Merriment & Wisdom
A Mansfield Park fanfiction
Part Forty-Three:
Hourly Evils, Such As They Have Become
Tom did suffer something of a – mercifully brief – relapse as a result of having exerted himself in order to visit Fanny upstairs, but, as he was growing stronger and – thanks to Baddeley – had suffered no additional fall or neglect during his wanderings, in the end he slept through the worst of his exacerbated fever – dropping out of consciousness shortly after his talk with Edmund – and awoke again, comfortably enough, to find himself refreshed.
He persisted in believing, for a while, that he'd slept only for a few hours, and Edmund – tired and unable to persuade him otherwise – was growing close to simply allowing him to think as he wished.
But Tom later spotted a newspaper upon his tea tray, folded neatly under his cup and saucer, and acknowledged the date with a trace of marvel in his voice.
Poor Edmund had not had the blessing of a blurred leap through time for the alleviation of his own nerves. Not for one single moment was he permitted to forget the day or the hour, or spared looking anxiously at the clock upon the mantel of the sickroom. He had fretted over Tom's heightened complains in real time. He was trapped upon the slow path of watching and hoping and praying while his brother was granted an amnesic shortcut.
And – during this time – Edmund struggled to keep the knowledge of it from as many as he could.
His mother must not know, even as her suspicions worsened, or his father should be greatly disappointed in him upon his return – Sir Thomas had long resolved to keep her in the dark, for her own good, and it was not Edmund's place to change this resolution.
Fanny was the victim of yet another debilitating headache after Tom's visit and slept almost as much during those two days as her husband, so Edmund did not, fortunately, have to tell her anything.
However, nowhere else, upon no other front, was he so gently spared.
Word got out among the servants – and someone, who, had their identity been discovered, might have gotten themselves dismissed by Baddeley if not by Edmund Bertram himself, carried the story to the parsonage – and so there was a most disagreeable letter of treacly condolences and fervent wishes for poor Mrs. Bertram's comfort in this trying time.
The author of this letter was alleged to be Mrs. Grant, and the composition penned by her husband, whose sentiments were also supposedly shared in the collective missive, but Edmund was quite certain he recognised Henry Crawford's hand. The Grants might have dictated to him and claimed Dr. Grant as the composer to spare a few barbed feelings – they might – but he rather doubted its likelihood, truth be told. Only that Henry's sister had had no part in its composition could Edmund be sure of; Mary's coldness and melodramatics in leaving the church would have prevented such warm expression so soon after, even in a sardonic manner.
Her natural temper, set off as it had been, was too hot.
Had he really once believed it to be mere playfulness?
He rather wondered at Henry's boldness, his complete lack of shame and propriety, in being able to callously write such a thing after all which had taken place. It was plain the rogue still wanted Fanny – still had some hope, however vain, of her, reinvigorated by the news of Tom's turn for the worse.
So Edmund, with a casual glance cast over his shoulder, took it upon himself to toss the letter onto the nearest fire.
"What was that?"
For a dreadful, fleeting second as he whirled around, his sight obscured by the afterimage of the flames, Edmund thought it was Fanny – inexplicably awake and downstairs – who'd caught him in the act of burning Henry's letter, and could not think what to say.
The idea of reciting the contents of such a feeble, idiotic attempt at deception from Mr. Crawford made his stomach churn.
But it was, really, Susan. She'd only been in to fetch Lady Bertram's aromatic vinegar.
"Your mother said she'd left it in here," she told him, blinking, before directing her gaze pointedly back to the near-gone paper in the grate.
And it was to her he confessed all, unburdening himself in such a rush of flustered, harried words as made him dispense with most of his usual articulacy, and from her he took unforeseen comfort.
He found, to his deep relief, he could be wholly honest with Susan about Tom's state of health, knowing she would be cautious not to repeat it in his mother's hearing and would not allow the information to pass even out of the room in which it was first dispensed.
He concluded their conversation by saying, somewhat pertly, thinking Susan was just the kind of girl not to take it the wrong way, that if he were a lesser man, a pettier kind of person who was not morally bound to set a good example for others, particularly his own congregation, he would wait until Tom's recovery was undeniable – a sure thing in every respect – and write a reply to the Grants – which would, in actuality, be read only by Mr. Crawford, if he was not mistaken – extolling Fanny's unbounded joy at the happy outcome and asking them to rejoice for her.
Susan replied that if she were a lesser woman she should be glad to take down his dictation for such a missive. "But we're above that, aren't we?"
"Oh, yes," said Edmund, though he bit his lower lip to conceal a smile he knew ought not be there; "well, well above."
Susan smiled back. "That's good."
"Yes. Very."
This increased intimacy between the cousins continued after Tom woke up and Fanny, appearing in the sickroom doorway less than twenty minutes after her husband finally accepted two days had indeed gone by while he slumbered, sat down beside him in what had been Edmund's chair.
They both thought it best to allow the pair some time alone.
And while Susan expected this would mean Edmund would go for a walk in the shrubbery or in Mansfield Wood and she would be, as she usually was, left with her aunt Bertram, she was astonished by her cousin's instead asking if his mother might spare her.
"I'm sure Susie hasn't had half so much exercise as she needs since I first brought Tom home," said he, "and thought she might wish to ride this morning."
His mother's lips parted, her brow lowered simultaneously with clear confusion. "I can't think what you mean, Edmund – Susan often comes out of doors with me, but it's been too cold as of late. I cannot spare her this morning, and I feel sure she does not want to go." Her eyes moved from her son's face to Susan's. "You do not want to go, do you?"
"If she's anything like her sister," argued Edmund, unwilling to leave off, "she'll say no to oblige you, ma'am."
Apart from her own selfishness (a manner of selfishness more like her eldest son's than her sister's, and as such lacking any active malice), Lady Bertram might have been thinking Susan perhaps too likely to come across Mr. Crawford while riding with Edmund – for they might pass the parsonage, or the gentleman and his sister might be walking the property or even riding themselves – and, after the peculiar scene at church, them dashing out during Edmund's decidedly very fine sermon, was worried for her niece's prospects with him. Her sister had tried, in too obtuse a manner to impact one so indolent, to tell Lady Bertram about Henry and Fanny, but had failed entirely to convey her underlining meaning. So she went on thinking if Henry Crawford was for anyone, it was probably her favoured niece. She was aware, albeit dimly, her husband suspected something of the kind – or had, not very long ago. But with the coldness arising between the young persons as late, something she could not work out in her mind, she was rather hoping to prevent Susan from frightening Mr. Crawford off by a meeting had too soon – if they lost all hope of his suit, there would be nobody she'd willingly part with Susan for.
It would be a fine thing indeed for Susan to have Everingham one day, but any lesser offer could not tempt Lady Bertram to give her up. In such a case, they had best continue on as they were.
"But, all the same, I think not this morning." Her voice was about as firm as it ever could be – even in her youth as pretty little Maria Ward she was not one to take the trouble of raising her voice or speaking with undue passion.
"I think my father would wish her to go, if he were here."
This weighed on Lady Bertram – she trusted Edmund to know his father's opinion. He never had been wrong about it before. "I trust your judgement, of course, Edmund, you know I do, but do you really suppose I can do without her for the whole morning? Your aunt has not come, not for days now, and it is always Susan who makes tea when she does not visit."
"Aunt," – and here Susan spoke in a hurry before Edmund could prevent her and reiterate his first point, succeeding only in bringing the subject back to where it had started, an eventuality she harboured precious little patience for – "I might just as well make tea and see you comfortably started on your needlework before I leave to ride with my cousin. And I think the housekeeper will sit and play cribbage with you in my absence."
Play cribbage with the housekeeper? What an extraordinary idea! What could have possessed dear Susan to come up with such a thing? "Oh, you do wish to go, Susan, don't you?" exclaimed Lady Bertram, gawking at her niece as if this were the most unexpected thing to ever occur in her lifetime. "I had not realised– ! You may of course go, if you really want to... Though, to be sure, I thought it was your sister who was so fond of horses. Yes. Go, by all means. Edmund will look after you. I only ask you not stay past the morning. I have no one to help me in the afternoons, you know." Susan hastily promised to return at the required hour, and bent to kiss her aunt's cheek. "Oh, and do not ride too near Mansfield Wood if it can be helped – one never knows what will attach itself to your clothes there, and I've only just got Pug free of fleas. Tom used to bring such a lot of fleas into the house when he went shooting in that wood every September."
As they were quitting the room together, Susan whispered, "I wasn't going to say no, by the way."
Edmund was puzzled. "I beg your pardon?"
"You said, in there, if I was anything like Fanny, I'd say no to oblige my aunt – well, I hope I'm something like my sister" – indeed, her entire life she had hoped it, one moment thinking it might be true, the next despairing of it – "but I wasn't going to say no."
The left corner of Edmund's mouth turned up into a crooked half-smile. "Forgive me, then – I was too presumptuous." She smiled back at him. "But now I stand quite corrected."
Alone at last, the sickroom door shut behind Edmund and Susan and unlikely to be opened again by anybody else for a while yet, Fanny intended to tell Tom everything. Only, she hardly could think where to begin. The teasing? The necklace? Sotherton Court? The ball? The endless looks that had always made her so uneasy? She found she was mortified to speak to her husband on the subject of all these unwanted attentions Henry Crawford had long paid her, despite having been waiting eagerly for the moment when she might do so. She'd been desperate to have done with it ever since the composition of her unsent letter while he was away in Newmarket.
Tom was patient. His illness had taught him to be. Being forced to think, to sift through new, often troubling thoughts, having to resolve them without always leaning upon the option of resorting to any physical action, will typically nurture the quality of patience in anyone. And so, leaning back into the stack of pillows under him with an understanding sigh, he gave his blushing wife time to gather her thoughts and went first himself, telling her about Anne and the circumstances leading to his claiming her as a mistress so he might pay for her funeral.
He assured her, going scarlet himself, he hadn't known – nor ever suspected – there was a newspaperman present.
Fanny's thoughts were mixed on this.
Part of her was jealous of Anne, despite how foolish she knew such an uncharitable feeling to be, and she could tell Tom was instantly aware of it. She had no guile; there was no hiding her open envy of the woman who was older, perhaps more sophisticated, and knew all about horses, and who had met Tom first.
Moreover, if Anne had not come back into Tom's life in Newmarket, he might have come home sooner, without drinking and neglecting the fall which had led to his illness, and saved them both a lot of pain.
Of course, Fanny also saw the irrefutable kindness in Tom's actions. She praised it, noted the sheer goodness of it, and ardently admired him for playing nurse to someone he'd barely known.
However, what came after was a harder pill to swallow.
She was not the sort of woman who believed deception, regardless of its intent, could be used for ultimate good. She did not believe in Anne's philosophy about a person needing to say what others expect; she did not agree with the manipulation involved in such a world view.
The notion of a truth – one kind of truth – was a lot of rubbish as far as Fanny was concerned.
Truth was truth, and anything else... She hesitated to call it sinful in Tom's specific case, to be sure, but... Well... She did not say there were not grey areas in life, but these ought not induce one to lie.
"You sound like Edmund," Tom chuckled, when she – with reluctance, for she did not wish to be too hard on him – admitted to her held opinion. "He believes those unclear moments in life – where lying, or rather twisting up the truth a bit, is amoral more than strictly immoral – to be tests from God." He gave her hand a squeeze and smiled. "It would be just my kind of luck, Fanny, if it turned out the two of you are right about that."
She raised her opposite arm, then, to readjust her shawl, and as she was wearing a dress with shorter sleeves, Tom caught a glimpse of a long scratch from her wrist nearly to her elbow.
"Fanny, t'hell is that?"
She looked, to see what he meant, then coloured.
After expressing her view of lying, all but condemning his far more benevolent lie on behalf of a dead woman who'd done her no deliberate disservice, she could not bring herself to claim to have scraped her arm against something on her way in – or to have run along a needle or pin in her workbox by accident – there was a word for that. She would rather be humiliated beyond recovery than be a hypocrite. And, it seemed, those were indeed her only two options at the moment. He wasn't going to let it go and draw his own silent conclusion.
"Hold your arm up."
Beginning to tremble, she did so.
Tom's expression darkened. "Right. I thought so. That's a defensive wound. I should know what they look like – I was something of a beast in the nursery and Edmund never fought back, only blocked."
"It's only a scratch; it does not hurt." This, at least, was true. Mostly. It stung a little. But stinging was not pain. She tried to pull her hand away, out from under his, to turn her body aside so he could not see her expression, so he might miss the tears.
"I don't care if it's a pinprick," snarled Tom, preventing her. "Who gave it to you? Fanny, look at me, for pity's sake. I want a name."
"Henry." Her voice was a miserable squeak. "Mr. Crawford."
"Damn." He attempted to make his voice light, yet he spoke through gritted teeth and his eyes were glinting with fury. "You know, I really was hoping I didn't have to actually kill him. Oh, well, c'est la vie."
"It was an accident," Fanny blurted hurriedly, dashing her unshed tears away with the back of her free wrist. "We were grappling over your pocket pistol in the sitting room, he thought I would hurt myself, and–"
Tom's eyes widened. The pistol had not figured into his assumption, which – actually – had been far more graphic than a tussle over a weapon. "I think you had better tell me everything now, if you think you can stand it."
She blanched, her lower lip quivering as she tried, very visibly, not to go completely to pieces in front of him.
He let go of her hand and reached up to stroke her cheek with the back of his fingers. "Oi, creepmouse, listen. You only need to tell me once – do you understand? Just the once. I have to know, and I think you need to tell me. And, after this, I promise I shall never mention Henry Crawford's name in your presence again. Hell, I'll even let the sorry bastard live if that's what you want." His fingers tweaked one of her blonde curls as it bobbed forward, before gently chucking her under the chin. "All right?"
She swallowed and nodded. "Would... W-would you mind if it wasn't all in order?"
Tom assured her she could tell him however she thought best, order the events as she saw fit. "So long as it's the whole story – no secrets between us. I need to know how far he took this."
"I'll start with Sotherton..." she decided, recalling the purple flower.
She had actually been wearing the very same mustard-coloured shawl that day as she was today...
From here on out, Tom's recovery was rapid.
Some very few days from when he and Fanny had talked and decidedly put Newmarket and Henry Crawford and all the rest of that unpleasantness behind them, resolved to be merely content now in one another's restored company, he was out of bed and on the sofa.
The first day he ventured from his sickroom to the drawing-room he was seated upon the furthest sofa from his mother, both so that he could leave – if he felt unwell again – without disturbing Lady Bertram and so she could not too easily observe his less than radiant complexion. This would seem to give very little credit, after all, to what they had all told her regarding his state of health in the past – only Fanny ever really disagreed on this point, on the need to keep her mother-in-law in the dark, and she was gently overruled.
They needn't have worried about the latter.
Unless Tom was literally gushing blood from his eyeballs or dripping a copious amount of perspiration onto the upholstered seat directly beside hers, she wouldn't have noticed anything amiss, having been so long reassured of his quickly getting better and now easily able to set her risen suspicions aside in light of his return to reclining with the rest of the family.
By the second afternoon, however, come the hour for tea, he was sitting across from Fanny and Susan with a newspaper, nibbling on a sugar-topped biscuit while perusing the contents of his reading material for any vaguely interesting racing news. And two days after that he'd wearied slightly of newspapers, as – apart from Fanny and Edmund's daily reading to him, usually from the Bible but, occasionally, if he raised enough of a stink about desiring a change of pace, and insisted a printed sermon was literally the same thing, much to Edmund's chagrin, some novel or other, such as The Mysteries of Udolpho – he'd had little else to distract himself with while bedridden, and was rather inclined to amuse himself by taking out his sketchbook.
Susan found herself unable to focus on Evelina, which she was reading only because Mrs. Norris was not there to force her to attend to the poor basket instead; Mrs. Norris was always crossly ignoring her niece's rather fair point that the poor very likely did not have need of another embroidered handkerchief or cushion – cross-stitched flowers and covered pillows were all well and good, but she was confident the poor would prefer seasoned pork or cleaned wool.
Stretching her legs and setting Burney's novel down on the seat behind herself, she took a turn about the room, trying to move in a casual, inconspicuous circle until she stopped directly behind Tom, curious to see what he was working on.
It was a likeness of Fanny, just as she was in life at that very moment, fixed with intense concentration upon the hem of a table runner.
"I should have guessed," teased Susan, leaning over patting his shoulder.
"Nosy," muttered Tom, rolling his eyes with exaggerated annoyance. "Why don't you go sit back down and quit bothering me?"
Their conversation caused Fanny to glance up, and Tom arched an eyebrow at her.
"What?" she mouthed.
He rolled his eyes again and motioned down pointedly at the sketchbook.
Her cheeks – and the tops of her ears – turned dark pink, and she returned to the table runner draped across her lap with a little too much self-awareness to be posed exactly as she'd been a moment ago.
Flipping the sketchbook shut with emphasis, Tom twisted his neck and blinked accusingly – but with no actual malice, and more than the faintest twitch of a wink – at Susan.
"Sorry," she whispered.
Reaching over the side of the sofa for his walking-stick, Tom slowly pulled himself up and limped his way to Susan's vacated seat – casually brushing Evelina down onto the floor, where Pug whimpered and sniffed its spine with visible confusion – and eased himself down beside Fanny.
He dropped the sketchbook into her lap on top of the incomplete table runner and swatted through a few pages until he got to the piece he'd just been working on.
She smiled down at it and, bending his head close to her ear, he whispered something which made her still pink cheeks go scarlet.
Baddeley – his shoulders rolled back and his expression tight – arrived in the drawing-room, just then, and signalled to Edmund and Susan, obviously having some need of them.
Something, it seemed, to do with the upstairs staff.
Soon enough, it would be Tom's business more than theirs – Edmund couldn't give orders to the servants here in Mansfield from Thornton Lacey, and Susan's own new position of authority over them must, through clear necessity, be greatly lessened by and by. For the time being, however, Tom was not yet quite strong enough to take up the responsibility he seemed no longer in danger of shirking; it was as yet still up to the pair of them to run the place while he continued to recover.
They quickly excused themselves into the corridor to assist the butler, and Tom and Fanny were left nearly alone – entirely alone if one did not count Lady Bertram, who'd fallen asleep five minutes beforehand.
Tom reached over and ran his thumb down one of Fanny's cheeks. "Kiss me."
"Someone will see, Mr. Bertram."
"Tom," he insisted, his tone soft and breathy, drawing his face nearer to hers. "How many times will you persist in getting it wrong? When we're alone, it's Tom. None of your Mr. Bertram nonsense."
"Perhaps it's been so long," teased Fanny, "I've forgotten."
"Then I think you need a reminder." One corner of his mouth lifted. "Mrs. Bertram."
Fanny nearly burst out laughing, but he pulled her into what proved to be quite a passionate kiss so quickly the onset of giggles was temporarily subdued. Her mouth opened automatically, almost without the slightest input of actual conscious thought, still his tongue had barely done more than push the slightest bit past her lips before she pulled away.
"Tom," she breathed.
"Better," he moaned, his mouth less than an inch apart from hers, "but I hope you realise you could probably have waited on that one. I was rather enjoying myself. Just getting started, what."
This time her laughter won out and it was all she could do to prevent its being riotous enough to rouse poor Lady Bertram. The slight rising of her mother-in-law's head from where it had lolled until a second ago hadn't escaped her peripheral vision.
"Tom, your mother."
"For God's sake, Fanny," he snorted. "Pug's more likely to notice anything than she is."
"W-what," cried Lady Bertram, very suddenly, in the vaguely alarmed voice of one half-roused; "what is it? What's the matter? I was not asleep."
Fanny was still shaking with laughter, and Tom himself could no longer keep it in. He flung his head back with hearty abandon. "I was unlucky there!"
"I was not asleep," repeated his mother.
He leaned over Fanny and smiled at Lady Bertram reassuringly. "Of course not, ma'am, nobody suspected you."
"Hmm, very good... That is all right, then." She began looking around herself in clear puzzlement, patting about her seat in search of something or other. "Now, what was I doing?"
In Fanny's ear, Tom murmured, "I yet maintain it would have done no harm, even if she had seen! We are married after all, by Jove!"
"But would you not agree, husband, there is something to be said," gasped Fanny, "for a sense of decorum?"
"Yes," grunted Tom, taking his sketchbook back from her lap and holding it, a trifle sulkily, to his chest. "Yes, indeed." He crossed his arms over the sketchbook. "That it's grossly and maddeningly overrated."
The following day, Tom was seated in the same place in the drawing-room again, across from Fanny and Susan, a great deal more colour and animation in his face. He did not have either a newspaper or his sketchbook; he seemed restless, as if in constant expectation of something or other.
Fanny glanced up from her work, a braided tassel she was attaching to the tail-end of the table runner from yesterday. She regarded his odd manner with clear interest, but she said nothing.
"Which should I use here for my pattern, Fanny?" asked Lady Bertram, looking to her daughter-in-law imploringly. "The purple or the maroon? Your sister isn't certain, and I suspect your eyes might be better than mine for fine work."
Fanny glanced over. "The purple, ma'am."
"Yes, I think you're quite right." There was a rustling. "Susan, where is my other purple thread? I have enough left only for another two or three stitches."
Susan rose to help her look for it unsuccessfully.
"Mother, I think I know," said Tom, feeling for his walking-stick, "where your thread's got to. Or if not your thread, one exactly like it."
"Do you?" She was astonished.
"Indeed." And he told her he had seen purple thread left in his sickroom – where he was still sleeping, despite his improved health, until the physician declared him well enough to use the stairs regularly. "Right on the stand by my tray – I suppose Fanny or Susan made a mistake, last time they came in to see me, and left it behind."
"Oh. I see. That is very strange, to be sure." She gave Susan a little nod of encouragement. "Go fetch it, child, would you?"
"No, no." Tom was standing, leaning on the walking-stick. "No. It's best if I go. She'll never find it."
"I can't think why not," said his mother. "If it's on your stand."
"It may have been knocked down."
"What, knocked down?"
He coughed. "Indeed."
"But you shouldn't go on your own – Susan, go with your cousin and–"
"Let Fanny come with me."
"Why," said Edmund, who had just entered the room himself and overheard, "should Fanny need to get up? She's just settled in and her table runner is nearly finished." He gave her an approving grin. "It looks lovely, sister."
"Thank you, Edmund," from Fanny.
"Indulge me," insisted Tom. "Call it a whim."
"What can–" began Edmund, but Lady Bertram – her eyes darting from her son to his wife – seemed, in her slow, sleepy way, to half comprehend Tom might simply desire to be alone with her and cut him off with, "It's of no real importance, Edmund. I'm sure they can do as they like."
Edmund caught on – well before Fanny herself, who was still supposing it really was about thread and her husband was teasing for the sheer sport of it, even remotely suspected any ulterior motives – and gave his brother a weary look wholly lacking in amusement. "Really, Tom? Now?"
"We'll be off, then." He shrugged. "Come, Fanny, up you get."
Following her husband, Fanny was surprised when they stopped under the rotunda and he directed her to pick up a small chair pressed against the circular wall, declaring they'd have need of it in a moment.
Inside the room, Tom shut the door and blocked it with the chair he'd told Fanny to pick up, wedging it as best he could under the handle. "You know, I wouldn't need to do this if our housekeeper wasn't so bloody stingy with the keys. There." He sounded gratified. "Fanny?"
But Fanny had left his side, was already checking the stand upon which his as yet uncleared tray rested, searching for the thread.
Tom pulled something out of his trouser pocket. A tiny spool of purple thread. He held it up between two fingers and smirked. "You're not looking for this, by any chance?"
"You took that," Fanny realised. Then, realising a bit more, unable to keep a straight face, "Mr. Bertram!"
"Right, now you're doing that on purpose. This time I'm certain you are. Mrs. Bertram." Tom wobbled over, rested the walking-stick against the bedpost, and slipped his arms around her, holding her to him. "By the way, thank you for not saying the maroon; between ourselves, I didn't particularly think ahead."
Fanny sank against him but did not fully relax, afraid of knocking him over, as he didn't have the walking-stick to hold him upright.
"Fanny, I'm not that fragile, I promise" – he nuzzled the side of her neck – "you can rest your whole weight on me."
"This feels nice," she whispered.
"Yes, and it's about to feel even better." He took one arm from around her, lifting it to her shoulder, and gave the sleeve of her dress a suggestive tug.
"Tom, someone might come in."
"Fanny," he whispered back, mimicking her tone though not her volume, "someone might find that rather difficult with a chair against the door."
"But, suppose–"
Tom silenced her with a lingering kiss, pressing her back against the side of the mattress as his arms encircled her waist.
She broke away, not without some difficulty, for his eager mouth was disinclined to part with hers. "I–"
"Yes?" One of his eyebrows was raised; his eyes, underneath, sparkled beautifully. He appeared so beautiful to her, so handsome and earnest, she was not sure she could – with any real feeling – deny him anything. Nor could she deny herself. With him looking at her thusly, she was reminded, though she'd never really forgotten, not even for a moment, of being very, very much in love.
"Oh, never mind." Arching her back, she grasped the front of his waistcoat and yanked him down towards her for another kiss. Her hands sliding upwards, she clung to his neck like she was drowning. "Please don't stop."
"Small chance of that, creepmouse" – and he pulled her sleeve further down and traced his fingertips along the exposed bit of skin – "blessedly small."
It is truth universally acknowledged that an estranged relative will, without fail, always pick the least opportune moment to re-emerge into the lives of their blissfully oblivious relations.
Such proved true in the case of Mrs. Norris.
She had been too wildly offended, horribly aggrieved, after Tom hurled his tray to set foot in the house again until the day she decided she was, simply, not any longer.
She'd awakened that morning with the grim conviction she must endeavour to look beyond how vilely she had been treated, and to recall there was family in great need of her in a time of unmatched crisis at the house, awaiting her forgiveness.
And, to be sure, her poor sister had done nothing wrong.
Maria had never encouraged her son to speak sharply and throw things. That must be all Fanny's influence, gotten from her mother – from the less agreeable sister whose namesake the troublesome girl shared.
Baddeley would have declared Mrs. Norris upon her arrival – given the family some warning – but he was otherwise occupied, with a quarrel concerning the servants below stairs. A quarrel which, if not promptly resolved, would have descended into two shrieking maid-servants attempting to rip out each others' hair and, then, resulted in a number of dismissals that would have left the household more than a little short-handed prior to Sir Thomas' return from Scotland.
So she passed unseen and made her way towards the rotunda, thinking she would check on Tom first, discover if he was over his ill-temper from last time.
She had not heard, despite the general inability for much to happen within the view of Mansfield Park she did not learn of through the chain of gossip, anything about her nephew's being recovered and able to sit upon the sofa for several days now.
"Why," said she, in some confusion, upon reaching her destination, "will this door not open? Honestly, the state of this house! If I find the servants have gone and locked it, I shall–" She forced her shoulder against the door and shoved.
Fanny, unclothed from the waist up, entirely bare-chested save for William's amber cross dangling between her breasts, yelped as the chair splintered and the door flew open.
Tom – nowhere near fully dressed himself – cursed and moved a pillow in front of Fanny for modesty's sake. "I style myself as a reasonable gentleman, Aunt Norris," he snapped, scrambling to cover himself as well, "but was breaking down the door quite necessary? You've scared us half to death!"
Still a little afraid of her aunt Norris, especially in a vulnerable state such as this, Fanny trembled and shrank as far behind both Tom and the pillow as she could.
"What is going on in here?"
"Uh..." Tom's brow was furrowed; he had the indignant, bothered expression of one who plainly thinks a situation simply cannot be more obvious and spelling it out would only insult all parties involved. "Not that I mean to pry, privacy and all that, but you and Uncle Norris were actually married at some point, unless I'm mistaken?"
"Tom," she exclaimed, stepping forward and narrowing her eyes at Fanny, "I would think after what I informed you of when last we spoke, you would have more sense–"
Tom sighed exaggeratedly, cutting his eyes. "Fanny, my love?"
"Y-yes...?"
"Are you, by any chance, having an affair behind my back with someone of our mutual acquaintance?" He sounded like a bored child reciting lessons. Still, he was kind enough to keep to his word and not bring up Mr. Crawford by name. "Our aunt has expressed some trifling concern in that regard."
Fanny – bright crimson from hairline to chin – choked, barely gasping out, "N-no!"
"Good," he simpered, giving his aunt an icy smile. "Delighted to hear it. Bloody brilliant, what. I'm so pleased we resolved this, aren't you?"
"You foolish young man! You shall ruin yourself and take this entire family down with you." Mrs. Norris turned on her heel and fled the room, muttering angrily.
Fanny was still shaking.
Perhaps it was silly, but having her aunt see her like this made her feel extremely diminutive, defencelessly small. She had not felt so insignificant since first arriving at Mansfield Park as a bride and discovering Tom had married her, at least in part, to irk his father. It was truly strange she should feel more embarrassed for her aunt to stumble upon her with her husband, when she was doing nothing wrong, even than she was when her aunt had seen her tussling with Henry Crawford over the pocket pistol.
And, yet, most absurdly, she did.
She felt tiny and violated and humiliated, sick to her stomach.
Tom let out a groan. "D'you know what, Fanny? I've resolved that my aunt Norris has become an hourly evil. I rather think we should quit Mansfield until either she dies from old age, or I do." He paused, screwing up his face in concentration. "Although, in all likelihood, she'll probably be the first one to pop off – she must be pushing, what, nearly a hundred now? What d'you think?"
His wife said nothing; she could just manage a hiccup-ridden sigh. She simply clung to his arm and sagged forward, letting her head fall onto his warm, protective shoulder.
"I say, steady on, creepmouse" – Tom reached behind himself and patted one of the tense little hands clinging so tightly to his arm – "I only jest. There, there. There. You are a funny little thing sometimes, you know. This is your house forever, our aunt Norris be damned. I promised you, didn't I?"
A/N: Reviews welcome, replies may be delayed.
