Merriment & Wisdom
A Mansfield Park fanfiction
Part Thirty-Eight:
Proposals, Such As They Have Become
When Mr. Crawford arrived in the morning and asked if he might speak with Fanny privately in the library – a conversation of great importance, which he promised should take only a few minutes to be settled, as he was more than half certain of Fanny's warm response yet wanted to be entirely certain before making concrete arrangements – Sir Thomas thought little enough of it.
True, if Fanny had been unattached, an unwed woman of her age and fair looks, with her good connections as his own well-favoured niece, he might almost have suspected from Henry's manner he meant to make an offer of marriage, but barring such an absurdity, Fanny being Mrs. Bertram from before Mr. Crawford ever knew her, the baronet could only conclude someone of their mutual acquaintance – perhaps one of their siblings, either Mary or William – must be the subject of the intended discourse.
And he could see nothing wrong in that.
Miss Crawford and his daughter-in-law had been intimate friends for a time now, and he had seen that Henry and Fanny were amiable to each other, merry in one another's company as far as respectably might allow, by default of this friendship. He had some small hope, even, of Mr. Crawford asking for Susan's hand in time and privately thought his easy manner with her sister was useful in endearing Tom and Fanny – as well as Miss Price herself – to the idea, the forthcoming proposal. Why else, after all, would Mr. Crawford have done quite so much for William, Susan's brother, if such was not his eventual aim? Sir Thomas doubted this was the subject at the moment, given Tom's condition and the fact that he himself had not been applied to, had not been asked for his blessing, but he felt there could be no fault in encouraging Fanny and Henry to be at liberty and ease to discuss such a thing in future.
If he could have guessed Crawford's real errand, he would have been stunned – nearly too shocked, by the deep amorality of the whole scheme, even to be appropriately outraged.
But he did not, and so had Baddeley bring Fanny to the library before making his polite excuses to leave the pair alone.
Poor Fanny was out of sorts from the start – she had, wrongly, suspected Baddeley of being sent to bring her to Tom, and was greatly disappointed when he took her to the library instead of her husband's sickroom. Enduring such a disappointment as she then contended with, the last person she particularly wished to see was Henry Crawford – and she shot her father-in-law a single desperate look that he should not leave; anything Mr. Crawford had to say to her could be said, surely, in front of him, or when Miss Crawford arrived to join them and they all adjourned together to the drawing-room to take tea with Lady Bertram. When her look went unheeded, she had a childish urge to grab Baddeley's arm before the butler, also, could depart, but restrained herself by digging her fingernails deeply into the moist palms of her clenched hands.
It was all right, really, she told herself, Mr. Crawford could not bring news more evil or distressing to her than that which she already suffered from daily, hourly – for, if Tom had...
If Tom was...
Surely, they would not employ Henry Crawford to inform her of her husband's death and her new status as a widow?
Certainly not.
No one at Mansfield, not even Mrs. Norris, for all her faults, was so heartless and unfeeling as that.
Moreover, she thought she ought to feel something – something telling – if such...
...If such an unhappy event had taken place...
Then, most unnervingly, as soon as the door was shut and they were left entirely alone, Mr. Crawford took a step nearer and, after opening with, "You must allow me to say what I feel," let loose the most positively startling proclamation, addressing her, amid this monologue, as 'dearest, sweetest Fanny'.
For one normally so eloquent in speech, he was – of a sudden – very difficult to comprehend. What could he be firing off about so animatedly? Tom – slurring his words at his worst – was easier to understand than whatever Henry was now trying to, most improperly, convey to her. What did he mean calling her 'dearest' and 'sweetest'?
The only thing which prevented her from crying out, "Mr. Crawford!" in complete dismay and near-revulsion, was the catching of the name of a particular place, brought up again and again in his impassioned speech.
She could only blink rapidly, struggling to puzzle it all out. What was this about her going to Everingham?
"But, Mr. Crawford," said she, a little stupidly, "pray forgive me for not understanding you – how can I go to Everingham?" The more pressing question – the real question, the one she meant to ask – was why should she go to Everingham, the how being immaterial, and she was angry with herself for not wording it thusly. "This is no time for a holiday. I couldn't go alone, and my mother-in-law can't possibly spare Susie." She could already hear Lady Bertram's plaintive 'I cannot do without her' echoing in her mind. "Besides, you can't imagine I'd want to tour a large house while Mr. Bertram–"
"A holiday?" Mr. Crawford's face melted into an expression of pure adoration which, frankly, frightened her almost entirely out of her wits. "Bless me, I did not think it possible you might–! Fanny, can you have mistaken my meaning? I do not intend you to see my house – I intend you to possess it, to be mistress of it, as you are mistress already of my heart."
Her face was like scarlet.
"For mistress of it you most assuredly are! I love you with all my heart – I shall never, never cease loving you. I offer you my hand."
"What?" she squeaked, recoiling. "I have misheard you Mr. Crawford – please, I beg you, shame my mistake with your explanation at once!"
Alas, no such explanation was forthcoming – he continued on as if she had not spoken, had scarcely even protested. "If you will come to Everingham with me now, you will find yourself happy as you can no longer be here at Mansfield Park." He held out his hands to her. "I know Mansfield, Fanny – its ways, its faults towards you! The danger of your being all but forgotten once that unfortunate event which we are all expecting takes place! With me, you will never suffer at their hands. You need never fear Mrs. Norris again, for I shall protect you from her sharp tongue as Mr. Bertram – I regretfully suppose – never has thought to. Even Mary – that most precious sister of mine, who I love above all women save yourself – I would not trust, when the worst occurs, to see to your happiness when she must attend to her own. If you will, however, put your faith in me–"
Her lips parted and her eyes bulged. Still her composure largely held. She was gentle – made such by stupefaction as much as by genuine incurable softness in manner – and perhaps too greatly so to put off such a heated yet confident proposal as this the way she intended to.
The sternness of her purpose was all but completely concealed.
"I have a living husband, Mr. Crawford," she said, uselessly, "surely you realise that."
"Oh, dearest! But for how long?"
Her heart was rising up and lodging firmly in her throat; her stomach was rapidly souring and fastening itself into little knots; she thought she would never want to eat again or be able to speak more than a couple of words if pressed to.
How could he – how could anyone – say such a thing with so unguarded an air?
Tears sprung up into her eyes. "I-I thought you were my friend."
"I am – I assure you most ardently – the truest friend," he cried, reaching for her hand, "you have in all the world. I love you best and better than anybody else ever has or ever will." He managed, then, to get hold of the hand he'd reached for. "I can easily understand one so proper as yourself, which is not in the least to your disservice, only making your entire person all the more agreeable, has reservations about my plan – but it is only because I will not wait to marry you – our happiness will not be put off any longer. You shall not be trapped here in this place an hour more than is strictly needed." As he spoke he raised her hand closer and closer to his lips, meaning to kiss it and nearly succeeding in his endeavour to do so – his mouth grazed the back of her hand for an instant. He paused only to add, "Indeed, if you will go upstairs and pack now, I will wait for you here and–"
"No!" She'd ripped her hand away. "No, no, no! This is all nonsense – do not distress me. I can hear no more of this. This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I cannot bear that you– No, I am married – I already have a husband, sir, and he is what he is – so don't think of me." To suggest she run out on Tom – that she pack a bag and leave Mansfield with...with him... "But, then, you are not thinking of me – you are not in your senses – it is all nothing. I know it is all nothing." A sob burst forth from her. "What I don't know is what I must have done – what wicked encouragement I unwittingly gave – to make you think I would welcome a speech such as this!"
And making frantically for the library door with one hand outstretched, groping at the door-handle like a blind person, the opposite hand pressed in anguish to her heaving chest, she fled.
Fanny paced the length of Tom's sitting room in pure agitated misery. How could she endure this? To be sure, Mr. Crawford's friendship, so far as she could trust it, must be lost to her from this day forth, and – if this was how he should choose to behave towards the wife of his acquaintance – then she might, in all probability, count herself fortunate enough to be rid of it. And if, accepting such discouragement as she'd just given him, he should repent and no longer press the issue – if he should cease to look at her, to think of her, all might be well.
However, her fear was – for a time – he might not accept it.
Eventually, he would, of that she was confident. But if in the meantime he meant to keep urging his suit upon her, hoping to weaken her resolve against him should Tom fail to recover, she needed a protector.
It was Tom she wanted for protector – Tom she wished she had told of her unease regarding Mr. Crawford long before now – but necessity would require it, because of the current circumstances, to be somebody else.
To apply to her father-in-law, despite his growing affection for her, was too alarming.
As for Edmund, though...
He might well balk at hearing anything against the family of the woman he so loved, the woman he would be expected to make Mansfield's mistress if he were to become the heir, but if Fanny were tactful and earnest, if she begged him only to keep her safe from Henry, she did not see how one so dear and loving as Edmund could refuse her.
Moreover, he was a parson – certainly it was acceptable to confess all one's unbearable woes to a clergyman.
After all, she wanted absolution for whatever she might have done to make Henry Crawford desire her – to think her the sort of woman who would betray her husband – just as much as she wanted protection from him.
It must have been wearing that necklace, testing him out in friendship, she thought, feeling dreadfully sick, which caused the mischief. Or, if it was not the direct cause, certainly exacerbated it, fanned the flames of a passion in Mr. Crawford she must now allow she had never been in as full an ignorance of as would absolve her of blame.
What a little fool she had been! A reckless, self-deceiving fool! From start to finish!
To wear such a thing unprompted, knowing he had selected it for her, knowing his sister – for all intents and purposes – likely had next to nothing to do with it save be its deliverer.
And to have worn it while her husband was away in Newmarket... As if to say she...
Releasing an ashamed cry of dismay, she stomped over to the surface upon which she'd most recently left the gold chain laid out, snatched it up and – before she could think better of doing so – hurried to the window, pushed back the curtains, unlatched it, and threw.
"It's a trifle cold out – just now – to be opening windows, Fanny."
She whirled, red from hairline to chin, to see Edmund standing in the doorway. He seemed not to have seen her throw anything out of it, at least. She needn't explain that straight away – a small mercy.
"Yes, it is, to be sure," mumbled Fanny, casting her eyes downward and reaching a hand to push her blonde fringe away from her crimson face. "But I felt I needed air – I was momentarily unwell."
"You do look rather flushed," Edmund allowed with such brotherly concern in his voice as nearly made her want to sink into one of the velvet chairs by the fire and bury her face in her hands. "Forgive me for barging in on you like this – I did knock, though I suppose you mightn't have heard me – but we must speak."
"Tom–" she blurted.
"Is no worse," he assured her, holding up a hand. "I've left him with Aunt Norris – he doesn't rest well when she's in the room, she talks incessantly and worries him with a thousand and one recitations of daily cares, but as he was already soundly asleep when she came and offered to sit with him for a quarter of an hour, I thought it was safe enough."
Fanny's already downcast heart sank further still.
Momentarily – upon hearing the assurance no turn for the worse had been taken – she'd held out some small hope, once she'd finished speaking to Edmund, she could go downstairs with him to the sickroom and see Tom at last – if it had been Sir Thomas sitting with her husband, or Lady Bertram, she could have still hoped for it, and with quite a brightness of likely expectation, but her aunt Norris, upon quitting the room herself, would invent some reason to keep Fanny from entering.
It would be useless, now, to try and gain entry. Only a madwoman attempted the same scheme over and over again with the expectation in view of different results.
So, she would resign herself. She would allow Edmund to speak his mind, on whatever his subject might be, then she would confess all regarding Henry Crawford and plead for his intervention with the gentleman should it prove to be needed.
"This is very awkward," said Edmund, half smiling at her in what – if not for the gentle affection in his eyes – would have been closer to a wince. "I'm uncertain how to begin."
Fanny's lips parted. She was silent a moment. Then, "Should I sit down?"
"Yes, yes, that might be for the best."
She sat obediently and smoothed her skirt for lack of anything else to do while he assembled his thoughts.
"I had hoped, Fanny, there would be no need to ever bring this up – I had full anticipation of the promise Tom has extracted from me being made void by his recovery, and still do," – he wrung his hands – "but some things I have seen recently, not in regards to Tom's health, but in regards to Miss Crawford, who I fear must be told so she doesn't go on in expectation of a certain outcome for herself... She must be disabused of the notion she will ever be mistress of this house, for Tom will not have it, and I cannot go against his wishes. However, it would be remiss of me to inform Miss Crawford of his wishes prior to even broaching the subject with you – so I must tell you all before I'm to tell it to her."
There was some mysteriousness here. What manner of promise could Tom have extracted from Edmund which would bar Mary Crawford from gaining Mansfield Park?
"Tom has informed me he promised you – after the incident with Aunt Norris shutting you out of doors – you were never to be put out of this house again as long as you lived."
Her chest clenched. She recalled it at once, though she'd not given those words much thought since Tom spoke them. It had seemed like a nonsense promise when he made it – after a day of behaving less than admirably – and it wasn't a memory she liked to dwell upon. Never had it occurred to her he might remember his own words, nor that he took them so seriously as to recall them to Edmund upon his sickbed.
"Yes, he said something about that," she mumbled.
"If he fails to recover" – Edmund had suddenly gone nearly as red as she was, and even coming to the point of it he could not quite bring himself to say 'if he dies' – "he wants me to marry you. Tom wants you to stay in this house – your house, he insists."
Oh, God. Fanny gawped. "And... Y-you've agreed to this?"
"I have, but if it is very distressing for you, Fanny – though I'd advise you to think of what Tom is trying to give you before deciding how you feel about the idea – of course you mustn't feel obligated to agree yourself! If a second marriage to me would make you unhappy, you'd be perfectly right to refuse. Indeed, sister, if such were your feelings, nothing could justify your accepting me."
For a moment she wondered if he didn't want her to refuse – to free him from his promise – so he might never have to speak of any of this to Mary, if that was not the real purpose in his coming to her first.
Her next thought, which greatly surprised her, was that she might not release him.
For Tom did more, she thought – tears pricking hot at the back of her eyes – even than Edmund realised, by extracting such a promise from him.
He was giving Edmund and Fanny a solid, permanent way to protect themselves from the Crawfords.
Fanny might have grown a good deal fonder of Mary while Tom was in Newmarket, and even a little before that, if she were being honest with herself – Mary being the sort of charming person you couldn't help liking when she was around and behaving in her usual easy, amiable fashion – but this change did not rob her altogether of her first opinion, that Miss Crawford was, for all her gifts, totally unworthy of Edmund.
She still believed Edmund would be unhappy with Mary, if he should at this last obtain his heart's desire, and would have done a great deal to prevent such a union from taking place it were possible. But to marry him herself – to, perhaps selfishly, secure him, snatch him from Mary, in hopes of being forever safe from Henry and to keep on living in this house! Could she justify it? Could she live with the knowledge that her motives had been less than pure? Could she endure, notwithstanding all those impediments, being married to someone she felt only a brotherly love for? It would be like marrying William, for mercy's sake! Her unknotted stomach lurched. She despised herself for considering it – as if Tom were already gone – when she had just reprimanded Mr. Crawford for his proposal. She feared she was a hypocrite, deserving of ridicule. Perhaps she ought to lose her home, to be sent even back to Portsmouth in disgrace, if she were to behave as selfishly as Mary would in her place!
"You needn't answer right now, Fanny," Edmund told her. "Indeed, as your friend I'd urge you not to – God willing, it must be you shall never have to give me any answer at all – only to tell me if the promise I've made is entirely disagreeable to you."
She shook her head. "It is not disagreeable to me." It wasn't. Of course it wasn't. She had been mistaken, repelled and incensed by premature grief. Marrying Cousin Edmund would not at all be the same as marrying William; he was not her brother, not in quite the same way, even though he called her 'sister'.
A union between them would be far, far from ideal – Edmund himself (given his profession) must know it was frowned upon by ecclesiastical law, and potentially could be contested – but it wasn't unthinkable.
It wasn't a sin.
"I'm glad to hear it. I feel much the same – in the event of tragedy, we ought to look out one for another – Miss Crawford has long been in my affections, as you know, but the fact remains she is still an outsider. She might have been my wife by now, if she desired it. She is not still Miss Crawford for want of asking on my part, and if I were now her husband – following such an event – I could have been asked to make no such promise." He blinked, as if he'd surprised himself with these words even as they'd come out of his mouth. "Ah. But Tom is proving far wiser than I've been wont to give him credit for in the past."
The tears escaped and were, as Edmund spoke, coursing down Fanny's cheeks unhindered.
"He's going to recover," insisted Edmund, bending down and taking her hand. "Don't cry. Have faith. You must remember in this trying time you are with relations who all love you, who wish to make you happy – and, I daresay, quite soon Tom will be well enough to comfort you himself."
How different – how remarkably, tellingly different – this proposal was from Mr. Crawford's! Edmund was not speaking of dragging her off to Thornton Lacey, or pulling her hand to his lips to force a kiss upon it – Mr. Crawford was abominably mistaken when he said he was the truest friend Fanny had in the world. No. No, indeed. That honour was Edmund's. Perhaps even above William in some small degree – though it was a brutal rend in her heart to admit it even to herself. No friend who could be imagined could be more faithful, more willing to put aside his own inclinations to oblige his brother and secure her well-being than Edmund was proving himself.
If she were to take a quill in hand and write up a draft, a rhapsodising composition, of the perfect earthly friend – to work upon it for weeks scrupulously, sketching out each beautiful detail – it would not even come close to touching Edmund in terms of goodness.
She forced her tears to slow against her inclination. For his sake, she might have done more than suck back a few stubborn sobs and try to be brave.
"Tom was insistent I agree to two conditions in marrying you," Edmund added. "I'd nearly forgotten – but he insisted I mention them and say them exactly as he did."
She gave a little encouraging nod.
"He says we're going to have to name all of our children after him – including the girls."
Fanny smiled in spite of herself. She nearly laughed. Tom. How very like him it was to say such a thing!
"And I'm to take you on holiday to Derbyshire, as he promised to take you." He paused, brow knit. "There was something about cows – something particular – dash it all, I've forgotten! He'll be quite put out with me when I tell him I've made a mull of it."
"You haven't," said Fanny, lifting her hands and pressing them together. "Oh, you haven't at all."
"Goodness!" exclaimed Susan, upon the events of the day being relayed to her when she – finally freed from her aunt Bertram's side – came into the bedroom to wish her sister goodnight and see if she needed anything. "Two proposals, and you still married!"
Flinging herself face-down upon the bed, soon buried cheek-deep within the enveloping, puffy security of her pillow, Fanny groaned, muffled nearly to the point of unintelligibility, "I pray nobody asks me to marry them ever again so long as I'm alive! Are there no other women in Northamptonshire?"
"None near as sweet and pretty as you, to be sure. But Mr. Crawford ought to be ashamed of himself!" declared Susan, leaning over and patting Fanny between the shoulder blades. "It's too awful, what he did to you."
She raised her head and propped herself up onto her elbows. "I can forgive him for mortifying me – I can't forgive him for slighting Tom."
"But..." Susan wrinkled her nose. "Tom is in his sickroom, he'll never have to know anything about it, thank God."
"I'll know," said Fanny, as if that were all that mattered, and perhaps it was. "I shall always know he thought so little of his friends' honour when weighed against his own happiness – or what he thinks will make him happy – he would take another man's wife into his home at the first opportunity."
"What worries me most," admitted Susan, tensing, "is his lack of self-control. If he can't wait a short mourning period to have you, can he really have waited even until Tom's death for satisfaction? The first night you were alone in his house, what would stop him from..." She trailed off and gave a violent shudder. "I may not know much about these matters, and Mr. Crawford styles himself as a gentleman, so that's something, but I know you never can be certain of a man like that."
For a brief moment, Fanny did not understand her meaning – then, in a disgusted rush, she did, and coloured vividly from the horror. Susan wasn't wrong. The temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a mind like Henry Crawford's, his being unaccustomed to having to make any sacrifice or wait for anything which could be got with money or a few choice, gentlemanly words.
"And," continued Susan, releasing an anxious sigh, "if I'm not mistaken, he still has the cheek to fancy he might yet succeed with you."
"Oh, never," Fanny replied darkly, her decidedly uncharitable expression one which might, despite everything, have given Mr. Crawford pause – more than half a reason to rethink if he truly wanted her after all – if only he could have seen it. "Never, never! He never will succeed with me."
A/N: Reviews welcome, replies may be delayed.
