Merriment & Wisdom

A Mansfield Park fanfiction

Part Forty:

Disguises, As Far As They Succeed

For the length of a stilled heartbeat, Edmund feared the worst – then he saw Tom's chest move up and down, albeit slowly, and the world began to turn again.

Reason slipped, quite comfortably, back into focus.

He chided himself inwardly. Someone would have told him if... He would not, surely, have been the one to discover him thus. The servants going in and out of the room would have noticed first, and his father would have been told, and from there the rest of the family would have known.

Tom was in no position to slip away from life unseen.

All the same, it was a great shock.

The last time he had been in to check on his brother prior to this, Tom had been tired but his condition was no worse; now, entering the room again, ready to sit with him for a while, he saw the patient was vividly pale and unnaturally still – near catatonic.

"Edmund." Sir Thomas, his face creased and haggard, appeared in the slanted light of the half-open door.

Motioning to his brother's rigid form on the bed, Edmund whispered in an urgent, cracked hiss, "Father, what happened?"

Curling his index finger into a 'you, come here, please' motion, Sir Thomas signalled for him to step out of the room.

Edmund opened and shut the door behind himself.

They were standing in the antechamber just outside of the sickroom, under the vaulted rotunda. In his father's right hand was a partially crumpled piece of paper – a letter of some kind, going by the sharp yet flowing script Edmund could just catch a glimpse of bleeding through.

"I'm afraid Tom is very weak today," said Sir Thomas, tightly. "There was a mix up regarding his doctors – your aunt Norris feared Tom's recovery wasn't moving along as speedily it ought and called in her own physician, the one she used to have check on your uncle Norris after his dizzy-spells when he was still alive."

Edmund tried to picture this man, to recall if he had seen him before – he couldn't. It did no good; the effort was in vain. Actually, he couldn't remember Aunt Norris ever having a doctor at the Parsonage – he was certain she didn't have one come to the White House for herself, because of the expense – though he couldn't accuse her of neglecting his late uncle.

"This physician came in to examine him while I was in my study, attending to a disconcerting message I received from one of your sister's Rushworth-household servants. I was not informed of the visit by your aunt." Sir Thomas appeared as if he were trying very, very hard not to become angry at the recollection while speaking. "Her doctor recommended, and commenced with, breathing one of your brother's veins."

Edmund blanched. "But Tom had an application of leeches just the other day!"

"I know that – you clearly know that – apparently, however, your aunt Norris did not."

Stars were dancing in front of his eyes, as were a succession of little black dots blurring the corners of his vision. Edmund's legs felt as though they might give way under him – he swayed, his father reached out a hand and caught him, steadying him and pushing him so that he stood upright again. "Merciful God."

"Merciful indeed, Edmund," murmured Sir Thomas, shaking his head. "We came very close – too close – to losing him thanks to this grievous oversight."

"Where is Aunt Norris now?"

"Talking a walk in the shrubbery – she was in a frightful temper when I upbraided her for calling the physician without asking me first. To her mind, the fault was my own for not telling her about the leeches sooner. She kept saying she was always the last to know these things. Some sharp words were exchanged between the both of us. However, she'll be back within the hour. Well," – he hesitated – "give or take a few minutes; I've no doubt as to that."

To Edmund's mind, this tragedy at Aunt Norris' hands was one too many. It was bad enough she had once locked Fanny out of the house in her haste to keep the place running as she thought it ought – now she had very nearly ended Tom's life through another maddening act of ignorance.

He felt he could say nothing further about her folly to his exhausted father, however, not as of yet, seeing as there was obviously something beyond this already bothering him – perhaps something communicated within the letter he held – and he still had the unpleasant task of informing him about Crawford's ugly pursuit of Fanny.

For now, it was best simply to thank God Tom had been strong enough survive the mistake.

"Father," began Edmund, "there is something–"

"I leave for Scotland this afternoon," Sir Thomas interrupted him. "I'll need your word, in turn, you shall look after your brother in my absence. I need you to take care of him, to see he is comfortable while also placating your aunt. It's a heavy burden, as our family seems made for hourly trouble these days – but there's no one else I can ask it of."

He blinked rapidly. "Scotland?"

His father held out the letter. "Read it for yourself, if you care to. I'll sum the contents up, regardless. Julia has run away with Mr. Yates – the only consolation in this folly being that marriage, not ruin, appears to have been his intent. Still, John Yates is a fool. I never particularly approved of him as Tom's companion." He shuddered. "As a match for your sister..." His expression was dark, utterly miserable. "This is an exceedingly painful blow, especially now, with Tom's condition to think of. She might have had the sense to wait. To come here – to be at her brother's side. Yates, too, for what little it would now be worth!" A sharp exhalation came from his left nostril. "Well, I think the prospect dismal, to say the least. I know my eldest daughter was married off to an idiot" – Aunt Norris' doing again, Edmund couldn't help thinking, perhaps a trifle uncharitably, given Maria had done next to nothing to frustrate, let alone halt, their aunt's strenuous efforts regarding that match – "though I naturally mean no disrespect to poor James R. in saying so, you understand; I intend to do everything in my power to prevent the younger from following in her footsteps."

"Supposing," whispered Edmund, his eyes darting both ways, as if looking to see the conversation wasn't being overheard, although they were alone under the rotunda, "it is already too late – supposing Julia is compromised?"

"If I cannot reverse the desperate situation," sighed Sir Thomas, taking the letter back from Edmund, whose hand had gone slack at the wrist, "then I can at least make things more difficult for my latest dolt of a son-in-law." He closed his eyes, flinching. His complexion was ashy grey. "God help us all, Edmund, but I do believe – by pure dumb luck – your brother was the only one of my children to marry a person of any sense."

"It wasn't luck, Sir – I believe, from my heart, God knew we needed Fanny here."

With a grim ghost of a smile, Sir Thomas clapped his younger son upon the shoulder, made a vague promise of returning as soon as he was able to track down his daughter and her seducer, and left him standing there alone and terrified.

It was to be the last time Edmund would see his father for some weeks, and he'd not had a chance – he was painfully aware – to even hint at the Crawfords' poor behaviour toward them all. Sir Thomas would not know, not for a good while yet, how Mr. Yate's indiscretion was a much lesser slight to the Bertrams' honour than were the actions of Henry Crawford and his sister.

This made Edmund – for an as yet unspecified duration – the sole protector, not only of Mansfield and Tom, but of Fanny.

How could he do it all on his own? He was only one man, and not even the heir.

Clenching his jaw and lifting his eyes heavenward, toward the vaulted ceiling, he whispered, "Why can no one ever help me? Why is it never enough?" But no further would he permit himself to wallow in pity, to border on what was as close to blasphemy as he ever came.

No – he mustn't let it get to him, not when his general competence – his ability to smooth things over and fill in the neglected places of others – might be very nearly all he had left.

For, truly, all else was quite lost.

Miss Crawford was nothing to him now save a memory to blush at; his brother was insensible; his father was departing for Scotland; his mother believed, and must go on believing, nothing whatever was wrong; his sisters were as good as strangers – Maria was a meddling telltale married to the simplest, saddest gentleman alive, while Julia was behaving like a shameless hussy – his Fanny might as well be his only sister, as she was certainly his only comfort, even as he was doubly burdened with the care of her.

He swallowed back his growing fears, cleared his throat thrice, and walked back into the sickroom with his shoulders set and a smile forced, lest Tom wake suddenly – despite his weakened state – and see him appearing to be as drowned in weighty concerns as their restless, unhappy father.


Edmund probably did not expect his father to pay a visit to Fanny in Tom's sitting room before leaving Mansfield in pursuit of Julia and Yates, but Sir Thomas did exactly that, stopping in for a few minutes to bid her farewell, to ask she and Susan mind Edmund – as he had no doubt they would – in his absence during this trying time.

His discourse with his daughter-in-law was chiefly one of gentle reassurance that, while he was disappointed elsewhere, he was always immensely proud of her. He did not bring up Tom's weakened state nor let on – so far as she could work out – any signs of having yet learned about Henry Crawford's impropriety from Edmund. He did, however, almost in passing, make a small – to Fanny's mind, rather puzzling – reference to an out-of-sorts Mrs. Norris going for a walk in the shrubbery and perhaps returning in a vile temper, and how she really mustn't feel any outbursts from that quarter today were her fault, from which a plan of creeping in to see Tom as soon as his father kissed her goodbye on the forehead began forming in her mind.

Around this time, she was fairly certain, Mrs. Norris normally brought a tray – or else, in the occasional absence of real desire to enter the kitchen and count the cream cheeses and be sure none of the maid-servants were acting above their station, rung to have one brought – into Tom's sickroom.

In light of Sir Thomas' report, accounting Mrs. Norris to be currently fuming in the shrubbery, she might not be there to do so, and another person might – just might – slip unnoticed into the kitchen, pick up the readied tray, and bring it to Tom herself.

The trouble was Fanny couldn't be certain which of the servants would aid and which would put a stop to her efforts, even now.

Baddeley, she had a great deal of confidence in, as well as a tender fondness for, but there was no guarantee even of crossing paths with him in her endeavour.

As to the rest...?

There was, to start, that very maid-servant Fanny had already run afoul of trying to take Tom's trays of food and tea-things from in the past – they were near-enemies now, as much as a future mistress and her servant can be properly enemies, given the gross power imbalance on both sides – and she was, gradually, as late, growing more acutely and unhappily aware of precisely how many maids disliked her, not simply because they disdained her Portsmouth origins or feared her aunt Norris, but because they fancied Henry Crawford.

Then there were at least two of the kitchen staff who (and Fanny had not yet fully guessed it, but later thought it explained rather a lot) were of Mary Crawford's frame of mind and believed Edmund would be the better master of Mansfield Park in future – a pair who did not care much for Tom or his simpleton wife.

This was not really pure wickedness on their part when it is taken into consideration how much of their formative youth was spent with Tom, yielding to his childhood whims. They had, of course, just that little bit too frequently seen him at his worst while his brother was, contrastingly, at his best.

As for the present rectifying the past, perhaps by a tactful, persuasive mistress, it could never be done by Tom's chosen bride – Fanny, whose timidity and propriety made her aloof, was not talkative enough – even if she had been inclined to speak to them on such a subject – to have a hope of altering their earliest unfavourable impressions.

Fanny, to her credit, quickly considering all she knew of this as she worked out her plan, was not in a state of full-on despair. She was preparing to be as brave as she knew how to be, and had already settled on a manner of disguising herself to delay an unpleasant confrontation this time around.

As soon as Sir Thomas' footsteps vanished down the corridor, she hastened to undress herself, casting aside her usual, pretty clothes – all except her corset and the chemise underneath, which she couldn't remove on her own – and replacing them with Tom's things (hilariously mismatched despite her best efforts) from his wardrobe.

She hoped, because of her height, if they only saw the back of her, the servants would take her up for Edmund hunched over, fetching the tray in their aunt's place. She might have had an easier time of it pretending to be Henry Crawford, since Edmund – though not quite as tall as Tom – was a good deal taller than herself.

Tom's breeches and shirt, as tightly as she fastened them around herself, were far too big – she was practically swimming in them – Fanny felt like a silly little child playing at dressing up.

Her hands shook, doing a very ill-looking job of tying a cravat around her neck.

Worse was when she realised how Tom's things all smelled so much like him, something she'd foolishly not anticipated, and was forced to bite down hard on her lower lip to keep from sobbing.

One of his waistcoats, apparently not recently laundered, had a bit of string in the pocket, along with a half guinea, and – for whatever reason – this nearly made her lose her already-slipping composure entirely.

She bit down onto her lip even harder, till it was near to bleeding.

Her appearance dressed up thusly was absurd and she knew it; she simply prayed nobody would look very closely.

Her fair hair, though, if she was indeed imagining herself passing for Edmund via some overtired servant's peripheral glance, would spoil her designs in a flash.

Unlike Tom, Julia, and Maria, Edmund took – in his colouring – more from the Bertram side of the family than the Ward. Tom's hair arguably didn't look fair in all lighting, in some – depending on where you were standing – it really looked surprisingly dark, especially when contrasted against his wife's or sisters' hair, but Edmund's looked fair in almost none.

Snatching one of her husband's top hats, her trembling fingers nearly tearing the silk lining in their anxious hurry, Fanny gathered her coils of long, curled hair all up inside and righted it upon her head.

The result was – in her opinion – unflattering, but as the brim kept settling practically on her brow, it was effective enough as a form of concealment.

Or, at least, she fervently hoped it was.

Now, for shoes...

She looked about herself like Lady Bertram's Pug chasing her own tail.

Oh, for pity's sake – where did her husband keep his shoes?


Less than a quarter of an hour later, Fanny – anxious to keep moving, to hurry without drawing too much attention, too aware her aunt could return very suddenly and put an end to the scheme – was panting for breath under the multicoloured rotunda outside of Tom's sickroom.

The shoes, which she'd finally found in the end – black, shiny, and high-heeled – were too oversized for her feet; they had reduced her to shuffling, lest she fall and harm either herself or the tray.

She would have done better to keep her own shoes and hope nobody was looking down as she passed by.

Her breathing steadied, she nudged the door open with her elbow.

No one was within at the moment – there was only Tom, very still in the bed, and her pug sleeping (and snoring) on the pillow beside him.

Fanny's heart stopped when she saw him. He looked a good deal worse, rather more weak and gaunt, than she'd been expecting. She quickly placed the tray down so she didn't drop it. Then she shuffled to the bedside and took his hand.

Slowly, Tom's fingers curled around hers and he – with what seemed to be a heavy effort – turned his head upon the pillow and began to open his eyes. He managed to open them only partway, peering out at her blearily from under his eyelashes. One corner of his mouth curled upwards.

She was not entirely certain what to do with herself – what to say, now the moment she'd been longing for, this blessed reunion, had finally come, and he was so incoherent, so drained of energy...

But it didn't truly matter, Fanny assured herself, taking Edmund's vacated chair and pulling it nearer to Tom's side, so long as they were together at last.

She devoted herself, given she knew not how much time she had left, to comforting and amusing him – she talked of what little news she'd gleaned from the papers she'd had glimpses of in the past few days, including the latest on racing, thinking – despite everything – he might still be interested in that.

She was perfectly correct in this. No sooner had she managed to say, "I read Fenior is the favourite for the next season at Newmarket," than his lips actually quivered in an attempt to respond with his – obviously strong, perhaps indignant – opinion on that statement.

Worried she might have unwittingly agitated Tom as much as she diverted him, she tried to think of something which might be soothing, and – for lack of a better idea – began to sing to him.

She sang, in something of an undertone, taking up his hand for the second time – holding it to her cheek briefly before letting it go slack onto the blankets again – Blow The Candles Out.

The unexpected song choice amused him enough so that his weak smile spread a little further, resulting in what was definitely a revealed dimple in one cheek.

I cannot rest contented, when I am far away... The roads they are so muddy, we cannot walk about... So roll me in your arms my love–

She broke off, glancing over her shoulder towards the door, thinking she heard someone.

She had, actually, although – for a moment – no one appeared. Edmund, having returned from whatever brief errand had taken him from Tom's side again, had – hearing a soft, sweet, deliberately low voice and discerning somebody was with his brother – peered in with cautious curiosity.

At once he recognised Fanny's slender form and took in what she was wearing – and he was obliged, then, to turn away, shut the door behind himself, and laugh, constantly having to stuff his fist into his mouth to keep from being too loud prior to mastering himself again.

It was the top hat and the cravat that did the mischief; he could have controlled himself about the rest, surprising though it was, but those two additions struck him as so utterly hilarious he needed several moments alone to regain the level of composure appropriate to a sickroom.

No sooner had he managed it, however, than he heard loud muttering and perceived Mrs. Norris to be returning – still in a poor mood – and, understanding she ought not to see Fanny dressed so, came hastily into the sickroom, put his hand upon Fanny's shoulder so she wouldn't start overmuch, then whispered she'd better slip away while he distracted their aunt Norris.

She was utterly wretched at the thought of leaving Tom. Still, she had known this visit could not last long, that she must be contented with these few stolen minutes.

She might even have succeeded in assuring herself it was all right, really, if only Tom had not – as she rose – made a faint lunge for her arm to prevent her going.

Briefly making contact with her wrist, his eyes opening all the way for the first time since she'd come into the room, he shot her a wholly bemused expression – the look one gives when the feel of a thing is different than expected, such as feeling fur when you were anticipating sandpaper.

Freeing herself and struggling against the hot, telltale prickle of tears behind her eyes, Fanny bent over and kissed him goodbye – once, very gently, upon the corner of his mouth – and fled with the assistance first of Edmund, then of Baddeley, who spotted her on the stairs (she'd been slowed by losing a shoe and had to take them both off and carry them in her hands) and prevented the other servants from doing the same.

Alone at last in Tom's sitting room, safe from Aunt Norris and the staff, she placed the shoes down and began to undress. She unknotted the cravat and dropped it, in a perspiration-soaked, unravelled heap, upon the seat of the velvet chair by the fire. Then she removed the waistcoat she'd borrowed, the half guinea clink-clinking against the chair as she draped it over the back, and began plucking – with less vigour – at the small fasten holding the linen shirt underneath in place.

Movement at the door – the sound of someone about to push it open and enter – made her stagger back and yelp. The top hat fell from her head and rolled across the floor, her hair spilling out unbound about her shoulders. She had time, barely, to grab a dressing-gown and fling it over herself – over Tom's loose shirt and breeches – tying it at the front before her unannounced visitor was standing in the room with her.

She glanced up, saw who it was, and – in what was barely a squeak – managed, "Mr. Crawford."

After an uncomfortable moment of staring at her, taking in her dishevelled appearance with evident interest, Henry doffed his hat. "Fanny, please, I need to speak with you."

"As you see, Mr. Crawford, I'm not dressed to receive visitors," she said, her eyes darting away from him. "This is not appropriate." Who had let him in the house? "And as there is nothing further which can be said between us after our last conversation, a conversation which distressed me very greatly, I must ask you to leave."

"No, no – it is all well, I assure you – your aunt Norris, I came in with her; she believes me to be visiting with Lady Bertram and your sister downstairs. Please. I can't go until I've told you all I came here to say." His eyes, unlike hers, refused to avert themselves. "Mercy, Fanny, but you look so beautiful – you are a wonder, beyond what one fancies might be."

"Mr. Crawford–"

"You have some touches of the angel in you."

Tears escaped at this, though not for any reason Henry Crawford might have been imagining – she was not softening towards him because of the pretty remark he'd just made. She was thinking of Tom, of a certain night in Portsmouth when he, too, had compared her looks favourably to that of an angel.

"Dearest, sweetest Fanny!" And he held out his arms to her, opened as if he suspected her of desiring to run into them.

She drew back, displeased, to say the least – horrified, to say the most.

"Ah. Forgive me." His smile here – worked upon a different kind of woman – would have been fatal. "But by what other name can I call you? You cannot suppose you are ever present to my imagination under any other? No, it is 'Fanny' that I think of all day, and dream of all night. You have given the name such reality of sweetness, that nothing else can now be descriptive of you."

Sucking in her lips pertly, raising her eyes to meet his at last, upon the conclusion of this dreadful speech, she said, in a cold, vexed voice, "Not even Mrs. Bertram? I believe it suits me very well." She looked down pointedly at the ring upon her left hand. "I believe it stands for everything I am, or could ever wish to be."

"We have come too far," said Henry, "alas, for me to pretend I ever thought it suited you – ever thought the name worthy of you."

"I wish you to leave."

"I've rented Stanwix Lodge," came out of him in a rush.

"I'm sure that's very nice for you."

"I've rented it for you – so that you shan't have to leave Northamptonshire."

"I'm not leaving this house with you, Mr. Crawford." Her breathing quickened. "Not for Everingham or for Stanwix Lodge, or any place else."

"Oh, goodness, I nearly forgot – there is this, before you refuse me again..." He let his hat fall from his hand and began to rummage through the breast pocket of his greatcoat until he found a letter. "A note, Fanny, from my sister."

She was loath to take it, to draw herself so near to Mr. Crawford as the action might require, but she could see he was set on not removing himself until she did so.

He gazed at her while she read the letter, ignoring – evidently – the growing frown upon her face.

My dear Fanny,

I know how you suffer, pained by the worthy emotions of a first attachment which was so dear to your heart, but even if our Tom is not strong enough for this world, you must be. I believe you can be. My faith in you is strong, as is my brother's. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can be no difficulties worth naming. I choose to suppose that the assurance of my consent will be something; so you may smile upon Henry with your sweetest smiles and, I trust, make him happier in his departure even than he was upon arriving.

Yours affectionately,

M.C.

"C-can" – she was too overcome to prevent the stammer – "you truly have supposed this note would c-change my m-mind?"

When, she wondered, had Mary Crawford written it? Before her last conversation with Edmund? When she'd still had hopes of becoming Mansfield's mistress? Certainly, she could not have affected such a merry tone in her writing after – not knowing Tom intended his brother to marry her if the worst should occur.

"I know you to be deeply affectionate," Henry said, taking a step nearer. "I know you and my sister are particular friends – I thought her blessing would count for something with you."

"We do not know each other, Mr. Crawford," declared Fanny, with a shake of her head. "And, on my side, I have no desire to ever know you."

"You do know me – you love me – what I do not know is why you deny it." His expression faltered, contorting into one of torment and misery. "You are killing me."

"No man dies of love denied," grumbled Fanny, folding her arms across her chest, feeling exposed and increasingly ill at ease. "We aren't living in an Ann Radcliffe novel."

"I love you!"

"If you will not leave, sir, I will ring for the servants to remove you."

He closed the remaining distance between them in a hasty stride, then, and grabbed her by the arms to prevent her doing as she proposed, pleading still that she hear him out, that she not cast him aside with no hope, he who loved her best of anyone.

She gasped in anguished protest – and he, being so near, seeing her flush, unable to restrain himself a moment longer, though it was not his first intention, pulled his face to hers and kissed her.

It was, for Fanny, one of the ugliest experiences of her life. She was tense, with her lips pressed tightly shut, so it felt less like an act of affection and more like Henry had just violently slammed his mouth against hers.

He apologised, inquiring anxiously if he had hurt her, if she was all right; she shoved him away and reeled backward, pressing three fingertips to her bruised lips and grimacing.

If he had turned and gone, or at least stepped away from her, giving her space, all might have ended as well as such a situation possibly could. Instead, however, he made the mistake of reaching for her again in an attempt to console her.

Now she was angry. How could he keep at it with a persistence so selfish and ungenerous? What a gross want of humanity, what decided lack of proper feeling!

"Mr. Crawford, let me be quite clear," she snarled, spinning away from his reach, "even if my affections were free, you could never engage them!"

The surprise on his face, at her speaking to him thusly, could not have been greater, could not have been more evident, if she had lifted her own head from her shoulders and revealed a grisly bloodied stump underneath.

Upon her own face was a wafer-thin trace of the dark, uncharitable look Susan had seen when she'd declared Crawford would never succeed with her. It was a look that said, very plainly, not only was she loyal to Mr. Bertram – to Tom – but that Mr. Bertram was, indeed, greatly preferred.

For the first time, Henry felt a twinge of what could only be called disgust, even by those more charitable towards him than Fanny, for the object of his affections. It passed, of course, though. She was still an angel in his eyes. A perfect angel worthy of all his pent-up desires. All the more so, perhaps, for being continuously unattainable.

"Your husband is unworthy of this overlong devotion, Fanny – Tom Bertram, even if he was not on his deathbed, would never love you half as much as I now see you love him."

"He doesn't have to," said Fanny, very quietly. "That isn't how love works, Mr. Crawford. Love isn't owed – it isn't deserved. It's given."

"Oh," he burst forth like a madman, "do still come away with me after all – I know I can make you happy! I know I can! Let me prove myself to you!"

Why will he not leave? Fanny thought frantically, wondering how much longer he could keep at it in the face of her undisguised rejection of him.

He reached a hand out – shamelessly – to touch her face, to caress her cheek, and she – desperate that, given the unpredictable nature of this encounter, his lack of self-control thus far, he not make any manner of physical contact with her again – recalled Tom's pocket pistol, still where he had left it, untouched since before the night of the ball.

Tom may never have taught her, as they'd planned, to fire it, but shooting Mr. Crawford was not her intention. For now, anyway. She simply wanted to make him leave, and – if all else failed – fancied she might, with a bit of good fortune on her side, be able to strike him on the back of the head with it and ring for a servant while he was unconscious.

Grasping the pistol, and pointing it as she repeated her demand for him to leave – though the aim was vaguely over Henry's shoulder, and it was clear, even to him, she had no idea what she was doing – did make his eyes widen, but instead of backing towards the door as she hoped, he attempted to take it from her, crying out that she would hurt herself.

A scuffle ensued – Fanny frightened and outraged and begging him, as she had from the start, to leave, for she did not love him and would not go away with him, Henry insisting she listen to him, he who knew best, and not behave foolishly – with voices raised and – as ill-fate would have it – someone, not a servant, was near-enough to hear and come barging in, demanding to know what was happening.

Mrs. Norris entered the sitting room just in time for the pocket pistol – tripped by Fanny accidentally gripping too near the hair-trigger when she yanked it free of Mr. Crawford's grasp – to go off.

Just in time to see a bullet go flying straight into her precious long-case clock, shattering its face.

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