Merriment & Wisdom
A Mansfield Park fanfiction
Part Twenty-Four:
Returns, Not So Very Welcomed
The day, for Mrs. Bertram, had not started out favourably.
Fanny wouldn't have minded being in the drawing-room – accompanied by Lady Bertram and Susan – with her needlework spread across her lap, nor would she have minded listening to Edmund read aloud from Fordyce's Sermons.
But two discomforts had arrived – just after breakfast – which vexed her, perhaps uncharitably, and they, both discomforts alike, shared the name of Crawford.
Mary's company was displeasing because Miss Crawford was in what Edmund cared to refer to as a 'playful mood', and of which Susan quite readily had a more colourful and – possibly – apt description, and she would keep on making faces at Fanny's poor, flustered brother-in-law while he read.
Fanny thought this highly unjust of her. Edmund's reading itself was good, being just what a parson's ought to be – he neither suffered from Tom's inclination to read too fast, nor that of Mary's brother to read too theatrically, even if, objectively, Henry's performance was actually a very good one – so the objections expressed by her screwing her face and wrinkling her pert, pretty nose were all towards the material. She thought little of Fordyce and respected Edmund not at all for admiring his work. Though, to be sure, she might have sneered at any sermon, as she did not like his profession to begin with and probably viewed his ordination as the unfortunate thing which had come forever between what might have been happiness for them both. Between Mr. Edmund Bertram and all hope of a large income, and thus between Mr. Edmund Bertram and herself.
To make matters worse, Edmund – in hopes of giving Miss Crawford some little degree of pleasure in the visit – had persuaded Fanny to wear the necklace Mary gave her.
The awful necklace which had originally been the brotherly gift of Henry Crawford.
She'd not wished to wear it, especially as Mary and her brother dropped by so unexpectedly and she hadn't had any time to reconcile herself to the sacrifice, when she had so recently been obliged to wear the dratted thing at supper not two nights prior.
A compromise which, actually, pleased nobody at all, Fanny herself the least of all, was made and she sat there in the drawing-room wearing both Edmund's chain and Mary's strung through the ring of William's cross together.
It looked – for all her best efforts – utterly ridiculous, and she felt as if she were being jointly strangled by them. The back of her neck ached dreadfully, sore and pulsing at the base – her head, she felt certain, would follow suit by the middle of the afternoon.
Henry was worse than Mary. Fanny might really have endured ten of his sister before she felt equal to enduring him on such an ill-favoured, cross day as this.
He smiled endlessly; he offered to thread her needle for her; he offered to make Edmund 'put away that gloomy, dull book' so that he might 'read something which would doubtless entertain a beautiful creature such as Mrs. Bertram so much more readily'.
"You need only say the word, Mrs. Bertram," he had told her saucily, stating his rude offer enough times that Fanny – if she were a more violent sort of girl – being quite at the end of her rope – would have wanted to throw a book at his head as soon as have him read one, however good his voice might be.
"Oh. Oh, no. I am quite enjoying listening to my brother read the sermons – though I thank you most kindly, to be sure," was the only reply she managed, largely unheeded.
Mary laughed, half teasing, half mocking, "You think yourself above mere lurid poetry, my dear Mrs. Bertram?"
"No, I do not," sighed Fanny, shaking her head and stabbing her needle downward, nearly pricking her finger by mistake in the process. "I just think Fordyce makes good points and Edmund puts it well."
"Oh," added Lady Bertram, rousing and shifting in place on the sofa. "I think Fanny likes poetry very well indeed – she spoke of how much she enjoyed that piece you read before, Mr. Crawford. When you were here with us the other night, I believe it was. The heavy stuff, not usually to my own taste, but well done by you to be sure – like being at a play."
Fanny's countenance darkened and she wished for an excuse to take her from the room but could invent nothing sensible and furthermore ran the risk of running into Mrs. Norris in the hall, should she make her escape, which was just leaping from the pan into the fire.
"I expect," Lady Bertram continued, "it is a favourite of yours as well."
"It will be," said Mr. Crawford, smiling. "From this day forth, if Mrs. Bertram so approves it, how can it be otherwise?"
Edmund cleared his throat.
"Oh, of course, my dear," apologised his mother, realising he'd been quite cut off by this discussion. "Forgive me – do go on."
"Where were we?" He turned a couple of pages.
"Well beyond that, I think," said Mary Crawford. "Perhaps you'd better flip to the end of the book." She smirked prettily. "Or close it altogether."
Susan rolled her eyes and sneaked – with no objection from Lady Bertram – a bit of tart crust to Pug.
Edmund began to read again, then stopped, looking up, his eyes darting towards the doorway. "Ah." He placed his thumb between the pages and looked very sombre. "The prodigal son returns."
Susan inhaled sharply then released a gasp, but it was Fanny's heart that stopped for a beat then raced wildly, drumming so loud in her ears she could hear nothing else.
Could he mean...?
Tom?
Tom.
Tom was back.
"Aye, brother, and he brings company – fresh from London. I've Julia and Yates along with me."
Yes, it was Tom's voice.
Swallowing, Fanny stood, her needlework falling to the floor, her hands all a-tremble.
How could she bring herself to turn around – to look at him?
Emotions she could not show ripped through her insides bursting within her like fireworks.
He'd see – she was sure of it – he'd see it in her eyes the moment their gaze met. He would see she was angry, that she knew he no longer loved her, and that she could not reconcile herself to his disinterest and abandonment.
Mercy.
But he was beautiful!
So beautiful.
Love stirred in her at the sight of him.
He was a prince from a fairy-tale as far as looks, whatever they were worth. Clean and bright and tall, elegantly groomed, swanning in as if brought hither by some miraculous contrary wind.
The light around him, shining from the window, seemed to glow, giving him a pale yellow aura.
To have such a well-looking husband, with such a smile and expression in his eyes, and to know you were disregarded, if not outright despised, by him!
And seeing him like this, after so long...
How could Fanny be asked to endure it?
It was too much to ask of any woman.
"Hello, Fanny" – he was all brilliance, all brightness and cheer – "did you miss me?"
She made some strangled noise – a noise that might have been a sob or might not have been – and, weighing her chances against meeting Mrs. Norris, fled past him, leaving the room in such a hurry she did not even look upon Julia, who'd been eyeing her with vague curiosity, or greet Mr. Yates.
"Oh, well done, Tom!" growled Edmund, tossing his book onto the nearest chair with evident disgust.
"Good God, brother! What can I have done already to invoke your ire?" cried Tom, his own mounting disappointment making his warbling voice crack. "I've only just got here."
"You really don't comprehend much of anything, do you?" sighed Edmund.
"Oi, careful, Edmund" – he stepped toward his brother and leaned in so that the others present in the room could not as readily overhear – "d'you realise there was almost pity in your voice for a moment there? Your self-righteous indignation is slipping. You'd better be careful, or your limited humanity might show." He motioned over his shoulder. "Now, about Fanny – she looks a little different. Did she change her hair while I was gone?"
Edmund opened his mouth to speak, to say even he was not certain what, when they were interrupted by their mother.
"Come here." Lady Bertram beckoned to her eldest child wearily. "I do hope you've a kiss for your poor, exhausted mother. I've gotten resigned to your absence – Edmund can manage things just as well as you, it's quite extraordinary how smoothly he arranges matters, so considerately that we scarcely notice any change at all – but it's most pleasant to have you back with us. I'm glad you married Fanny as you did, after all – despite how unhappy you made your father about it – because at least we shall always have her when you go away." She glanced at Susan – who she did not seem to realise was glaring at Tom, silently punishing him and wishing him ill for building up then spoiling the happiness of her beloved sister – and added, lovingly, "And dearest Susan, of course. I shall never be able to do without Susan."
His tone slightly demurred, Tom said, without meeting his sister-in-law's diamond-hard eyes, "How have you been, Susie?"
"As well," said she, folding her mending and neatly putting her needles and remaining thread away in her aunt's workbox, "as can be expected, Mr. Bertram."
"Did you know, Tom, Pug had her litter while you were away?" Lady Bertram asked, as if it were – above all other topics which might be brought up – of the utmost importance, and of great interest to everybody present. "I've given our dear Fanny one of the puppies; it wanders about the house and hides quite a lot – timid thing, not so bold as its mother – you might never see it yourself if you are not often home." To her daughter, she added, "Julia, my sweet, if you see it, I hope you will be good and leave it alone – you always liked to tease poor Pug when she was that size, as I recall."
Julia's cheeks flushed scarlet and she tried her very best not to look at Henry Crawford.
"You weren't at supper," said Tom, entering his own sitting room and – after kicking off his boots – kneeling beside the chair where Fanny sat, staring off with what was plainly forced cold disinterest into the crackling fire. "You weren't hungry?"
Fanny said nothing.
"My father told me you moved into my chambers while I was away – a most agreeable development, that."
Nothing.
"Fanny – talk to me, please."
Her lower lip trembled and, in a jerky motion, she reached up and wiped away a stray tear that escaped the corner of her eye.
Reaching over the arm of the chair, Tom's fingers brushed her sleeve.
She flinched and pulled away.
"Come now" – he flashed his despondent wife a merry grin – "can you really tell me you're even not the smallest bit glad I've returned?"
"I'd much rather," she whispered, more to herself than to him, "you hadn't gone away."
His hand urgently sought hers – attempting to take it, to entwine his fingers with hers – and she wrenched it out of his grasp. "Fanny."
"Do you never think–?" she choked off, unable to finish.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "Is this about where I've been? Mr. Owen, I believe, spoke to you... Regarding my whereabouts." Standing up, he padded across the carpet to where a decanter was left behind the fireplace tools and – taking out the glass stopper – began to tip it in order to pour himself a glass before realising it was empty. "Damn."
"Yes, I know all about that," whispered Fanny.
"Listen, so we're clear, there wasn't..."
"Yes?" Her pale eyebrows came close together.
"There wasn't anybody else."
She'd never supposed there was. A romantic affair was simply not – and likely never would be – Tom's style. "No, there couldn't be – you'll never like anybody so well as you like yourself."
"I say, that's rather harsh, isn't it?" Especially coming from someone so ordinarily sweet as his wife... Whatever had gotten into her? "Fanny, I'm telling you, I never–" He halted, drawing in another sharp breath. "There are no secrets between us." With that, he walked away and reappeared before her with his sketchbook in hand. "Look, see what I was doing for yourself."
Fanny opened the sketchbook and in a single glance took in the unclothed forms drawn there. Averting her eyes, she shut it again, sliding it down her lap, away from herself. "Why would you show me this?"
"It was commissioned," Tom explained, quickly judging he might have made a misstep here.
"That doesn't make it better!" she cried, furiously thrusting the sketchbook all the way off her lap and back into his outstretched hands. "Why you would lend your talents to–"
He set the sketchbook down on the floor beside the chair. "I only did it so I could come home to you, creepmouse."
Tears spilled down her face.
"Oh..." He lifted his fingers to her cheeks to wipe them away, but she turned her head.
"What you did was wrong," she croaked, staring at her own clenched hands. "But you can't see it, can you?"
"It was foolish of me to go away so ill-prepared, I know–"
"Foolish!"
"But, I mean, all's well that ends well, isn't it?"
"No, it jolly well isn't, Tom!" fumed Fanny, beyond indignant. "Do you not see how shameful–"
"For pity's sake, Fanny – don't speak to me of shame, as if it were some holy concept too pure for the likes of my sinful, black soul to understand. You sound like Edmund," he snorted, nostrils flared, his risen voice saturated with unrestrained disgust. "It's like I went away and came back to discover I'm married to my brother. What's happened to you since I left? Whatever insipid ideas that pompous parson of a brother-in-law who can't stick to managing his own blasted concerns has put into your pretty head, you'd best–"
How dare he! What right had he to speak so? None! None at all. He'd left her, left her in this strange place with people who'd been – all except Susan – near-strangers, with no hope, no help – no idea what she was meant to do...
Only Edmund, the brother her runaway husband now judged so harshly, had gone out of his way to secure her education, to give her a measure of security, perhaps even of happiness.
All the anger, all the rage she'd been holding back – every twinge of unhappiness, fear, and discomfort brought on by Mrs. Norris and her cruel comments, by Henry Crawford and his looks which lingered just that littlest bit too long – felt as if it, every last sick drop of it, would flood through her veins now and drown her from the inside out.
As if it were unattached to the rest of her being, uncontrolled by her other rigid muscles, her hand unfolded and shot out and...
Crack.
"Fanny!" Tom's hand was pressed to his stinging, flaming cheek as he staggered back in complete shock, eyes wide.
She buried her face in her hands, weeping steadily. "I'm sorry – I'm sorry – I'm so sorry." Forgive me.
Lowering his hand from his cheek, he grasped her arms as she – a silken shawl thrown haphazardly over her nightclothes, slipping off one shoulder – tried to leave the room. "It's all right – you didn't hurt me."
She sniffed. "Let me go. Please."
His hands slid down from her arms to her wrists and squeezed lightly. "Stay with me." His eyes, their playfulness present but greatly diluted, were hard but his tone was relenting, even benevolent. "I'll speak nicely – or sit beside you in brooding silence if you'd prefer it."
She shook her head, pulled free, and – as if in a daze – staggered to the door and walked – in the dark, blinded by tears, without even a stub of a candle for aide – to Susan's attic-room, where she threw herself into her sister's open arms.
"Poor Fanny" – her tear-stained face betrayed her wretchedness – "what happened?"
She was almost too ashamed to say it – it came out strangled and muffled, murmured into Susan's shoulder. "I struck him." She shook with sobs. "We quarrelled and I struck him."
Mary Crawford was standing beside her harp, lightly fingering the strings, plucking absently. She lifted her head when she heard her brother enter the room – the hour was late, and she was surprised to see him still up and about.
"I expect you're mourning over the loss of your game," she said after a moment. "Tom is returned – looking very well, I must say – and so you must give your attentions to Fanny up – and they've only brought Julia back with them. Leaving no one else for you. Poor Henry. I know you have to have someone, but you'll need to wait until your return to London for it. There's no helping that."
Henry looked at her as if she'd sprouted an extra head. "Give up Fanny?"
"Tom may not be the cleverest man to ever stride the earth, Henry, and certainly not the soberest, but he isn't Rushworth in wits – not by any stretch." Mary set her jaw. "I think he'll notice someone flirting with his wife."
"No man, I shouldn't think, truly dislikes another man admiring his wife," laughed Henry. "It's when the wife returns the sentiment to the man in question the troublesome husbands grow heated and irritable, is it not?" The corners of his mouth lifted. "And I imagine there's little enough chance of poor, heartless Fanny doing anything of the sort – so why should I give up my pleasure?"
Mary's hand dropped away from the strings, slapping irritably against her the side of her leg. "You will exercise at least an ounce of discretion in his presence, though, won't you? Really – I wouldn't have you sour the entire family against us."
"Oh, sweet sister," he guffawed with dark merriment, "what do you take me for?"
"A rake," said she, sweetly. "When you're silly and do not think."
"Fanny," whispered Susan, stroking her sister's shaking back as she wept in the bed, her raw face turned to the attic wall, "don't cry so. You're hardly the first person in the world to think of hitting Tom Bertram – I'd put considerable money on it."
"Fanny actually struck you?" asked Mr. Yates, who was sprawled beside Tom atop the coverlet on the large bed, his bare feet on a decorative silk pillow. He spoke with considerable disbelief. "How hard?"
Tom, rolling over and lifting his arms above his head, feeling his joints pop as he eased back down and propped himself onto his elbow, murmured, "Mmm, yes, hard enough to make her point at any rate – quite the display."
Mr. Yates cleared his throat sympathetically and, yawning, put an arm under his head to support his neck, staring up at the canopy above them. "Rotten luck, old bean."
"You know, I didn't think..." mumbled Tom, blinking in the dim lighting. "I didn't think Fanny could ever bring herself slap anyone. If she'd stayed, instead of running off in a fit of girlish tears, I probably would have admitted to being somewhat impressed."
"Did it hurt?"
Tom snorted and, dropping down with a plop, fell back onto his back and folded his arms across his chest, head turned to look incredulously at Mr. Yates. "What do you think?"
"I think it hurt."
"Only because the nail of her little finger scratched me when she pulled back," he grumbled begrudgingly.
"So what are you going to do?"
"Attempt to win back her affections and respect through charm and flattery, I suppose." He didn't see what else he could do, given the circumstances.
That was, he could leave again – the racing season must be starting up again soon, and he was growing eager to see his horses in action – but then he'd be right back where he started. Without Fanny. So that plan wasn't any good.
And, until they fell asleep, some minutes later, they were silent.
In the morning, they woke to Baddeley pulling back the canopy and then the curtains on the window, filling the room with daylight which was cloud-filtered yet sharp.
The butler was looking down at the two fully-clothed – save only for their missing cravats – sleeping gentlemen with raised eyebrows. He enquired, in a grave, formal tone, as to if they would be wanting assistance in readying themselves for breakfast or if they'd prefer a tray brought up so they could continue their clandestine visit in private.
"Oh, do shut up," snapped Tom, glaring through puffy, bloodshot eyes which were opened only the slightest slit.
"Very good. As you like, sir."
A/N: Reviews welcome, replies may be delayed.
