Work Text:
Mary Crawford had the benign misfortune of being pretty, clever, and poor. If she had had money, she would have been the queen of any society that included her, but for a girl of her background to be undeniably superior to those of higher birth was a trial.
Her mother had made a very untoward matrimonial choice that could not be salvaged by her family, and as a result, that woman had been left to form a family on her own. After years of the most minimal contact between herself and her more fortunate sisters, she at last beseeched them to assist with her eldest, who were now promising to turn into healthy and useful young people. The eldest son was sent to sea for want of another occupation that could be given to a child of his years, and the eldest daughter was sent to Mansfield Park.
Everyone at Mansfield had been quite prepared for the girl to be overawed and awkward, used to a cramped little house in Portsmouth rather than the grandeur of a fine country estate; Mrs. Norris made sure to tell her nieces that Miss Crawford would likely have no learning at all, and that they must help her to get her ABCs and basic figures. When she arrived, however, she looked about herself with a bright and interested air and made a very credible curtsey before telling her hosts how grateful she was to be with them, and how she hoped to make them pleased with her. When Lady Bertram allowed her to sit upon the sofa with Pug, she petted the dog until he began to lick her hands profusely, drawing out a lively laughter from herself and much of the company. At her lessons the next day, she proved to be lacking in knowledge of geography and literature, but to have a perfect command of words and numbers and a cheerful confidence in her ability to learn the finer things that her cousins had had the good fortune to be educated in their whole lives. In short, she displayed no shyness about her upbringing and no embarrassment at her minor deficiencies, and she very soon did have nearly everyone in the household pleased with her.
Initially, this had all been a great triumph: Sir Thomas felt that he had really done a good thing in rescuing this child from the life that she had been destined for in her parents’ home, while Lady Bertram found her good company and quite useful, more willing to take care of Pug or do her embroidery than either of her daughters. Mrs. Norris was not pleased, as she felt that Mary could at least do her cousins the honor of being less attractive, less amiable, and less accomplished than they in deference to her place below them, but Sir Thomas had far too much sense to agree with her. However, as Mary approached womanhood, Mrs. Norris’s fears increased. She had always borne in mind Sir Thomas’s early concerns about cousins in love despite her dismissal of them before so much as meeting Mary, but the spectre of Mary's making a grand match beyond her station continuously rose before her.
While the misses Bertram had been established among the belles of the county, Mary did not join them. Sir Thomas would have likely insisted upon it, but Sir Thomas was then in Antigua, leaving the matter entirely in Mrs. Norris's hands. The solution was trivial: Mary could not take her place without coming out, and since her coming out would require an active decision for a ball in her honor, Lady Bertram would never dream of it and Mrs. Norris could very easily refrain from it, neatly preventing Mary from appearing at neighborhood balls and assemblies.
Though all this went unsaid, Mary perfectly perceived it, and maintained the appearance of cheerful acceptance whenever the topic was relevant among the family. It was only when she was in private conversation with her cousin Edmund that she gave vent more freely to her feelings.
“It is grossly unfair, you must agree,” she demanded to him one day, when he had visited her room to add his love to the bottom of a letter she had written to her brother. “I only want leave for a little variation in society as some recompense for all my pains in pleasing everyone all of the time. I should have thought that seven years’ service in sorting your mother’s embroidery silks and fetching and carrying for our aunt would have bought me some consideration.”
Edmund sighed as he added his signature to the page. He had been the greatest friend to his cousin since she had first come to Mansfield Park, and he truthfully felt as much affection for her as, he thought, he might for any person, even including his nearer relations; but he had also been working since their first meeting to try to correct certain aspects of her character, and often felt he was making slow progress. “Yes, it is unfair,” he conceded. “When my father gave you a home here, I think he meant to give you the same advantages as my sisters so that you might take your place in society beside them. It is against his intentions, if perhaps not his expressed wishes, that you be held back in such a way. But I am sure that when he returns, he will see to it that you come out, so there is no need for distress.” In truth, Edmund was a little relieved that Mary was not yet part of society: he strongly suspected that she would indeed outshine his sisters, and while he had little regard for Mrs. Norris's idea that such a thing was unseemly, he did have the sense to realize that it would inflame tensions in the household when it did occur. Perhaps, he reasoned, if Maria and Julia were to have their moment in the sun, they would find it more easy to reconcile themselves to her triumph later.
When Mary had just reached her eighteenth year, the society of the village received an addition in the half-brother and -sister of Mrs. Grant, a Captain and Miss Price. They had been raised by their father’s uncle for the majority of their lives, increasing the sympathy with which everybody was already inclined to regard them in deference to their fortunes — he had an estate in addition to his promising naval career, and she had a large dowry that made her the equal to or superior of any young woman in the county.
Captain Price was instantly acclaimed as the most cheerfully countenanced man anyone had ever seen and an exceptional matrimonial prize to be won by she who best deserved him, but his sister did not make such a happy mark, despite her prettiness. Everyone was well-disposed toward her at first, but word quickly began to spread that she was dreadfully proud and held herself above the neighborhood, scarcely deigning to speak to those who called on her. Mary determined to keep her mind free of assumption when the entire party of Mansfield Park’s young people went to dine at the parsonage, and she was glad that she had done so, for upon their introduction it was abundantly clear to her that Miss Price was not proud, but merely shy. This surprised her greatly at first — why, she thought, would any young lady with so much given to her by providence not rejoice in her comfortable position and take full advantage of it? — but after a moment's rationalization, she came to the conclusion that regardless of what ought to be, what was was more pressing, and it would be greatly to her own advantage to become Miss Price’s friend.
It was clear to Mary that Mrs. Grant intended her sister to become attached to Tom Bertram, from the meaningful looks she gave and the way she continually redirected each of their attentions to each other. This would not do. Yes, Tom must be matched to a young lady with a significant dowry in order to make up for his spending habits; but this young lady in particular would only be distressed by him. She wanted a husband who would not plague her with dissipation or rowdy pleasures, one who was kind and perhaps a little too moral.
After the meal, when the ladies withdrew from the dining table, Mary made sure to end up at Miss Price’s side. “Will you play the pianoforte for us this evening?” she asked, all innocence, and when Miss Price turned red and began to beg to be spared from making an exhibition of herself, Mary interrupted her explanation. “Oh! that is all to the good, for, you see, I was hoping to play for you instead. I should like to have your opinion on my playing. I am sure that your taste is exemplary, and I can always do with a compliment or reprimand on my fingering.” If she could convince Miss Price to sit beside her at the instrument, then Miss Price would be able to avoid conversation while not appearing over-proud, and besides that, when the gentlemen left the table as well, Edmund would be certain to come directly over to her and thereby be very nearly in private with her new friend.
And if Captain Price should be pleased with the pains she took to be kind to his sister, and to admire the slim curves of her arms as she played, well, why should he not?