Edmund Bertram's Diary (26 page)

Susan was remembered at last, and received by my mother with a kiss and quiet kindness. Susan, good soul, was so grown up for fourteen, and provided of such a store of her own happiness, that she took no notice of my aunt’s repulsive looks, for my aunt saw her as an intruder at such a time, and returned Mama’s greetings with sense and good cheer. We ate dinner in silence, and we were al of us glad, I think, to plead tiredness, and so go early to bed.

Friday 12 May

A letter has come from my father. He has not yet been able to find Maria, but he has reason to believe that Julia is now married. His letter was ful of his feelings: that, under any circumstances it would have been an unwelcome al iance; but to have it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its completion, placed Julia’s feelings in a most unfavorable light. He cal ed it a bad thing, done in the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though he said that Julia was more pardonable than Maria, for fol y was more pardonable than vice, he thought the step she had taken would, in al probability, lead to a conclusion like Maria’s: a marriage conducted in haste, with a man as unprincipled as Yates, was likely to lead to disaster; particularly as he believed Yates belonged to a wild set. I comforted my mother as best I could, and Fanny joined me in the task. I drew Fanny aside this evening, and gave her an opportunity to talk of her feelings but her heart was too ful . She said nothing of Crawford, but only that she hoped he and Maria would soon be found, and that Yates might turn out to be less wild than we feared, and that Julia and he might be happy.

Sunday 14 May

A wet Sunday. The weather brought out al the gloom of my thoughts and this evening, unable to bear it any longer, I confided everything in Fanny. I had hoped to spare her; to say no more than she already knew, that there had been a break between Mary and myself; but I was drawn on by her kindness. I told her of the disastrous interview with Mary; that I had at last realized Mary’s true nature; that I had been foolish to be so blind.

‘If only she could have met with better people,’ I said. ‘The Frasers did her no good.’

‘She met with you,’ said Fanny quietly. ‘She had an example before her, if she chose to see it.’

‘You are such a comfort to me,’ I said, squeezing her smal fingers grateful y in my own. ‘But I can stil not believe she was so very bad. If she had fal en into good hands earlier . . . Perhaps if I had tried harder . . .’

She said nothing, but she soon left me, appearing again a few minutes later, bringing something with her. She put it into my hands. It was a letter to her from Mary.

‘I cannot read this,’ I said. ‘It is addressed to you.’

‘I cannot watch you blaming yourself any longer, and so I give you leave to read it,’ she said.

‘Indeed, I think you must.’

My eyes went to it almost against my wil . It was dated some time before, shortly after Tom fel il , and as I read it I felt a coldness creeping over me, chil ing me to the bone. From what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery. I thought lit le of his il ness at first. I looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a fuss with, and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him; but now it is confidently asserted that he is real y in a decline, that the symptoms are most alarming, and that part of the family, at least, are aware of it. If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that part, that discerning part, and therefore entreat you to let me know how far I have been rightly informed. I need not say how rejoiced I shal be to hear there has been any mistake, but the report is so prevalent that I confess I cannot help trembling. To have such a fine young man cut of in the flower of his days is most melancholy. Poor Sir Thomas wil feel it dreadful y. I real y am quite agitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning, but, upon my honor, I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor young man! If he is to die, there wil be two poor young men less in the world; and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one, that wealth and consequence could fal into no hands more deserving of them. It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of a few days may be blot ed out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many stains. It wil be but the loss of the Esquire after his name. With real af ection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by return of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tel me the real truth, as you have it from the fountainhead. And now, do not trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings or your own. Believe me, they are not only natural, they are philanthropic and virtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether ‘Sir Edmund’ would not do more good with al the Bertram property than any other possible ‘Sir.’

I felt sick. To hear Mary speak of my ordination as a foolish precipitation, a stain that could be hidden with varnish and gilding, instead of seeing it as my cal ing, an inalienable part of me, and one that needed no excusing was abhorrent to me. And what was this varnish and gilding to be?

A baronetcy. A baronetcy I was to gain by the death of my brother; by the death of Tom. Tom, who had been a part of my life always; Tom, who had ridden beside me, wrestled with me, swum with me; Tom who had laughed at me, plagued me and teased me. And Mary wished him dead.

Not only that, but she said Fanny wished it, too; that Fanny was smiling and looking cunning at the idea of it. Fanny, who could not look cunning if she tried; Fanny, who would be incapable of wishing evil on anyone; Fanny, who loved my brother for al the kindnesses he had shown her. I handed Fanny back the letter, feeling as though al life had been sucked out of me.

‘If not for you, Fanny, I do not know how I would bear it. And yet you, yourself, are suf ering. Crawford played you false.’

‘No, I am not suffering,’ she said softly, folding the letter and letting it rest on her lap, where her goodness seemed to undo its malice, rendering it harmless.

I looked at her in confusion, wondering what she meant, for it must hurt her to know that her lover had betrayed her.

‘I never loved him, and I never wanted him to love me,’ she said. ‘Indeed, I do not believe he did. I saw his behavior towards Maria last year, and I suspected there was stil an attachment between them. That is why I could not marry him. That, and—’

She stopped, and I did not press her. I knew her heart was too ful to speak.

‘But is this true, Fanny? Is this real y true?’ I asked her. ‘Has he not hurt you?’

‘No.’

‘Then it takes a great weight from my mind,’ I said in relief, feeling that here, at last, was something to smile about, some cheer to brighten the gloom. ‘You saw more than I did, Fanny. I was blinded in more than one way at the time. It is a funny thing, I used to be the teacher and you my pupil, but it seems that our roles have been reversed.’

She gave me a look of understanding, and I thought: Fanny has grown up. My mother rousing herself at that moment, for she had been asleep in front of the fire, our conversation came to an end.

Monday 22 May

Fanny and I went riding this morning. We rode in silence to begin with, for I was thinking about Mary and how I had taught her to ride. I remembered her enjoyment, and her saying that she was growing to love the country. But although my feelings were, to begin with, wistful, they began to change as I watched Fanny, who was riding beside me. Her face showed pleasure in the exercise and her enjoyment in the countryside. Hers was not the bright-eyed pleasure of novelty, it was the deep-seated pleasure of long acquaintance and genuine love. Her eyes sought out the new buds springing to life and the changes taking place around her. She would ride thus in ten years, twenty years, time, as I would, never growing restless or dissatisfied, because she belonged at Mansfield Park. I was reminded of my ride with Tom when we were boys, and the way his eyes had always looked beyond Mansfield. Mary’s eyes had looked beyond Mansfield, too. But Fanny’s never did. At Mansfield, she was at home.

‘I am beginning to think it is a good thing we are alone again,’ I said. ‘I missed going for rides with you, Fanny, when Mary was here.’ She looked at me anxiously, and I said, ‘There is no need to worry. I can speak her name without pain. I was hurt, it is true, but the countryside, and friends, can heal anything in time. If I am not deceived, the sable cloud has turned forth her silver lining on the night.’

She smiled.

‘Milton would forgive you your deviation, glad that you have seen the truth of his words, as your friends must be,’ she said.

We passed Robert Pinker and bade him good morning. We had just passed him when he cal ed out, ‘Mr. Bertram!’

We reined in our horses and he approached.

‘I wonder if I could cal on you this afternoon, at Thornton Lacey?’ he said.

‘By al means. Was there something particular you wished to see me about?’

He went red and stammered that Miss Colton had been good enough to accept his offer of marriage.

‘This is splendid news,’ I said, and Fanny added her heartfelt good wishes.

‘We would like to be married at the end of June,’ he said. ‘I have a house, there is nothing to wait for.’

‘Then cal on me at three o’clock and we wil discuss it.’

He thanked me and we set off.

‘That wil be a happy marriage,’ I said.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Fanny. ‘I have been hoping for it for some time.’

‘You knew it was likely to take place?’

‘I visited Mrs. Colton when her mother was il , and Mr. Pinker was there. Miss Colton looked at the floor and blushed a great deal.’

‘It is a puzzlement to me how women can behave so differently when they are in love. Mary was bold and confident — though perhaps she was not in love.’

‘I think she was, as much as she was capable of being,’ said Fanny.

‘Yes. Her nature perhaps admitted of no more. But Miss Colton was not bold, she blushed and looked at the floor. And yet when you did the same it meant quite the opposite, that you did not want Mr. Crawford’s attentions. I wil never understand the fairer sex.’

‘Perhaps you wil , in time,’ said Fanny, looking at me.

‘Perhaps.’

We turned for home.

‘I have had a letter from Julia,’ said my father, when we joined him and Mama in the drawingroom. ‘She has begged my forgiveness and she now asks for the indulgence of my notice. I would like your advice, Edmund; and yours, too, Fanny. You have seen more clearly in this business than any of us.’

‘It seems to me to be a good sign,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Fanny. ‘If they wish to be forgiven, then I think you should notice them.’

She colored slightly for speaking so boldly but my father thanked her for her opinion.

‘What do you think, Lady Bertram?’ he asked.

‘I would like to see Julia again,’ she said wistful y, ‘and so would Pug.’

‘Then I wil write and invite them to Mansfield Park. Perhaps something might be salvaged from the disasters that have befal en us over the last few weeks after al .’

‘Mr. Yates was frivolous but he was constant,’ said Fanny. ‘I believe he liked Julia from the first.’

‘Wel , we shal see,’ said my father.

After luncheon, Fanny and I set out for Thornton Lacey, I to see Robert Pinker and Fanny to cal on Mrs. Green, who has a new baby.

‘So that is the meaning of the dress you have been sewing,’ I said.

‘A new mother can never have too much linen,’ she replied.

We reached Thornton Lacey in good time and together we looked over the house.

‘Moving the farmyard has changed it completely,’ she said.

‘Yes, has it not?’

‘The approach is now one any gentleman might admire, and the prospect is much improved.’

‘And what do you think of the chimneypiece?’

‘I think it is excel ent,’ she said, running her hand across it. ‘It adds a great deal of beauty to the room. This is a good house, Edmund, and may be made more beautiful stil if you wish.’

‘I am committed to improving it as much as I might.’

We went upstairs and she gave me the benefit of her advice on the cupboards before she left to see Mrs. Green. I soon received Robert Pinker, who told me of Miss Colton’s many virtues. I wished him happy and we arranged for the banns to be read. He left me in good spirits, and Fanny returned soon after, smiling brightly.

‘Mrs. Green was wel ?’

‘She was, and the baby was thriving.’

The world seemed a better place as we rode home together. Julia repentant, Tom improving, and Fanny growing in beauty and confidence daily.

I only hope it may continue.

Tuesday 30 May

Julia and Yates arrived this morning. There was some little awkwardness, but Julia was so humble and so wishing to be forgiven, and Yates was so much better than we had thought him, for he was truly desirous of being received into the family, that soon things became quite comfortable. My mother was delighted to have Julia restored to her, and the day ended more pleasantly than anyone could have rightful y expected.

Thursday 1 June

‘This marriage of Julia’s is not so bad as I first feared,’ said my father to me this morning. ‘Yates is not very solid, but from a number of conversations I have had with him, I think there is every hope of him becoming less trifling as he grows older. His estate is more, and his debts less than I feared.’

Saturday 10 June

Our good news continues. Tom is now out of danger, and this morning he was able to take a short walk out of doors. The weather was fine, and the exercise did him good. I believe we wil have him wel again by the end of the summer, and none the worse for his fal . Thursday 15 June

At last Maria and Crawford have been discovered. Maria refuses to leave Crawford, saying she is sure they wil be married in time. Rushworth is determined to divorce her. It is a scandal, but we must endure it, for there is nothing else to be done.

Thursday 29 June

Fanny and I have grown into the habit of wandering outside in the evening, enjoying the balmy air, and sitting under trees talking of books and poetry. It is like the old days, before the Crawfords came to Mansfield Park, and yet with this change, that Fanny is no longer my protégée, she is my equal. She argues with me over the authors’ and poets’ intentions, and her arguments are wel reasoned and compel ing. She makes me rethink my position, and in so doing gives me a deeper understanding of the books and poems I so love. And when we have talked our fil , we watch the sun sinking over the meadows, and take as much pleasure from the sight of it as those in London society take in a necklace of rubies.