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The waves crashed against the breakaway wall through Fanny’s window in tandem with the pounding behind her eyes.
She set down Edmund’s most recent letter, perching on the edge of the window in her room. She had it nearly memorized. It had been nearly five weeks since she had arrived at Portsmouth– since she had arrived home– and she wished for nothing more than to return to Mansfield Park.
To return to one person in particular, rather, she corrected herself. Though Edmund had seemed distracted as of late, writing to her with less and less frequency than she had hoped. He'd promised to write often, she recalled, shifting as a loud crash sounded. She had been over the moon when she received his letter this morning.
Anything that reminded her of Mansfield – of what she suspected was her true home– was a welcome distraction. The aberration of noises here, the thoughts of Henry’s earlier proposal sneaking in the quiet of the night were enough to send her spiraling.
She hadn’t made a mistake– she knew that. Henry had led her cousins along, and there was positively no way that his feelings for Fanny were real. She refused to entertain those thoughts any longer lest she get sucked back into another nervous cloud of worry. The sea air had her nerves on edge. That was all.
Fanny shifted as footsteps scattered from downstairs– likely Tom and Charles, if she had to guess– and her mother’s voice reached a fevered pitch.
“If you aren’t going to sit and eat, you might as well go outside and make yourselves useful!”
Betsey started to wail. Fanny lowered her shoulders from where they had begun to hike up towards her ears, catching sight of the parchment that had fluttered to the floor. Her stomach flipped as she saw the lower half of his scrawl, paper sliced in half by a thin strip of sunlight that had managed to make it through the fogged-up windows. The edges of the paper were smudged from her grip.
…and I cannot wait for the springtime flowers to begin to bloom again in the garden. The visages of nature are truly a signifier of things to come. Our aunt has taken a liking to the cat that began to crawl through the wisterias, providing much amusement to the pug, if at the expense of my mother.
There is much to share, my dear Fanny, and I do suspect you will be thrilled upon hearing my news. I have been giving it a great deal of thought and I wish to hear your opinion. Your clear-eyed perspective will do me a great justice– you have always been a guidepost for me.
Mary sends her love, and I remain
YOURS, FAITHFULLY
Edmund
Fanny let her eyes flit away from the third-to-last line. Another loud clatter sounded, and the door flung open, disturbing Susan from where she had been trying to “read” one of their father’s newspapers, eyes fluttering back open.
“I’m up, I’m up,” she muttered, sitting up straight, and Fanny stood, subtly toeing Edmund’s letter closer to a discarded threadbare blanket.
“Richard,” Fanny said, “I can’t imagine your mother would like–”
“She’s in a right state,” he interrupted, dark hair as wild as his boyish grin. He didn’t notice Fanny’s inability to refer to her as “their” mother. “You best go and help.” As if on cue, Betsey wailed, and Fanny crossed the room as Richard continued. “Charles didn’t mean to knock over the stew, I swear, we were merely trying to get that blasted fool out of his chair.”
“You mustn't speak that way,” Fanny said as she heard Susan rise from behind her, but he didn’t hear her, chattering for a few more minutes before Charles’s equally excited voice echoed through the narrow stairwell as her mother and father began to fight.
He meant well, Fanny thought as he scampered away with one more toothy grin, taking the steps two at a time, but a little refinement– reserve, even, or sense of helpfulness toward his parents– wouldn’t hurt. That was yet another of the greater mysteries of the groaning shack by the edge of the dock– how her parents had survived, or attempted to survive, so many children and so many demands.
It was enough to want to send Fanny to an abbess, perhaps, or somewhere quiet where she would be relatively undisturbed.
A face flitted across her mind, dark eyes narrowed in amusement. She knew someone else who could do with refinement, alright. Henry Crawford’s visitations in the past weeks had befuddled her in more ways than she could count. Before she could mull over any of his ulterior motives or why, exactly, her mouth seemed to go dry whenever he had met up with her and Susan in town or brought a bundle of flowers to her mother after service on Sunday, Susan’s voice snapped her out of her recollections.
“Whyever is Edmund writing to you?”
“Susan,” Fanny said, trying to keep her face from heating but failing spectacularly, “indeed you must drop that.”
Fanny’s nudging of her letter had failed to remove it after all. Her father’s curses rose through the doorway.
“What are you going to say?”
“You can’t read private correspondence,” Fanny tried again, moving towards Susan, but Susan merely smirked and twisted towards the window.
“This sounds positively amusing, whatever news Edmund must have. What do you think it is? Shall we place bets?” Fanny tried to interrupt, but Susan continued, gaiety threading through her tone. “Oh, I do wish I received letters. But the news– it mustn't be too outlandish, given what you’ve shared about him. He seems quite polished.” She tilted the letter consideringly. “‘Thrilling’ news. The cat doesn’t fit that description, I’m afraid.”
“Susan, really–”
“Oh, I do believe I know what it is. It has to be a proposal. It has to be. ‘Thrilling’ indeed, wouldn’t you say?” Susan looked up and caught sight of Fanny's expression. “Do you not agree?”
In all honesty, she did not agree. She hadn’t even thought of that possibility-- or, rather, she had forced herself not to think of it. She couldn’t bear it otherwise– that they were highly incompatible, that Edmund might have fallen blindly under her cosmopolitan charms permanently.
“I do not wish to speculate,” she said, almost impressed by how detached her voice sounded as her family clattered around downstairs.
Susan’s expression shifted as she set the letter down, turning towards her. “Fanny, I must ask you a question.”
“I believe I’m needed downstairs,” Fanny said, stepping toward the doorway. “If you’d excuse me.”
“You do not seriously believe he means to propose to you?”
Fanny stopped. She carefully wiped her shaking hands on the sides of her dress before folding them neatly in front of her, schooling her face into impassivity. Her mind practically screamed at her to escape, but something had Fanny turning to face her sister.
Her face was earnest, if not concerned. “Oh, Fanny,” she said before Fanny could try to speak, “do say that you jest. I cannot think of it– you are as ill-suited to him as... as I am to Peter down by the docks. Now that would be a horrid arrangement. He does not understand you.”
“We do," Fanny found herself saying before she shook her head quickly. "And I do not wish to speculate–”
“Look,” Susan said, grabbing the letter again. “He must be referring to Mary. That is the only possible conclusion.”
Fanny felt the color draining from her face, heart racing, as Betsey let out another few wails, allowing the baby to start up as well. “That is a private letter.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Susan said, “but I’m afraid that is what you are doing. He is not going to propose to you– he has been indiscreet with his intentions towards you, but Fanny, can’t you see?” Susan paced closer toward her, and Fanny fought not to run from the room. “He is not in love with you. Mustn't you agree? You need to–”
“Excuse me,” Fanny said, unable to take it anymore, and hurried out of the room, cheeks flaming. She clattered down the steps, taking in the mess of the living space– her father perched, cheeks ruddy, in the far armchair, John quietly folding his newspapers; the hastily-cleaned stew bubbling over the hearth; her mother’s ranting and raving as Betsey cried over some spilled silverware on the ground.
“But mum, the spoon,” Betsey said, fair curls plastered to her forehead.
“There are many spoons for you to grab,” her mother said, the small, red-faced baby crying as she jiggled it on her hip, her other hand focused on stirring the open-faced pot with fervor. “Though I do not see why you can’t find something else to do besides standing around and getting in the way."
Her mother cut a look towards Fanny at that. She reddened further. Susan’s voice came filtering down the stairs, calling for her. “Fanny, wait, you must know I’m right.”
Fanny didn’t want to wait, nor did she want to take even a moment to reflect that she may be right. There was no way– no possibility that Susan’s words had merit. Why else would Edmund have wanted to hear her opinion? An opinion he valued, a perspective that he sought out. He had always helped her– had always looked out for her. He hadn’t given Mary that sort of consideration.
He had given her a much more liberal consideration, a small, traitorous voice in her head said, and that was all Fanny could take, breath coming in quick pants. She felt entirely too exposed, raw and open, a torrent of memories swirling through her mind.
Edmund and Mary out riding.
Edmund and Mary exchanging glances at the ball.
Edmund and Mary practicing for the play in her room.
The look in Edmund’s eyes when he gazed at Mary from across the dinner table, enough to have Fanny wanting to slink shamefully back to her room.
Salt air drifted through the cracked windows, the slap of the ocean echoing with every pounding heartbeat. Turning, Fanny rushed across the room, barely hearing her mother’s sniping as she pulled the door open and spilled out onto the cobbled path.
She made it four paces, intent on putting as much space between her and the ramshackle clapboard house as possible, barely noticing where she was going. People mulled down the street, and Fanny dodged a mail carrier heading towards the end of her street. Maybe he had a letter for her.
That thought had her pausing before she realized she had lost track of him in the crowd. She could figure out her worries with her correspondence later. Turning, she set off again before pulling up short, almost running into a figure heading towards her.
They had a focused, if not harried, expression on their face, not dissimilar to hers.
It was Henry Crawford, and he looked positively nervous.
Memories of the proposal flitted through her mind. She remembered the quick, bright spark of happiness she had felt before reason and duty smothered it out. She had tried to forget the hurt in his eyes as she turned him down, feeling traitorous for even saying the words, but she had to think of Edmund. She had to think of what she was supposed to do. She wasn’t supposed to accept his proposal, not even if it would help her family.
Not even a part of her had wanted to.
Instead, she had alluded to the defects in his moral character and had politely hurried from the rooming, unable to stop the tears from flowing, and began to pack for Portsmouth. Henry had changed when he began to propose to her– he wasn’t the scoundrelly rake he had been months ago. And Edmund’s first letter had all but said how Henry apologized to him, to his father, about his actions towards Maria and Julia.
Henry gave her a tentative smile as she stopped, and for a moment, she was back in the drawing room, heart frozen in her chest as he looked up at her.
Regret pierced through her heart and threatened to send her running past the house-- past Henry-- to Mansfield.
“Miss Price,” he said, folding into a bow, and Fanny gave what she hoped was an approximation of a curtsy. “I was on my way to seek you out.” A few fishermen yelled out to one another from across the dock, sea spray knocking against them, and Henry moved closer, pulling her away from the water. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” she said, voice tight. “Thank you. If you’d just excuse me.”
“Miss Price, I do wish to speak with you.” He cleared his throat, seemingly unsure of himself. “It is an urgent matter.”
Fanny edged around him, stepping towards a narrow opening between a few houses. She did not want to cause the two of them any more pain by remaining here. “Mr. Crawford, please, I do not–”
“Miss Price,” he said, and she turned at the desperation hinting in his voice. “Please. I will not hold you long– whatever is the matter?”
“I am fine,” she said, trying not to shy away from his gaze. All traces of his usual amusement were gone from his expression as he twisted his hat in his hand. Fanny conceded slightly. “I…merely wished for some air.”
Henry stared at her a moment longer, tufts of hair sticking up as if he had raked his fingers through it before stepping closer. “You know as well as I do that I do not believe that for a moment, but I will be quick. I do not wish to divert you longer than necessary.”
He was rambling, she thought, ignoring the way her heart began to patter at his proximity. Henry Crawford was rambling like she made him nervous. She found herself nodding, a mix of bewildered and anxious.
“It’s about Mary,” he said simply. “Her and…Edmund.”
“Ah,” Fanny said.
“Yes.” Henry ran a hand through his hair. “Miss Price, I confess I don’t know how to tell you this. I know the affection you hold for your cousin and my sister,” he continued, flicking his gaze to Fanny, “and I do not wish to disappoint you, but they are…engaged. Just yesterday, in fact.”
“Yesterday,” Fanny breathed.
Henry nodded, eyeing her carefully. “I believe my sister had sent a letter towards you, as well as your cousin, but…I believed you would have wanted to hear it as soon as possible.” He shifted after a moment, evidently gauging her reaction.
Fanny didn’t know if she wanted to scream, cry, or, perversely, smile at the thought that Edmund was gone from her forever. It seemed unreal– implausible, even– but she could not deny she hadn’t thought it a possibility.
“That is kind of you to want to tell me in person,” she said, finding that she didn’t have to fight as hard as she thought to keep her voice even. Fanny was surprised that the crushing stone of regret she thought she would feel upon hearing the news– at realizing what Edmund had done– was more akin to a pebble.
Henry nodded again, brow furrowed, before smoothing down his hair again. “How is Susan? I seem to recall she was ill last time I visited.”
Surprised, Fanny blinked, yanked from her ruminations and whirling analyses of how she should have known Edmund would do this, that it was only inevitable, and a flurry of other unhelpful thoughts. “She’s well now. How is Mansfield?”
“They’re well,” he echoed.
Standing there, they watched each other, a flurry of movement going around them. Fanny found she couldn't tear her gaze from him. He seemed to be cataloging her every feature, surely noting the curls escaping from her pulled-back hair and her plain dress.
“Mr. Crawford,” Fanny found herself saying suddenly, “why are you here?”
“I wanted to share the news with you myself,” he said after a pause, meeting her eyes. “I know you two were close. Waiting for a letter to break the news seemed cruel, Miss Price.”
He shifted as if going to say something else, and Fanny forced herself to try to breathe normally.
As the realization that Edmund wasn’t going to be there anymore for her– the realization that he truly never was, not in the way that she had hoped– she found her usual composure escaped her. A few images flitted across her mind, unbidden, as Henry began to say something about Susan’s health and the beginnings of excusing himself.
It was Mr. Crawford, helping her load her suitcase into the carriage before she left Mansfield Park, wishing her a pleasant trip even as he struggled to meet her gaze.
It was him encouraging her to dance at the ball, how she felt like all her worries had evaporated as she wove across the floor with him.
It was Henry, his determined kindness the past few weeks whenever he passed through the area– giving her a polite, lingering smile, assisting her father in carrying boxes out to the port, purchasing the ribbon Susan had fingered forlornly as Fanny watched from outside the shop.
Fanny looked at him then, in all of his rough edges, his uncertainties, in his selfless actions toward a family that she wasn’t even sure she belonged in anymore.
A thought crossed her mind, sending a chill skating down her spine.
How long had she been denying herself the chance at happiness?
The wind sailed through the air.
Henry bowed. “I’ll leave you be, Miss Price. I hope you are doing well.” He gave her one last earnest, unguarded look, and spoke quietly. “Mansfield Park is quite lacking without your presence, Fanny.”
As he turned, Fanny found that, for the first time in her life, she knew what she had to say.
What she wanted to say.
“Mr. Crawford,” she started, breathless. Her pulse thundered. “About…our conversation.”
He turned, face creased in worry. “I assure you there is no need to revisit it, Miss Price. I know I caused you great distress, and I do not wish to subject you to those sensibilities again.”
“I fear I did not know my own mind then. Or, rather, I did, but I did not give it the justice of speaking it.” A smile ghosted across his face at her rambling, but his eyes remained firmly locked on hers. She tucked her hair out of her eyes.“I’m afraid I have been too harsh on you.”
“Quite the contrary,” he said. “You have been exactly as harsh as required.”
“I have held past behaviors over your head for far too long– I have held tightly to them. Almost in fear of releasing them.”
Henry merely stared at her, unwilling to hedge to her apology completely, but nodded after a long moment.
“What I mean to say,” Fanny said, feeling as if she was watching the scene from somewhere far outside of herself, “is that I have been blind to my own sentiments. You have helped show me the merit in them.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” he said, voice slightly distant. “You had it all along, Fanny. You were the one that helped me.”
“A mutual agreement, then.”
“Indeed.”
They looked at each other for a long moment as Fanny finally summoned her nerve.
“Forgive me,” she said, “but have your sentiments from the conversation quite changed?”
A few expressions flew across Henry’s face, shifting from confusion to recognition to something almost akin to hope. Fanny all but held her breath. “I am tempted to ask you the same question, Fanny,” he said, and Fanny could have sworn that the wind stopped as if on command. “Have yours?”
“Yes,” Fanny found herself saying, as if on instinct, the word nearly spilling from her. “Yes, Henry, they have.”
Henry’s face cracked into a grin, dimples winking across his face, and Fanny felt something settle around her. It was as if her heart had finally aligned in her chest.
It was something, she realized as Henry captured her hands in his, that felt like happiness.