With What Intense Desire

Portsmouth at the end of winter was a punishment to be endured, but the spring would arrive whether it seemed in the air or weeks away.

Fanny could not help but sigh at the weeks before her until Easter would bring her to Mansfield Park once more. Almost she could have wished she had accepted Mr Crawford's offer to return her home, but she knew it would not have been right. Even though she must be missed, she must surely be missed, Lady Bertram must be in want of Fanny's services, with Tom ill, she must wait for Sir Thomas to call her back. He would send for her when he deemed it time. Unless she was, in truth, not needed. Not missed by any body.

It was not so very long after Mr Crawford had taken reluctant leave of her, that she received a most unexpected letter.

My dear Fanny

Lady Bertram has informed you of your cousin Tom's situation. My own hopes that after recovering from his journey hither he would be materially improved have not been fulfilled. For the present, Tom remains feverish and in need of a great deal of care.

Your Aunt Bertram misses you greatly. She is naturally very much distressed by Tom's condition, and although we all depend upon your Aunt Norris's active assistance to the household, it would be of considerable comfort to Lady Bertram to have you here with her.

I am very sorry to deprive you of time with your family, but I am writing to request most urgently that you prepare to return home to Mansfield as soon as possible. My wife wishes to extend an invitation to your sister Susan to accompany you to Mansfield, and I hope that you will consider this some small recompense for your being deprived of the rest of your family after so short a time in their company.

Your cousin Edmund spends a good deal of his time in the sick room with his brother, and cannot be spared for the journey, and my own business here is such that I cannot be spared either. Accordingly, I have written to Mr Crawford to ask him to convey you and your sister to Mansfield as soon as may be possible.

I wish you a pleasant journey and look forward to seeing you at Mansfield Park in a very few days.
Yours, etc, Thomas Bertram, Bt.

Fanny was so very much astonished by this letter, from Sir Thomas himself! that she had perforce to read it two or three times in order fully to comprehend the sense of it. What a storm of emotions was roused by its contents! To be assured that she was needed, really needed and wished for by Lady Bertram, brought the most wonderful and grateful sensations to her, and she truly longed to be back at Mansfield, helping her beloved aunt, comforting her with calm reading and gentle conversation, supporting her through the dreadful trial of seeing her eldest child in such straits.

And to be invited to bring Susan to Mansfield! Such generosity, such kindness, and in the midst of their own difficulties! Never had Fanny felt such sincere gratitude to her aunt and uncle. It was, she felt certain, her aunt's mentioning of Susan, after all Fanny's letters describing her sister's many good qualities, that had inspired the invitation, but it was Sir Thomas, with his energy and his practical mind, who had issued the invitation. Oh, that she had ever thought him stern and unfeeling! Fanny reproached herself for ever underrating Sir Thomas Bertram's most excellent qualities, but she must compose herself and be ready to do his bidding. She must inform her mother that she would be leaving, must ask her parents' permission to take Susan with her, they must pack—oh, so much to be accomplished in so short a time!

And yet. Sir Thomas had asked Henry Crawford to convey her to Mansfield Park. Henry Crawford was to bring about this most welcome return. How was she to understand this? Was it a request made from sheer, desperate practicality, or did Sir Thomas still hold to the belief that Fanny must be brought to marry Henry Crawford? How vexatious it was to be obliged to Mr Crawford for such a favour, for the thing she most wanted, for her return home. For home it was. Before her visit to Portsmouth was begun, she was used to calling Portsmouth home, she had been fond of saying that she was going home. Nothing was so precious to her as home, and yet, she now understood that Portsmouth was not the home she longed for. Portsmouth was Portsmouth. Mansfield Park was home. Even Sir Thomas understood that Mansfield was her home.

At least, she consoled herself, she would have Susan beside her. Mr Crawford could not... could not speak of... not while Susan was there.

Mrs Price expressed regret at the curtailment of her eldest daughter's time with the family, but since Sam brought his breeches to be mended after a mad slide down the cobbles, and Betsey climbed into her lap to encumber the mending process and ask for kisses, she had not so very much time to spend on the sweet sorrow of parting. She was unflatteringly happy to give permission for Susan to leave, a carelessness which affected Fanny far more than it did Susan. For Fanny, the loss to the household of this intelligent and sensible sister would have been something to regret, even though it represented a gain for Susan herself, but for their mother, it would lead to greater peace. Betsey might have benefitted from Susan's capable presence, had the two sisters not been unable to coexist without argument and complaint.

It was all settled, and Mr Crawford, coming in haste only from London, had a shorter and quicker journey than Edmund Bertram might have made from Northamptonshire. He arrived at the doorstep early on the following morning, and, Fanny and Susan having been most anxious to be quite ready when he came, he found them all prepared and needing only to bid their goodbyes before mounting into the carriage.

*

It need hardly be said that Mr Crawford made himself agreeable both to Fanny and to her sister, in whom he hoped to find an ally, as the carriage made its way from Portsmouth towards Northamptonshire. But Fanny was distracted by thoughts of what must be happening at Mansfield. Of poor Tom, the cousin who had until now taken up very little of her attention. Now that he was ill and helpless, her tender heart was all sympathy, the more so because Tom's life had hitherto been of so little use to his family, his friends, to any body, and how very dreadful a waste it would be should it be over without his having the opportunity to reform.

She had already spoken to Susan on the subject, last night, as they packed for the journey. Now, Fanny shared her thoughts with Mr Crawford, who was more or less under an obligation to agree with her, although it was probable that he had never before considered that Tom Bertram might be expected to be of use to any other creature in the world. His halting speech as he found his way towards an accord with Fanny's thoughts served to remind her that he, like Tom, had never been of use to any body, except perhaps to his sister, and since her thoughts of Mary Crawford were as far from charitable as such a gentle creature's thoughts could ever be, this was no great recommendation.

"Of course you must be wanted at Mansfield, Miss Price! I cannot understand how they have managed without you. Your Aunt Norris is very busy and makes herself useful, but she has not your calming air nor your gentleness of spirit."

If she had only a little vanity, these words must have pleased her, but Fanny was too anxious about her Aunt Bertram's helpless woe, attended as she must be by only Aunt Norris, who was incapable of truly being a comfort to anyone in the world. It pained Fanny to think so harshly even of Mrs Norris, but she would not deny even to herself that Mrs Norris was more likely to inflame a feverish temper than to provide calm for it, and her harsh and impatient manner would not assuage Lady Bertram's fears in the least. As she could not speak such words aloud, she fell silent, and Henry Crawford had no better alternative than Susan for conversation.

Susan, however ill-trained for genteel conversation she might be, had nonetheless a great many pressing questions to ask about Mansfield Park and its environs, which Henry was most willing to answer. Their voices blurred at the edge of Fanny's thoughts, and she occupied herself with wishing, and hoping, and anticipating all the ways in which she might alleviate her aunt's suffering.

The countryside roused Fanny from her thoughts. After the last houses on the road out of Portsmouth, the world became green and pleasant. Grass, simple grass, gave her delight. The trees, though mostly bare, often bore a lace-work of budding leaves. Here and there, streaks of crocus yellow, forsythia in the hedgerows, and the bright heads of daffodils, spoke of a Spring beginning to take hold of the countryside. Fanny watched each sign with eagerness. It had been such privation to her, to spend the early part of this most wonderful of seasons in a town so noisy and dirty and so lacking in friends and proper company.

And now, at last, she was going home. Home to Mansfield. The burgeoning countryside seemed to welcome her, nodding merrily at her as she passed. The sky so blue, the very air, unburdened by salt and smoke, from these Fanny drew strength. She was going home, where she was wanted, where she could be truly useful, where she had been missed.

However, a journey of more than one hundred and fifty miles cannot be accomplished in total silence, not if the travellers have any sensitivity or sense of social proprieties, and so it proved. Conversation was to be had, and they found their way to topics which might be discussed. They stopped to refresh themselves and to change horses, and Susan's evident pleasure at this trivial excursion amused Mr Crawford and gave him back some happy superiority as he determined how best to provide for his charges.

When they returned to the road, general conversation was possible once more, with Mr Crawford determined to please. He would have talked of the theatre, of balls and parties, but when Fanny could talk only of the beauties of the South Downs, he recalled that she had been to but a single ball in her life, and had been a most reluctant participant in that ill-fated theatrical adventure at Mansfield, and prudently kept to other subjects. He talked of the attractions of London, of Buckingham House and the Court of St James's, and the beauty of Saint Paul's Cathedral in the City, and of the parks which were so splendidly abundant.

Susan was helpful in this respect. She was curious about the countryside, but she was more curious about the towns they passed through. Basingstoke, then Reading, provided much matter, as Henry Crawford was able to speak of them with animation. He could not help but be informative and interesting, and Susan was an excellent listener.

They passed the night in comfort at Oxford, and Fanny was almost surprised at how readily she fell asleep in a strange bed, with her sister snuggled beside her. The next day's share of the journey was passed in much the same manner—the city and the university providing Mr Crawford with much material—but even Susan's interest flagged at last, at the anecdotes of persons with whom she would never become acquainted and scholarly pursuits which she could never pursue. Mr Crawford found that his best audience was distracted by the sights along the side of the road, and that Fanny, never quite so attentive as he could have wished, was likewise using his silence to increase her scrutiny of the countryside through which they were travelling. She looked more eagerly at every signpost, each one signalling her closer to her home, and the very thought brought a tiny, unconscious smile to her lips.

It might be expected that it would come as a relief to Mr Crawford to be able to rest after providing entertainment to his company for so many hours of travel, but he was unwilling to give up the conversational crown he had so painstakingly earned. Tempted by that gentle smile, he felt it was time to intrude his own interests, so, leaning a little forward to engage her attention, he began. "Allow me, my dear Miss Price, to express my delight at being permitted to be of service to you," he said. "I was pleased beyond measure to receive Sir Thomas Bertram's appeal. It could not have been more welcome. And I must say that I hope I have earned the right to offer my services to you again in the future."

Fanny, jolted back into the carriage by being thus addressed, was uncertain how to respond. She had thought that with Susan by her side, Mr Crawford would be obliged to speak only of generalities. She had expected to be safe. To Susan, she supposed, Mr Crawford's professions merely sounded obsequious, but to her, this little speech was almost sinister. Amid all her happiness at returning home, this was the one blight, that Sir Thomas could find no more suitable person than Henry Crawford to convey her thither. Yet she must acknowledge that Mr Crawford was indeed doing her a great service, and she could not even be grudgingly in her thanks, because she recognised in full the trouble which he was undertaking so willingly.

"I hope," Mr Crawford went on, apparently taking her silence as modest consent to hear more, "that I may be afforded an opportunity to speak to you privately before many days have gone by." All this was designed to pass unnoticed by Susan, but in fact, both Mr Crawford and Fanny underrated the younger sister, who was perfectly well able to understand Mr Crawford's sly attempts at lovemaking. Miss Susan Price kept her thoughts to herself but absorbed every scrap of information that might come her way, and most certainly did not miss this.

"I dare say," said Miss Susan Price, "that my sister will be very much occupied when we are at Mansfield Park. Our Aunt Bertram needs her very much, is not that so, Fanny?"

"Oh, indeed, it is," Fanny said, gratefully.

"And of course I shall need Fanny's help to find my way about, and to learn how I can also be useful," Susan said, bestowing a bright smile upon Mr Crawford, who did not appear to appreciate it much but was too taken aback to proceed with his usual aplomb. "I cannot suppose there will be any time for private visits until our cousin is better."

Fanny could not misunderstand: her sister knew of the difficulties associated with Mr Crawford, and she was determined to defend Fanny. To have one person, just one, who was wholly on her side felt almost miraculous, when every body else was so set upon approving the match. Perhaps it was this that gave Fanny greater resolution than she had ever felt before. Perhaps the fact that she was returning home to Mansfield Park was what strengthened her, or perhaps the burgeoning of the springtime countryside had refreshed her courage to an unprecedented degree. Perhaps, too, it was the knowledge that no body in this carriage had the right to exercise any authority over her. Sir Thomas was not here. Lady Bertram was not here. Edmund, whose authority she acknowledged even though he would lay no claim to it, was not here. Not even Mrs Norris was here. Only Fanny Price, who would give her own answer to the constant and ill-judged repetitions of Mr Crawford's suit, and would expect at last to be believed.

"Sir," she said, "I beg you, let me hear no more. I am truly grateful for your kindness in agreeing to convey my sister and me back to Mansfield, where the family is in such sad straits. They will, I know, be as filled with gratitude as I am myself. But I have always been clear in my refusal of what you offer. You cannot possibly be mistaken in my feelings, and it is painful to hear such declarations made in denial of what I have told you." Thus did Fanny declare herself, and if she was not quite as definitive as she thought herself, she was still able to convey more of what she felt than Mr Crawford had ever expected to hear. She closed her lips resolutely—she felt herself to have been almost cruelly explicit, and did not dare say more. Her shyness served her well, for she might have foundered in a morass of words which could only obfuscate what she had said. She returned her gaze to the world passing the carriage window.

Mr Crawford was very much taken aback by the comparative forthrightness of Fanny's statement, and began, perhaps for the first time in his life, to doubt his own powers of persuasion, to question whether he might not be able to make Fanny Price fall in love with him after all. It was a hard lesson for his vanity to take, and his vanity made a fight of it. Could this gentle creature truly be so immune to his charm, when he might have had any other woman of his acquaintance for the asking? He was shaken, very much shaken. And the effect of Miss Susan Price's unwavering gaze did not permit him to settle himself calmly and reason himself back into his accustomed certainty.

At last, at last, Fanny began to recognise the place names and to know herself very close to home. Now she could savour every thing, the longing for home could recede because the reality was so very close. As they entered the Park, her every sense was alert to all the changes around her, from the winter she had left to the spring about her now, not quite so advanced as springtime one hundred and fifty miles further south, but poised in that delightful season when farther beauty is known to be at hand, when the lightness and promise of the countryside yet promises that there is more to come. She could not repress her delight nor the smile that spread across her face. Susan noticed it, and reflected that she had never seen Fanny so happy before. Perhaps Mr Crawford noticed it, too.

Of course, there was worry ahead. Poor Tom's condition was unknown, he might have relapsed, he might be worse. Poor Edmund must be oppressed with fear for his brother—Fanny would not think of the extra cares heaped upon him by his persistent attachment to Mary Crawford. And poor, dear Lady Bertram must be distraught.

The carriage was drawn up, the door was opened. And Lady Bertram came out from the drawing room at once, came all in a hurry, wrapped Fanny in her arms, and exclaimed, "Dear Fanny! Now I shall be comfortable!" And Fanny's heart swelled with gratification and delight at being thus addressed. She was, most certainly, needed here.

It was more than a moment before Lady Bertram took time to look about her, but she then greeted Susan with quiet kindness, and acknowledged Mr Crawford with smiling, almost incoherent thanks for his service to them all. Sir Thomas was there to greet them then, and with such genuine affection that Fanny was almost overcome. He inquired most sincerely after her health, and she felt herself to be in less than her best looks after nearly two days travelling. Indeed, there is something very peculiar in the matter of travel, for although the traveller does not participate in the effort of the journey but merely sits and is conveyed by hard-working horses and an attentive coachman, yet he or she experiences almost as much exhaustion as though she had walked the whole way. Fanny thanked Mr Crawford very prettily for his kindness, and conveyed Susan upstairs at once to her room.

Lady Bertram having retreated to her sofa, Sir Thomas thanked Mr Crawford more effusively, but he, having expressed his pleasure at being able to provide such a service, was oddly unwilling to linger for more thanks and instead got back into his carriage for the final destination of the vicarage.

Sir Thomas was left to wonder whether he had been altogether wise to leave Fanny in Portsmouth for so long. How wan she looked! Had his scheme to bring her to a better appreciation of Henry Crawford's advantages resulted only in the decline of her health? Had Mr Crawford, in fact, been repelled by the sad want of bloom in Fanny's cheeks? His swift departure had not permitted Sir Thomas to invite him to dine with them, after the journey. Had he, perhaps, tired of Fanny's company, with so much of it all at once?

 

The evening made a less satisfactory home-coming than might have been hoped. Fanny was, in truth, very tired indeed from the journey. Susan, not knowing where to put herself nor what to do, kept quiet and minded her manners quite meticulously. Sir Thomas's bluff cheerfulness did not sort well with the travellers' mood. Edmund appeared briefly to greet Fanny, who was very much distressed by his drawn looks, though he assured her, briefly, that Tom's case was not so desperate as they had at first thought it. Mrs Norris, who arrived to bustle unnecessarily and hurry to attend to her sister, leaving unrestfulness in her wake, made only a very little ripple in Fanny's awareness, and Fanny was glad to take a little bread and milk, and to shepherd Susan upstairs to sleep. The morrow would be soon enough to feel all the true delights of home.

After the most refreshing night of sleep she had had in many weeks, and a light breakfast on her own—Susan was not yet awake, and Lady Bertram breakfasted in her room—Fanny was pleased to find Edmund looking for her, and very quickly suggested they might walk in the gardens which she had missed so much. It would be a tonic for her, and, she could perceive, also for Edmund, for whom so much time lately had been spent in the crepuscule of the sick room.

"I regret that I was not able to fetch you myself from Portsmouth," Edmund began, "but I really could not be spared. My brother's health is in so precarious a state, it was not possible—but I am heartily glad that it gave Henry an opportunity to demonstrate to you that he is your most sincere friend."

This was not at all what Fanny had hoped for. She seized on that part of his speech which ought by rights to concern her most, and inquired for more details of Tom. "I understand from my Aunt Bertram's letter that he was so very ill when you brought him home that she does not very well know how to go on."

"My mother was very much overcome by the sight of him, and it is hard for her to clear her mind of the picture he made when he was carried into the house, but I do believe he will make a recovery. It may take some time, perhaps many months."

"Lady Bertram seemed very much more tranquil about my cousin when we spoke last night."

"As to that, my mother is perhaps a little too eager to seize upon trifles, anything which may indicate that Tom is better. He is not precisely better, at present. But my mother is not well suited to the sick room. She is not meant to be a nurse. My father and I prefer to keep the details of Tom's situation to ourselves. We have consulted with the physician—he was here yesterday, while you were travelling—and there is no doubt that Tom is far from recovered as yet. But there is no need to worry my mother with this."

"You are the best of brothers," she ventured, bravely. "You are the one person of all the household whom he most wants to keep about him. But I think," she went on, for Edmund's pale face was troubling her, "that you must be sure to take care of yourself. I remember your strictures to me, you see, I know that a little fresh air and exercise are necessary every day, and I must urge you to remember it and be sure to take yourself out of the sick room for a little while at least, every day."

"You are quite right, Fanny, and I thank you. Your kindness is a comfort. I shall do my best—perhaps we may agree to walk together like this every morning?" He looked around, appearing to see for the first time the buds on the shrubs, the small, shy flowers in the grass, and the sky, pale but cloudless. "I know my mother needs you very much. She fretted for your company all the while you were in Portsmouth, and frequently mentioned that she could not believe your mother could need you more than she did herself. My father was resolute that it was right for you to spend time with your own parents and brothers and sisters. But mama will be better now."

"I am so glad to be able to be of use," Fanny said, and could not say more, for the sweet knowledge that she was so important to Lady Bertram constricted her throat, and there was no getting more words out.

"I will not ask that you take a turn in the sick room," Edmund said. "But if you will talk with me, and allow me, sometimes, to open my heart to you, it would be so exactly what I need, Fanny. I cannot speak of these matters to my mother, or to my aunt, and my father is so very preoccupied with Tom that I would not burden him with my own troubles." Oh, do not burden me, Fanny wanted to say, but she could not bring herself to do so. It would be absolutely cruel.

Edmund walked on a little way, and then continued. "I know that you hoped to hear from me while I was in London. Crawford told me so. But it was impossible for me to write, and I knew that you would understand my silence. I had nothing to write, nothing to give anyone happiness. From the very minute I arrived I found her altered. You may imagine—indeed, you may know, for I am aware that you and she corresponded during this time—how she must have been affected by those in whose company she now remained. If she could but be detached from them! I am sure she cannot love them as she loves you! Indeed, her attachment to you, as well as her behaviour as a sister, these are points in which I can discern her upright, praiseworthy character. Oh, Fanny! I cannot give her up!" He dropped Fanny's arm and began pacing to and fro. "I have no jealousy of any individual. It is the fashionable world that holds her."

Fanny marvelled, but silently, at Edmund's persistence in seeing Mary Crawford as a blameless creature only influenced into wrong-doing, or at any rate into wrong thinking, by irresistible external forces. How could he not see Miss Crawford's willingness, nay, eagerness, to be so influenced?

"If it were merely that I am comparatively poor," he went on, "but it is her prejudice against my chosen profession—and yet, I believe those prejudices are not so strong as they were."

He was speaking as his thoughts occurred to him, Fanny knew. If he would but pause to allow a rational examination of his situation, she felt he must summon up the strength of will to renounce Miss Crawford, but his feelings were too much out of control. Perhaps Miss Crawford was not the only one affected by external forces. He was blinded by Miss Crawford's attractions even though he knew, he had already seen, that she was not for him. He would not believe it. He would insist that Mary's love for Fanny was a virtue in her, yet to Fanny's eyes it was no such thing. She loves nobody but herself and her brother, Fanny thought. And she has willingly allowed her fashionable friends to lead her astray for years!

It was not, for Fanny, a pleasant walk. The joys of being back at Mansfield, of being home, and in early springtime, were clogged and blackened by Edmund's inability to see the truth that was so clear to Fanny. He could not give her up! No, nor ask neither, to resolve this situation one way or the other. He resented his present state of uncertainty, yet would do nothing that might elicit an absolute refusal, and he was deceiving himself, Fanny believed, because he would not see. It was for the best, she really thought it must be for the best, that Tom had been injured, since this had caused Edmund to fetch his unfortunate brother home to Mansfield and to stay there with him, away from Mary Crawford's pernicious influence.

She did not say this. She checked herself, as she always did. It was not her place to tell Edmund what to do or what to think. It was only her place to offer him sympathy and a ready ear.

"When Tom is restored to health, I shall go back to London," Edmund said, decisively. "I cannot leave now, of course, but I am afraid to leave Miss Crawford to the influence of her friends."

Poor Fanny. To be the repository of such confidences could do nothing for her own peace of mind. She could not even talk to Susan about everything she felt. Such a betrayal of Edmund's trust was something she could not contemplate. But it was very hard to have to hold her feelings out of sight, and not to offer her advice where it would not be listened to.

It was, however, still spring in the gardens and woods of Mansfield Park, and Fanny, remaining outdoors when Edmund returned to the sick room, felt the restorative power of it. It occurred to her that if the garden were to be the remedy for Edmund's low spirits, it might also be helpful to Tom. Perhaps he was as yet too weak to be able to go outside. Still, she might be able to take a little of the outside to him. Her eager eyes soon spied a clump of primroses, creamy petals with yellow-starred hearts nestling in the grass. Carefully, she picked the longest of the little stems. She carried them inside, found a tiny bud vase and water, and carried her gift to Tom's room. Edmund was back at his accustomed post, and took them from her with a doubtful smile.

Mrs Norris was no doubt with Lady Bertram. Fanny sighed inwardly and went back to her duty there.

 

"Are there not two sisters, also?" Susan inquired, as she and Fanny walked towards the stables to set about re-establishing Fanny's habit of riding a little while every day. "I wonder that they are not here to help nurse Cousin Tom."

Fanny agreed so strongly with this remark that it was quite difficult to come up with a reasonable explanation. "Mrs Rushworth, Maria, that is, the elder of the girls, is but lately married."

"Oh. Then she wants to stay with her husband."

Possibly, thought Fanny. "And Julia remains with them also. I suppose it is quite a change, to be married and far from the home where one grew up, so the two sisters are glad of one another."

Susan appeared to find this reasonable, and was more than ready to go into raptures over Fanny's pretty mare, and to respond most eagerly to the offer of being taught to ride herself, when a suitable habit might be found for her.

 

As though Edmund's daily reiterations of the same complaints and praise and indecisions were not wearing enough, Fanny received a letter from Mary Crawford herself a few days later. And what a letter! Mary claimed to feel for the distress of those at Mansfield during Tom's illness, but her true purpose, with barely even a shred of concealment attempted, was to discover whether Tom might be on the brink of death. Edmund the clergyman was not good enough for her, but with the prospect of his becoming Sir Edmund Bertram in time, she might be able to smile upon him in earnest. Fanny was so indignant, so disgusted, at the content of this letter, in which all Mary's charms were employed in vain, almost led her to fail to notice a little paragraph about Henry Crawford spending time at Richmond, presumably in the vicinity of Maria Rushworth and Julia Bertram. It did not interest her greatly what Henry Crawford might choose to do with his time, so long as he would leave her in peace. If only her conscience would permit her to show this letter to Edmund, perhaps the sheer heartless ambition contained within its elegantly written pages might demonstrate to him at last that the woman whom he had chosen was entirely unworthy of his esteem.

Or perhaps not. Edmund might allow himself to be convinced by those effusive expressions of concern. It was increasingly difficult for Fanny to remember the kind, sensible, wise cousin who had spent so much of his time teaching the scared child she had once been, now that he seemed to have lost all sense and wisdom in his misplaced passion for Mary Crawford. A woman whose faults were so transparent to Fanny, and yet so invisible to her cousin. She could not allow herself to feel angry with Edmund, but it was hard to keep her frustration in check, when every morning she walked in the garden with him and had to listen to him repeating the same complaints, the same justifications, the same hopes and vacillations.

The letter from Mary Crawford must be replied to. There was no escaping the unwelcome correspondence. So she wrote, representing Tom's condition as Edmund had represented it to her. And waited in resignation for the next letter, which would no doubt be in the same vein and would be just as repugnant to read.

Meanwhile, she began to instruct Susan in those matters which had been neglected in Portsmouth. In principles, and in those little signs which might betray a lack of principle. Susan was naturally endowed with a clear mind and a strong sense of justice, and Fanny found her a most interested recipient of such instruction.

If Mary Crawford should ever come back to Mansfield, Susan must be armed against her.

 

Fanny made it her business to augment the primroses daily. After four days, she was permitted to enter the sickroom herself to place the fresh vase by Tom's bedside, and he even smiled at her. She was shocked at what illness had wrought in his face. The once full cheeks were sunken, the light dimmed in his eyes, even his hair seemed dull. The loud, confident, careless young man was diminished and helpless. It was almost painful to witness, and she could not be surprised at Lady Bertram's shock and distress. Her own heart was wrung, and she had hardly given any thought to Tom, before.

However, Edmund was pleased with Tom's progress. He was certainly on the way to regaining his health.

When it occurred to Fanny to be surprised that Miss Crawford had not yet written again, she permitted herself to feel the satisfaction of being able to say, when asked—as she would eventually, certainly, be asked—that Tom was recovering. That would not do for Miss Crawford at all!

 

And then, when a full week later the next letter arrived, it threw her into confusion. It was a hasty, almost scrawled note in which Miss Crawford talked of "scandalous, ill-natured rumour" which Fanny was not to believe, and Henry was somehow involved, and she, Fanny, was to say not a word of it. But who was "gone"? Maria? And Julia? And... Henry? This was extraordinary. What was she to make of it all? Fanny's understanding was not lacking, she was very well able to infer that something very wrong had happened, and that it involved Henry Crawford, the man who less than a fortnight ago had been addressing himself to her in unmistakeable terms.

Well for Fanny that she had no vanity to be outraged.

She was further astonished to receive, in the following day's post, a letter from her mother. Not a good letter, not one to be proud of, but it recounted her father's explosive wrath and contempt at—at something he had read in the newspaper which appeared to refer to Mrs Rushworth! In the newspaper! Her mother was shocked, certainly, at the scandalous nature of the report, but there was an undertone of gleefulness in her phrases which Fanny could not bear to read twice.

Had Sir Thomas read the newspaper yesterday? Had Edmund? Lady Bertram would not have done so, she knew, but perhaps Mrs Norris, who liked to know every body's business, oh, certainly Mrs Norris would have read it. She took the newspaper home with her every evening, she must have read it last night or first thing this morning.

Her worst fears were confirmed when she left Miss Crawford's letter in her room and descended the stairs. Lady Bertram was pale, her hands trembled as she clutched Pug to her lap, and her eyes were brimming with tears as she stared up at Fanny. "Oh, my dear Fanny, what are we to do?" It came out. The report in yesterday's newspaper had escaped them all, but Sir Thomas had this morning received a letter from a long acquaintance in London who felt obliged to report that Mrs Rushworth and Mr Crawford had disappeared from Town, to the great and noisy chagrin of Mr Rushworth and his mother, and that Miss Bertram had gone away with Mr Yates, with Scotland generally believed to be their objective.

It took all Fanny's self-control, practised all the years of her life, to maintain her composure in the face of her aunt's dismay. It took a considerable time to calm poor Lady Bertram, to persuade her to drink a little tea, and then a little laudanum, to dry her eyes and to trust that Sir Thomas would know what to do. Lady Bertram could not imagine how this was all to be dealt with. It was impossible. What could any body possibly do?

The arrival of Mrs Norris helped not at all. She was angry, furious, at the sly report from the newspaper, and outraged almost—but alas, not quite—to speechlessness by Lady Bertram's confirmation that it was true. Her darling Maria, to have behaved so terribly, to have abandoned the match so thoroughly promoted by Mrs Norris herself, it was not to be understood. It was not to be borne. It must be Fanny's fault. She had selfishly refused Mr Crawford's offer and enabled him to attach himself to Maria. If Fanny had done her duty, this could never have happened. It was Fanny's fault.

Fanny was too close to tears to be able to respond, but the volume of Mrs Norris' shrieks and of Lady Bertram's desperate wails soon drew Edmund and Sir Thomas into the room. Susan, who had been quietly in the background admiring Fanny's adroitness with her aunt Bertram, managed to get herself outside without being noticed by any body, while Mrs Norris accused and blamed and argued, and Edmund remonstrated, and Lady Bertram wept, and at last Sir Thomas thundered, "Enough!" and icily invited his sister in law to remove herself.

Lady Bertram went back to her bed, with Fanny in attendance, but she would not be read to or consoled, she could only cry herself eventually to sleep. Satisfied at last that her aunt was settled, Fanny returned warily downstairs, trusting that Mrs Norris was indeed returned to her cottage. She found Edmund emerging from the sick room, looking ill himself. He had just informed Tom of what had occurred. "I would not have done so, believe me, but that Tom heard our aunt Norris and caught some of the sense of it, no, not sense, for she expressed none, but I had to tell him about Maria. And Julia. Oh, Fanny, you are my only sister now, my only consolation. I am sorry, I must go to my father."

He left her thoughts in even greater turmoil than before.

All she could do was attend to the practical work which was too small for Sir Thomas and Edmund. She went cautiously into the sick room, and was alarmed to find Tom so haggard and strained. She saw his struggle, he did not wish to add to his family's burden, but it was clear that the dreadful news had unsettled him to a considerable degree, and she was not surprised to find that he was feverish and unable to be comfortable. There was medicine, and there was water, and the trivial consolation of her gentle presence, until eventually he too fell into a fitful sleep.

It was almost astonishing to discover, when she emerged, to find that a luncheon was available for her and Susan. Edmund had just finished some bread and ham. He informed his cousins that Sir Thomas was preparing to travel to London this very day to discover whatever there might be to discover. He summoned broth for his brother, and returned to the sick room. Fanny felt for him. The shame of what his sisters had done weighed so heavily on him, on every body by the name of Bertram. It shaded poor Edmund's face so that Fanny could see most strongly the resemblance between Edmund and Tom, in the pain both were enduring.

It was hard to eat anything, but Susan was hungry and persuaded Fanny to take bread and butter. Sir Thomas entered the room, but it seemed he too had already eaten, and was here to take leave of them before he departed.

"I suppose, Fanny, that you have told your sister what has occurred?"

He spoke kindly, but she had to take firm hold of herself in order to make her reply, that she had not thought it proper to do so without his consent.

"You are a good girl, Fanny, a great comfort to us all. You have my full permission to explain to your sister what has occurred. I know you will not say anything that ought not to be said. And I know you will attend to your aunt, when you have finished in here. She is awake, but keeps to her bed for today. This business has..." he shook his head, and Fanny thought she had never seen him look so defeated.

"I will certainly keep my aunt company," she assured him. "If there is anything further you wish me to do, if I can be of use—?"

"I trust your good sense, Fanny. You will know how to help your aunt, and your cousin. Edmund is very much affected. I believe he will benefit from your good counsel. You have always shown such judgement, and I—well, we will talk of that when I return. And I must apologise, Miss Susan, for neglecting you. Your sister will explain. I have left orders that you be made comfortable here."

He departed, leaving Fanny in a confusion of gratification and dread, to be so praised and so trusted, and yet with the prospect of Edmund's woes to come.

 

With Sir Thomas in London, Fanny found herself with much to occupy her. Lady Bertram required a good deal of her attention, but Susan was most willing to assist in whatever ways could be devised, so that when Fanny went into the sickroom to give Edmund time to eat his meals, Susan sat with their aunt and read to her, and talked to her, and listened to her woes with almost as much patience as Fanny herself could have done.

Edmund sent a servant to Mrs Norris with a letter explaining the circumstances as far as he understood them, and asking her to come to the Park for an hour or two every day, to spend time with Lady Bertram and also with the invalid Tom, so that Edmund himself might have the opportunity to exercise a little in the gardens.

It must have been a most extraordinary letter, Fanny thought, a model of tact and flattery, to persuade Mrs Norris back into the house from which she had been so summarily dismissed. But Fanny did not reckon with Mrs Norris' natural propensity to believe herself valued, to believe herself the only person who might understand what must be done. Or with her desire to carry home some small reward every day for her labours. Mrs Norris was strangely subdued, with the disgrace of her favourite niece so indisputable. Her time with her sister was not spent in remonstrance and justification of Maria (and vilification of Fanny), purely because she could not bear to hear Lady Bertram's horror and misery repeated, so the subject was avoided as far as possible, and their hour together was peaceably spent. She was even disinclined to make Tom's life more miserable during her daily hour as sick-nurse, as her unwillingness to talk about the subject that overwhelmed them all led her to sit with him in silence, and he was allowed to feign sleep without interruption.

Susan went to Lady Bertram during that hour, to allow Fanny and Edmund to walk together in the fresh air. Susan was unimpressed by Mrs Norris' detestation of herself—her very presence in the house seemed an affront, but she knew very well that she had done nothing wrong and was perfectly well able to shrug off her aunt's malice—and knew moreover that she was truly of use to Lady Bertram and to Fanny. Indeed, her sturdy strength was a real support for her aunt, and to her sister.

Fanny was condemned to that daily hour with Edmund, hearing and sympathising with his anguish. That first hour she dreaded more than she could express. She was convinced that Edmund must be forever divided from Miss Crawford, only, until he confirmed that he knew it too, she could not be at ease.

His first utterance filled her with terror. He had written to Miss Crawford, and she had replied. She had replied, and in such terms that he could hardly understand. "What can equal the folly of our two relations? was what she wrote, Fanny, and I cannot tell you how those words struck at my heart. It is not fit, it is hardly fit to repeat to you what she wrote upon the subject." Fanny could guess. "She was entirely taken up with the folly of her brother and of Maria. Yes, folly, she called it! That Henry would allow himself to be drawn in by a woman whom he had never cared for, that Maria would sacrifice her excellent situation—folly! She seemed exasperated, almost amused, but there was not one word of horror, of any recoil, no condemnation! Oh, Fanny. This is what the world does. She allowed herself to be overcome by such worldliness, to be spoilt. Spoilt. For such a woman, whom nature had so richly endowed, to be so spoilt by the shallow frivolity of society!"

Fanny's relief knew no bounds. And yet, Edmund must continue. He told her that Miss Crawford deplored the lovers' want of discretion, that what she deplored was not the act itself but its discovery. She deplored the throwing away of any chance of Fanny Price becoming Henry's wife. Fanny knew a brief pang. Had her rejection of him, in that carriage on the way to Mansfield, brought Henry Crawford so quickly to such depths? Could it be that he truly... felt for her, that her rejection had led him once again to approach Maria, whom he knew would accept his attentions? No. No, she was not to blame. Mr Crawford chose his actions.

"I am so sorry, dearest Fanny, that in all this disgrace you must be made to suffer, who deserve it the least of any of us. How Crawford could throw away—I am sorry. I do not wish to cause you more pain."

How foolish he was, she thought, to forget that she had refused over and over again to ally herself with Henry Crawford. Why should he assume it touched her heart, that Mr Crawford was forever forbidden to her? She did not want him, had never wanted him. "It does not cause me pain, cousin, except that it causes pain to all your family. I did not choose Mr Crawford. His loss does not affect me."

"She even—yes, she even blamed you, Fanny, for not accepting her brother's offer of marriage. Safe with you, he could never have—well. She dismisses it all as so trivial."

"I am sorry," Fanny said, with a hand laid gently on Edmund's arm, "that Miss Crawford should be so cruel, to you, of all people."

"Cruel, you say? No, I think it is not that. Her's is not a cruel nature. She did not intend to wound me. Merely, she does not see, she does not understand how profoundly wrong—it touches her not at all as a wrong, only as an error. I cannot bear it, Fanny. I received her letter just this morning, and I must write, and I suppose I must be glad that she sees things in such a light because it leaves me so little to regret in losing her." He did not look glad. "She says we must persuade Henry to marry Maria, suggests that such a step may restore her footing in Society to some degree. She tells me that my father must not make a fuss! A fuss!"

He was almost in tears, and she helped him to sit on the garden bench. After a few gulps of air, he calmed himself and resumed. "I must write to her today, I must explain to her how she has shattered all my regard, that I would rather submit to the increased pain of losing her than to know her to be... this. I do not know how I am to write it. But we shall never see one another again."

He fell silent, and Fanny hoped that he had done, but no, he had more to talk over, more to sigh over, more to deplore. Now, at last, he was able to notice those little flaws that had been so clear to Fanny, and he would pick over each minute instance of Miss Crawford's imperfections and wonder at himself for never seeing them sooner. Fanny bore it all with her accustomed patience, for how could she show Edmund how wilfully blind he had been? No, he must come to that on his own, and he was by now a fair way to doing so.

It would take Mr Edmund Bertram many more heartfelt conversations with Miss Fanny Price to bring him to the state of recognising his own blindness in the matter of Miss Mary Crawford, and for several days Fanny found herself longing for the end of his hour of exercise so that she might go to her own room, or else into the woods, and cry and wonder and berate the pillows or the trees. Edmund, still so unwilling to let go of his own false image of what Mary Crawford was, though her flaws were so definitively proven. Where was the sensible, wise cousin of her childhood? The man who had helped her to form her principles, who had been kind to her when she was neglected by others, who had taken holy orders, and who was now this pitiful creature still clinging so desperately to his ill-chosen dream.

Eventually, after a morning of hearing yet again how Miss Crawford had once delighted him, how she had attached him, what a model of perfection nature had made in her, and how excellent she would have been had she not fallen into unworthy hands... Fanny felt it was appropriate to mention, very carefully, that letter of Miss Crawford's in which it had been hinted that Tom Bertram's state of health might be of material interest. Edmund resisted it at first, but gradually, grudgingly, accepted the truth of it, only asserting that this proved Miss Crawford had been more attached to him than was entirely in her interest, and that he must be content with such a small triumph.

 

In the midst of all this sadness, Fanny was happy. She was home, at Mansfield where even with this turmoil of emotions, still all was orderly, peaceful, beautiful. She had a place here that was all her own, and she had brought her dear sister here, too, to enjoy and benefit from all that Mansfield had to offer. More than that, she had the true satisfaction of knowing that Edmund was now free from the toils of Mary Crawford. He was unhappy, presently, but she was confident that with time and with increasing occupation as he took up the duties of his parish, he would be able to reconcile himself to the loss of his false idol.

Even Tom, showing definite signs of recovery, was a source of pleasure. Fanny spent time with him every day, while Edmund dined with his mother, and it seemed almost that she could mark a tiny improvement with every day that passed. At first, she was not sure that he knew her, for the effect of the news from London had thrown him into such confusion. But, a few days later, he touched her hand as she placed a fresh set of primroses by his bedside.

"Fanny, will you permit me to thank you?"

"For the flowers? I wanted to bring something of the springtime to you."

"Not that, but—I meant to thank you for your constant care, not just for myself but for my family. I do not know what we might have done without you."

She blushed, and tried to think how to disclaim any particular virtue.

Tom smiled faintly, and lay back. "And the flowers, of course."

 

Sir Thomas looked older, Fanny thought, when he returned to Mansfield. Oddly, the resemblance between himself and both his sons was enhanced, since both Tom and Edmund were also drawn and pale. Sir Thomas, in fact, had come to recognise his own faults to a most painful degree. He ought not to have allowed Maria's marriage to go ahead, knowing very well that she had no affection for Mr Rushworth, and he had authorised it mostly for expediency and because it had seemed to be a good alliance for his daughter.

He had come to understand that he did not know his own daughters very well. They had been brought up with the expectation that they would behave just as they should, without ever being taught how to do so. They had been indulged and flattered by their aunt, and his own treatment of them had seemed severe and led them to a path of concealment, dread and dislike. One thing he and Mrs Norris had had in common, was their assumption of the perfection of the Misses Bertram. Mrs Norris was too blind to see anything else, but Sir Thomas now knew that he had not looked. He had meant his children to be good, but he had failed to instill in them the principles which might have ensured it. It was a hard lesson, but Sir Thomas was possessed of the principles he had failed to teach his daughters, and thus he was able to delight in little Fanny Price, the unregarded child who had proved more steadfast and more worthy than he had ever expected. He hoped to have a greater part in the education of the younger Miss Price than he had undertaken with his own daughters, in some sort to redeem himself.

"Julia's case is not so bad as I had thought," he told his wife, Fanny, and Susan, sitting together in the evening with the tea tray. "Her husband wrote a quite sensible letter to me informing me of their marriage and hoping that he would be received into the family. And Julia has asked my forgiveness, my dear, so we have one daughter remaining to us." His wife sighed, but she had always been receptive to Sir Thomas's instruction, and she had never for a moment expected ever to see or acknowledge her elder daughter again. That her youngest child was not also lost was a relief, although in truth, Lady Bertram was not a woman of deep feelings, and as she had for many years enjoyed far more consideration and attention from Fanny than from either of her own girls, it was not very surprising that she could not regret Julia's current absence very particularly.

"We shall see them in a few months' time," Sir Thomas said. He did not look overjoyed at the prospect, but he was not unhappy to see his daughter married, and once he and the world had recovered from the scandalous manner of it, expected to be reasonably content with the arrangement. "I could never have wished her to make a runaway match as she has done, but Mr Yates is not the wastrel I had thought him. In fact his estate is rather more substantial, and his debts are rather less, than I had feared."

 

Mansfield Park was more peaceful now than ever, with the departure of Mrs Norris to live with her dearest Maria. Fanny attempted to be charitable about their prospects of contentment, but it seemed to her improbable that two such selfish characters would be able to live happily together in isolation. They would each be blaming the other for all the ills that had befallen them, and their situation would be a punishment to both even more terrible than their banishment from Mansfield. Fanny was too gentle a soul to rejoice in their fate, for she had room in her heart even to pity Mrs Norris, but she could not be anything but glad that both were gone.

Here, at home, Fanny's life became more and more one of satisfaction as Tom's health and Edmund's state of mind improved. Now that Sir Thomas was home once more, Edmund had more freedom to walk in the grounds with Fanny, to open his mind to her and to come, eventually, to acceptance of the mistakes of his past and the path of his future. In the lengthening evenings, Edmund's spirits were restored. And he had his duties to attend to, which did him a great deal of good. Nobody can be forever regretting a lost love when there are sermons to be preached, parishioners to be tended, and prayers to be conducted. He spent more and more time at Thornton Lacey, and began to feel the satisfaction of doing good.

Now that the shock of Maria's disgrace was absorbed and could be put aside, Tom was able to gain ground once more. Fanny's shy suggestion that he, too, might benefit from the fresh air and the beauty of the green world outside the house was received with approval by Sir Thomas, and Tom soon found that he was able to sit swathed in a chair on the terrace, and then that he could walk with Edmund's arm to support him, and then unaided. The stout, ruddy face and figure who had once delighted in robust, careless health would never be seen again. Once the mirror of his plump, comfortable mama, Tom's illness had carved lines and hollows about his eyes and mouth that showed him as much more his father's son. And, Fanny realised, much more clearly the brother of her beloved Edmund, who had always been more sparing of habit than his brother.

"I know they do not blame me," Tom said, one quiet evening on the terrace, when Sir Thomas was gone over to Thornton Lacey to visit Edmund. "But I blame myself. Not for the event, but—had I not encouraged our foolish intimacy with such inferior characters, perhaps this might not have happened. I never thought to take care of my sisters. I was wrong. I shall regret it life long. I thought only of my own pleasure, my desire to act and be admired, when I should have guarded my sisters and set a better example myself."

Fanny might have been astonished, but that this was not the first intimation of the change Tom had undergone. And she could not gainsay him. He was right to recognise what he had been, and right to regret it. She was reminded of how she had once hoped Tom would not die without ever being of use to any body, and felt confident that it would not be so. He would be a worthy successor to Sir Thomas, a careful landlord and one day, a careful father.

"And you were the only one who resisted, the only one of all of us who saw to the heart of it. Even Edmund did not stand up against what he knew was wrong, he allowed himself to be drawn in because of... well. I gloried in it, you know. I was pleased when he gave way." Tom sighed again. "These last weeks, I have been given time to reflect. It has not been pleasant. I have little to be proud of."

Fanny could only look and allow him to talk. It was good for him, she thought, to admit his shortcomings. Lady Bertram never permitted him to blame himself, and it made Sir Thomas uncomfortable to be reminded yet again of his own faults as a parent. With Edmund so often away, Tom must speak to some body, and Fanny was there.

"I shall do better. I have seen my own weakness, felt my own fragility, and I know I must do better henceforth. Oh, I am glad you are here again, Fanny. Almost as glad as my mother." He smiled. "You shall be my good angel."

Later, talking over this conversation with her sister, Fanny pondered the matter of repentance. "Is it better for a person to learn and change, or better to need no such change?" Was there, they wondered, more merit in a sinner who repents than in a person who never needs to repent? Was it better to suffer, and to learn, than to do neither?

Fanny was almost afraid to discuss things in this way, but Susan surprised her, for Susan could point to examples in Portsmouth of unwise matches and good people led astray to their own detriment. She even pointed out to Fanny that their mother's marriage had been made imprudently. "For, you know, Father is not a kind man, nor I think a man of great principle, although I know that he exclaimed against cousin Maria when he heard of it. If our mother had not been besotted with him when he was a handsome sailor in uniform, she might have made a far more sensible match."

Fanny was not sure it was right to discuss her parents with her sister in this way. But it was true. Here, with the indolent and contented Lady Bertram, they could both see what her mother might have been, had she chosen with more care for herself and the children she was to bear.

Was it also wrong to share with Susan her reflections upon Edmund, who had always been her ideal and yet had been willing to ignore his own conscience for the sake of Mary Crawford? He was still a proper, sensible man, nobody at Mansfield or Thornton Lacey or anywhere else would ever claim that he was not, and yet. He had disappointed her. He had suffered, yet he had not learnt. He still made excuses for Mary Crawford.

Whereas Tom, from whom nobody had ever expected much in the way of rational thought or propriety, had examined his own soul, found it wanting, and vowed to do better. She was inclined to think that if Tom maintained this new course, he might be found to be the superior person. Was it wrong to think so? Was she making too much of this Damascene conversion? And if it did not last, what then?

Susan was quite as unable as Fanny to answer these questions, but it did them both good to ponder, wonder, and observe.

 

Once Edmund was settled at Thornton Lacey, the conversational walks continued, with Tom replacing his brother. A gentle walk in the grounds with her convalescent cousin suited Fanny's needs as well as his, so they would choose a different direction every day, thus seeing all the treasures of late spring, summer, autumn.

While Fanny took her pleasant exercise and gained strength, Susan continued to spend her mornings with Lady Bertram, who was entirely and happily accustomed to this new companion. Susan's cheerful curiosity proved a fine substitute for Fanny's diffidence, and was perhaps more stimulating to Lady Bertram than either Fanny or Mrs Norris had ever been. Her place in the household was soon quite secured.

Julia came but seldom, and wrote rarely. Of Maria they did not speak. Over less time than might appear seemly, Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram learnt to regard Fanny as more daughter than niece, and to include her in such local society as they found. Her confidence bloomed as much as her complexion, in the atmosphere of this beautiful and most beloved home. No longer reminded daily of her inferiority by her aunt Norris, she grew ever more poised and capable, becoming the young lady Mansfield Park needed.

Tom made good his vows to improve. He learned to help his father with the business of the estate, applying himself most earnestly to learning what must be done and how to do it. He encouraged Sir Thomas to divest himself of his faraway source of income, and to invest instead in more local concerns. Lady Bertram had never interested herself in Sir Thomas's business, but Fanny listened to Tom's plans, and he took great pleasure in sharing the lessons he had learned, and discovering her opinions. It was a wonder to her to see him so transformed. His fever had been severe, more dangerous than she really knew: he had been picked up and shaken by fate, and set down again in a state of fresh awareness and an honest determination to do better in future.

 

Was it a year after Tom's illness, or two years? My reader must decide. Perhaps three or even more had passed before he and his dear cousin one day discovered a significant little clump of primroses in the spring woodland. Tom crouched to examine them, and glanced up to his companion, saying, "These will forever be my favourite flowers. They were tiny, bright stars for me when I was so unwell. And they will always remind me of you."

She was touched, and pleased. "I always believed that the fresh air of Mansfield Park had curative properties. It was miraculous to me, when first I arrived, and it was only proper that you should have something, a very little something, to remind you what was waiting for you and encourage you to get better."

"What was waiting for me," he said. "You are always right in these matters, Fanny. I have grown to appreciate my home, its orderliness and calm, its beauty. I never saw how precious a haven it was when I was young and knew nothing else, nothing of what the world outside could be. But you have always loved and valued it."

"I came from a home so different, so chaotic and unrefined, with no beauty or tranquillity. Here..." she could not find the words to express what Mansfield meant. For her, it was all contained in that precious word, 'home'.

Tom spoke, then, of his hope that she would always consider Mansfield Park to be her home. That she would in time become its mistress. That she would make him the happiest and most fortunate of men by returning his affection, and delight his parents by becoming their daughter in law as well as the daughter of their hearts. He spoke of his regard for her, his admiration for her character and her judgment, and his belief that there was no body in the world more fitted to become Lady Bertram hereafter.

And Fanny consented.

There is no need to speak of the rejoicings in the house when these two dear young people returned to it with such tidings to share. Every body was happy. Every body thought that no better arrangement could possibly have been contrived. Even Fanny's parents in Portsmouth were charmed by the engagement, and First Lieutenant William Price wrote to Fanny expressing the most heartfelt satisfaction.

They were married by Edmund, who smiled upon them and hid under his clergyman's authority the slight bewilderment he felt, at seeing his elder brother married to the young cousin whom he was accustomed to regard as a gentle, compliant sister. That Tom should love Fanny was not surprising, but that he should wish her to be his wife was something that had never entered Edmund's mind.

Tom was indeed the luckiest of men. He had suffered, he had struggled, and he had learned to overcome his defects of character. He was set to be as well respected in the future as ever his father had been. Better, with such a sage counsellor now beside him for the rest of his days. His parents were truly delighted: he might have made a wealthier match, but not a worthier one, and Sir Thomas was done with worldly qualifications. Lady Bertram was simply content to know that Fanny would always be her companion and friend.

And Fanny, sweet, gentle Fanny, would be at home forever in Mansfield Park.

 

Author's Note: the title for this story comes from Cowper: "With what intense desire she wants her home" which is quoted in Chapter 45 of Mansfield Park.