Merriment & Wisdom

A Mansfield Park fanfiction

Part Forty-One:

Broken Timepieces, Scattered Crockery

Extending in an outwards spiral from the large hole off the centre of the long-case clock's face – made by the loosed bullet – was a great, raised, spiderweb-like crack.

Mrs. Norris stared at it for a long while, as if in continued shock, before turning her narrowed eyes to Fanny and Henry.

The pistol lay on the floor now, smoking at their feet.

"What," she demanded coldly, taking in Mr. Crawford's wretched facial expression and Fanny's highly improper attire (a dressing-gown, in the presence of a visiting gentleman, who she'd inexplicably received in her husband's sitting room!), "is the meaning of this?"

A great number of feelings flooded Fanny at once. She was relieved beyond expression that someone – anyone, even her aunt Norris – had come and she was now protected; she was pleased the dratted clock neither she nor Tom had ever liked was done for; she was rattled, still, by the deafening sound of the bullet exploding from the pistol and glass breaking; and she was humiliated, having been discovered grappling, alone, with Mr. Crawford, a state she'd been in most unwillingly.

She could not bring herself to speak in her own defence, and – before her aunt could even commence with properly scolding her – began to weep.

Her crying slowed Mrs. Norris down in her chiding only by the smallest fraction of a second, simply on account of having to pause and raise her voice a few decibels to be heard over Fanny's noise, and she – gathering an answer to her initial demand was not forthcoming – never thought to be patient or to hold back. She spared her niece nothing. It was, to her mind, as if every ill assumption she'd ever had of Fanny since Tom first brought her to the house as his bride finally had been justified.

She ought to be greatly ashamed, Mrs. Norris insisted bitterly, of having behaved like a hussy – nay, a jade – little better – she felt it her sorrowful duty to inform her – than having outright whored herself, for one knew what to expect from whores – whores knew who and what they were and, reprehensible as they were, usually stayed in their place, such as it was – with Mr. Crawford. Had she no respect for Sir Thomas, for the Bertrams' good name? Did she realise, while she busied herself making a cuckold of Tom, what she did reflected on his innocent sisters – on precious Maria especially – and that, if she insisted upon behaving in this disgraceful manner, she would have done far better to remain in Portsmouth where her slight connection to her betters was largely unknown?

"I daresay," she added in a murmur, fluttering her hands, "I had the right idea of it that first day I found you creeping from this very room."

All Fanny could bring herself to do, between sobs, was shake her head – no, no, no, it was not as her aunt supposed it at all, she never, never, never – but her meaning was not understood.

"You may well shake your head, child, but it won't restore the clock, now will it?" She sounded sorrier over the broken clock, her precious gift, than almost all the rest, save, perhaps, for the bit about Maria she'd managed to get in. "You dare come here, into a respectable home, and make it your mission to spoil–"

Henry's face was growing steadily redder with each sharp, poisonous word uttered by Mrs. Norris – he was nearly as scarlet as Fanny trembling at his side – but not with shame at being misunderstood. No. Rather, he was angry. Angrier even, hearing this horrible woman speak so about another so vastly her superior in every manner which could matter, than Fanny had been at him moments earlier.

"You cannot," he said through his clenched teeth, putting one of his hands over the nearest of Fanny's, "talk to her in this vile, uncalled for manner. You, ma'am, ought to recall your place and beg her pardon at once!"

Mrs. Norris went whitethis, from he who ought to have long ago proposed to Julia and thusly encouraged an equally desirable match between Tom and his sister, which would have prevented the entire tragedy now before them – she opened her mouth in evident fury to tell Mr. Crawford exactly what she thought of him – a sneaky guest, all too willing to be seduced, even if she made allowance for Fanny's sneaky wiles – daring to intervene in a family matter, when two things occurred simultaneously.

Fanny let out a sound somewhere between a yelp and a hiccup and ripped her hand away from under Mr. Crawford's as if his touch burned her and she were physically in pain.

And Edmund appeared in the doorway, just in time to see the look on his sister-in-law's face as she did so.

"Oh, Edmund, thank goodness!" cried Mrs. Norris, turning to him in dismay. "You'll never believe–" She had to stop and suck in a breath. "Oh, Fanny and Mr. Crawford – M-my expensive long-case clock I gave your poor, poor brother – oh, the shame – the shame of it!"

Edmund ignored her, looking to Fanny. For the foolish clock he didn't even spare half a glance. "Fanny, are you all right?"

And for a moment Henry Crawford was in more danger than he'd ever been in his life, because Fanny, in response, only managed to shake her head again, not aware until it was nearly too late that nothing short of an affirmative answer would have prevented Edmund from throttling him.

"You unspeakable bastard," muttered Edmund, locking eyes with Henry and taking a step further into the room.

"Edmund!" exclaimed Mrs. Norris. "This is shocking of you! Quite shocking. I'm sure I never heard of such a thing! I am certain your uncle, God rest his soul, never spoke in such a manner after taking the cloth – quite certain!"

Fanny was too kind – she saved Henry. She forced her tongue, so very leaden in her mouth, to form the words, swallowed back her stammer as well she could, blurting, "I-I'm all right."

Edmund was not, however, though visibly less murderous about the eyes, taken in. "I can hardly believe you," he replied. "I'm sure you are hurt – you're swollen about the mouth."

It was beyond Fanny to attempt to lie – to say Mr. Crawford had not touched her – so she was silenced. Let the rest fall as it would – she'd stopped Edmund from striking him at once, that had to be enough. Her charity couldn't be expected to extend any further.

"To be sure, she is swollen," said Mrs. Norris; "it is from crying. She hasn't stopped crying. Crying is liable to make any face puff up, you know."

"I gather, aunt," said he, sucking his teeth, "you came here because you heard the shot fired? Was anyone harmed, apart from the damage to the clock?"

She thought it best she keep to herself, for right then, how she had come in just in time to witness the shot fired from the pistol. All she said was, "I think not."

"You think not?" Edmund was cross. Very cross. "That ought, Aunt Norris, to be the first thing you asked."

"It was more important–" She whirled and pointed at Fanny. "Her! She was with–"

"W-was," stammered Fanny, "was Tom disturbed by the noise?"

Softening for her sake, Edmund gave every assurance it was all right – yes, he and Tom had indeed both heard the noise, and Tom had muttered, as one half-asleep, "'m'ocket pistol, t'one in m'sitting room," and then said Fanny's name anxiously three or four times, worried for her, but Edmund had soothed him – so he was not overly disturbed – left him with Baddeley, and come upstairs to check.

"He was barely awake," he said; "the odds are against Tom even remembering it wasn't a fever dream."

Fanny was relieved – her tears, still streaming down her blotchy face, two salt rivers along the sides of both cheeks, slowed considerably.

Mr. Crawford cleared his throat.

"You, Mr. Crawford" – now Edmund would not look at him – "will leave this house at once and never return. All friendship, any claim of past acquaintance, between our families, sir, is at an end. Count yourself fortunate that I cannot be spared here and so cannot challenge you on my brother's behalf. Call it mercy, if you like, believe I wish you well as I wished your sister well – just leave."

Henry – unrepulsable to the point of apparently possessing something of a death wish – cast one last look at Fanny.

Sweetest Fanny, his eyes seemed to ask, don't you grieve for me?

Even then, he might have held out the smallest hope she would take his hand and come away with him.

She kept her head turned away from him, however, fervently hoping that – if someday she must see him again – if the world were not so kind as to promise her never – it would not be for a long, long time; not till he were the husband of some other woman.

"I'll never cease to love you," he whispered as he passed. "Absence, distance, time – these shall speak for me."

Fanny was as stone, save for another succession of hiccups which made her seem rather less stoic on the whole.

Once Mr. Crawford's form was vanishing through the doorway and Fanny's breathing was dramatically easing, Edmund rang for a servant. "I'll have a glass of Madeira brought to you, Fanny. Drink as much of it as you can – God knows you need it, and I think you shall find it easier to swallow than to speak just now. I hope it will assist your nerves, if nothing else."

"What of my nerves?" Mrs. Norris was indignant. "She dawdles wantonly with men up here, lolling about barely dressed, and looses bullets into valuable timepieces for a lark, and she's to be given every delicacy? I see plainly, Edmund, who is the favourite in this house, and I must say–"

"I will not quarrel with you, Aunt Norris" – his father had, after all, tasked him with placating her – "but I will only ask this, and pointedly, hoping you will not think me insolent." He sucked in a long, hard breath, then exhaled. "Who let Mr. Crawford into this house – who permitted him entry? If you can tell me it was Fanny, I'll never play at favourites, as you call it, again."

"Wait until your father – dear, sensible Sir Thomas – gets home, young man – you wait." With that, Mrs. Norris pushed past her nephew and left the room in an insulted huff.

"She knows," he said pensively to Fanny, "she is in the wrong. Very deeply in the wrong. She quite knows it, I think. No amount of telling my father will change that. But, alas, it's her way, I suppose – it's all she has left."

Fanny blinked, twice, then ran to him, throwing her arms around his middle and burying her face in his chest like a distressed child.

"Shh..." He stroked her hair with one hand and held him to her protectively with the other arm. "Shh, it's over – I promise – it's all over now. This has been the end of it."


The end of the Crawfords' endeavours to entrap them, yes, it might well be, but the end of Mrs. Norris and her meddling, sadly, it was most certainly not, and Edmund was very nearly at the end of all his patience when Susan came to him with a glass she'd taken from Fanny's bedside.

The requested Madeira had not been brought to the bedroom, replaced – at Mrs. Norris' orders, insisting Mrs. Bertram was suffering from hysteria and clearly needed sleep with more urgency than Madeira would offer – by a tonic containing a sedative.

Susan – as soon as she was able to get away from the ever-indolent Lady Bertram, who would have needed an earthquake, not a mere gunshot, to rattle her, and had been quite convinced it was some shooting going on outside, that it could not possibly be so near as it sounded – had come in to see her sister, discovered her quite dead to the world, and espied the glass more than half-finished.

A single sniff, upon waving the glass under his nose, was enough to inform Edmund poor Fanny had been given enough of whatever the primary ingredient was to put an elephant to sleep. He would have wondered more than a little at Fanny's drinking it, had she been in a less rattled state. He might even have marvelled at it. But in fairness the girl probably had tasted nothing in her anguish, though he thought she might have smelled that before swallowing, gotten some notion it was not wine.

The worst of it was he knew he could not even reprimand Aunt Norris for interfering – she would only complain afresh of favouritism, accuse Susan of being a telltale despite her faultless conduct in this, and insist the tonic was more relevant to Fanny's immediate needs than the wine – so he decided he'd had quite enough going about in circles with her.

"Come," he said to Susan, leading his cousin into the kitchen and giving orders for everybody to stop what they were doing – if there were any of the household staff not present which could be, he asked for them to be brought, and the rest duly informed of the change he was to announce when they turned up later in the day. "For now, in my father's absence, I would ask that any orders you follow come from me. If you're told a request came from my mother, please ask Susan here – Miss Price will know if such was indeed the case. If my aunt comes and orders a change to something I've said, I will ask that it be politely ignored – upsetting her is unnecessary, and I don't personally recommend trying it, but she is not to be the final authority on domestic matters in this house any longer – and myself or Susan informed."

The servants had been terrorised by Mrs. Norris long enough – regardless of their feelings towards Susan, Edmund, or timid, creeping Mrs. Bertram – to be glad of this new arrangement.

"And," Edmund added, before turning to go, dismissing them back to their regular duties, "for the love of all that is good, when Mrs. Bertram wakes, let her do as she will – she is to be denied no object nor entry to any room in this house. At all hours, she will go where she likes and do as she sees fit. For, upon my word, this has been an ill-managed business until today and she has had the worst of it."

He thought he saw Baddeley crack a kindly, relieved smile at this, just about the corners of his mouth, and couldn't resist returning the look with one of deep gratitude. At least the butler had as late been somewhat attentive to Fanny's needs – Edmund wished he had given the man more liberty, he or his father, to speak up in the past. The feudal spirit was very well and good, and the man had never overstepped his place, but Fanny would have had a much easier time of it, he was obliged to admit to himself, had Baddeley been consulted in the household staff's treatment of her. Edmund was sorely tempted, and honestly considering with great seriousness, leaving – gradually, over the next few days – the full running of the downstairs quarters to Susan and Baddeley's sound judgement while he employed himself full-time attending to Tom.

And how fared Fanny, sprawled across the large bed with the canopy left half open, drugged into unwilling sleep?

Rather less peacefully than might have been expected, to say the least.

Instead of being eased from her pain, she was plunged from the miseries of her real life, of having been so humiliated by Mr. Crawford and her aunt Norris respectively, into an ugly, murky dream to rival any of the sickly visions her husband's fevers brought to him downstairs.

Although, to be sure, it started out tranquil enough – for a moment, there in the beginning, she was very nearly contented.

She dreamed she was again at the inn in Portsmouth with Tom, lying in bed on a cloudy day, and she could just see – in the dim room – his bare back turned away from her. She placed a hand upon his shoulder-blade and tried to murmur her husband's name, though her throat felt like it was was coated with something thick and sticky, like honey or molasses; sound did not seem to come from it with any ease. Then he turned, slowly, to face her, the mattress giving slightly as he rolled over, and she saw it was not Tom but Henry Crawford.

She woke in a petrified start – she did not know how much later – with salt burns on her cheeks and under her eyes from crying, relieved only by the fact that she was blessedly alone, with no undressed Mr. Crawford in sight, then she was sick over the side of the mattress.

She would have thought of cleaning up the mess she'd just made, but her head pulsed and the room spun so violently she could concentrate on no other thought than her desire to feel a pillow under her aching, screaming temple.

And yet she was terrified to sleep again, lest she find herself back in an undesirable situation, while the pain of being awake was unbearable – she struggled to squeeze her mind into a state between the two, a betwixt place where she felt safe.

All she felt, though, for her finest efforts, was the onset of yet more tears and a fresh wave of nausea.


Towards the later hours of the evening, Tom regained a great deal of his former coherency, though he was too weak, still, to rise from the bed or sit up for a long period of time, and he asked Edmund a question which both greatly, in equal parts, surprised and bemused him.

When, he was most desirous of knowing, was William going to return and sit with him again?

"William?" Edmund echoed, placing his thumb in the middle of Philippians as he shut his Bible and stared over at his brother with a puzzled furrow forming between his eyebrows.

"William Price," insisted Tom, turning his head. "My brother-in-law. Apart from you, he's the best company I've had since I returned home – he told me racing news... He even sang to me for a bit. No one else has been singing. Though, in Aunt Norris' case, I must confess I'm rather glad of it – but still."

"Tom, William Price – as far as I'm aware – is currently out at sea."

He was disappointed. "Oh, left already, has he? That's a shame – I was enjoying his being here."

"He hasn't been here since the morning after the ball. None of us has seen him since you took him to Cambridge – don't you remember that?" How delirious, exactly, Edmund mused, was Tom just now? He really had suspected his brother of quite having returned to himself, of knowing himself, though now he was considerably less certain. "And, to speak truly, I never realised you were particularly fond of him, apart from for Fanny's sake."

"Well, you'll remember he did give me a bloody nose the first time I met him – puts a bit of a damper on fondness, that." He rotated his mandible slightly, giving it a little pop, as if he'd just now been struck in the face. "But he's so very like Fanny, it's impossible to dislike him, and besides no one save yourself was half so amiable at my bedside."

"I'm telling you, William hasn't been here since you've been ill."

Tom's features contorted themselves into something of a scowl. "He jolly well has – he was wearing a top hat rather like..." He trailed off. "...Mine..." Then, eyes narrowing, "Oi, why did William Price have my hat? You're not giving away all my belongings already, are you?"

Realisation dawned – Edmund laughed so hard the Bible fell from his shaking lap and landed on the floor with a thump. "That wasn't William – that was Fanny! It never occurred to me you wouldn't have known your own wife!"

Tom went very still for a moment, paused, evidently trying to weigh the bleary image his mind had taken for William Price, the voice that – now he thought on it – had not been at all right for William, against Edmund's explanation. Fanny. Oh. Yes. That explained a such great deal.

Such as, when William had risen to go, and Tom had determined he'd rather have him stay a while longer, he'd grabbed him and his wrist had been, most unexpectedly, soft and tiny...

"And you never wondered why William Price would kiss you on the mouth before he quit the room?" wheezed Edmund, still processing the scene anew for himself.

"Oh, right" – Tom blinked at the ceiling – "well, I did think that a little odd of him, now you mention it, but I-I... I don't know – I figured it was some strange sailor custom he'd picked up on."

Edmund's laughter slowly died down.

Tom – in the new silence – then whispered, "Why hasn't Fanny come back, then? Why has she only been to see me the one time?"

Edmund hesitated.

It was entirely, it turned out, the wrong thing to do if he wished to ease his brother's mind. Tom's expression became instantly, grievously agitated. He couldn't understand, clearly, why his wife – the only person apart from Edmund to make him feel better – was being kept from him. Still, Edmund didn't see how he could tell him about Henry Crawford trying to take Fanny from Mansfield while he was yet so weak; the strain of such knowledge would worsen him, he was sure of it.

"She's sleeping," he said finally, praying Tom wouldn't suddenly remember hearing the gunshot, suspect it of having been real, and ask about it. "She hasn't been feeling well."

"I haven't been feeling well," argued Tom, rather sulkily. "I know she is often unwell, but I think my dying should take some precedence, don't you?" His voice rose in pitch and became a whine, making him sound much younger, giving him an air, almost, of an abandoned, heartsick child. "I miss her."

Edmund was very grave. "I'll see what I can do."

"What you can do," snapped Tom, darkly, in a tone that would have made Edmund cross with him despite everything if he did not see the tears shining in his eyes as he grit his teeth and turned away before completing his thought, "is bring my blasted wife to see me when she wakes up – that's what you can do."


Likely having supposed – or, honestly, hoped – Tom's blackened, irritable mood would level out on its own in the natural course of things, or at the very least that Tom could not be ill-tempered while sleeping, Edmund bit his tongue and did nothing to prevent their aunt Norris from sitting with them the next time she made herself available.

He would have preferred having Fanny to sit with him, to be the one to ring to have Tom's tray brought in at the appropriate hour, knowing the good affect upon his brother would be better than any earthly medicine, but Fanny had not appeared since breakfast.

It was very odd. She had been ravenous, had spoken so little at the table for want of gulping down as much substance as possible, to the point where even his mother noticed and insisted Baddeley bring Fanny another poached egg when she had cleaned her first plate, as the poor girl was clearly on the verge of fainting with hunger. Then, after eating, Fanny had, fleeing the breakfast-room, disappeared into Tom's sitting room and not come out again.

Susan had been in to see her, between running various little errands for his mother's frequent requests, but he hadn't had the opportunity as yet to ask her what was amiss.

It was to speak privately with Susan regarding this that Edmund now intended, thus his readiness to leave Tom alone with Aunt Norris.

There was no chance, with Baddeley on the loose and given leave to do as he saw fit, of a repeat of the grotesque bloodletting incident which had been so detrimental to Tom's recovery. There would be no surprise visits from uninformed physicians today, thank God. Except, now, with his morose manner and sulky demeanour, right up until the moment he fell fitfully asleep, Tom had been doing a good enough job of being detrimental to his recovery on all his own.

All the more reason to discover what was the matter with Fanny.

She was, undoubtedly, still shaken over the incident with the pocket pistol and Mr. Crawford, but he hoped she wasn't too upset to see Tom when at last no one was going to prevent her.

On the way to the drawing-room to pull Susan aside, Edmund was waylaid by a servant who informed him Dr. Grant wanted a word with him at the parsonage.

"I really haven't the time–" he began.

"He also asked to inform you, sir, his wife's siblings will not be present all morning, but he does expect them back by the start of the afternoon – he knows there has been some coldness between the three of you and wanted to give you a way of avoiding them."

So it could not be delayed.

Edmund took a horse – Fanny's horse, because he knew she would forgive him for borrowing Shakespeare sooner than Tom would forgive him for taking one of his horses without asking and his own were being exercised by stable-hands as he had not expected to do any riding today – and went there as quickly as he could.

As he'd been assured, Henry and Mary, along with Mrs. Grant, were not present.

Dr. Grant, after asking for Tom's health, and noticing a wary look from Edmund which seemed in return to ask if he knew – knew what his brother-in-law and sister-in-law's plans for Tom's death had been – quickly got himself to the point before any tension could arise.

He was in need of someone to give the sermon this Sunday – family business, his own side, nothing to do with the Crawfords, called him away for the duration of three days – could Edmund perform it for him? He would be immensely grateful.

Edmund agreed, and felt rather pleased, all things considered – he had missed preaching. Someone would need to remain home, to sit with his brother, to keep Tom company and assure him the quiet house did not mean he was abandoned as he'd been in Newmarket, but perhaps Fanny could do it, if she were missing church for her usual health complaints and (all the more understandably) to avoid running into Henry Crawford if he should – however unexpectedly – turn up and slide himself into a pew behind them, anyway.

Shaking hands with Dr. Grant, assuring him he wanted nothing in return for the favour or by way of hospitality just now, he showed himself out and untethered Shakespeare.

Turning to swing himself into the saddle, he found himself face to face with Mary and the Grants' housekeeper.

Miss Crawford, it seemed, must have returned earlier than expected.

Mary – her hair in dark, tight ringlets about her painfully pretty face – wore a wine-coloured pelisse done up with white-and-silver buttons and her arms were full of wrapped parcels, as though she had just done some shopping.

Their eyes met and she opened her mouth to say he did not think even she knew what, but, with a curt nod to acknowledge he'd seen her, he continued on with his current employment and was soon galloping away.


When at last he could speak to Susan, could take her apart from his mother and inquire into Fanny's well-being, he was soaked with perspiration and smelled strongly of horse.

"She made herself sick," Susan explained in a low voice. "She didn't mean to – she sometimes gets very hungry after her worst headaches, but in Portsmouth her options were limited to food we already had. Here, there was such a great deal of rich things at breakfast, and my aunt Bertram insisted on the extra egg... Your mother didn't know..."

Edmund nodded – it would be a few more hours, then, at the very least, before she would be in a fit state to see Tom. "Thank you, Susan – do see to her, when my mother has her afternoon nap, won't you?"

"Of course," she promised. "Are you all right? Your brow is dripping."

"I had a long ride I hadn't planned on," he said quickly, gratefully accepting a handkerchief she held out to him nonetheless and dabbing his forehead with it. "I became slightly overheated. That's all."

Her expression was tender, very reminiscent of her sister, and for a mad moment Edmund contemplated the notion of borrowing one of Fanny's pelisses or riding habits and putting it on Susan, then having her visit Tom – the strong resemblance might calm his brother, and if he could mistake Fanny for William while in a groggy state he could probably mistake Susan for Fanny.

But deception was not in Edmund's nature – his conscience would not permit it – he had to let the idea go as soon as it had come. Too bad.

"She wants to see him," Susan insisted, as if she could read his mind, or at least guess at its current line of thought. "More than anything. She loves him. I'm just afraid she'll faint on the stairs if I try to bring her down, even with Baddeley's help; she's almost too dizzy to stand."

"Tom will have to learn to exercise some patience," said Edmund, nodding. "There's absolutely no need to endanger Fanny's health – she can come down when she feels better."


As soon as Edmund stood under the rotunda outside of the sickroom, he felt his stomach twist.

Something was wrong.

Tom's voice was raised, for a start – he could hear him barking at someone, though he couldn't make out what he was saying.

The tone reminded him of the ungodly tantrums Tom had often had growing up. He wondered if he ought to have seen this coming; Tom had been through a lot lately, was upset about not seeing his wife, and he was also no doubt suffering a degree of withdrawal from his usual consumption of drink and tobacco. Still, he hadn't quite expected the full extent of his brother's wrath, his pent-up frustration, to be unleashed so vehemently upon their aunt.

Aunt Norris shrieked and there was a crash, followed by a succession of metallic clamours and the sound of breaking porcelain.

Had Tom actually thrown something? What could she have said to make him so angry?

Before he could catch his breath and enter to see for himself, Aunt Norris came flying out the door, straightening her cap and her hairpins, looking furious.

She gave Edmund a sharp, cross scowl and hissed, "You boys will have a great deal to answer for when Sir Thomas is home again – that is all I have to say on the present subject, young man!"

"Aunt–" He tried to grasp her arm before she could push her way around him.

She wrenched her elbow free. "I am going home, Edmund – to the White House – where I shall not be subject to such shocking, unnatural displays. I can't imagine why Tom would treat me this way – I, who have always done my best by him." She shook her head. "Now, before I depart, I do recommend you have a servant up to gather the broken crockery and clean the rug – within the hour, before the stain sets in. Goodbye!"

He wished he could feel more sorrow over seeing her leave like this. She was his aunt, after all. "Goodbye, Aunt Norris." Tentatively, he added, trying to keep his voice level, "Will we see you back here tomorrow morning?"

"I wouldn't count on it. I'm sure I wouldn't step willingly into a house in which I know I'm to be subjected to such abuse from my own ungrateful nephews." She sniffed, her heels clicking on the floor as she hurried away.

He nudged the door of the sickroom open with the toe of his boot and, uncertainly, stuck his head inside.

Tom had had a fit, all right.

It seemed he had flung his entire tray against the nearest wall. Plates and teacups were in shards on the floor – pale amber-brown liquid was seeping into the rug. The tray itself was dented and the silverware was scattered.

He did wonder how Tom had managed to get a knife near the fireplace on the opposite side of the room; it must have ricocheted off of something.

The traces of egg and milk on the ceiling were equally bemusing and impressive.

Tom himself looked horrible. He sat slovenly propped on pillows, head lolled to one side, looking away; his chest heaved up and down in a ragged, uneven manner. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead and the side of his face. He'd exerted himself too much, clearly.

"Good heavens, what happened?"

Tom gave an angrily exhaled sniff. "So that's it, then, is it?" His raspy, hoarse voice cracked with emotion. "I fall ill and everyone just starts snatching up pieces of my life like it's the last bit of cake on a dessert service?"

But no matter how gently Edmund prodded him, how carefully he worded his numerous questions, Tom would say no more, would offer no further explanation, would recount nothing of his conversation with their aunt that had produced such a violent reaction.

He would only keep his face turned away and stare off into the middle distance, wounded, feeling sorry for himself.

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