Fanny Price was the most miserable of women. Of all the residents of Mansfield Park, it was Fanny Price whose grief at Tom's death went the deepest. The rest of Mansfield mourned the loss of a son and brother. Edmund also mourned the end of his chosen career and life aspirations. It was Fanny, though, whose heart was broken and who mourned the loss of her entire world.

Tom's death meant the loss of Edmund. Not that she ever cherished any true hopes of requited love, but his marriage separated him from Fanny irreparably. Fanny's grief at Tom's death was genuine. The sympathy she expressed to her cousin Edmund upon his brother's untimely loss was utterly sincere… and yet it was Mary Crawford whose consolation he sought and desired. Fanny knew of Mary's smug rejoicing over Edmund's succession and yet she could do nothing. Edmund would seek Mary out and it was Mary Crawford he would wed and Fanny must consign herself to the future before her.

From now on, it was Mary who would be his greatest confidant- and influence. It was Mary he would consider first in all things. It was Mary he cherished and sought and Fanny must give way and relinquish any precedence she once held in Edmund's heart, however slight it had been.

Yet, it was more than her role in Edmund's life that she grieved but it was Edmund himself. Edmund Bertram, the humble and quiet clergyman - the Edmund Fanny loved – was also buried with Tom Bertram that day. Her cousin Edmund continued on without his elder brother, now as the heir of Mansfield. He was reborn as the future Sir Edmund. It was this version of himself that Mary loved and relentlessly molded each day into her preferred image.

In the days and weeks and moths that followed, Fanny was forced to watch as Edmund and Mary became man and wife and stumbled into wedded life together. They were daily visitors at the manor house and every time Fanny went on a walk or a ride, she inevitably saw them together, their arms intertwined, their cheeks flushed bright with affection. The front window of the cottage provided an unobstructed view of Mary when she played her harp… and an equally clear view of Edmund's enraptured gaze as he listened. And Fanny's heart died a little more within her breast at every sight of them. Oh, her suffering was of the acutest kind! She must force herself to express delight in their happiness, to endure their daily company, to listen attentively to their raptures of the other, and watch as Edmund became more Mary's with each day that passed.

As Mary's fine, graceful figure grew heavy and clumsy with child, it was even harder for Fanny. it was a tangible expression of their union, of Mansfield's future, and made her own prospects all the more suffocating.

She had never considered her future apart from being of use to her aunts and her cousins, and pleasing the family who had taken her in from her own. She had never held any expectations for herself- other than fulfilling their expectations for her. Then, that day came when Henry Crawford thrust himself into her life. In some ways she was grateful for his intrusion. He unsettled her and upended the family and insisted she could have a life outside of Mansfield. He questioned her existence as a perpetual inhabitant of Mansfield Park and insisted she could thrive in the world beyond. Oh, she could never accept Henry Crawford, but she could eagerly grasp the notion that Fanny Price had other choices and possibilities for the life set before her.

Now, after refusing Mr. Crawford, after leaving Portsmouth for a second time, Fanny questioned what else she could become.

Fanny spent more and more of her time in her attic room, pacing the length of it, thinking over her life. True, she could continue on as she was, living under the wings of Mansfield, and spending her days making herself useful to it's inhabitants. Someday, Mary Crawford would become Lady Bertram and Fanny's beloved Mansfield Park would become the home of Edmund and his wife. Fanny could not abide the thought of one day becoming the companion of the future Lady Bertram. She could follow her Aunt Bertram instead and remain as her companion through her dotage, but what was the use of it all? Even now, Susan was proving a far more useful and resilient companion for her aunt than Fanny had ever been and Fanny felt keenly her own dispensability.

Who was Fanny Price apart from Mansfield? What future did she have apart from the Bertrams?

Maybe, someday, William's dream could come true and the pair of them could keep house together. Yet, it would be many years before that dream could become a reality. She could not abide returning to Portsmouth indefinitely. No, Fanny did not know what she ought to do and she felt fully the lack of opportunities she had to become anything but her aunt's companion.

Perhaps, under other circumstances, Henry Crawford could have proved his merit as a viable alternative for such a lost creature and might have swooped in to repair what remained of her broken heart. Really, a wiser and more constant man would have recognized the propitious circumstances before him and do all in his power to secure the hand of his stated object. However, Henry Crawford was a man known more for his whole-hearted pursuit of pleasure than his iron-edged fortitude in hardship or long-suffering self- denial. Thus, all his words of comfort and showering of platitudes on the grieving Fanny Price were supplemented by more tangible expressions of comfort to Maria Rushworth. No efforts towards discretion, deeply shadowed alcoves, or carefully locked gardeners' sheds were a match for Mansfield's resident creep mouse. None of Henry's tender professions of devotion to Fanny, his plaintive stares, or dedicated hours at her side could wash away what Fanny's delicate eyes had seen during that morning walk before Tom's funeral... or the late afternoon walk after Edmund's wedding... or that day the family met for cards at Mansfield.

Fanny Price did indeed see more of the affairs of Mansfield Park than any other inhabitant and there was no inducement in the world that would convince Fanny to marry Henry Crawford. This was a fact that left her uncle, her cousin Edmund, and Mary Bertram decidedly displeased with her and made Fanny more miserable still. Their eyes were far less keen (or their discretion less particular) than Fanny's and she could not speak the truth of the basis of her misgivings. No, not to them. She would remain silent. Though, Mary's wit could be cutting, when she was displeased, and Aunt Norris was just as angry about Henry's continued advances as everyone else was in Fanny's refusal of them and so Fanny lived in perpetual mortification. In this, she could not please her family. Each day was a new experience in types and depths of misery.

Oooo

It was into this season of life that Mr. James Morland walked into the affairs of Mansfield Park. Within their first few conversations, they discovered they were both from large families and spoke with equal fervor about their attachment to their siblings. They quickly discovered a shared taste in literature and in the ways they preferred to spend their days. Against the sparkling, brilliant conversation of the Crawfords, Morland and Fanny were muted undertones, quiet and nondescript shadows. Few would notice them, fewer still would remember them, but they were, both, forged of more substance than all the Crawfords and Bertram's put together. That they would fall in with each other was as natural as the leaves changing color with the turning of the seasons or that the air would grow cooler with the setting of the sun.

Underneath the limbs of the avenue at Sotherton, Mr. James Morland proposed on that beautiful autumn afternoon. True, he was not Edmund Bertram, but after a morning spent at his side, patiently walking to the avenue simply because she had expressed a wish to see it, she thought he might be rather better. There was no condescension in his offer, no embarrassment over her prospects or the connections she would bring, no hint that he was "rescuing her" or saw her as anything but his equal. Indeed, it was Mr. Morland who appeared embarrassed over how little he could offer and how he was convinced of her superiority in all things.

"You are unfailingly kind and gentle. You are modest and know how to attend the needs of others. If you can be satisfied with the humble life. I can grant you, I would consider myself the happiest and most fortunate of men," he said.

He never saw her as a social inferior or an object of charity. She was neither a child nor a burdensome relation. She was not an object for idle trifling nor a trophy for conquest. She was a woman, she was his equal, and he wished for her as his wife. More than that, she was Fanny Price. Her family in Portsmouth and Mansfield were not the deciding factors in her identity but her potential as a clergyman's wife and helpmate.

She believed him. It was one trait she admired about James Morland. He spoke truly. Perhaps he lacked the eloquence of Henry Crawford or the gravity of Edmund, but if he promised he would come, he would come, and if he said he loved her, then he did.

This was an opportunity to belong somewhere, to have her own home and family- apart from the Bertrams and Prices. True, she did not yet love James with the same strength and depth and intensity she had Edmund.

But she could learn.

Perhaps, at another season of her life, Fanny Price might have been more hesitant in her response. However, James Morland's proposal came at a most propitious time… and Fanny desperately wanted to be anywhere but at Mansfield Park.

Thus, Fanny Price eagerly accepted James Morland that day. Gratitude was as firm a foundation for marital felicity as Fanny Price required and she would happily accept the opportunity before her. If gratitude could lead to love, then Fanny was well on her way to complete devotion.

Oooo

When he fled out the parsonage door and into the afternoon light, Fanny was certain she had failed him. What husband wishes for a bride that spends her wedding night weeping? Already, he offered her a home and a place and she knew she must be grateful. Indeed, she was grateful... but she was overwhelmed. It had all been too much.

She was more comfortable cloaked in invisibility and off the center stage of the family theatre. While indispensable in organizing affairs for the weddings of each of her cousins, her own proved far more taxing.

She had been overwhelmed with emotion when Sir Thomas eagerly gave his consent to the match, immediately forgetting all the months he had stated his disappointment in Fanny for refusing Crawford, and then stated his pride and pleasure in her choice. Then he bestowed a dowry so generous that Mrs. Norris was in a temper for weeks.

Fanny had expected nothing from her uncle and the sudden shift from displeasure to hearty acceptance left her reeling. Despite all Sir Thomas' support of the match, Lady Bertram struggled to accept the notion of her little Fanny leaving her side and bemoaned it constantly. Mrs. Norris was more placid. It was not so fine a match as to be outside Fanny's due but not so low to disgrace the Bertram family. With Maria and Julia settled so well, it was only fitting Fanny would make a far less advantageous match.

Still, she was convinced Sir Thomas had been far too generous and Fanny must be reminded what she was due.

"Your education, connections, and opportunities at Mansfield have done it all. Do not forget what you owe your uncle," Mrs. Norris chided- day and night until Fanny was nearly sick with it.

This was combined with the impossible task of planning a wedding. With the looming confinements of both Maria and Mary that winter, James and Fanny decided to marry as quickly as possible. Julia and Maria protested that they could not possibly abandon their engagements that fall to attend such a rapid wedding and Lady Bertram protested that Pug would not have puppies in time for the occasion.

Sir Thomas wished for a wedding fine enough to reflect well on his family and station. Mrs. Norris could not abide Fanny receiving such honors and subtly did all in her power to limit and undermine Sir Thomas' stated aims. Lady Bertram did her best to agree with both opposing sides. Mrs. Norris appointed herself to organized Fanny's trousseau, which Susan Price could not approve of and she protested loudly about it. Susan did manage to convince Lady Bertram to throw a few fine gifts into Fanny's trousseau but in the end, it fell to Mary Bertram to do the rest.

When Mary Bertram called on the great house one morning and stumbled into the chaos of wedding plans, she threw a temper that rivaled any of Maria's on her worst days and chastised Edmund's family for their behavior.

"In one breath you speak of Fanny as a daughter and dear relation and in the next, you treat her as less than a hired companion. This will not do. The wedding and wedding breakfast will follow Julia's exactly- in cost and elegance- and let us be done with it. I will see to Fanny's wedding clothes myself."

Mary then called upon Sir Thomas, received his complete blessing, and that was the end of it.

When Edmund heard about it, he praised and admired his wife for her kindness to "his dear Fanny". Mary found it ridiculous that he was so pleased by an act any person of sense would have done years ago and without meriting any such adulation.

And Fanny... did not know what she felt about it all.

While sparing her the continued mortifications of Mrs. Norris and the turmoil of being called on to make decisions no one actually permitted her to make, this also left her indebted to Mary Bertram- a woman Fanny was determined not to like. Mary's solution could not quite please Fanny because it meant the affair was still too grand, her clothes too fine, and the expense too great for her to be comfortable.

James felt differently. "It is about time someone spoke out for you, dear Fanny. After this, you will no longer be beholden or indebted to the Bertrams for anything and you may do as you please."

She reluctantly agreed… but, then again, she was not quite ready to explain to her fiancé how uncomfortable she felt with Edmund's wife organizing her wedding for her. It reminded her of Mary's interference with William's amber cross all over again. True, Mary's taste was impeccable and very fine… but she would not consult Fanny, nor realize that she needed to.

Then there was Edmund. He was genuinely pleased with the match and congratulated her eagerly in her choice of a husband. This ought to have been a comfort, but Fanny was not enough indifferent to remain unaffected by his easy acceptance of her marriage to another man. After his support of Crawford's suit, it should not have been a surprise, but it was another reminder of the disparity in their affections.

The day of the wedding came. Fanny was resplendent, or so Henry Crawford declared, far too many times for Fanny's comfort. Few of Fanny's relations were present. Only Susan and one of Fanny's brothers could attend. In some ways, this was a relief. She nearly shuddered at the thought of her father- well into his cups- interacting with Mrs. Norris. For a moment, she wished her mother might have come, but the thought of her mother- in her faded and impoverished glory- trying to hold her head up high before the Bertrams, made Fanny grateful she had declined the invitation.

James Morland's family more than made up for any lack on Fanny's side. Despite cost, distance, and other obligations, every single Morland attended (save the brother who was away at sea). Not only did his siblings all come, but they came with some of their various children and relatives. Mrs. Norris would have complained profusely- if said relatives were not in fact a viscount and his wife. No, the wedding breakfast was better attended (and with higher ranking guests) than either Maria's or Julia's. While this irritated Mrs. Norris to no end, she was also begrudgingly grateful for Mrs. Bertram's insistence on making the day finer than Mrs. Norris thought proper. It would not do to appear shabby before a viscount, after all, even if he was a connection of Fanny's husband.

After such a day, such events, when finally permitted a moment of solitude and hidden from the constant attention of so many eyes, Fanny had burst into tears. Still in her fine wedding clothes, her new husband had merely asked if she would like to sit by the fire, and she had begun to weep as though her great heart would break.

When he could not discern the cause or help quiet her tears, James Morland was at a loss. While James Morland had an abundance of experience managing the tears of sisters, he had no experience at all with those of a wife. Thus, the distraught groom can be forgiven for responding to Fanny's distress in the manner that had always served him well in the past.

He fetched his mother.

Fanny Morland was roused from her depression when the door to the parsonage opened and the last person she expected to see walked through. Strong arms enfolded her, as if she was a school girl with a scratched knee and not a bride on her wedding day, and a kind voice spoke softly to her.

"Oh, child. All will be well," she cooed, over and over again.

Mrs. Morland sent her son off to organize tea and then make himself scarce.

"But, Mother, is she unhappy with me? Is she regretting our marriage? Have I offended her somehow?"

"Jamie, when a woman weds, she must leave behind her home and family and all of her old life. It is hard, sometimes. Be patient. Give her time."

While Fanny dared not speak all, she soaked in the novel experience of being mothered. Mrs. Morland was very kind, but Fanny dared not speak aloud her true feelings. She could not say how she was torn between relief and grief at leaving Mansfield behind or how she feared disappointing her new family as much as she had the old. She could not say how ashamed she was that her Bertram and Price relations did not honor and celebrate James Morland as they ought or value him as he deserved.

She wished William had been there... and that Henry Crawford had not. She wished she had not glanced at Edmund's face so many times through the ceremony and that she could say her heart was fully healed from her attachment to him.

She wished, when Sir Thomas said he was proud of her, that she could believe him.

Wisely, Mrs. Morland did not press Fanny for more explanation than she was willing to give. Instead, she spent the remainder of the day comforting her new daughter for all her silent griefs. Then, once Fanny had gone to rest, Mrs. Morland sat her son in a chair and lectured him on the appropriate method for handling his wife's tears in future.

In the days that followed, Fanny's fears slowly calmed and her tears were spent. She learned to manage her own household, tend to her husband and his parish, and how to fill the role of Fanny Morland of Thornton Lacy.

She never had cause to repine her decision. No, as mistress of Thornton Lacy, she found a freedom and autonomy she had never experienced before. She was deeply grateful to her husband – at first, for the escape that he provided- and, later, for the man himself. It was not long before Fanny Morland discovered she truly loved her husband- with a deep, intrinsic, unshakeable constancy that made her former affections pale in comparison.

He gave her a home of her own, a place to belong, and a family. Such a family! Oh, James Morland may not have been as wealthy as a Bertram, but he was rich in other ways. In his family, Fanny gained the mother and father she had never experienced before along with a host of brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, and more cousins than she could hope to keep track of. There was a constant parade of Morland relations marching through their front door, each wishing to spend time with their "dear James" and just as eager to know his bride.

It was strange for Fanny. She experienced a family which eagerly sought each other out, who delighted in the companionship and contribution of the others. The Morlands were a family that were never quite so happy as when they were all together and even when they all descended upon a place at once, they did not sow chaos in their wake. No, when the Morlands came together, for all their merriment and exuberance, they were restrained by an impermeable sense of order and discipline which neither of Fanny's families had ever exhibited.

Fanny blossomed and thrived in her new life… and she only visited Mansfield Park on the rare occasions when she wished to. At first, she carried great guilt in her neglect of her former home. It took all the exhortations and assurances of both her sister and her husband to assure her that she was no longer responsible for the affairs of the family she left behind. Susan was there and more than capable of sorting yarn and threading needles and smiling politely in response to endless chatter.

Susan Price did not struggle with such guilt. She felt no qualms about leaving Lady Bertram in the care of her son and daughter-in-law so she could visit her sister for day or two at Thornton Lacy. At first, Fanny was confused when Susan began to appear on her doorstep as frequently as she did.

"But, what of our aunt?" Fanny asked.

"Our aunt is a grown woman," Susan retorted. "She can sort her own thread for an afternoon and I can visit my sister."

What Susan did not say, what she did not need to say, was that if she did not take frequent respites from her uncle's home, she might lose her mind. With her high spirits and unbroken ways, she required more breaks than Fanny had (or, at least, Susan was bold enough to claim the breaks she needed). Those were pleasant, happy visits filled with genuine enjoyment. Susan delighted in her new brother and his family almost as much as Fanny did and she eagerly sought their companionship at every opportunity.

"It is little wonder Fanny is the way she is," Susan confessed to her brother-in-law one day, when they were alone. "If only she could have gotten away sooner! Do you know Mrs. Norris tried to move me into Fanny's old attic? I refused. With three children married and one dead, they can very well keep me in a warm, comfortable, mouse-free family room. I am not so proud that I would claim our room in Portsmouth is better. But that is all we had and we made the best of it. I will not allow myself to be treated as a servant just so Mrs. Norris has the satisfaction of reminding me how low I am."

James frowned and shook his head. The more he learned about the affairs of Mansfield Park, the more troubled he had become. He had always been unsettled by Mrs. Norris. Indeed, he had unintentionally upset the whole order of things at Mansfield his first dinner with the family when he chastised Mrs. Norris for speaking so freely and so ill of Mrs. Price in front of strangers. Their relationship had started off poorly and never improved from there.

It took two years of prying at locked doors and layers of dried on reticence to get Fanny to begin to speak the truth of it all. So fearful that her true emotions would lead to punishment and rejection, she hardly ever shared what her thoughts were. She was deeply indebted to him. She dared not upset him by explaining just why she so disliked the Crawfords or what her life at Mansfield had been like or the real reasons she had been so eager to marry.

It took all the strength and tenacity of a team of oxen to drag the truth out of her. When he managed it, James was furious. Not with her, never with her, but with her relations. Mostly, James was angry with his old friend.

"Do not hold the past against him, James!" Fanny pressed. "He was always so kind. He did his best- but he did not know much of what went on. He cannot be held accountable for my Aunt Norris or Henry Crawford."

"That is why I am angry! Because he was kind. Edmund appointed himself as your protector; he ought to have known what was going on around him."

A small, quiet part of James Morland was also grateful to Edmund Bertram. The two men were so alike, in some ways. Each had been caught up in first passions and entirely oblivious to affairs outside themselves. Each man meant well and was convinced of both his own wisdom and goodness. Yet, circumstances questioned both without mercy.

There had been no elder brothers and ill-fated rides to shift his circumstances and preserve his attachment to Isabella Thorpe. With long years of life and maturity between James Morland and his first youthful infatuation, he was deeply grateful for his lack of fortune. His first broken heart was the best thing that could have happened to him. Though his sweet, quiet wife still would not admit to it to a living soul, James Morland knew all the signs and symptoms of a broken heart. He also knew a heart could mend and heal and love even more deeply in the aftermath.

James Morland was grateful for his lot as a country parson… and even more grateful to have supplanted his old friend - both in his living and in the affections of Fanny Price.

It was two years after this when Susan came to Thornton Lacy and refused to leave.

"Please. I can help with the children. Let me stay with you," she pleaded.

She was so uncharacteristically desperate and unlike herself that James and Fanny were immediately worried.

"What has happened, Susie?" James asked. "Of course, our home is always open to you, but what has occurred?"

"Henry Crawford."

Those two words were enough to ensure a room was set aside for Susan's permanent use and no number of promises and pleadings from Sir Thomas and Edmund would convince Susan to return for anything but short visits.

"He was idle and useless and without anything else to occupy his time. He decided I would prove an adequate diversion," Susan admitted. "He decided one sister would do as well as the other, I suppose. I refused. He keeps pressing his suit."

"What of Sir Thomas?" James asked.

"He has been supportive of my refusal," Susan said, casting an apologetic glance at her sister. "Whenever he is not around, though, Mrs. Norris and Maria are doing their best to punish me for Henry's pursuit. I am not a paid companion. I've no obligation to remain. I will return to Portsmouth, if I must, but no amount of fine food and fancy beds are worth this."

It was unanimously agreed that Susan would remain with the Morlands. This proved fortuitous when, not four months later, Lieutenant Price stayed with the Morlands during his shore leave… and introduced Susan to a naval acquaintance. While it had to wait until he was promoted to captain, Susan's future happiness was set from then on. She far preferred life on board ship to Mansfield Park. By then, William Price had been promoted to the rank of captain as well. The Moorlands kept a room for him in their home for whenever he was ashore. Their home was filled with gifts from the far reaches of the globe. Both William and Susan spent far more time with the Morlands than they ever did at Portsmouth… or Mansfield. It was there they felt the most at home.

Five years into their marriage, James did not hesitate to accept a living that opened closer to his childhood home. Closer to his family- and farther from Fanny's- they could start again. There, in a village where they were known only as the parson and his family, they were no longer encumbered by the conflicted, complicated relationships with Mansfield Park. They never regretted the change.

Yet, Mansfield Park was not quite ready to relinquish them completely.

Edmund missed Fanny, once she was gone. Rationally, he knew change was inevitable, once marriages occurred. He realized he had never truly considered what it would mean for Fanny to marry. Closer and more truly caring than either of his sisters, he felt Fanny's absence throughout Mansfield and at all their family gatherings. He missed the intimacy they had shared, before his marriage. Their conversations, her mind, her way of thinking had always challenged and refreshed him.

The choice, and it had always been a mutually exclusive choice, had been between Fanny and Mary. Mary would never part with her brother and Fanny would never abide her brother. Thus, Edmund had unintentionally exchanged one companion for the other. He loved his wife dearly... but he missed his cousin.

Thornton Lacy was a convenient enough distance that the families were frequently in company, though not as often as he would have preferred. He loved his sisters and his wife's family, but Mr. and Mrs. James Morland were far more agreeable company.

Then, they moved away.

Edmund kept inviting them to come to Mansfield. Mary, too, sent letter after letter inviting the Morland children for an extended stay with their cousins.

"Julia's children and Maria's son will be there," she said.

The Morlands politely refused.

"Why does Fanny not come?" Edmund complained, after receiving yet another refusal.

Mary did not fail to notice it was Fanny's absence more than James' which upset him. "She is a wife and a mother. She has many duties to attend to. You have a wife of your own. What can you need with your cousin? Let her be."

"Would you say that if Henry failed to visit you?" Edmund argued.

"He is my brother."

"Fanny is like my sister," Edmund argued back.

Mary let out a huff of exasperation. "Invite Julia, then."

"Fanny is not Julia."

"You said she is like your sister."

"You know that is not what I meant."

"We have returned to our old argument, then. Edmund, Fanny is not your sister." Mary pursed her lips in that way of hers, like a horse preparing to charge. And Edmund only raised his hands in surrender. Mary immediately released her defenses and smiled.

"Perhaps, we can visit the Morlands after the season in London this year," she said.

"I would like that."

oooo

Mansfield Park was not to be avoided forever. There were some obligations which not even Fanny could turn her back to. When she received the news of Sir Thomas' death, Fanny immediately prepared to return. The newly appointed Sir Edmund and Lady Bertram received them gratefully.

The drawing room had fresh papers and a new harp stood next to the pianoforte. The next generation of Bertrams lined up to greet their cousins before traipsing outside to play in the garden.

It was not until after the funeral was over and done with and the Rushworths and Thompsons returned home that Edmund had the opportunity for a walk in the garden with his cousin.

He looked older now, a touch a grey at his temples and more lines in his face than she remembered.

"Sir Edmund," Fanny said, with a smile, as he greeted her. "It suits you."

"It did not always," he said.

"It does now."

"I suppose it does."

For a time, they spoke of inconsequential matters and walked freely through the garden. Then, conversations turned to weightier matters, as it had always done between them, when they were young.

"My father was regretful that he did not see you or Susan before the end."

"I am sorry for your loss, Edmund. Truly," she said.

"I am glad James and you could come now," he said. "It's been far too long since we last met."

She nodded once but looked away, her eye not quite meeting his. He gently pressed her arm to claim her attention back to himself. "Fanny, why have you not come? All these years… I know it is more than preoccupation or duty. Tell me."

She looked away again and sighed. "It is nothing."

"No, speak truthfully."

She forced a smile. "You know I do not like leaving my home, once I am settled."

"Mansfield Park was once your home."

"That was many years ago," she answered.

It was Edmund's turn to look away and his entire aspect looked pained. "We failed you," he said, as if the words carried the weight of stones rather than air. "All of us. The whole affair with Crawford… you were upset and rightfully so."

She watched him warily, her posture communicating her discomfort. He continued. "For what it is worth, I am sorry, Fanny. Truly. When I consider what fate I pressed upon you, what future I wished you to accept, I cannot say how much shame and regret I feel.

"I assume you knew. You always knew, but were too delicate to speak on it... you knew that Maria's child, that Henry and her…," he said, stumbling over his words. When he caught her expression, he deflated and hung his head. "We were wrong to ignore things as long as we did. I can see that now. We tried for so long... but the boy, he takes after his father in looks and mannerisms so..., my father finally spoke to me about it. He was deeply ashamed, Fanny, about his treatment of you and he had nothing but praise for your sense and fortitude."

He watched her, hoping for a smile, for some positive response. When she did not answer, he continued. "Henry married, you know."

She nodded.

"Maria was in a foul temper for some time after that, but her son is growing well and he is her pride and joy. Rushworth, too, delights in the boy. He turns a blind eye to it all and says the boy is a Rushworth through and through. He has never managed a child of his own, not even an illegitimate one, you know, oh, why would you know? What folly is it that I know such things?" He looked up at her then, his expression rueful. "You do not need to say it, Fanny. You are right to be disappointed in me. I am disappointed in myself. How easily I cast off all principles and scruples and rationalize my own wishes! I have not lived up to any of the principles I claimed to hold and I failed you, in so many ways."

She could not remain unmoved by such words or the flow of tears that accompanied them. "Not failed, cousin, surely. I am indebted to you for so much. You played such a formative role in my growth and the woman I have become and I am grateful for it."

"You never faltered or gave way. You are the best woman I have ever known."

"No, Edmund. I am not. Do not make the same mistakes with me you have made in your past. No one- man or woman- is without fault and error and weakness. Ourselves included. Your greatest fault is to insist on being blind to the faults of those you love. That is not love. To truly learn to love, you must face their faults and mistakes and errors. You must see them clearly and fully, and still choose them."

"As you always did for me. For all of us."

"No, cousin, it is a lesson I am still learning. You are right. I was hurt and angry- about so many things. I could not return here. Not then," she said.

"I am glad you came. Now."

"I am, as well," she answered, her smile genuine. " You are well and where you belong and I am glad of that. I am where I belong as well."

It was then that James found them and joined in on the remainder of their morning walk. It was not long before there was such a cacophony of noise from their combined children that further discussion was impossible. The eldest Bertram – a fine young man they had named Thomas- merrily skipped rocks across a pond with Henry and Theodore Morland. All the girls sat together in the grass weaving flower crowns and chattering excitedly.

Fanny was struck with a sense of such deep contentment that she could only smile to herself. She could not regret her past decisions- or Edmund's- since they had led her here. The lives of her children would be so different from hers; their experience of Mansfield Park would be their own. It would be up to them to determine the fate of the next generation that grew and dwelt in its shadow.

The End