It did not take long for Tom Bertram to return to Mansfield Park following the Crawfords establishing themselves at the parsonage, and even less time after that for Mary to find herself walking out with him and his younger brother. Usually, she would have been overjoyed at such an opportunity to begin a flirtation with an eldest son, but in this case her curiosity was piqued by Fanny; rather than flirt, she spent the whole walk quizzing the two brothers on their dependant cousin.
It came to very little. Edmund perhaps knew more about her than his brother, but Tom would more often than not change the subject before Mary could get more than a small amount of information. There was in particular a small tangent about what it meant for a young woman to be 'out' that Mary found quite aggravating - it took such a long time to figure out that that there was very little time to ask anything more. All she knew by the end of it was this: that Fanny was just turned eighteen, that she was not, in fact, out, and that - well, there wasn't much else. Mary returned home frustrated, and more curious than ever about her soulmate.
Some time after, some information about Fanny did come to light - at one of the myriad of dinners those at the parsonage were invited to. Tom had left again; Mary could not truthfully say that she missed him, predisposed as she had thought herself towards him before they had met.
At that particular dinner she learned, in the midst of conversation, that Fanny had a brother, very dear to her, at sea. The first hint came after Mary made a dismissive comment about the ability of brothers to write: Fanny coloured visibly. But the curious reaction went unexplained; Edmund was far too involved with Mary to notice it, and Fanny offered up no remark that would draw notice to it - she was still strangely silent in Miss Crawford's presence. Somehow or other the conversation turned to the Admiralty, and Mary, still feeling the fresh bitterness of her eviction from her uncle's house, made a joke - perhaps in bad taste, it is true, but ultimately harmless! Yet Fanny did not seem to think so - she turned pale and looked almost as though she were about to cry. It was only then that Edmund noticed, and chose to tell Mary that she had a brother in the Navy. There was a note of disapproval in his tone - it was clear that in this matter his opinion aligned with Fanny's.
If Mary had been a woman from a significantly lower strata of life, less brought up to politeness, she would have probably said something very rude at that moment. As it was, she prided herself on her lack of reaction, and soon the conversation of the room had shifted to plans for a trip to Sotherton, the estate of Maria's fiancé.
As for Fanny's side, she was, in a strange way, grateful for a comment in such poor taste; it gave her motivation to dislike Mary, and she clung to it, not as a drowning sailor would to a piece of driftwood, but as someone wishing to harm themselves might grasp the blade of a knife, even as blood begins to show on their hand.
Not long after this debacle, there came a time when Mary showed interest in learning how to ride. Conveniently, Edmund Bertram just so happened to have a spare horse, of exactly the kind that would suit a young lady such as Miss Crawford. Far less convenient was the fact that this horse was the one that Edmund had lent to his cousin Fanny on a permanent basis, after her old one had died, with the reasoning that riding each day would be beneficial to her health. Of course, Mary was not to know this, which excused her somewhat - but she would have likely not minded too much about it even if she had. Edmund may not have been a first son, or her soulmate, but he was pleasing enough company to spend a morning with, and learning to ride was so very exhilarating. But for poor Fanny Price, who so often struggled to speak up for herself, the entire ordeal seemed to be one of the worst in her life.
"Tell me about Miss Price," Mary said, on the second day of her riding lessons. They had not been accompanied by anyone - of note, that is, who could join in with their conversation - and she had decided to make another attempt at learning something of Fanny. "How long has she resided here?"
Edmund hesitated. He was, he admitted quietly to himself, slightly disappointed that Mary's first question was about his cousin. Of course, he was eager for the two to be friends, but, well…the Crawfords seemed to have a magic about them, something that even Edmund, with all his seriousness, wasn't immune to. Mary was a beautiful, charming young lady, and he was already finding that he often eagerly forgave faults in her that he would just as quickly condemn in any other person.
"Fanny has been here for eight years," he told Mary. "Since she was ten. Mrs Price - Lady Bertram's sister - found that she could not handle so many children, poor as she was, and my father and Mrs Norris thought up a scheme whereby they offered to alleviate her troubles by taking one of them in."
"She seems a respectable young lady," Mary commented. "Your family has raised her well."
"Thank you, Miss Crawford. I have made efforts to shape her mind to the best of my ability."
"Oh?" Mary replied. "Are you sure she would not rather prefer some variety of opinions to draw her own from?"
Edmund was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Fanny has never found issue with it."
"No," Mary said. "She does not seem the type of young lady who would."
They remained quiet for a long time afterwards.
"I did invite Fanny to spend the day with us," Edmund said eventually, "but she declined. She said she did not want to cause us trouble."
Mary smiled graciously. "It would have been no trouble at all."
"Oh, no, she quite insisted," Edmund replied. Something in the way he said it made Mary think that perhaps he wasn't too disappointed that he could be with her uninterrupted by his cousin. "Although I do feel slightly guilty. This is the horse she usually rides, you know."
Mary had a sudden urge to curse, using one of the many words she'd picked up by spending too much time in the same house as old sailors that didn't much care what young ladies learned from them. "Is that so?" she said in her best impression of a completely detached person. "Why, Mr Bertram, you should have insisted she join us; we could have taken turns riding. I would not like to deprive her of such a joy."
Edmund looked slightly embarrassed about his transgression. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but by that point, they'd reached the house, and Mary practically leapt off the horse in her eagerness to find Fanny.
It wasn't, of course that she felt any sort of remorse for her actions towards Fanny. Oh no. But if she was going to befriend her soulmate then she should certainly be on her good side.
Fanny was in the drawing room with her Aunt Bertram when Mary burst in, riding hat askew and hair tumbling out of its bun. They stared at each other for a brief moment (for Fanny, it felt far longer). Then Mary recovered herself enough to speak.
"I do apologise for intruding on you like this," she said, almost calmly. Surprising, really, given the vigour with which she had originally entered. "But I have just been informed that the horse most graciously lent to me by Mr Bertram is, in fact, the one that Miss Price usually uses."
"You need not trouble yourself," Fanny said as she stared at her lap. The sleeve of her dress hitched up slightly and she caught a glimpse of Mary's name. She hurriedly pulled it down again.
"Indeed, Miss Price, I do trouble myself," Mary said emphatically - almost sincerely. "For I could not forgive myself if I deprived you of your daily exercise." An idea struck her and she smiled good-naturedly. "Perhaps tomorrow we should ride out together; you shall get your exercise, and I my practice."
"Oh, no, really, I could not -"
"I insist, Miss Price! I am afraid that I am really abominably selfish; I want to keep you all to myself tomorrow. And, of course, if it is the matter of horses that is causing you trouble, there is no need to worry, for I shall simply borrow another."
Fanny began to panic. She well knew the risk of becoming close to Miss Crawford, but to refuse? The idea of possibly insulting someone Edmund clearly already held so high in his regard terrified her.
"Of course," she said reluctantly. "I should hate to disappoint you, Miss Crawford."
Mary smiled, either unaware or uncaring of Fanny's unwillingness. "Excellent! I shall inform Mr Bertram."
She left the room again, almost as quickly as she had originally arrived. Fanny stared after her, her heart sinking slowly in her chest. She almost jumped when Lady Bertram began to speak.
"I suppose," she said sadly, "that I shall have to do without you for some time tomorrow, Fanny."
"I am afraid," Edmund said at breakfast the next morning, "that I cannot accompany you and Miss Crawford today, Fanny. I have some business I must attend to."
Fanny suddenly didn't feel quite as hungry as she had a few moments ago. "Are you sure it cannot wait, cousin?"
"Now, Fanny, you cannot take your cousin away from his work just from a desire to ride with him," Lady Bertram said, and Fanny realised with a sinking feeling that she was right.
"Besides," Edmund said apologetically, "it really cannot wait."
"Then perhaps I -"
"I insist that you ride today, Fanny; you have already promised Miss Crawford the pleasure of your company, and that you have not had your exercise in a few days, you do look concerningly pale." He reached over to place his hand on hers, and Fanny felt a sudden swelling of guilt in her chest. "Please, Fanny. You enjoy riding so much. Even if I am not there, I am sure that Miss Crawford will be adequate company."
Fanny looked at Edmund's hopeful face. It was clear how dearly he desired the two of them to be friends, otherwise he would not have given up an opportunity for riding with Miss Crawford for the sake of some unspecified 'business'. And yet… Her fear of Mary and her devotion to Edmund grappled with each other in her mind.
"Of course, Edmund," she said with a forced smile. "I shall do as you wish."
He frowned, seemingly sensing her reluctance - it confused him, she could see that much; who wouldn't want to spend time in Mary Crawford's company? - but ultimately his desire to see her and Mary friends won over.
"Excellent," he said.
It was a time somewhere between early morning and midday - perhaps about ten or eleven o'clock - when they rode out together. The sun shone behind the both of them and cast shadows on the short grass. Mary, Fanny noted, was a confident rider, even though she had only begun to learn a few days previously. She had a self-assurance about her that Fanny would not even dare dream of attaining; her laugh, her speech, her dark beauty all added to it to make her totally enthralling.
Fanny inhaled sharply and tried to concentrate on riding, but Miss Crawford seemed adamant that they should talk.
"It is a lovely day today, is it not, Miss Price?" she said.
"Yes, I believe it is," Fanny said, and they lapsed into quiet again. Part of her felt guilty for making such an effort to stay distant from Mary, but she told herself that it was for the best; to fall in love with a woman - especially a woman so far superior to her in class - was unthinkable.
"What is your opinion on slavery, Miss Price?" Mary asked suddenly. Something must have crossed her mind to ask such a question - perhaps a belief that a serious topic would draw Fanny out more than a frivolous one. She caught the shocked look on Fanny's face and laughed. "Ah, well, you must not feel obligated to answer that. I am afraid it is rather too serious a question for a mid -morning ride."
"No, no, it is -" Fanny stammered. "I mean to say, I…I do not really have an opinion on slavery." This was probably a lie, but she certainly did not have an opinion that she would be fully willing to share with a stranger.
Mary stared at her for a moment, then laughed again. "Do not have an opinion? On slavery? Come, Miss Price, everybody has an opinion on slavery. Although often they do not dare to speak it. Is that the case here?"
Fanny looked away. "It is not one of the subjects that Edmund and I have discussed."
"Of course. I understand; it is not a proper thing to speak of in polite society, even when your entire livelihood is based off of it." She lifted a hand off the reins to gesture around them. The horse lurched slightly and she had to grab the rein quickly again. "But surely you have opinions formed independent from your cousin?"
Fanny remained quiet. Perhaps she did, buried back in her mind, but she always felt an immense guilt at expressing them. For, if Edmund did not believe it, or did not speak of it, then surely she was wrong.
By now they had reached the furthest point of the park. Mary reined in her horse and waited expectantly for Fanny to do the same. "We could rest here for a moment," she suggested, although from Mary it really sounded more like a demand. "The view is marvellous, and you do look a little flushed, Miss Price."
They dismounted, and Mary promptly flopped down onto the grass near the horses. Fanny hesitated.
"Well?" Mary said expectantly.
"I would not wish to dirty my dress."
Mary smiled, and wit sparkled in her eyes. "You take life altogether far too seriously, Miss Price," she said. "Come now, sitting on the grass for a few moments will not irreparably damage your outfit." She patted the space beside her.
Fanny paused for thought; it was true that it was a lovely day, that the sun would have most likely dried the dew of the morning off of the grass. And yet…
Something glinted mischievously in Mary's eyes. "Miss Price, if you are really so adverse to sitting on grass, then I suppose the only thing I can suggest is to sit in my lap, like a child. We cannot leave you standing like that, not when you are so delicate." She stretched out her legs and smiled. Fanny stuttered for a moment, then decided suddenly that perhaps the grass wasn't so dirty as to entirely ruin her dress. Carefully, cautiously, she sat herself down next to Miss Crawford.
"There," Mary said brightly, "now, Miss Price, you cannot help but admit that it is far more comfortable down here."
Fanny said nothing. She looked at the trees that bordered the park, the house off in the distance, the grass at her feet. What she didn't do was look at Mary.
"I am beginning to get the distinct impression that you do not like me, Miss Price," Mary said.
Fanny started. To be thought of as rude, as disliking somebody, was unbearable to her. The insult of a few days ago was almost forgotten in her distress. "Oh no! I apologise for my conduct, Miss Crawford, if it has at all made you feel unwelcome; I am unused to strangers."
"Do you not ever leave Mansfield?"
"No." Fanny bit her lip. "Not since I first arrived here, eight years ago."
"Well, then." Mary said. "We shall have to rectify that as soon as we are able. Where would you like to go? Somewhere far away, such as the Orient?"
Fanny shook her head, but a grateful smile tugged at her lips. "I would not want to be so far from home, Miss Crawford. Perhaps a few miles away at most. But I thank you for such a kind offer."
Mary studied her carefully. "If I may ask, Miss Price, from whence do your forebears hail?"
"I believe that my grandfather -my father's father, that is - came on a ship from India. But that is all I can tell you; our family does not usually discuss it."
"I see." Mary lay back in the grass and sighed. "I wonder that one such as Sir Thomas would be willing to take in the offspring of an Indian man and a white woman."
"It would not have been something he would consider," Fanny said, with that forced self assuredness in her voice that only ever came from being unsure. "My uncle is a good man; he would not have been deterred by race if he could do a good deed."
"A good man does not profit off of slave labour!" Mary snapped. Fanny stared at her, and after a moment she made an attempt to smile. "My apologies. It is a beautiful day; let us enjoy that in each other's company and forget all this seriousness."
"Do you ever wish to travel to India, Miss Price?" she asked after a long silence.
"It is a long journey, and I love England far too much to leave it for the country of a man I never knew." She hesitated, as though she was on the cusp of saying something. "Would you ever wish to travel to Africa, Miss Crawford?"
Mary smiled at the blue sky. "I'm afraid that Africa is rather too big a continent to visit it all. And my ancestor who arrived in England - who knows how long ago it was - was an escaped slave; my brother and I have not the slightest clue of the country of our ancestors." She got to her feet. "I suppose we should be heading back to the house." She extended her hand to help Fanny up. "We have been sitting here for a far longer time than is reasonable." Fanny took her hand and was pulled up, but she stumbled forward slightly, into Mary's arms. Mary stepped backwards a bit in shock, but held Fanny firmly in her arms and soon they had managed to balance themselves. Fanny coughed nervously, and Mary let go of her.
For a while after that, they didn't talk, only rode together silently towards the house.
Mary was becoming frustrated with the long silences that had filled their day. She was not the sort of person inclined to patience; she had foolishly assumed that it would be far more simple to win over Fanny Price than it was turning out to be. And rather than wondering - even idly - whether it was something in her own behaviour that was the cause of this, she said something carefully calculated to shock Fanny.
"I believe that my brother has taken quite an interest in you, Miss Price."
Had Fanny not been so secured in her saddle, she would have fallen off her horse in shock. "You must be mistaken, Miss Crawford; your brother and I have barely spoken."
"Hmm." Mary thought for a while. Perhaps she wasn't feeling quite that vindictive today. "Well, I shall warn you now: I love Henry dearly, but he has taken rather too much of his behaviour from our uncle."
"I wonder that you so easily criticise your family, Miss Crawford."
"I am sure you do. After all, you have never met my uncle." She smiled in the way she had whenever she said something she deemed too serious. "I suppose I have piqued your curiosity now."
"Indeed, Miss Crawford, not at all."
"Not at all? My, my - do you not have any interest in things outside of your own knowledge?"
Fanny was silent for a long time, and again Mary felt a surge of frustration. For someone to show reluctance to speak to her was unheard of.
"When I first arrived at Mansfield Park," Fanny said at last, "I knew very little, compared to my cousins. They used to laugh at me if I showed my lack of knowledge…and to be sure, they would perhaps do the same now. In my experience, Miss Crawford, asking questions either displays a regrettable ignorance, or shows an impolite amount of interest in others' affairs." She blushed suddenly, as though she had only now realised what words spilled from her mouth. "I-I apologise, Miss Crawford. I did not mean to-"
"Do not trouble yourself," Mary said, waving her off. "I suppose we are all the products of our experiences, at least to an extent. I myself have evolved an unfortunate distaste for the navy." She smiled wryly. "As no doubt you could tell from the last time our families dined together."
"Oh, but Miss Crawford!" Fanny exclaimed, some life trickling into her features. "We all have the ability to survive our circumstances in order to become our best selves!"
"Did Mr Bertram teach you that?" Mary said laughingly. "Or have I witnessed the rare appearance of an opinion you have formed apart from him?"
"It is something I believe with all my heart, Miss Crawford." Her vigour was subdued now, but Mary could still feel the force behind her words. In truth, it surprised her. "With it, I am left with the hope that some day I will be worth more than a poor cousin to the Bertrams, although I do not deserve it."
To her shock, Mary felt a swelling of pity for the girl. She was about to speak, but Fanny continued, eager to hurry past what was such a painful topic. "And truly, I cannot agree with nor excuse your dislike of our navy. There are brave men on those ships, who work hard to defend England!" As she spoke, she sounded almost forceful. In the moment, it was quite magical, seeing the usually timid Miss Price lit up in something approaching anger.
"Your brother is a sailor, is he not?" Mary asked, unfazed. "I recall Edmund mentioning something to that effect."
"Oh! Yes." Fanny was back to her normal self as quickly as she had changed. She smiled bashfully. "William. He is a midshipman!" She seemed almost to emanate pride.
Mary thought for a moment. "Then perhaps I shall rethink my position on the navy, since the brother of the lovely Miss Fanny Price is a midshipman." She smiled her most charming smile. "I doubt that anyone so dear to you could possibly be villainous, when you are so good yourself." Then, after another pause: "If my comments on the subject have offended you in any way, I regret it."
Fanny blushed. "I thank you Miss Crawford." A sudden realisation seemed to overtake her. "Ah, but we are at the stables!" She quickly dismounted and lead her horse into its stall. Before Mary had a chance to address her again, she was hurrying back to the house.
"Perhaps we shall speak again tomorrow," Mary called after her, dismounting herself.
Fanny turned back and flashed the briefest of smiles. "Perhaps!"
But, alas, the moment never came; from then on, every time Mary made an attempt to speak to Fanny was interrupted - she would get a sudden panicked look (poorly disguised) on her face, stammer out an excuse, and leave at the next opportunity. Even Mary, usually so convinced of her own appeal, began to feel that perhaps she was doing something wrong. Surely Miss Price did not dislike her so much as to disregard politeness so entirely? The truth was far from what Mary assumed: on the day of their ride, Fanny had been overcome with the realisation that she was spending her day with someone she'd sworn to avoid - not just spending time with, but enjoying the company of Mary Crawford. Since then, she had rather overcompensated, fleeing from conversations with Mary as soon as she properly recognised what was happening, and chiding herself for allowing Mary to begin speaking to her in the first place. This was not to be forever, though, as soon the trip to Mr Rushworth's home of Sotherton was fully settled upon, and as Edmund had already argued for Fanny accompanying them, she could not refuse, not even for fear of Mary.
To her relief, when the day actually came, Henry was eager for her to sit next to him on the barouche-box, and, with the only alternative being a ride in the carriage with Mary, she was happy to accept.
It was thankfully a fine August day, and the only thing that could have possibly provided discomfort on top of the barouche-box was a slight breeze. Fanny found herself enraptured with the soon unfamiliar countryside, and Henry found his attempts at conversation thwarted by the beauty that their surroundings contained. Instead, he contented himself with watching the road, allowing himself an occasional glance at his companion. Perhaps he would request she be near him when they reached Sotherton, as well. Yes, that was it! There was not a woman in England who would not be at least slightly in love with him by the end of even an hour of them walking together. And, once she was prepared to become smitten, he would reveal to her the mark on his wrist and declare his undying love for her. Of course, then he would break her heart (perhaps by flirting with one of the two Bertram girls; they both seemed interested enough in him, and particularly insulted at his choosing their poor cousin as his companion), but it would do one such as Fanny Price good to be hurt slightly in love.
They arrived at Sotherton, they explored the insides of the house and, eventually, they set out for a walk in the gardens. Along the way, there were no real hiccups, except for the moment when Mary found that Edmund was to be a clergyman; a slightly awkward point, since she had just been in the midst of insulting the church. She sighed, made a few more disparaging remarks about the profession, lamented what was no doubt a loss to many young women who would otherwise have shown an interest in him, and moved on. After all, she had no intention of marrying him, despite the extra attention he was beginning to pay her.
Henry, regrettably, was unable to begin his plan to make Fanny fall in love with him; his attention was regularly drawn away from her by either Julia or Mr Rushworth, in his desire to ask Mr Crawford his opinion. Maria was not so foolish as to show affection to Henry whilst they wandered the house of her husband-to-be, but even between two people he found little time to talk with Fanny. She seemed, for her part, content to take in her surroundings in a state of silent, wide-eyed awe. He had hoped for a chance during the tour of the grounds, but she had quickly - and firmly - attached herself to Mary and Edmund, who had soon gone on ahead of the others. Silently, Henry cursed his bad luck and turned his charm to the others of their party. Fanny Price was all well and good, but she could wait; he had no intention of leaving Mansfield Park any time soon.
Mary spent most of their walk complaining incessantly about the heat - indeed, it was not too awful, but she had no idea of what else to talk about, and complaining seemed as good a thing to fill the silence that existed between them all as any. And besides, the only other topic she could think of, a topic which she had so quickly dropped when it had come up before, was her newly discovered knowledge of Edmund's intention to join the clergy, and she did not intend to show the full extent of her dislike in front of Fanny; her cousin was dear to her, and Mary was sure that she would not appreciate Mary insulting his chosen profession so - any more than she had already, that is. It was strange indeed for Mary to be so concerned of another's opinion of her, but she was becoming greatly intrigued by Fanny Price, and felt a great unwillingness to even risk hurting her.
Of course, that unwillingness only went so far as her own thoughtless nature allowed it to, and soon a rather heated discussion between herself and Edmund on the dimensions of the wood lead them both to abandon Fanny on a bench by a locked gate in order to investigate. By all appearances, it would not have been too selfish, if indeed they had not found another gate to go through, or Fanny had been less inclined to loneliness. But Mary was not to think of these things as she began to walk with Edmund under the green trees, for he was amusing enough in his way, even if he was really far too serious sometimes, and a second son, and wanted to - to become a clergyman. Still, she supposed if she had a care to she could fix two of the three in short enough time. And she found that she could tolerate his glaring flaws for a short while, when the weather was as good as it had been, and she was in a good mood, and he did not speak overly about things which she took no enjoyment from.
"Now that you are aware of my chosen profession, has your opinion of it changed at all, Miss Crawford?" Edmund asked, politely enough, but in such a way that Mary could tell he was either hoping that she had miraculously changed her mind in the last hour, or pretending that he hadn't heard her previous comments in some pathetic attempt at denial.
"I cannot say that I entirely approve of the clergy," she replied flippantly, hoping he would change the subject. "My own experience of it gives me the impression that it is made entirely of old men who drink rather too much and have but one interesting sermon to recite between them."
He seemed shocked, as though he had actually expected her to say something encouraging to him. Did he really think that she would have actually adopted a different opinion entirely than that she had expressed earlier, solely because he was involved? "Perhaps I could change your mind," he said, but he sounded unconvinced. Mary almost felt sorry for Edmund; it seemed he had rested some good amount of hope on her being accepting, at least in his case.
"My opinion is not as easily altered as you seem to think it," she said, and derived no small pleasure from seeing the way he floundered. "Nor is there much chance of it changing with time. I believe that you should always chase a path that pays well. But I am not the one here who is to be a clergyman."
"You do not mind?"
"I would mind tremendously if I were your wife, or your fiancée, but I am not."
Edmund blushed slightly. "Q-quite." He frowned. "This part of the park is far larger than I expected it to be." He checked his watch. "We have been walking for this past half hour at least."
Perhaps if Mary had been more inclined to think of others, her mind would have wandered back, at this moment, to poor Miss Price, sitting alone on a bench, and she would have felt a pang of guilt. But as it was, she only felt this moment of realisation when she - purely coincidentally - caught a glimpse of the gradually fading name of Fanny Price on her wrist as her sleeve rode up slightly. Mary quickly covered up the name again, and mentally cursed herself. Truthfully, when she had first decided to spend time with Fanny, it had simply been a form of amusement; but now she felt a sort of desperation to not lose the chance of a soulmate. For she had heard of those people who had made such an awful mistake that one - or more - of their names disappeared from their wrists forever.
"Yes, indeed; we have been walking a long time," she said eventually. "Perhaps we should return to where your cousin rests."
Edmund, always eager to spend more time with the woman who was beginning to affect his heart so greatly, began to disagree. But then he, too, remembered Fanny's nature - how distressed she would be! - and felt his own remorse.
"Yes," he said. "Fanny will begin to worry, I fear - we should hasten our return for her sake."
Fanny was, if such an emotion could be ascribed to one such as Fanny Price, beginning to feel impatient. Or perhaps not so much impatient as nervous; she was beginning to fear that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left her altogether. Indeed, everyone else had: first Maria and Mr Crawford (he practically begging her to join them, but no, she simply must wait for the others, and his curiosity of what was beyond the gate - and, in truth, the opportunity that presented itself to flirt with such an attractively unavailable woman as Maria - overpowered his desire to win Miss Price); then Julia, so irritable that Fanny had almost been grateful when she had followed her sister and Henry; then eventually Mr Rushworth, with the key to the gate that his fiancée had requested so insistently. All had been far more eager to leave her than remain to keep her company. And yet, just as Mr Rushworth left, just as these doubting thoughts began to find their place in her mind, she heard the sound of nearby running. In a moment, Mary appeared, panting, and behind her Edmund, who looked almost ready to fall over.
"Miss Price," Mary said once she had regained her breath, "I must apologise for my thoughtlessness. Neither of us expected our walk to take so long (and we did, I am afraid, get rather side-tracked once we discovered a gate leading to another part of the park), nor, I shudder to admit, did we think of you as much as we should have. Will you forgive this indiscretion?"
Edmund made to lean on the gate for support, and almost lost his balance as it swung inwards. "I hope that you shall forgive me as well, Fanny. I did not take your feelings into consideration. That was very wrong of me indeed."
Fanny was unable to reply for a while, so taken aback by the very fact that they apologised. Eventually she said, "Thank you. You…both of you…treat me rather better than I deserve."
Mary shook her head with a smile. "On the contrary; you deserve rather better than the two of us. But I suppose you must make do with what little you have." A brief wind caused the gate to swing again, and Edmund, already precarious, crashed to the ground. Mary was reduced to laughter.
"Miss Crawford!" Fanny said, scandalized. "You must not take such pleasure in others' misfortunes!"
Mary made a valiant attempt to quiet herself as Edmund stood up and brushed himself off. "I apologise, Miss Price. I shall endeavour not to laugh about this again."
Fanny stood up, only slightly mollified. "You are very kind to me, Miss Crawford, I must confess, but I hardly see that same kindness expressed to others." The idea that someone could not show kindness to everyone seemed to upset her slightly.
"Very well," Mary said, taking Fanny's arm and offering her other one to Edmund, "I shall transform myself for your sake."
This seemed to distress Fanny even more. "Oh no, Miss Crawford! It is of the utmost importance to be kind for its own sake!"
Mary leaned in conspiratorially. "Then I shall become a good, kind person, and I shall enjoy it, not only because you wish it, but because it will amuse me to show kindness. I am, at heart, a very selfish person, and so to think of myself in these matters is something I cannot help. But yes, it does sound rather an interesting thing to try. Now," she leant away from Fanny again, "where have the rest of our merry party got to?"
"They went through the gate."
"Ah, then we shall have no hope of finding them. What do you suggest, Mr Bertram?"
"I believe that we should return to the house, Miss Crawford. Aunt Norris and Mrs Rushworth will likely be there, since they have not set out already, and it is where the others will go in their own time."
Both Mary and Fanny believed this to be an excellent idea, and said as such (Fanny quieter and less eloquent than Mary, but still audible). "It is good that we three will be alone," Mary declared as they began to walk, "for I can detail my many, many ideas for being a better person to Miss Price without interruption, and Mr Bertram, being almost a clergyman of the highest order, can provide me with suggestions of his own."
Edmund smiled. "May I first suggest that you cease insulting the professions of others?"
Fanny nodded gravely. "Thus far, Miss Crawford, you have stated your low opinions of the clergy - and the navy, before you were aware of my brother's position in it."
"Am I to be so attacked?" Mary asked with faux-indignation. "Very well; I will attempt to improve my opinions of the navy and the clergy, since it so pleases my two dear friends. However, I am concerned at the quickness of your reply - do you already have a list that I must complete every point of before I am considered an angel such as my companions?"
"Indeed I do," Edmund said solemnly. "I keep it hidden at the back of my writing desk, and every time you commit some wrongness or other I reach for my pen and ink well."
Mary and Fanny stared at him in amazement. He started laughing. "Am I really so usually serious that you cannot tell when I jest?"
Mary shook her head, matching his solemnity with her own. "I confess that I have not seen you smile once in all my time with you. Have you ever seen your good cousin smile, Miss Price?"
"Well, actually -" Fanny caught Mary's expression, twinkling with mirth. "Oh! No, I have not, Miss Crawford." She hesitated, then continued. "Why, I was beginning to believe him struck by an illness of the face." Her uncharacteristic risk was gratified in Edmund and Mary's laughing faces. Something about it caused her heart to soar, and she began to laugh with them.
"We really should not make such fun of Mr Bertram's suffering," Mary said through spurts of giggling.
"Indeed you should not!" Edmund exclaimed. He did his best to sound serious, but his voice came out as almost a squeak. "I have been unable to smile for years; no doctors have been able to help me. It is a great family tragedy." This fact was slightly belied by the fact that at that moment he was hiding a smile that was very wide indeed.
For the rest of the walk, they talked and joked, and by the time the house was in sight, Fanny was in a much better mood then she could remember ever having been in before.
"We must quiet ourselves," Edmund hissed. "Aunt Norris would not approve."
"Of course," Mary said. "Your Aunt Norris abhors fun of any kind."
And although it was entirely terrible to insult a respectable relative, they were reduced to giggling yet again. When they reached the steps to the house, they had only just restrained themselves. Mrs Norris eyed them suspiciously. Eventually, her eyes rested on Fanny.
"You seem very flushed, Fanny," she said sharply. "It cannot be good for your health - would not you have rather stayed at Mansfield?" Her eyes glittered as though she was about to gain final victory in a long battle.
It was Miss Crawford who stepped in; Edmund was too slow by just a moment, and he quieted himself to let her speak. "Miss Price has gained a great deal of enjoyment from this day, Mrs Norris. I am sorry if it seems otherwise, but that is the simple truth."
Mrs Norris looked shocked, and Fanny and Edmund both whispered quick thank yous to Mary. "It seems you are already becoming a good, kind person, Miss Crawford," Edmund murmured. His eyes brightened at the idea.
The rest of their party arrived soon after. They seemed rather out of sorts, silent and sullen. Fortunately, nothing happened to retrospectively spoil the day's enjoyment. Henry even retained enough of his politeness to offer Fanny a place next to him again. This time, however, he was refused; Fanny chose instead to sit with Mary, inside. They exchanged no words on the way back, but it was a comfortable, familiar silence, filled with memories of the walk back to the house.
(Henry was slightly put out by Fanny's refusal of his offer, but found he did not mind nearly as much when Maria Bertram decided to join him instead.)