Baby

A Mansfield Park fanfiction

One shot

"Master Tom, pray do not lick the side-glass," sighed Nanny, pivoting at the hip and twisting in the cramped carriage space to be certain Sir Thomas' other son, Edmund, was still on her opposite side.

A year behind his more boisterous brother, young Edmund Bertram was at least less inclined than the elder to mischief (Nanny had little enough fear of his running into the street and being trampled to death just because he saw a handsome horse or of him pocketing some shiny bauble like a boy-shaped magpie when they walked into the shops, and that was a mercy), but he was also such a great deal quieter she would too often forget to look for him and only too late realise he had, unaware of the grief he was giving in so doing, wandered off.

At nearly seven he perhaps ought to have known better, but Nanny had a tender place in her heart for the lad and tried not to scold him unless she must – it hadn't escaped her notice the boys' mother, Lady Bertram, ignored them both equally until reminded of their presence, and that their aunt, Mrs. Norris, doted far more pointedly upon Tom.

As was so often the way of these things, Edmund seemed to respect his aunt more, only to be repelled with a single sharp look if he should make a natural childish misstep, whereas Tom could talk pert and run riot and still be given any number of comfits and kisses (usually immediately wiped off by the back of his wrist) upon the slightest lightening of his tantrums.

Of course, one couldn't blame Tom for taking advantage of the obvious favouritism; he saw right through it, being arguably the more clever of the two, if not the more sensitive in nature, little as he might ever act in a way which showcased this fact, but as long as his brother – who he rather liked when there was nobody better to play with – wasn't being actively hurt, as long as it could be reasonably denied, he wouldn't turn away the liberal hand of his aunt.

And, to be fair, if he was given some treat his brother was not also granted, he usually condescended, after a bit of teasing, to share it – and he did so with a grace and liberality far beyond his eight years.

It was Mrs. Norris Nanny privately blamed, and – though she was in no position to expose her to Sir Thomas – therefore Mrs. Norris' foolishness she hoped to counteract by giving as much love as she might to the neglected younger son so he would not fancy himself lesser than the heir.

Still, it would not do to lose him in the middle of town, getting onto the public Stagecoach. Oh, how she longed for the day they would finally quit the London house and return to Mansfield, to the quiet of the countryside.

Here, apart from keeping these two wealthy boys from breaking their heads open by some misfortune, she could do little with her days beyond pay a visit to an old friend who had married a butcher or else to her cousin the saddler.

Satisfied at last Edmund was beside her, and that Tom had ceased pressing the tip of his poked-out tongue to the dirty glass and bleating "Bleeh! Bleeh!" at scandalized passersby, she – upon hearing a baby's keen wail starting up – looked across, with some wariness, to the other couple in the carriage.

The couple, handsome enough for themselves, apologised for the baby's cries – they had been taking her to a doctor, thinking a town physician might do better by her than the local ones who concluded she was simply delicate; at any rate, she was fussy and not eating much, and she still looked so very small, as they could see, quite like a newborn, despite having been almost a year in the world.

They introduced themselves as Admiral and Mrs. Maxwell.

Edmund, pointing at the crying creature in Mrs. Maxwell's arms, asked if she had been ill after having the baby before Nanny could warn him it was an impertinent question.

He simply thought if she was ill, the physician ought to examine her, too, to make certain the mother was well so she could, in her turn, help the sick baby improve.

"Oh, what a charming boy!" declared Mrs. Maxwell as the carriage began moving. "Such a dear thing you are! No, darling, you see, the baby isn't mine – the Admiral and I have not yet been blessed with any children of our own – she belongs to a poor friend of ours from home. She's a good soul, but a harried one; has herself a baby boy as well. And I daresay she might have scraped together the money if he weren't growing as he ought – she's frightfully proud of him; this poor mite" – rocking the baby in her arms – "came as a surprise not long after and I think poverty disagrees with a growing family. Well, we do what we can to help – don't we, Admiral?"

"'er brother bit me, right on the leg, when I came to collect her," Admiral Maxwell put in by way of an answer – he gave an involuntary shudder at the memory of the blue-eyed, two-year-old sinking his small pearly teeth into his calf. "S'likely to become infected."

"Well, I for one never heard such loud wheezing and wailing in all my life," said Nanny, shaking her head. "I hope your physician has some advice for soothing it."

"I am afraid she's been travelling poorly – she don't let up until she gets hoarse. Then the whimpering' starts, and bless me if it en't worse, a thousand times over, to hear a child make such a defeated sound continuously than it is to hear her screaming bloody murder."

There was something about the baby, about its piteous size (lack thereof, that was) and endless crying which made Edmund long to comfort it. "Can I hold her?"

"You're a bit small to hold her proper-like, but if your good nurse don't mind, I'll set her in your lap, and you can cradle her head against yourself." And Mrs. Maxwell looked to Nanny for permission.

Even if offered 20,000 pounds to risk it, Nanny wouldn't have let Tom – who she noticed was now pushing his nose up against the glass until it fogged and made a sound like it was about to pop open, only pulling away at the last minute – hold a stranger's baby. She had seen him almost drop his sister, poor Baby Julia, upon her head once – Sir Thomas had thrashed him soundly afterwards, though he'd bitterly insisted through his sniffles, rubbing at his sore bottom, he hadn't meant to do it.

But Edmund in a confined, safe place such as this, might be all right – she nodded her assent.

After being placed in his arms, the baby's crying gradually slowed, and then – after a few residual gasps – stopped.

"I think she likes you, young feller," laughed the Admiral. "Would you look at that! I never seen her so quiet."

Edmund was enchanted. After Tom almost dropped Julia and had taken the beating of a lifetime for his mistake, neither of them had been allowed to hold the newest baby in their own household; but Julia was plump and happy and much bigger than this poor scrap of a baby. He never felt his sisters – either of them – needed him, nor preferred him, but this baby's quieting at his touch seeped so instantaneously into his heart, if there had been any hope of it, he would have wanted to keep her.

Indeed, if he had been a very little younger, he would have asked, in spite of himself, if they would give her to him the same as a wealthy family in Northampton had recently given his mother a pug puppy.

But seven is old enough to know good people – like the Maxwells seemed to be – simply don't let you keep someone else's baby, no matter how in love with it you might fall.

"She is so sweet." Edmund beamed at Mrs. Maxwell.

Tom, having grown bored of playing with the side-glass, bounced on his rear until he was leaning over Nanny's lap and peering over Edmund's arm.

"She's so ugly," he marvelled, wiggling his index finger in the baby's direction.

"Tom!" reprimanded Nanny.

"Well, look at her" – pouting and withdrawing his hand – "she is." No doubt he was comparing her to the image in his mind of Maria and Julia at the same age. "Are all the children where you're from runts, Admiral?"

"Tom!"

Then, a trifle sulkily, but still with something like genuine interest, a question even Edmund hadn't thought to ask, "Does she have a name?"

"Frances," Mrs. Maxwell told them.

The aforementioned Frances was at present grasping – with her tiny starfish hand – onto Edmund's left ring finger and lightly tugging at it.

He could scarcely manage to get out the words, "Goodbye, Baby Frances"; his throat was gone dry.

Indeed, the much-affected boy almost cried when the carriage stopped where the Admiral and his wife were to alight and he knew he must part with the baby in his arms forever.

Worse was that she really did cry. Her pained wail started up again the moment she was taken back by Mrs. Maxwell.

Tom put his hands over his ears and pulled a face, but Edmund looked – and kept on looking, long after the Admiral, his wife, and the baby were all three gone – as if he'd been slapped across his.

For a brief while, Tom had sport teasing his brother about 'pining for his little lady friend', and once – some days later – he took it rather too far and almost got knocked down as a consequence (he'd obtusely declared the baby, having been so sick when they'd met her, had almost certainly popped off by then), but after a time they both forgot that day in the carriage – and that wretched-looking baby whose very existence had tugged so at Edmund's soul – entirely, as little boys are wont to do.

A/N: reviews welcome, reply could be delayed.