Merriment & Wisdom

A Mansfield Park fanfiction

Part Fifteen:

Closed Doors, Most Inconvenient

Tom's sitting room was ornate but cosy – it had been designed, plainly, without a mind to a woman's fancy, very old-fashioned and masculine in structure, yet where it lacked delicate elegance, it abounded in masterwork that was impressive without being unduly gaudy. Although it was difficult to make out some of the details in the firelight, Fanny was able to take in an estimation of a fine carved mantelpiece and silver and brass fixtures; the nearest chair-cushions were velvet in a colour that might have been red or purple but appeared black to her eyes at the moment.

Something clinked behind her and she – starting – whirled, nearly twisting an ankle in the process.

The noise was revealed to be only Tom pouring a drink – some manner of mixed cordial – into a crystal glass, which he held out to her.

Thirsty, she took it gratefully and swallowed it down much more quickly than she otherwise would, but she did not feel particularly refreshed afterwards. The cordial might have warmed her a bit, perhaps enlivened her waning courage slightly, but it did little for the initial thirst which had driven her from the attic-room in the first place; Fanny thought she would have preferred that anticipated glass of water, and to have found her way back to Susan undiscovered by her keen-eared husband, after all.

She said nothing of the kind to Tom, however, not wishing to sound as if she were expressing an ingratitude.

As he took away her shawl and drew her to him, she did bring herself to murmur, in a tone barely audible, "I think, perhaps, we shouldn't...not now..." taking a step back; her calves were heated so, in being too near the fire from behind, that Fanny thought the back of her legs might become scorched. And, leaping forward with a throaty little yelp, throwing herself further into Tom's arms – as they tightened their grasp, clutching her passionately – she seemed to be asking for exactly the opposite, giving her hoarse, quavering words no weight with him. She seemed, in this moment at least, to possess no talent for certainty, and her hesitance suited Tom perfectly well.

His hand, which had been stroking the small of her back through the thin, well-worn cotton of her nightdress, removed itself and lifted upwards, chucking her lovingly under the chin. "Don't you trust me?"

Fanny blinked – she was put back in mind, so unexpectedly, of that day which felt so very long ago, when he'd first sketched her on Susan's suggestion. He had the same gauging look now as he had then, though it appeared slightly more imposing when shadowed by firelight than it had in the broad daylight of Portsmouth.

Why was it, she pondered, a touch bewilderedly, he so often seemed to equate warm intimacy with severe calculation?

Except, such was the very problem – that which nearly damned him so irrevocably ultimately exonerated him in her eyes as well.

There was warmth, true warmth, in the same shameless stare even as it seemed to be sizing her up and deciding her worth. There was no malice, no intent behind the eyes telling of a desire to inflict harm or to use her for his own ends – only an insatiable longing to freely show his affection, albeit in what was often a decidedly selfish manner.

Whatever else he felt, whatever else he said, whoever else he dangled her in front of with vague intentions to provoke, he did love her still, and probably as much as he had before coming here.

Her poor heart was beating wildly – feeling like it might very well burst forth from her small chest – as his hand dropped back down again.

Fanny lifted her face to his and kissed him on the lips; she could feel his satisfied smile spreading under her mouth.

They broke apart – for what felt like several minutes but might really have been mere seconds – and Tom lifted her nightdress up, exposing her thighs and arse to a slight chill despite the fire at her back, enough so that she felt the faint prickle of rising goose pimples, then pulled it over her head, tossing it aside – she could not see where.

His own nightshirt he had off himself before she had time to decide whether she was too hot or else too cold, though certainly she was the victim of some unnamed discomfort in that regard.

Fanny watched him, with a mixture of pleasure and uncertainty, as he bent over and, one arm cradling the back of her trembling knees, scooped her up into his arms.

For whatever reason, she hadn't been expecting it, and – in her surprise – let out another yelp, a good deal louder than the first had been. Eyes wide, she bit down heavily onto her lower lip to muffle herself.

Tom laughed. "There's no need for such reserve – I highly doubt anyone can hear us."

Fanny's brow crinkled. Had he not heard her skulking about and led her here into his chambers? If he could hear her, being as quiet as possible, surely the others could her her squealing like a startled banshee...?

Then she realised, and felt a bit foolish. This wasn't like her family's house in Portsmouth, with thin walls and everybody in the next room over from one another; here, in the big house at Mansfield Park, unless someone had deliberate cause to be in the same relatively nearby corridor Tom had discovered her wandering, which was unlikely at this hour, when all the family were in bed and all the servants were off-duty unless roused and summoned or else on some routine pre-dawn chore, they'd hear nothing at all.

After striding out of the sitting room still carrying her, Tom deposited Fanny onto the mattress of a large four-poster bed adorned with a thick canopy.

She scrambled under the extravagant silk coverlet and pulled it up almost to her chin.

Tom lifted the coverlet on the other end and eased in beside her with a gentle groan before pulling the canopy shut around them.

Fanny could see nothing at all now, only feel the give in the mattress that signified he was drawing closer; he was, after a pause which she might have supposed he spent gazing down at her if it weren't so pitch-black under the canopy, stroking her jawline with the back of the fingers on one hand.

She released a tentative grip she had on the blankets underneath and let the coverlet slide down a little ways as he began to kiss her again; his mouth seemed to be everywhere in the darkness – the tip of her nose, her lips, her throat, her collarbone. She turned her head on the pillow, still trying to look at him even though she was as good as blind.

His leg wrapped around hers; she was a great deal warmer and more comfortable, yet she could still feel the same tell-tale prickle of forming goose pimples.

She tensed without truly meaning to.

"It's only us, creepmouse – merely our merry, contented selves," he whispered into her ear, his breath warm against her cheek and smelling more than a little of drink. "Pray don't trouble your pretty head to think of anything else."


When Fanny awoke, still as warm and dozy as when she'd fallen asleep afterwards, her murky, muddled mind slowly coming back into its own, it took her a while to work out why she couldn't see anything and why she felt strangely confined, bound up like a swaddled babe.

Tom's bed.

That was where she was – under a drawn canopy that blocked out all lights and draughts.

Wriggling her arms free, she felt around for her husband, murmuring his name, patting and groping at the empty space beside herself – "Tom? Tom? Are you here?" – and finally concluded he was not.

Tom must have woken already – perhaps gone down to breakfast, or to begin those duties his father had mentioned the day before – and left her behind in the bed.

Apparently, he had tucked her in before doing so, which was why the blankets and coverlet were so tight.

The gesture was thoughtful, to be sure, and she smiled to imagine him going about it, but she would have preferred if, instead, he'd woken her early and escorted her back to the attic-room.

Because, alas, she still didn't know where in this huge house she was – she hadn't the foggiest notion which wing her husband's chambers were even located in, or how far she'd walked in her vain attempt to find the kitchen.

A guess could not be ventured; the night before was a blur of nerves and passion, of love and apprehension.

She could be anywhere.

Sitting up with some effort, the blankets still secured a little too snugly about her waist to permit easy upward movement, she rubbed at her bleary eyes with the back of her wrist and yawned.

Unable to locate the seam which might indicate a break in the canopy that would pull it open, Fanny settled on crawling out from under it as though it were a tent flap. She fervently hoped there would be no servants in the room – not simply because she did not wish to be caught in Tom's chambers after Sir Thomas had made himself quite clear about where she would sleep, but also because she hadn't any clothes on.

Her nightdress would be – must be – in the sitting room somewhere.

Her bare feet touched a soft rug beside the bed; the hardwood floor beyond it was a shock, going from warm to cold, that she felt all the way from her aching calves up to her sour stomach.

She had the rising desire to retch, and narrowly resisted it.

The sudden light was too bright after the nothingness of the canopy – she blinked rapidly, then darted her gaze both ways.

No servants. Nobody at all. Thank heavens.

She hurried into the sitting room and searched, with increasing anxiety, for her nightdress. Where had Tom tossed it last night? She checked behind the chairs and in front of the fireplace. All she was able to find was her shawl. She couldn't leave the room with only a shawl.

For an instant, she debated going through Tom's nearest wardrobe and dressing herself in whatever she found there – even if she should only discover hunting or riding gear, as such humiliating misfortune would appear to be her lot in life, then spotted Tom's dressing-gown carelessly left on the floor in front of the doorway.

It was not unlike seeing an old friend. She'd worn it enough times at the inn in Portsmouth; she could borrow it again now. At least she'd be covered. A breath of deep relief escaped her as she hurried to pull it over herself, slipping her arms through the familiar sleeves and fastening it closed at the front.

She was beginning to suspect all might be well, if only she could find her way back to the attic-room and change into something more appropriate before coming downstairs, thinking how it must surely – despite her lack of knowledge of where she was in this house – be easier to navigate in the daytime than it had been at night, slipping out into the hallway through one of the doors and closing it gently behind herself so as not to make any noise, when she heard a cross, shrill voice address her in a tone of unmistakable horror.

"And what, pray tell, do you call this?" demanded the scowling woman who – although a perfect stranger – seemed somehow familiar to Fanny. "What business are you about?"

She swallowed too quickly, taking in too much air at once, and could not bring herself to speak. Her arms tightened around the folded shawl she carried in her arms.

"Whatever are you hiding, shifting your arms away from me like that, girl?" The woman took a step forward. "Stealing something from my nephew's room, I expect?"

Fanny shook her head.

Nephew, she realised, stomach plummeting, she called Tom her nephew – this is our Aunt Norris.

She did not look at all like her mother or the pretty Lady Bertram. It was hard to believe all three had been girls together in one family. She had the same light features, yes, but none of the softness. Fanny had supposed her own mother hardened, but her eyes were warm and nurturing compared to this woman's.

Although, perhaps, to be sure, Mrs. Norris was both prettier and nicer when she was not mistaken about the situation and made so very cross. She must be a great deal more pleasant and reasonable than she seemed, deep down, if Tom managed to have regard for her.

Then Fanny dismally recalled what Edmund had told her about this particular aunt – how Tom in fact did not like her very much save for when she flattered and praised, rather than take on his father's more severe approach to dealing with him, and how she had wanted to choose Tom's wife for him – and her hope dwindled, making it even harder to bring coherent words to her mouth.

Her lips trembled.

What was it she had said to Edmund, when he brought Aunt Norris up?

I'm not going to be the most welcome thing in her life, then.

Such an understatement that seemed when faced with the woman before her in the flesh!

At last satisfied the pitifully worn-looking shawl was not a pilfered item from Tom's chambers after all, Mrs. Norris insisted again upon being told her business here at once. "Spit it out, girl – don't just stand there gawking guiltily as if you had..." Her hand went to her mouth. "Oh, God." She appeared to realise, only then, that Fanny was not properly attired. "I should have anticipated something like this happening someday. But of course neither of the boys has shown any inclination to bring women of ill repute into this house before – and, what with Edmund taking up the cloth and moving to Thornton Lacey, it seemed so unlikely... Oh, the shame – Tom, what could you be thinking of, doing such a thing here?"

Fanny's closed-off throat managed an indignant squeak. I am his wife! Not...not one of those...not a...a...

But Mrs. Norris was no longer speaking to her, no longer expecting an answer – she was speaking only to herself, frantically, with no ear to anything or anyone else. "I must break the news to Sir Thomas as gently as possible – the shame must be... Well, it shall be hushed up. None of the servants will..." Her eyes were on Fanny once more – she'd snagged her arm and begun pulling her forcefully before she could shrink back. "You, you little... I will thank you to leave this house at once."

"But..." stammered Fanny, her voice hoarse. "But..."

"You shall not expect," Mrs. Norris went on, dragging her down the hallway and making a number of sharp turns until they (after coming down a staircase) were in the first room Fanny had seen when they'd entered the house yesterday, "to be paid any money from this family – and if you dare to breathe one word of this indiscretion to the papers, or to return with intent to blackmail the baronet, I will have the magistrate on you – see if I don't. You shall be writing to the papers from behind bars, if you try it, and no one will believe a word. You will find me most formidable."

The front doors were flung open and Fanny felt herself pushed forward.

"I'm not a..." she began, in a desperate breath, shivering and struggling.

"Out!" snapped Mrs. Norris, shoving harder. "Do not make a scene. Get out of this house and don't come back."

"Mrs. Norris," she tried, having only strength and time – she judged – enough for two words and being eager to make them something which should give her aunt pause.

Mrs. Norris was greatly distressed to hear her name from the strange girl's lips. "How dare you address me? You haven't any right – now, get out and stay out!"

The doors slammed shut, leaving Fanny outside on the cold front steps. She wondered that Mrs. Norris had deposited her here, out front, where she was so visible, when she might have dragged her to a more discreet door. But, in that case, a servant – going about their duties at this hour – might have seen the whole thing transpire; Mrs. Norris would have known if there was anyone expected near the front of the house until later.

Fanny tried knocking anyway, hoping to be let back in, though it did no good – no one heard her.

Her next idea was to peer through the nearest windows, tapping at the panes to get a servant's – any servant's – attention; the house-maids had sneered at her yesterday, they plainly did not like her, but they'd still know who she was, as Mrs. Norris had not, and they would certainly let her inside rather than risk upsetting Tom, their future master.

It was freezing and Tom's dressing-gown was not much of a buffer against the cold.

If only she could guess which part of the house the attic-room was in, she might be able to... To what, climb (or fly, as likely) up there and get her sister's attention?

She chided herself. She didn't need to climb – she was reasoning like a fool. If she could get hold of a little pebble, she could toss it up against the window and Susan would look to see what the noise had been and she'd surely...

Unless she picked the wrong window, also a likely outcome.

What if it should be Mrs. Norris whose attention she got and her aunt was even more angry at her for being a conniving harlot who threw things at the houses of baronets?

She might have her hauled off by the law before Tom even realised she was gone!

Sobering, unpleasant thought!

Still, it could give her another chance to explain, to tell her aunt she was married to Tom, not someone he'd smuggled into his room in the middle of the... Well, that was ironic, because – wife or no – she technically was someone who'd crept into Tom's room secretly last night when everyone was asleep.

She simply wasn't a... Not a...

Well, no matter; not all the doors, on all sides, could be locked.

She could not be barred out of the house entirely.

Surely not?


Edmund was finishing his morning ride, in lieu of breakfast (he had not been feeling hungry that morning, merely unsettled), galloping towards the front of the house when he spotted a huddled golden-haired figure – her bare feet nearly as dark a blue as the dressing-gown she wore – sitting on the front steps, crying into her hands.

"What's this?" He slipped down from his horse and ran up the path, arms outstretched. "My poor dear little sister, whatever can be the matter?"

She lowered her splayed hands, both ashamed and relieved to see him, but she was so stiff she could barely rise to her numb feet without help.

"My goodness – how long have you been out here?"


Mrs. Norris entered, much to her annoyance, as the breakfast things were already being cleared and was – at first – so preoccupied with how she must tell Sir Thomas about her unpleasant discovery that she failed to register the extra person rising from the table with the others.

From her peripheral vision, she registered a person who was hearty, full-cheeked, a little shorter than Maria, and blonde, and concluded – almost unconsciously – Julia was returned from London and had been seated next to her eldest brother.

Normally this manner of surprise would have pleased Mrs. Norris, despite her general preference for Maria over Julia, and she'd have made a grand fuss over her beloved niece's return, but she was too perturbed to bother with the usual niceties this morning.

What would her poor dear sister think? Would Sir Thomas decide it better that she not be told?

It was not until 'Julia' spoke, saying, "But where's Fanny? Breakfast is over and she's not come – she's got to be lost in the house," that Mrs. Norris pressed a hand to her heart and stared, head-on, at the stranger with pure bewilderment. This unfamiliar person was not Julia! She did not have her lovely niece's pretty manner of speech, nor her fine clothes; her voice was crass and uneducated, her dress old, and the resemblance up close was not so great after all.

"Sir Thomas," cried Mrs. Norris, "who is this?"

When his father did not reply, Tom – who had been examining a newspaper and hadn't glanced up even when rising from his seat or when his table-side companion spoke – said, "Hmm? What's that?" He folded the paper and blinked. "Oh, yes, Aunt Norris, this is your niece Susan Price – Susan Price, Aunt Norris. There, that's enough. I have done with it. Introductions are always grown so very dull by the third time one has to make them."

Nothing made sense to Mrs. Norris now. Niece? This wretch? One of the plethora of children belonging to her sister Frances and that low-born sailor William Price she'd thrown herself away on? Had Tom brought the hapless girl back with him from Portsmouth? Why should he do such a thing? What could have possessed him?

"But where's Fanny?" insisted Susan, who did not care a wit about any Aunt Norrises when her sister was missing.

"Susan, you are most remarkably skilled at missing the point entirely when someone is repeatedly – yes, I say repeatedly – hinting at you to drop the subject!" Tom sighed exasperatedly, tossing the paper down carelessly onto a servant's already loaded tray as they passed. Then, "I expect she is still asleep. Worn out, poor mouse. We shall leave her to it – the servants can make her biscuits and buns – or sweet rolls, if she prefers – and tea at any hour she wakes. S'not as if she'll go hungry."

"She wasn't in the room when I left it," Susan said.

"I'm sure you're mistaken." Tom's voice was a little higher than usual, and his eyes were darting nervously in his father's direction. "Fanny is asleep in the room she's meant to be in, of course. Where else should she be?"

"Fanny?" echoed Mrs. Norris, beginning to feel as if she might have made a dreadful mistake – the girl she'd taken for a prostitute and put out of the house...she... She looked very like this one, only thinner and more sickly in complexion. "Whoever is this Fanny you're on about?"

"Alas, Mrs. Norris" – and Sir Thomas entered the conversation at last, as it could no longer be avoided – "I regret to inform you that Tom did rather a foolish thing during his time in Portsmouth and eloped with–"

"Oi!" put in Tom, outraged. "Hang on. It was not an elopement, Father! Indeed, it was nothing of the sort! Her family were all present and accounted for, and Edmund performed the ceremony, and John Yates – who is an Honourable, as you know, sir – was in attendance as well. One can scarcely call such a respectable affair elopement."

Mrs. Norris went white as a ghost, her countenance shaken, drained of all colour. "But Tom is...married...? How can this be?"

It was explained, then, as concisely as possible, about Tom stumbling upon his poor relations in Portsmouth, spotting Fanny at a ball, and contriving to marry her and bring her back to Mansfield with him to make sport of his father.

"The girl... Oh, dear, the girl... Good heavens! The girl, I've just put..." stammered Mrs. Norris, once she'd heard the story.

"Which girl is this you're speaking of, Mrs. Norris?" murmured Lady Bertram, bending over to pick up Pug (who had been yapping about her ankles throughout most of this conversation), quite puzzled by her sister's reaction.

That was when Edmund burst in with his arm around the very girl Mrs. Norris had been speaking of. "Tom, for pity's sake, if you cannot keep track of your own wife, I–"

"Oh, Fanny!" cried Susan, aghast.

Tom, to his credit, ran across the room – nearly toppling two unfortunately-stationed servants over in the process – and was before her in a flash, rubbing her hands and exclaiming over how cold she was and – utterly heedless now of his father learning where she'd been last night, as it no longer mattered, in light of this – asking what could have happened to put her in such a state when he'd left her perfectly safe and warm.

"And, pray, which idiot house-maid has shut you out of doors?" he demanded, taking in Edmund's riding clothes and Fanny wearing only his own dressing-gown and piecing together what must have occurred. "Point the wretch out to me at once; I'll see her dismissed without references."

Fanny, teeth chattering madly and barely returned to herself, could not bear to have a servant punished – to see them lose their job – when none of them had wronged her and – though it frightened her dreadfully – brought herself to mumble it was Mrs. Norris who'd taken her to the front door and put her out of the house.

"I did not know!" was Mrs. Norris' angry, defensive retort. "How could I have? I thought her... I expected she must be..." She coloured vividly, going from white to red, and the rage of mounting embarrassment within her she held, both in that moment and later on, as being completely Fanny's fault. "What was I meant to think? Coming upon, as I did, a strange woman dressed in nearly nothing at all creeping out of Tom's chambers while you all breakfasted – unawares, so far as I could imagine? Do you see, Sir Thomas, what needless tragedy occurs when I am the last to learn of these things?"

Sir Thomas arched an eyebrow.

"Oh, poor, poor Fanny!" Susan exclaimed. "Why didn't you just show our aunt your wedding ring?"

"I did not..." She murmured, looking – through light, glassy, unfocused eyes – from Susan to Tom, "I didn't think of it; I'm so sorry."

"If you were more responsible," Edmund growled, removing his arm from around Fanny and pointing emphatically at his brother, his full fury still directed only at Tom, "this might not–"

"What're you taking my head off for?" cried Tom, waving an arm behind himself in the vague direction of Mrs. Norris. "Aunt Norris is the one who was foolhardy enough to shut Fanny out of doors on the coldest damn morning we've had this time of year in nearly a decade – talk to her about it!"

"I fear the poor child may be on the point of fainting," commented Lady Bertram, clutching her pug a little closer to her breast; she spoke so quietly they almost did not near her.

Lady Bertram was not mistaken, however.

Fanny's knees buckled, giving way, and she slumped forward into Tom's arms.

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