Merriment & Wisdom
A Mansfield Park fanfiction
Part Forty-Nine:
Scandals, As They Finally Happen
The carriage hit a bump in the road, roughly jostling the two passengers inside it, and Tom raised an outstretched arm towards the roof steadying himself. "Whoa."
Outside, one of the horses whinnied and snorted. "Steady," said the driver, softly. Louder, to the pair inside, he called, "Begging your pardons."
Tom shrugged and waved it off. "S'nothing, m'good man. Be sure of giving a shout when we're near our first stop."
Across from him was Susan, seated tensely, her anxious, clenched fingers digging into the seam of the cushion. Fanny had been deemed too fragile in her condition for a trip to Portsmouth, but waiting until the baby was born to fetch Betsey and bring her to Mansfield Park would give Lady Bertram too much time to rethink agreeing to the scheme of taking her on and letting Susan marry and go away to Thornton Lacey. She was already almost upon the verge of doing exactly this, causing Edmund a great deal of nervousness he tried so very hard to hide, and Tom would not risk it.
The original plan had been for Baddeley – accompanied by Susan, for someone who knew the girl ought to be present – to fetch her, but Sir Thomas and the servants below stairs had too great a need of him.
As an engaged couple, providing all went well, Susan and Edmund could not travel alone; it seemed unsporting for Susan to be sent without any travelling companion; and Edmund – though he knew Betsey a little – couldn't be prevailed upon to go on his own. He might be suddenly recalled to Thornton Lacey, he said, again and again, though it was clear he felt no pang at being spared the errand and would have shirked going even if Thornton Lacey never needed him again.
And so the plan was quite changed up.
Now it was Susan and Tom – it was respectable enough for a brother-in-law and sister-in-law, and cousins besides, to travel together; also, they were merry enough with one another and would not have an altogether unpleasant journey.
Susan had her reservations, however. Not so much about the travelling, or Tom, that was all right, but about Betsey herself. Betsey coming to Mansfield. Betsey living at Mansfield.
"Are you certain this will work out?" Susan said after the jostle, peering over at him.
"Aye," said Tom, with a playful little smile. "It shall work." The corners of his mouth drooped and he lowered his voice. "Or else entirely fail to do so." He seemed almost to be looking forward to seeing which it would be.
"Betsey is nothing like myself or Fanny." She hoped he hadn't somehow forgotten this.
"Naturally. But by the time my sleepy mother works that out, I'm hoping you'll already be established at Thornton Lacey." And who knew, he was thinking, soon enough, if Dr. Grant would do them all a great favour and pack himself off – he was not cruel enough to wish he would pop off – she and Edmund might be at Mansfield Parsonage and be twice as snug and content.
"Her temper is disagreeable."
"Oh, she's a child – most children are disagreeable."
"It won't just be your mother's spirits she'll oppress daily." Susan bit her lower lip. "She'll flirt with you mercilessly – she's borderline coquettish." It was charming now, since she was so small and of an age not to be taken seriously, but could Tom endure the constant teasing in a few years, when it might be inappropriate at worst and grating at best? And Tom doubtless, even changed by his illness, still too indulgent a brother-in-law to make her behave better? "It's you who'll have to live with her every day. I'm uncertain I feel comfortable with you making the sacrifice for my sake."
"I can handle Betsey," he laughed. "I'm more worried about my mother – but I expect consistent bribery will keep her on good terms with her aunt. Children are easily paid off. She might not be grateful, like Fanny or yourself, but I can't suppose her stupid."
That much was true.
Susan relaxed her fingers and allowed herself to be momentarily resigned. Soon they'd be stopping to rest and eat, and though nothing extraordinary, or anything which would ease her unsure feelings over this scheme, it was still something pleasant to look forward to.
Betsey was waiting for them when they arrived – her things were already packed and in hand, save for the extra trunk of odds and ends she'd ordered her (notably absent) brothers to load up for her, and she was wearing her best dress and favourite bonnet – shrieking with joy at the window and barrelling to the door. What a change here, from their first meeting when she'd slammed that same door shut in Tom and Mr. Yates' astonished faces, declaring letting people in to be Rebecca's job!
Mrs. Price's eyes were a good deal red, had been ever since she'd watched her pack; she was sorrier to lose Betsey than she'd been to part with her other two daughters.
Indeed, if Mr. Price had been employed at the moment, or if she was in any expectation of him finding employment in the near future, she might have refused the offer altogether.
As it was, she only relented because Betsey pleaded – she never could say no to her.
But, of course, there was the fact that Mr. Price had so little income at the moment, and the burden off their shoulders of an extra mouth – even if it was a mouth as precious to her as Betsey's – could not be understated.
She took a little – albeit a very little – comfort, too, from the fact that her sister Norris was apparently misinformed regarding Fanny's conduct at Mansfield. If her eldest daughter really did behave half so wantonly as Mrs. Norris' pert, disagreeable letter seemed to imply, Mrs. Price couldn't imagine Tom being eager to bring yet another Price girl into their home. Whatever else she had or had not been up to, Fanny evidently pleased him and made him want to keep her, and was in no real danger of being sent home in disgrace; particularly given the news – contained within the same missive asking for Betsey's presence at Mansfield – the plainly well-loved Mrs. Bertram was expecting her first child.
All Betsey herself had to say on the subject (of going to Mansfield Park, that is, for she knew nothing of her aunt Norris' letter) was, "It will be the making of me, mum-maw."
"And so it shall, my love," she'd replied quietly, trying not to cry too obviously. "So it shall."
"Now do write back to Fanny and dearest, dearest Cousin Tom and say they can have me in their fancy rich house if they want – oh, do!"
And that was that.
Seeing Tom step out of the carriage on the narrow street, not caring very much if Susan was with him or not, Betsey was bursting out of the door like a cannonball and tossing her hand-luggage aside, where it landed perhaps a little too near the horses' hooves.
"Tom! Dearest cousin Tom!" She hurled herself at him, flying into his arms. "I knew you wouldn't forget about me – I knew it! I'll never stop being glad you wanted me to come and live with you – never."
Tom spun her about twice, then made to set her down, though she was still clinging to him like ivy.
Or a barnacle.
In time with her, word for word, with perfect mimicry, he asked mockingly, "Now, what did you bring me?"
Another kind of girl would have blushed, or at the very least been shamefaced at being thusly anticipated; Betsey only beamed. "What did you bring me?" Her face started to fall. "You didn't forget to get me a present?"
Susan, stepping out of the carriage on the opposite side and trying – with considerable effort – to squeeze her way around it to be on the same side of the street as the house Betsey had just fled without so much as a backwards glance, thought, You spoiled little thing – being taken back to Mansfield with us is your present!
But Tom, once he got a hand free (no small feat, given how Betsey clutched at him as if she were drowning), reached into his pocket and pulled out a little, pearly-coloured netting-box with an ornate brass clasp and presented it to her. "Of course I didn't forget, darling Betsey-girl." He kissed her on the cheek, much to her obvious immense gratification. "What d'you take me for? Didn't I tell you once you were my favourite?"
Oh, he was smooth – Susan really did have to hand it to Tom. Smooth and sweet as cream and sugar! What a piece of luck was here. Betsey might just be so enamoured she would behave in any way he demanded; she might just sit like a perfect angel at Lady Bertram's side simply to please her rich, handsome brother-in-law whose praise would always be forthcoming even when his mother's might not.
For her part, Betsey was absolutely delighted, and went in for another embrace, squealing giddily and pressing herself to Tom's middle – he muttered "Oof", a little taken aback in spite of himself – and holding on as if she never meant to let go.
Susan – on their side now, only a partly torn hem the worse for having gotten out the wrong carriage door – finally had to – somewhat violently – pry her off him. "All right, for pity's sake, that's quite enough!"
"Oh, la," said Betsey, already sounding older than her years, which was worrisome, "you always were jealous of me – scolding me over Mary's knife... D'you remember that?"
"You must be grateful and make no trouble," hissed Susan, not fully rising to the bait but still visibly bristling; "you can always be sent back here."
"Tom wouldn't allow that, I'm sure he wouldn't," simpered Betsey, smiling up at her sister gratingly. To Tom, aside, "You wouldn't, would you?" Her eyes flickered back to Susan again, her little dark lashes fluttering. "But I'll be good all the same. As good as you or Fanny ever are, at least – if not better."
Susan was saved from replying by her mother coming out, then, and saying she looked well, before giving her full attention almost entirely over to Tom – a wealthy son-in-law would always mean more to her than a least-favourite daughter. She praised his alleged benevolence just as much as Betsey had, and Susan could have sunk into the ground from mortification.
Tom embraced his mother-in-law mechanically and asked after Mr. Price, whose gout was subsequently reported to be acting up again, preventing his seeing Betsey off.
Tom also inquired as to her opinion on Susan's impeding engagement to his brother – she, in reply, expressed blunt pleasure; she kept to herself how she'd not really been too fond of Edmund, as the boy was obviously in favour with his wealthier brother at the moment (all the better), yet did raise her voice to make clear she thought a parson more than good enough for Susan, considering their circumstances in life, even if little Fanny had been rather luckier in her own match.
"I was always less worried, you know, about Susan's finding a husband than Fanny," she finished musingly, with a marvelling little shake of the head. "I thought even if Susie had to settle for a fishmonger, she'd have borne with it all right – you know how delicate Fanny is by way of comparison. How is she coping?"
Tom assured her she got on better than tolerably well – the physician had nothing worrisome to say when he was called in to check up on her, and there was colour in her face and her appetite was good.
"Oh, you will take good care of my Betsey, won't you?"
"You have nothing to fear in that regard, ma'am – my mother sleeps so much I think Betsey will be in more danger of being bored – there is a great deal less excitement at Mansfield than here in Portsmouth, I'm afraid – than going without anything she'll ever require."
"And you shall write, Betsey?"
"To be sure, I will – when I can find the time." She straightened, proud as a preening peacock. "Lady's companions are always so very busy."
"You will find time, Betsey," grumbled Susan, giving her little sister a sharp poke. "I'll see she writes home regularly, Mother."
For this, Susan was granted a kiss upon the cheek more tender than she'd anticipated, possibly the most open display of unadulterated affection she'd ever gotten from her mother in the entirety of her life, and was driven, nearly, to unexpected tears.
If anything, she'd imagined her mother would chide her for needling Betsey, even if the attempt had been made in her defence.
Instead, there was a kiss.
At any rate, Susan's widened eyes did glitter some, and her lower lip quivered with considerable violence.
Susan and Tom did not speak again until they were well on their way. By this point, Betsey was asleep – really asleep, not merely playing at sleep and watching them under her eyelashes – with her lolled head resting upon Tom's arm. Susan was aware her sister slept in earnest simply because a small line of spittle had escaped one corner of the little girl's mouth and, pooling, left behind a damp spot nearly the size of a half guinea, and – given how she clearly fancied Tom and was beginning to believe herself so very grown up – it was obvious Betsey would have flung herself from the moving carriage before consciously drooling on her handsome cousin's greatcoat.
"I think you had better," Susan said to Tom, breaking the silence, "avoid leaving Betsey alone with Fanny's tea-things once she's established with your mother."
Tom smiled amusedly. "Oh?"
"I certainly believe if ever a spoiled girl was in danger of poisoning her married sister's tea little by little out of jealousy for her husband – Betsey is."
Tom laughed at that, looking indolently down at the now-snoring Betsey curled up against him, contented as a sprawling kitten in a stream of sunshine.
Susan raised her brow.
Tom sobered. "You do jest?"
Susan shrugged.
"Susan!"
Her gaze shifted to the window, and her next remark was about what good time they were making, such unforeseen improvements upon these roads since they'd travelled them last, but the corners of her mouth were lifted in such a way Tom was fairly confident his sister-in-law had simply been teasing him.
Fairly.
Betsey's introduction into Mansfield might have gone, while not disastrously, probably less smoothly – as she was not like Susan in anticipating Lady Bertram's every need, nor as even-tempered, however good she was at playing sweet to the face of the woman who reminded her of a more refined version of her own mother in some ways – if it had not occurred before the Bertrams, struck by tragedy and scandal, were forced to 'close ranks' so to speak.
For it happened at last, the inevitable – Maria quit her home and husband to reside some place unknown to them all with Henry Crawford – and Betsey was by this time, however recently it had occurred, considered 'one of their own' as Maria no longer could be. As a daughter Maria could, if in desperation, always count upon Sir Thomas for protection and comfort, but no further – she would never, even if she should come to her senses and quit the shelter of Mr. Crawford's roof, be welcomed in Mansfield Park again; she might conceivably venture so far in as the White House, as Mrs. Norris was still firmly on her side, but from the rest of her childhood home she must be forever barred.
Faults in Betsey which might have bothered – at least in passing – Sir Thomas without the blow of Maria's misdeed he now judged far from incurable. She seemed a good sort of girl, if kept in line.
With her, he vowed, he should not permit the overindulgence which had ruined his own daughter, and – if anything – was a little frustrated with his eldest son's tendency to habitually spoil her.
If she'd had more of Fanny's gentleness and timidity, he declared, once, in Tom's hearing, he shouldn't have worried so very much about it, but as it stood the girl must be made to understand the gravity of life at Mansfield at present.
Here, however, it was Edmund who flew to Betsey's defence. He pointed out how precocious and frank the youngest Price sister was – surely all this scandal could not be spoken of around her, albeit in lowered voices at times, all this about Maria's folly, and not have some sobering effect on the child. It need not, as he saw it, be immediately evident in her current countenance to be considered a distinct possibility.
Tom readily latched onto this, stating – with transferred brotherly pride – when Betsey was old enough to be out, she'd have two very good examples in her sisters as well as one not-so-nice one in his. And her aunt Yates had not, at least by comparison to Maria, disgraced herself, and they all got on tolerably well when a visit to Stanwix Lodge was undertook, so surely that was all right.
Everything must surely even out.
Despite this, it was not actually known how much of the scandal Betsey had truly picked up on, much less how much she understood. That is, until one morning when she came into – without knocking, charging right through the sitting room as though she owned the place, one of her more vexing faults they'd yet to cure her of – Tom's room, which was – at the present – primarily set up as a quiet, dark place for Fanny's lying-in (started early on the physician's recommendation only a day or two after they'd learned Maria had gone off with Henry) more than it was a place Tom Bertram actively dwelt, except for at night, and perched at the foot of the bed, peering curiously at her reclining sister.
"Well, if it makes you feel better," the little girl suddenly announced, looking pert, "I know you didn't do it."
"Do what?" asked Fanny, blinking with pure puzzlement.
Betsey sighed impatiently. She'd developed something of a habit of expecting everybody to know what she was talking about almost before she spoke and becoming vexed when they didn't. Excepting Tom, of course, who was so adored by his young cousin he could have presumed she was speaking another language from the rest of them, professed not to understand a word, and would have been forgiven before he even thought to beg pardon.
"You and Mr. Crawford," she huffed, bouncing slightly on the mattress, cheeks blown out; "the Mr. Crawford Cousin Maria's with." She added this last as if she now suspected Fanny of mental slowness. "You know, the one Uncle Thomas's been looking for."
Fanny coloured vividly, a reaction not helped by Betsey's relentless stare. She was glad, though, Tom wasn't in the room – he was tolerant and genuinely fond of Betsey, no accounting for taste, but if there was anything which could make him decidedly less so, it was the child using that particular name in his presence.
She didn't bother pondering overlong how on earth Betsey had heard of Maria's folly and pieced together from it Henry's previous pursuit of herself – sharp, sly little thing – but she was quick to warn her about not mentioning Mr. Crawford whenever Tom was in earshot. She would have preferred he never be mentioned to her at all. But at least, if Tom were kept unaware of it, they could pretend he never was.
Betsey shrugged it off (though to her credit she internalized the advice and didn't mention Mr. Crawford in front of Tom as far as Fanny ever learned). She still seemed to be operating under the idea that her elder sister was a little bit simple. "Right. Well. I know you didn't."
Fanny couldn't resist. "How?"
She snorted. "I've seen Tom – and you're not an idiot."
"Why, thank you, Betsey" – this, she managed with the very last of her relatively straight-faced composure, for her little sister had made her laugh, long and loud, shattering any pretence of seriousness.
Why, what a marvel this simple revelation was! If only Betsey had been around when Aunt Norris had been accusing her! Who knew it could all be resolved simply by looking at Tom and observing his pleasant appearance and the vague concession that Fanny wasn't an out-and-out imbecile?
When it was pointed out to Betsey, then, how she'd never seen Mr. Crawford and thus could not reasonably guess how they'd compare, a statement Fanny only uttered from the principal of fairness though it left the taste of burning gall in her mouth from the sheer effort of defending anything about him, she only rolled her eyes and said she'd seen his sister down by the parsonage, while out walking, and concluded his brother must be just like her only none of those features would look half so passable on a man.
Her small arms folded across her chest, she asked, none too politely, if she was mistaken.
"Mary is indeed a good deal prettier than her brother," Fanny conceded. "And there's not much difference in their heights and colouring, no."
"Hmm." She popped her mouth. "I 'posed not."
Strangely, her little sister's fierce preference for Tom over Henry Crawford, her unflattering and unbending bias, rather endeared Fanny more to this youngest sister, making her like her in a way which had been previously impossible, and she started to suppose she mightn't mind – even if it were not all in sacrifice for Susan's chance at happiness – having the little imp regularly about her home.
Betsey's frankness matched with her loyalty might be more welcome than she could have foreseen. It might take her longer than desired to remember the important points of finger-glasses and silver forks (longer still to prevent her pocketing these on occasion and hiding her stash in the East room like the shameless little magpie she was), but she would always be a ready defender of the Bertram family, her personality puffed up and laced with the sort of protectiveness which can – with proper training – be moulded into genuine good-heartedness.
When anxiously inquiring letters to various persons of interest in the matter proved utterly fruitless, Sir Thomas gravely resolved – at last – to go to London himself, and he would have taken Tom or Edmund with him, but both were unwilling to leave Fanny for Maria's sake as the time drew closer and closer for her to have the baby.
"Indeed, Father," said Edmund, "the only reason I haven't yet made plans to return to Thornton Lacey" – the reason he'd been sleeping in his old room here, an increasingly cramped room adjoined to the one once occupied by Julia but which Betsey had quite made herself queen of when she was not playing in the East room, instead of at his parsonage there – "is hope of seeing my niece or nephew's arrival."
"I'll go with you, Uncle Bertram!" pipped Betsey from her place by Lady Bertram, thinking to gain an impromptu pleasure trip to London out of it, for she believed family scandals good for nothing else, though Susan immediately told her to shush, that she certainly would do no such thing.
"Oh, don't be so very unhappy, dear cousin! My father isn't going to have much time for slight-seeing; he's only going to look for Maria. And, besides, don't you want to see Fanny's little baby when it's born?" Edmund asked her afterwards when Sir Thomas departed on his own and he found the child sulking.
"Rather go t'London," she'd muttered, quite unwilling – at least for the immediate future – to be comforted.
In the end, she consoled herself with the knowledge she could remain close to Tom and going off to run all over London with her uncle would have meant parting with him, perhaps for quite a while if Cousin Maria and that man proved especially illusive.
The days passed with little promising word from Sir Thomas. London was vast and bustling, and Maria and Henry apparently had no wish to be found – it was beginning to be doubtful they'd even remained in the city. There was no way of being certain. Several times over, Sir Thomas' letters declared him to be on the verge of returning home disappointed. Only then, it seemed, something or other would always come up which promised a kind of hope, if such it could even truly be called. A friend of Miss Crawford's claimed to have seen Mrs. Rushworth more recently than James Rushworth's servants had last by all reports; a long-time acquaintance of Sir Thomas' from years ago who recalled Maria as a child swore he'd spotted a woman who looked just like her going about with a short, plain – but sharply dressed – young man who carried himself exceedingly well and drew many eyes; Sir Thomas himself believed he'd nearly run into Mr. Crawford's own uncle, the infamous Admiral, standing by a shopfront – if he could but come into contact the man again, this time by design rather than fleeting chance, might he not know something of his nephew's current whereabouts?
Running low on options, he did finally write that one of his sons – it needn't be Edmund if the pangs of former attachment there were still too swore, his pen quickly scrawled in the post-script upon brief second thought, but someone trustworthy must, there was no longer any help for it – go to the parsonage and ask Mary Crawford herself if she knew anything.
It was Tom who went in the end, of course, as head of the family in Sir Thomas' absence, though Edmund – insisting it could not hurt him, having long ceased to imagine he loved Miss Crawford – quite willingly volunteered, despite his father's worries in that direction.
The awkwardness between the pair cannot be overstated. On Tom's part, he was merely uncomfortable – here was the woman who'd wished him dead, yet also the same woman he'd once plotted to propose marriage to in order to punish Edmund when he didn't immediately wish to unite him with Fanny in wedded bliss. On Mary's side, it was a rush of different emotions all vying for the top place – Tom's mere existence had become a catalyst to preventing her happiness, and yet, before meeting Edmund, she would have set her cap at him thinking she never could be considered 'thrown away' on the eldest son of a baronet; moreover, there was a humane twinge of guilt she did not like to own to. This proud, anxious man before her – set to become a father soon, frightened for his fallen sister although he was plainly trying not to show it – she had wished dead. For good reason, naturally, to the happiest resolution of all their dreams in his absence, had he not been strong enough to remain in the world with them, but she'd wished him dead nonetheless.
"Mr. Bertram," said she, at last, grimly, when she realised he was not going to sit down before expecting some manner of answer and the awkwardness wasn't going to lessen no matter how long she blinked at him from across the room; "I can assure you, I haven't the slightest notion where my brother is."
"Would you tell me if you did?" One of his eyebrows arched.
"Yes," she sighed, splaying her hands dramatically and shaking her head. "Good heavens! I know you think very little of me, Mr. Bertram, but Henry is not a child for me to hide under my skirts when he's been naughty and his debtors come to collect."
"I would not accuse you of lying, Miss Crawford, far from it – indeed, I fail to see what the gain for you would be in so doing – however, your brother always has been fond of you – d'you really expect me to believe he hasn't contacted you...or, perhaps, Mrs. Grant...?"
"You're thinking, I believe, of the sort of letters your wife's brother sends her – it is not so with Henry. He has never yet turned the page when writing to me. He would hardly tell me, you understand, of his plans to elope with a married woman!"
"But he has sent letters?" Tom bit his lower lip, chewing pensively, then released it. "You must have some idea – some postmark..."
"I tell you, with all open frankness, I do not."
"It's a pretty mess your brother has gotten himself into, and no mistake – I saw it coming a mile off and I'm still somehow stunned by it."
"Did you?" Mary's eyes widened. "Goodness. How unfortunate we were not on speaking terms when this messy business began, for I didn't and you might have warned me."
Tom gave her a look of withering, scornful incredulity.
"Truly. I could knock their silly heads together – I never imagined that they would really do it."
"Edmund always supposed you so corky, an inventive, creative kind of woman – but, hearing you speak as I do now, I expect your imagination is very dull after all," said Tom, drolly.
"You think I deserved that, didn't you?" sniffed Mary, drawing her hands together and clenching. "You enjoyed speaking to me thusly – it is your way of ringing a peel over me, is it not?"
"In this life we must take our enjoyment, our pleasure, where we can, Miss Crawford – ask your brother, I believe it to be his great philosophy. He would hardly get through his days without it." Snatching up his top hat and coat, he began to walk to the door. "I must now thank you for your time – though you and I both know I've had pleasure only in the last moment, as this has all been rather salt in a wound more than anything else – and depart like a gentleman. That is, if there really is no further news you can give me."
"If you do learn–" blurted Mary, a little breathlessly.
"Yes?"
"That is, Mr. Bertram, if your father does discover them – I beg you, advise him not to interfere."
Tom's face went white – he'd been angry for most of the visit, albeit icily cordial in his display of that anger, but now he was furious. "What? What?"
"Henry may yet be persuaded to marry her, now she is free of Rushworth." Mary swallowed. "He has no interest in nor attachment to any other woman – any other feasible, free woman, that is – he may have to consider himself as well and truly caught for the time being. This might yet be hushed up."
Spinning around, Tom gave a little, nasty laugh without a trace of his usual characteristic merriment in it. "My dear Miss Crawford, understand this – I will see my sister in Hell before I condescend – after everything – to welcome your brother as my own."
"Has no one in your family any notion of forgiveness, Mr. Bertram? For one mistake will you condemn two young, cheerful, good-humoured persons forever? Forgiveness is meant to be plentiful, encouraged among Christian households. Or so I am told." She sucked her teeth and glared. "Is it not also a virtue your brother speaks of in his sermons on Sundays?"
"Aye, forgiveness is a virtue, but just as your brother sins because – as you imagine it – he is only a man, after all" – and here was the clearest moment Mary ever did see and fully comprehend the mind of Tom Bertram – "so am I. Mercy must be granted to me as well. How much would you ask me to endure for his sake?
"D'you think I could stand to preside over a large dinner party and see the man who lusted after my wife while I was dying seated beside my sister and feel nothing? Moreover, all the while knowing I was breaking a solemn promise I made to Fanny, that she should never see nor hear of your brother by name again?
"Would you really have it arranged so? So that I must not only forgive your brother the once, but must continuously be thrust into his presence on every imaginable occasion, forced to swallow my spleen again and again?
"Is preserving some miniscule fraction of their reputations worth breaking up my peace forever, worth the shame my father shall always bear? I have learned what shame means in a very hard school indeed – now I know how it is, I cannot endure that for his sake. I-I... I cannot!"
"Please understand..." – she sank heavily into a hard rocking-chair and, clutching at one long wooden arm, rocked back and forth – "I do see where you come from in all this. Yet... You forgave Mr. Yates – I know he abandoned you – so why not my brother?"
"Perhaps I simply like Yates better."
"That is not fair."
"Life is not fair, Mary – if it were...well... I think you'll agree I should be six feet under the earth and you should probably have had your wedding breakfast by now."
"How can you speak so to me?"
He turned to go again, answering over his shoulder. "Because, as you must realise, it's the last time I shall ever speak to you."
Her eyes betrayed her, filling up with hot tears. All at once she was realising this was the final thread which connected her to old friends at Mansfield, being cut, not resolved to be snipped by her from her choice to let them have their own priggish way if they liked, but by Tom Bertram with brusque finality.
She dashed these traitorous tears away and – turning her face aside – bowed her head.
Her pride momentarily dropped, sinking down into the pit of her stomach. She was actually on the verge of breaking down, of rasping out, "I'm sorry, Tom" – it would hardly matter if she, in this last meeting, called him by his Christian name; he'd just used hers, after all – "I'm sorry for everything. All of it. How I was to know it would end in this way?"
But before she could thus degrade herself in a moment of guilty emotion, Mary's red-rimmed eyes strayed to the window. "There appears, Mr. Bertram, to be a little girl waiting for you outside – whoever is that?"
"Oh." He waved his hat in the general direct of the window. "That would be my sister-in-law, Betsey."
"She seems to have some inexplicable animosity toward our apricot tree. Is she...? Lord!" Her brow crinkled. "Is she attempting to kick it down?"
"Ah. Oh dear. Excuse me." He bowed, and the next moment was visible outside, gently but firmly drawing Betsey away from a certain moor park which had been a gift from his father to his late Uncle Norris many years prior.
Mrs. Norris had supposed, and bragged of how, it cost Sir Thomas as much as seven shillings – she claimed to have seen the bill herself – but Tom personally doubted it.
All the same, he couldn't in good conscience allow Betsey to outright fell the poor tree merely for a lark.
There remained still a cluster of pleasant enough memories buzzing about in his mind in connection with that tree – memories of being a very small boy visiting this parsonage and, seated beside Uncle Norris, eating toast spread with a generous helping of apricot preserves.
It was, as it happened, his cheerful sharing of these childhood antidotes which soothed Betsey and distracted her – along with her absorbing adoration for Tom himself, as he was leading her away – from further attempts to take out a sort of immature rage (that which only comes from being bored and beginning to feel vaguely neglected) on the innocent tree in question.
In the meantime, all while Maria and Henry Crawford's whereabouts continued to elude Sir Thomas at every turn, life at the big house carried on.
Fanny remained lying-in, and was perfectly docile about it for her own part although Tom began to vocally lament the room's being kept in so 'dreary and utterly cheerless a state' during her seclusion, regardless of how Edmund insisted the calmness of the darkened room with the drawn curtains was good for her – he pointed out she'd had rather fewer headaches, at any rate.
"What we ought to do," Tom declared, "is have some entertainment in here for her – she must be bored out of her wits."
Edmund scoffed at this. "And what is it you suggest, Tom? Hiring a troupe of trained jugglers and fire eaters and housing them in your sitting room?"
At which, Tom's brow immediately lifted and Susan – with a little tug upon Edmund's sleeve – implored him to not give his brother any ideas.
"No" – Tom cut his eyes in mock annoyance – "I was thinking we could have the servants move the pianoforte up here and I might play something for her."
After pointing out the great impracticality of forcing their servants to drag the pianoforte up so many stairs, Edmund also felt the need to remind Tom he could barely play, owing to a lack of practice.
"It is too bad," he conceded, when Tom seemed on the verge of giving up the scheme and sitting quietly again, "the family is under such restrictions as recent events make necessary – if we could have a guest who was accomplished enough to make dragging the pianoforte up here worth something–"
"Ah, but who would we have?" asked Tom. "Little Anne de Bourgh plays less even than I do."
"I have an acquaintance of sorts – though we've not yet met face-to-face – through the Eltons and through Miss Bates, who is the lady's aunt," explained Edmund; "a Mrs. Churchill. She's reported to be a very accomplished player. Were it not for the impropriety of guests while our father is in London on such solemn business, I believe I should have her here to play something for Fanny."
"Her husband is Frank Churchill? And very lately?"
"Yes."
"Well! Small world – you may not have seen her yet, Edmund, but I have, though I had no idea she was so accomplished as all that!" And he heartily agreed it was too bad they could not have her visit to play for Fanny as she would have done very nicely indeed.
The room was undertaken to be made a little more sunny and cheerful when the physician himself sided with Tom and – while he didn't recommend having the full afternoon sun in Fanny's eyes while she rested, if the darkness was indeed helping her headaches – thought a few opened curtains could hardly be amiss, let alone unwelcome.
At the very least, he urged them to keep the canopy over the bed tied to the posters as often as possible so Fanny could look out and see the room.
But, as willing as Tom was to accept this change, he flatly refused the physician's next suggestion, which was that he himself take to sleeping elsewhere in the house until the baby's arrival.
Having very willingly given over the use of his room to his wife's seclusion for most of the daytime hours, and taken to embarking upon longer walks in Mansfield Wood when the weather was anything but unbearable so he would not be pestering her constantly, he wasn't keen on being barred from it at night as well.
Moreover, the moment the suggestion was spoken, Fanny herself blanched, turning and goggling at Tom with what he took to be a stricken expression.
"No." He leaned over the bed and patted his wife's hand. "I'm afraid we won't be doing that, doctor."
It was probably just as well, in the end. Having seen her mother with child and while birthing did little to prepare Fanny regarding what it would actually feel like and, when the time sneaked up on them, a little early, as well as in the middle of the night, Tom's not being removed to another room in the house meant he happened to be lying there beside her.
Waking groggily to the sound of a continuous whimper, he murmured, "Fanny?" and began to roll over. His leg suddenly came into contact with a sizeable soaking-wet patch on the mattress, jolting him properly awake. He was instantly alert. "Fanny! What's the matter?"
She whimpered again. "Owwww."
Surely not, thought Tom, as comprehension and indignation began to dawn simultaneously. She can't be having the baby now. She would have woken me if she– But he wasn't certain, and it became increasingly plain watching her, putting all the less than subtle clues together, what was happening.
"For God's sake, creepmouse!" he exclaimed, springing out of the bed and – unevenly tying his dressing-gown around himself with fumbling hands – coming around to her side. "Why did you not reach over and wake me?"
"I... Didn't... Wish... To... Bother... You..."
"Fanny!"
Her voice became pitiful, croaking. "I thought it would stop – like last time."
"Last time?" he echoed, incredulous. "What can you mean – last time?"
"I had a little pain in the afternoon yesterday – it went away."
"Why didn't you say anything? Will you never learn to speak up?"
"Owww."
He smoothed back her hair, crouching beside her. "I'm going to ring for the servants so they can send for the physician – I'll be right back."
"Tom, I'm frightened." She'd grasped his wrist. "It hurts. It hurts so terribly."
"You're going to be fine" – he kissed her moist brow – "I promised you, remember?"
She blinked a stream of fast, streaky tears free, letting them roll down the sides of her face, and, trustingly, nodded at him. Slowly – one shaky, clenched finger at a time – she loosed her grip on his wrist so he could go.
The room was dark and his figure vanishing from sight was hazy, outlined with a faint, pulsating aura the smeary yellow of dim candlelight, but Fanny kept staring after him with her exhausted, heavy eyes until the last trace of his elongated shadow by the doorway was no longer visible, no matter how hard she strained.
A/N: Reviews Welcome, replies may be delayed.
