Pretend You're Fanny
A Mansfield Park fanfiction
One-shot
Wonderful as it was that, no sooner had he stopped caring a whit about Miss Crawford and lamenting when he should find her equal (quite having realised, much to his private mortification, he did not want, perhaps had never really wanted, her equal, but desired entirely the opposite of everything she was, the true embodiment of everything he had used to believe her capable of becoming with proper encouragement), Edmund was able to fix upon the perfect model of a woman which was Fanny Price, there was one – imagined – drawback.
How was he to persuade her that her warm and sisterly regard for him was foundation enough for wedded love?
How to convince her a removal from all her familiar, dearest ties at Mansfield Park and an establishment at Thornton Lacey would be no evil if undertaken for such a noble purpose?
She would lose nothing.
Indeed, the pleasures he could afford her as his wife at Thornton Lacey would exceed even the advantages she would have had from living at the White House at the age of fifteen, if Aunt Norris had only loved the poor girl, her own niece, as she ought, and had striven – in any measure – to make her happy.
Of course, unlike the much too eager Henry Crawford – whose lack of knowledge about Fanny's real nature and first attachments had ultimately turned out to be a blessing in disguise, preventing him from wounding a guileless heart – Edmund knew he must first attach her to him and let her tender heart do all the rest of its own volition, not tug upon roots grown deep such as might oppose his purpose in gaining her.
The trouble was, Fanny had always loved and regarded him, it was no new attachment he wished to instil in her, only a deepening of it, a realisation it might have another as yet unseen facet to it.
Well, Edmund fancied he had, as of late, made such progress as was possible without openly declaring himself, and now fretted – almost from the moment he woke in the morning till that when he slept fitfully at night – how he was to offer her his heart and hand, a life with him, without alarming her.
Seeking aid in steadying his nerves, he prevailed upon Tom – during one morning on which they found themselves alone in the breakfast-room, their father having given a small party for Julia and Yates the night before and having encouraged Edmund to stay the night rather than attempt to return to Thornton Lacey at some dark, inconvenient hour – to help him.
"Oh, certainly – what would you have me do?" asked Tom, setting something down upon a tray and rising from his place, a certain teasing twinkle (one that did not altogether seem to bode well for Edmund) starting up in his eye.
Truly, Edmund was already beginning to regret asking him, but he was in too deep now to back out without explanation of some sort. So, turning slightly red about the face, he told his brother he meant to ask Fanny to marry him – Tom interjected here with whooping delight, clapping him on the arm and declaring it to be about time – yes, well, if he wouldn't mind...
Tom lifted an eyebrow.
"Pretend you're Fanny a moment."
"How'm I meant to do that?"
His colour rising further still, Edmund groaned, "I simply need to practise what I'm to say to her – just sort of stand there..." His voice trailed off, then picked up rather pathetically. "Stand there like you're Fanny and give me leave to speak."
"No, by Jove, that shan't do." Lifting a finger and, signalling for him to wait a moment, Tom left the room, returning several minutes later brandishing a parasol.
Edmund rolled his eyes. "Is that not Fanny's?"
"My allowance paid for dratted thing," snapped Tom, opening it and giving it a twirl. "I imagine I might be able to borrow it as I see fit." He added, "I daresay it will help with the illusion." He set it upon his shoulder and fluttered his pale eyelashes. "Now, Edmund, proceed."
"This is ridiculous," he sighed.
In a high voice, obviously meant to be an impression of Fanny's but sounding – in practice and actuality – a great deal more akin to their aunt Norris when she had a cold, "Ridiculous, Edmund?"
Reaching up to rub at his left eyebrow, Edmund finally gained composure enough to recollect his planned speech, wishing it really were Fanny before him rather than his brother spinning her parasol in an idiotic fashion, as that would have – ironically – been far less pressing upon his nerves.
"We have been very good friends, have we not?"
In a gasping voice, presumably an exaggerated impression of Fanny when she was out of breath after exertion, "Oh – yes – yes – indeed."
Edmund glowered.
"I certainly hope, brother, you don't intend to glare at poor Fanny for simply answering your question."
"Hem... I realise your affection for me is that such as you might feel towards a brother – and this is right, I am sure, only–" Breaking off, he knelt down and reached for Tom's free hand, trying to ignore the fact his brother was waggling his fingers and giggling – if he could endure this, surely asking Fanny herself must be as nothing. "Only, I believe it is possible, dearest, for you and I, to share a different fondness – no less strong, but indeed different – for one another in future. This is a fondness I already – I love you, and I offer you my heart..." No longer could he press on without comment. "Tom, for pity's sake, you are not crying?"
He turned his face away, shoulders shaking. "I'm Fanny," he wept, sounding nothing whatever like Fanny.
"You're insane."
Clearing his throat and facing him again, twirling the dratted parasol for the umpteenth time, "Yes, Edmund, of course I'll come away to Thornton Lacey and be with you forever – of course!"
At that moment, Sir Thomas appeared in the doorway of the breakfast-room, glanced with furrowed confusion at their joined hands, and shook his head. "I've no desire to know what the devil is going on in here – Edmund, your mother wants you in the drawing-room. She finds herself bewildered over something your cousin Susan has been reading, and Fanny is gone riding and is not on hand to explain it to her."
"But, sir, I love him," whispered Tom, at their father's departure, in his broken old lady voice, scarcely audible.
Edmund gave his brother a look and dropped his hand.
Clearing his throat, he chuckled, "Pardon me – hem – I was still in character."
"Oh, never mind any of this – it will be a miracle if I can say it all again to Fanny," he groaned, covering his face.
"Please, this is painful – I cannot stand by and watch you suffer – you're making far too much of it!" cried Tom, grasping his brother's wrist and pulling his hands down again. "Why, nothing could be more simple! I'll show you. Here." And he held out the parasol for Edmund to take. "Pretend you're Fanny."
A/N: reviews welcome, replies could be delayed.