would not have arranged for a more convenient time for Mr. Bertram to return – there was no time which would be convenient toward his ends; he had not changed a whit.

She must leave this place – even if she was not yet fully recovered.

If she did not escape on her own, by some trick, however much all forms of trickery were in contrast to her nature, she must be like the starling and could not otherwise get out.

Could she force the lock from the inside, or splinter the wood of the door somehow without making too much noise in so doing, once the Admiral's mistress had gone and left her alone?

She knew they still locked her in, though they needn't any longer.

It would be thought queer indeed, if she asked, now of a sudden, for the practice to be aborted entirely.

Even if she was to escape, she hadn't any clothes at the moment – the borrowed evening dress she'd had to wear downstairs to dinner with the Admiral, some cast off of Miss Crawford's from years before and a bit too short for her, was taken away the day before for washing; she had only her nightdress and dressing-gown.

If she made it out the front door in her night-things, finding herself undressed on a public London street, she would doubtless be taken up for a madwoman.

She might well be promptly brought back to the Admiral by some concerned party – she still had no address to give in order that she might be delivered to Sir Thomas, wherever he had gone – for all her efforts, and her seeming insanity might be further reason for Mr. Crawford to all but imprison her here.

It is well, perhaps, she did not know – not in full – Mr. Crawford's plans for her, to make her mistress of Everingham, to use her daughters to achieve the purpose, because her heart would have faltered at the thought of such a scheme, and she should have been paralysed by her misery at being so entrapped.

She slept, tossing fitfully as she slumbered, for about an hour, having dozed off while making her hopeless plans for the best way to get out before Mr. Crawford should come in to see her, doubtless expecting her still to be his dupe; and she dreamed she saw – cast long and dark upon the wall opposite to the bed – the shadows of Roger Smith (at least, she thought it was Smith, it certainly looked vaguely like the shape of the former valet's head) and another shadow, that of a wholly unfamiliar small boy in a long, unfitted, smoky gown, on the wall.

"Come, lad," Smith's shadow was saying, in a silvery sort of voice, as he took the insubstantial hand of the littler shadow; "there is no need for you to hide any longer – you have to help your mother."

Waking, Fanny could not understand what the dream meant, and supposed, at last, it must have been a much-garbled thing brought on by her own sinking spirits – perhaps she had fretted herself into a low fever.

However, her eyes lighted on two strange presents left on the foot of the bed and – for a dreaded moment fancying Mr. Crawford had been in to see her while she slept and watched her amorously, leaving her behind some foolish token of his affection she never asked for – she trembled violently, only curiosity got the better of her, stopping her mid-shake, and she tossed back the bed-linens, climbing atop the coverlet and crawling forward to get a better look at the items.

There was a lovely silken shawl, one which reminded her of a pretty blue wrap Julia had once owned, and a large pair of scissors, not quite as large as gardening sheers, perhaps, but close enough to draw comparison to that tool with their oversized, bulky shape.

Without thought, except perhaps an absent wish to cut off a loose thread she'd half-noticed, she opened and closed the scissors, testing them, and was surprised how smoothly they snip-snapped, given they looked old.

Between the two sharp blades, to her astonishment, there appeared a scrap of grey woollen material such as would make, if there were only more of it, a very fine pelisse.

She closed the scissors on the material, amazed to discover – rather than get smaller, as any cut thing should – it doubled in size; she now had nearly enough for a full coat-sleeve.

"Magic," cried Fanny, and opened them again, watching a handsome pelisse form, fully stitched, piece by piece, simply by the snips and snaps of these queer scissors.

When finished, the pelisse even possessed an enormous pocket – lined with lavender-coloured silk and located near her right hip – large enough to slip the magic scissors inside of.

Climbing down off the bed, she did so.

After shedding her dressing-gown, she pulled her arms into the pelisse's sleeves gratefully, covering up her nightdress, which had never before seemed so flimsy and immodest as it did this very moment.

The wool was toasty warm, like wearing a garment which had been hung over a screen in front of a hot fire for at least an hour before she was to go out.

Regarding the shawl anew, Fanny decided to use it to bind up her hair; she had no bonnet or hat, after all, and her uncovered tell-tale, Ward-blonde curls might be too obvious a beacon, even at a fair distance and lost among other heads, giving her position away, if Mr. Crawford or one of the Admiral's servants came after her.

She did feel rather ungrateful, running out without any word of thanks – it wasn't entirely the uncle's fault his nephew had betrayed her, lied to her by omission, and he and his mistress had taken good care of her in her hour of need...

Well, there was no need to be crushed with premature guilt, after all – the door might yet be an obstacle – she might have to resort to a window and, even if she could get one of them open, only injure herself falling out of it onto the hard pavement below for all her pains.

But whoever her benefactor was, who had left her the magic scissors and shawl, they had provided her with a third gift as well.

They had unlocked the door and, even more remarkably, somehow put all the servants in the house to sleep at the same hour – one could actually hear them snoring, the noises alternatively coming from this room or that room, or another – despite it seeming to still be light outside if the glimpses of windows Fanny caught in her peripheral view as she ran – her gait weak and uneven from so long a time spent lounging in bed without proper exercise – across the landing, aiming for the staircase, were any real indication of the hour.

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