Chapter Text
Sir Thomas Bertram looked thoughtfully at his second son. He would not like what his father was about to propose, but if he said it in the right manner, Edmund – as a dutiful son he was – would not create obstacles. He was already overwhelmed by Maria’s despicable sin and by losing forever the woman whom he loved so dearly.
“Edmund,” said Sir Thomas, “I am sure you are now thinking about our Fanny. Poor thing, alone in Portsmouth!”
Edmund looked at him, thrown out of his thoughts and clearly surprised. So Sir Thomas was right: Edmund had not, in fact, been thinking about his cousin. His expression quickly changed to compassionate. Sir Thomas was almost glad, as much as one can be glad in such circumstances: just like he could always depend on Edmund’s sense of duty, he could also count on his twinge of guilt on such occasions.
“You are right, sir. We must fetch her and bring to Mansfield; she will be such a help to my mother – to us all – in these grave times. Portsmouth is not that far away from London; I shall go and bring her to Mansfield with me.”
“While this is indeed a commendable plan, I must stop you there. I am afraid that by bringing Fanny to Mansfield, we will be doing her a disservice. We may crave her presence and the comfort it might bring to us, but we must assess the situation, taking into account Fanny’s welfare as well, not just our own selfish desires.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“As a resident of Mansfield Park, Fanny will be associated with our disgraced family and ruined Mrs Rushworth. She will be suspected of immorality, and with no dowry to tempt some gentlemen, she will have no chance of marriage.” She had already had one chance, a chance that would never happen again, thought Sir Thomas, but he did not say it out loud. Stupid girl! If only she had accepted Mr Crawford; he would have been too busy preparing for the wedding, and he would not have been enjoying himself in London. Her own parents had eloped; who knows what she had told her cousins, and even if she had not said anything inappropriate, her very presence at Mansfield Park could have been taken as evidence of Sir Thomas’ supposed approval of the Prices’ folly. He was angry, very angry, and he did not want to see Fanny – whom he considered the cause of Maria’s ruin – ever again.
But he did not tell that to Edmund either.
“If Fanny stays in Portsmouth,” continued Sir Thomas, “she will be able to find a husband; a marriage perhaps not as prestigious as she could have in Mansfield – in different circumstances, of course – but stable and fulfilling. A lieutenant, a captain even!… Think, Edmund,” his father kept pressing, seeing his unsure face. “It is about her future, her life. We cannot – we should not – take that away from her.”
Soon Edmund agreed with him, thus sealing Fanny’s fate.
§
Fanny regularly exchanged correspondence with Lady Bertram, so she soon learnt that Sir Thomas and Edmund, having failed to find Mrs Rushworth, had returned to Mansfield Park. A deep but still hidden fear awoke in Fanny: were they leaving her in Portsmouth forever? London was relatively close, so it would not be too difficult to fetch her and bring her home; she could comfort Lady Bertram and help them nurse Tom back to health. But no one came.
Three weeks later she finally got a letter from Edmund. She started reading it anxiously, looking for an arrival notice, but the letter contained mostly a long and detailed description of Edmund’s last conversation with Miss Crawford. Only at the end of the letter there was a short remark, not even a full explanation, that Fanny was indeed lucky not to be associated with the ruined Bertrams at that trying time. Fanny looked at that sentence for a long while and reread it several times: was she supposed to stay in Portsmouth to protect her reputation? Oh, if anyone had just asked her!… She would have gladly come back home, to the place and family she considered hers; she had no intention of looking for a husband anyway. Her heart was already taken; and now it was aching. She felt she should not weep openly. While most of her family would not care, or so she thought, first and foremost she wished to avoid upsetting Susan. They had grown close and Fanny did not want her to feel insufficient. At night, when Susan was soundly asleep, Fanny let out a stifled sob, trying to be as quiet as possible. She wept until she was too tired and fell asleep.
Since then, she cried herself to sleep every night.
Edmund wrote to her every month, almost exclusively about Miss Crawford and his feelings that he did not seem to be able to contain. Each letter felt like a needle driven straight through her heart. A letter she received from him nine months later, however, was like a dagger that killed all hope in her. He informed her that he had sold her mare. He did it in a polite and kind manner, and assured her that she would get a new horse when she came back to Mansfield. For the time being, keeping the mare without her rider had become too troublesome, he explained. He seemed to genuinely believe that she would eventually return to Mansfield; but having read his letter, Fanny lost all hope. She had been gone for almost a year, and now her mare, her beautiful, gentle mare, was gone too. Mansfield was not her home anymore; she was exiled forever.
But Portsmouth was not her home either. She had no home.
She could not hold back her tears anymore. She ran to the room she shared with Susan, closed the door and curled up on the bed, bursting into tears. A short time later, Susan found her, lay down next to her and embraced her. She did not say a word for a long time, allowing Fanny to cry undisturbed and calm down a bit, even though Susan did not know why her sister was so upset. She suspected it had something to do with the letter Fanny had got, most likely from the Bertrams. When Fanny stopped crying so desperately, Susan asked gently what was going on and Fanny recounted, in broken words, the contents of the letter and described her own despair. Susan tried to comfort her as best she could, but it was like trying to hold back a storm – a force of nature far beyond her control. She could only be there for her poor, abandoned sister, making this terrible hour just a little less miserable.
But there were another hours ahead, many of them. Fanny had no more tears to shed; she felt as if she had already shed them all during the past months. Now her heart was becoming numb. She could not see any joy or love or hope anymore; she could not feel sadness or anger either. Everything looked grey and lifeless to her. She got up in the morning because she had to; she went to bed in the evening because she did not have anything else to do. She lost all appetite. The only thing that she still felt was fatigue – extreme, never-ending fatigue.
She did not write to Edmund about that.
§
Henry Crawford looked at the sea, lost in thoughts. It had been a year since he had last seen Fanny – here, in this very city. He remembered her as accurately as if it had been yesterday: her gentle blue eyes gazing at the sea, her smooth cheeks, a little rosy from exertion, her slightly parted lips that he had never kissed. It had been a year and he still loved her, loved her so much that it hurt.
He turned around and set off through the streets of Portsmouth towards the inn.
Suddenly he thought he saw a familiar silhouette. A young woman with fair hair peeking out from under her bonnet, holding a basket. Who could that be? Perhaps Susan, Fanny’s younger sister? He did not have to wonder any longer, because in that very moment the woman looked at him and he recognised her.
Fanny.
She looked thinner, paler and more tired – worse than when he had last seen her, and she had already been feeling unwell. Before he could notice more details, her eyes widened, her face went white and she turned around, and started running. Without thinking, he chased after her. He was lucky; she was weak, and her basket hindered her, so she soon had to slow down, and he easily managed to catch up with her. She was out of breath and was clutching her basket with some difficulty.
“Fanny! Let me help you,” he exclaimed, grabbing the basket and snatching it out of her hands.
“I do not need your help, Mr Crawford.” She was not looking at him. “Please, give me back my basket and leave me alone.”
“It is quite heavy. I will help you carry it. I can see you are not feeling well.” While he was angry that someone was coercing her to carry such heavy burdens, he also blessed that wretched basket for creating the perfect circumstances in which she was forced to talk to him for a while.
Fanny lowered her head and remained silent.
“My dearest Fanny, what are you doing here?” he asked. “Why are you not at Mansfield? Tell me, please!”
“No one ever brought me back after the scandal you caused.”
“But why? Why did the Bertrams leave you here?”
“Because here I am not a relative of an adulteress,” said Fanny grudgingly.
Henry stayed silent for a while.
“You must know,” he said quietly, “that I love you. All this time I have loved you without any inconstancy. You are the woman of my life. Mrs Rushworth… It was nothing, nothing!”
“It was definitely something, Mr Crawford.”
“Indeed! I am not pretending I do not know that… I am not excusing myself. I know I did wrong, Fanny… I sinned and I pay for it every day.”
Fanny smiled wryly.
“You do not believe me?” continued Henry. “It is true, I assure you. Not a day goes by when I do not regret what happened. I torture myself – thinking what I lost forever…” He looked at her and a new idea popped into his mind, quickly growing into a glorious, exciting plan. “Fanny!” he said in a low voice. “You are clearly unhappy here. Do not pretend otherwise for I can see how thin and pale and tired you are. Please, come with me to Everingham! As my lawful wife, of course. I will give you everything you need, everything: servants, a horse, the best physician. You will not be unhappy anymore; you will be surrounded by love and luxury. And I will respect you, and I will be faithful to you; I learnt my lesson. There is truth in the saying that reformed rakes make the best husbands. We will stay in the country where you are happiest; I will never go to the town unless you want us to. Will you marry me, my dearest Fanny?”
Fanny stopped, glanced at him and held her hand towards him. He grabbed it with delight, but she immediately snatched it from his hands.
“I have only wanted you to give me back my basket,” she said.
“But what about my offer? What say you?”
“I will not marry you, Mr Crawford. I never will. Why should I marry a man who claimed to love me and then was unfaithful to me and hurt my family? Please, give me back my basket!” Her voice was trembling.
“I beg you, Fanny!” he kept pressing her. “You do not have to answer right away. I am staying in the same inn as last year, the Crown; when you make up your mind, you can find me there. Or I can come to your house tomorrow, I remember where you live—”
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare, Mr Crawford! How long do I have to suffer your delusional speech? Please leave me alone! I don’t want to ever see you again!”
He was so shocked by her unusual outburst that he let her snatch the basket from his hands. She walked away quickly, clutching it nervously. He watched her with glistening eyes until she disappeared.