Work Text:
Christmas at Mansfield Park that year was subdued, but not quite as solemn as Fanny had expected it to be. Often, since the terrible events of last spring, there was an air about the Bertrams as though the entire family, like Tom, was recovering from a long and lingering illness. They were grateful to have made it through, and they yearned to be their old selves again, but they were still weak and feeble, playacting a heartiness they did not feel. Today, however, there was contentment, and that was an improvement indeed.
Perhaps the one thing keeping them from true cheerfulness, though no one would admit it, was that they were all thinking of Maria. Her absence was felt in the party, her exuberant laughter missed, her love of the season recalled with wistful regret. They could not speak of her, even if they wanted to; she was gone, lost as thoroughly as if she had died, though leaving them without the ability to comfort one another with a shared reminiscence or a proffered anecdote.
Fanny glanced surreptitiously at her aunt and uncle. Lady Bertram’s eyes looked red and watery, though it might have been a trick of the light. Her aunt’s natural indolence had saved her, eventually, once the shock of Maria's betrayal had started to wear off; she had not the energy for a prolonged mourning. It would be natural, though, for maternal feelings to grow tender and sore today. Fanny would have to watch her closely.
Her uncle looked grave; it was difficult to say whether it was a graver expression than usual. But as the evening continued to wear on, something seemed to soften around his mouth - the lips more relaxed, the lines less pronounced - and that was an encouraging sign. There was reason for hope. Healing was a slow process and was hardest at those times of year when one was surrounded by family; losses were felt keenly then, when absences were the most stark. But there was plenty to be thankful for, despite the difficult year, and Fanny hoped and prayed that those tiny blessings could be appreciated now, like flowers blooming near a ruin.
It was the young people that provided much of the cheer, even if it was a Christmas cheerfulness that was altered from their usual sort. Tom was growing stronger, a great cause for celebration; Susan was becoming indispensable and nearly beloved; the Yateses were welcomed back into the fold, forgiven quickly and easily, their transgressions forgotten; Edmund had married Fanny, making her a Bertram in name as well as spirit.
That last development was obviously the one that was making Fanny the happiest, though perhaps a close second was Mrs. Norris's removal from Mansfield. This was a petty sort of happiness, to be sure, but Fanny could not much regret it. She was learning to allow herself to feel these little pleasures; she had earned them.
Julia approached the pianoforte after dinner, a little hesitantly, a little shyly. When no one seemed poised to object, she sat down and played a carol, then another, the room slowly joining her. Fanny felt as though she was glowing, lit from within, surrounded by people she loved, accepted into their number, singing beautiful words together. The party was a contented one, and that was plenty. They had made it to the end of the year; survival, in times like these, was accomplishment enough. Lively, spirited cheer would return to Mansfield in due course, Fanny was sure, but even this quiet shadow of it was good progress. True, they were all treading carefully now, the smiles genuine but the laughter quiet; they were not yet fully recovered and mirth would still ring shrilly and unnaturally through Mansfield Park at the moment. Even so, they did smile; they did laugh. They sang. There was much to be grateful for.
It was a calm and peaceful Christmas for the Bertrams, and that was exactly what they had all needed.