Edmund Bertram's Diary (27 page)

Wednesday 12 July

Maria and Crawford’s situation grows daily worse. They are now so disenchanted with each other that they fairly hate each other and a voluntary separation looks set to take place any day. My aunt wishes my father to receive her here, but he wil not hear of it.

‘This is al your doing,’ said my aunt to Fanny, as I entered the drawing-room this afternoon. ‘If you had married Mr. Crawford when he asked you, then none of this would have happened.’

I rescued Fanny from my aunt’s spite by suggesting a walk in the garden, where we continued our discussion of Thomson, and from thence, sparked by our joy of the soft summer air, Fanny progressed to Cowper, saying:

God made the country, and manmade the town.

‘You were not happy in Portsmouth?’ I said.

‘No. It grieves me to say it, but I was not. I missed Mansfield, not just the countryside, but the people. I had thought, before I went, that I would feel at home there, with my family, but their ways are so different to ours — in truth, I was often horrified. My father . . .’

‘You may say anything to me, Fanny. If you want to ease your heart, I am at your disposal.’

‘It seems wrong to speak disrespectful y of my parents.’

‘There is no disrespect in turning to a friend for comfort and guidance,’ I said.

‘You do me good, Edmund. You always do me good.’

‘Except . . .’ I thought of the time I had tried to persuade her to marry Henry Crawford. I had been blinded by my own concerns. I had not been a friend to her there. But I put such thoughts aside and continued, ‘Your family were not what you were expecting them to be?’

‘No. My father cursed a great deal, and my mother seemed content to proceed without any order. I confess, I learnt the lesson that I believe Sir Thomas had been endeavoring to teach me, that wealth and position bring with them many advantages, and that poverty brings with it many hardships that cannot be overlooked.’

‘And yet you did not succumb to the lure of riches that was being held out to you.’

‘No. I would rather live in an attic at Mansfield Park than in a manor house where I did not love.’

‘I too. One evening spent walking by the river with you, talking of things that matter, is of far more value to me than a year in London, talking of nothing and attending the most glittering parties.’

The light began to fade and we went indoors, to continue our conversation in the library, away from Aunt Norris.

Wednesday 19 July

Tom went out riding for the first time since his fal , and though he was wary to begin with he soon regained his confidence and came home looking as wel as he did before his il ness. Thursday 27 July

Our evening walks have become a settled thing, and not a day goes by without Fanny and I strol ing through the grounds. As we walked by the river this evening I stopped to survey the water, whose surface was sparkling in the sunlight. I thought that it was like Mary, dazzling on the surface, but with mud beneath. Further on, there was no sparkle, but the water was clear and deep, and I thought of Fanny, whose goodness ran down to the depths of her being. I turned to face her and thought how lucky I was to have her, for she had safeguarded my faith in women when Mary would have shattered it.

As long as I have Fanny, I wil always know that goodness exists, because I wil have it right in front of me.

Tuesday 1 August

My father is so pleased with Julia and Yates, who improve daily, that he has decided to acknowledge them with a bal in their honor. The invitations have gone out and my father’s recognition of their marriage wil ensure they are accepted in society. Wednesday 2 August

I asked Tom if he wanted to go into town with me this morning but he said he was too busy seeing to the improvements on the home farm. He has changed since his il ness. He has recovered his health and spirits but he has had a shock, and says he does not want to spend al his life racing and drinking.

‘And that is what it almost was, Edmund. Al my life,’ he said to me. Instead, he has started to take an interest in his inheritance, as wel as an interest in pleasure. I left him set ing out to look over the home farm and went into town alone, where I ordered a string of pearls for Fanny.

Thursday 3 August

I asked Fanny if I might secure her as my partner for the first two dances of Julia’s bal and she agreed. As I did so, I remembered the bal at which I danced the first two dances with Mary, but it seemed almost as though it had happened to another person and not to me. To my surprise, it no longer hurts me, or angers me, or even interests me to think of Mary. She seems of no consequence at al .

Thursday 10 August

As soon as I had dressed for the bal I took the pearls to Fanny’s sitting-room, where I found her. She was watering her geraniums. She was already dressed for the bal and I felt as though I was seeing her, for the first time, as a desirable young woman. Her dress was new and its whiteness set off the soft gold of her arms and face. Her hair was piled on top of her head, showing the gracefulness of her neck, and I could not understand why it had taken me so long to see the truth: I was in love with Fanny. It was Fanny who shared my thoughts and feelings; Fanny who was like me; Fanny who was part of me.

She turned round and saw me.

‘I have brought you something,’ I said. I noticed she was wearing my gold chain round her neck, and Wil iam’s amber cross. ‘Would you wear these for me tonight instead?’

She smiled her acquiescence and, unfastening her chain, she turned round so that I could put the pearls round her neck. As she bent forward I was suddenly nervous. I fastened the necklace, tel ing myself that I had performed the same office for her many times before, but this time was different, for as I closed the clasp I felt my hand tremble. She straightened her head and looked at the pearls in the mirror, thanking me for them with her sweetest smile, then I gave her my arm and led her downstairs. Al through dinner, I had eyes only for Fanny, and even when the guests began to arrive I could not take my eyes away. She greeted them al with a mixture of sweetness and intel igence, no longer tongue-tied in company, but setting everyone at their ease by talking to them of their own concerns and replying with the same ease to their questions about her own. As I watched her, I found myself wondering how it had happened, how long she had been like this. Had she suddenly blossomed? Or had I simply not noticed the moment at which she had turned from a hesitant girl into an assured woman.

The musicians began to play, and Julia and Yates took their places, ready to open the dancing. I saw my father watching them approvingly, whilst Mama looked on and smiled. I claimed Fanny’s hand with pleasure and led her on to the floor. I could not take my eyes from her.

‘You are quiet tonight,’ she said to me, as the steps of the dance brought us together. I roused myself.

‘I am not doing my duty. I am a poor partner.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘You are the perfect partner.’

And as she smiled, I knew. Fanny loved me! I returned her smile, and there were no two happier people in the room.

The first two dances came to an end, but I could not go to Fanny as I wanted, for I was committed to dancing with Julia. I could not pay attention to my sister, however, for I could not take my eyes from Fanny.

Julia fol owed my longing gaze and gave an arch smile.

‘Fanny is looking wel tonight,’ she said.

‘Yes, she is,’ I said, for the candlelight was behind her, giving her a radiance that made her shine.

‘It was an evil day for us when Crawford ran off with Maria, but it was a good day for Fanny. It wil not be long before she attracts another offer of marriage, and one from a man of far more worth.’

‘I hope so,’ was al I could manage.

After Julia, I was engaged to dance with several other young ladies, but just before supper I was free to reclaim Fanny.

‘You are tired,’ I said.

‘Too tired for dancing, but not otherwise fatigued,’ she returned.

‘Then wil you take a walk with me along the terrace?’ She agreed readily, and we went outside.

‘Fanny . . .’

‘Yes, Edmund?’

‘Fanny, I have been a fool,’ I said rueful y. ‘Can you ever forgive me?’

‘There is nothing to forgive.’

‘Then wil you do me the honor, the very great honor of accepting my hand in marriage?’

Her smile lit the night.

‘Yes, Edmund, I wil .’

‘How long have you loved me?’ I could not resist asking her, as we walked on together.

‘I hardly know, but certainly before the Crawfords moved into the neighborhood,’ she said.

‘So long ago? I knew you worshipped me as a child, but I never, until this evening, knew that your feelings had turned to love.’

‘I did not notice the change myself, it was so gradual. But when the Crawfords came to Mansfield Park I came to know myself, for I envied Mary Crawford your attentions. I am ashamed to say it, but it was so. I could not bear to see you throw al your love away on someone who was not worthy of you. I tried to tel myself that, if she had been everything that was wise and good, I would not have minded, that I would have been happy for you, but I knew it was not so. I would have envied anyone who had your love.’

I thought of the events of the past year and knew how painful they must have been for her, and how lucky I was that, through them al , she had loved me. She had seen me with al my faults and failings and her feelings were unchanged. I did not need to make myself someone I was not in order to please Fanny; she loved me as I was. I had done with dazzle and sparkle, and had fal en in love with goodness, intel igence, beauty and true worth.

‘I would never have talked to you about Mary had I known,’ I said. I thought of the way I had gone to Fanny’s room, asking her to help me with the play, expecting her to prompt Mary and me as we spoke words of love to one another under the guise of drama.

‘That was not the hardest part,’ she said.

‘No?’

‘No. The hardest part was when you urged me to marry Mr. Crawford.’

‘I shudder to think of it. I cannot believe I was so blind. You would have been trapped with a vicious, shal ow man, and I would have been left to rue the day I urged my Fanny to marry him.’

‘Not if Miss Crawford had accepted you.’

‘Yes, even then, for the scales must have fal en from my eyes eventual y, and then I would have bitterly repented my blindness, and bitterly repented my loss of you. But let us not speak of such things. We have been saved from disaster, and now we can look ahead. We wil be very happy, wil we not?’

‘We wil ,’ she said.

‘You have been right about everything else, Fanny, and I know you wil be right about this as wel .’

We were disturbed by a sound from indoors, and Fanny said, ‘We had bet er go in to supper.’

‘If we must. I would rather stay out here talking to you, but duty must be done.’

We sat together at supper and, Fanny pleading fatigue afterwards and partners being plentiful, I spent the rest of the evening sitting by her side.

Friday 11 August

As soon as I had broken my fast I went into the drawing-room, hoping to find my father and ask him if I could have a private word with him, but the only person there was Aunt Norris.

‘I saw you,’ she said to me accusingly, as I was about to go. ‘With her, that interloper, last night. We have nursed a viper in our bosom. When I think what we have done for that girl, taking her in and raising her here at our expense, and this is how she repays us: first, by ruining Maria because of her own stubborn stupidity, and then by artful y throwing herself at you — hoping, no doubt, that your brother would die, and she would find herself the mistress of Mansfield Park.’

I did not even deign to reply, but my aunt had not finished.

‘Sir Thomas saw how it would be, even before she came here. He knew it would be difficult to preserve the difference in rank between Fanny and his daughters, but I told him nothing could be easier than making sure the distinction was preserved. And I am sure I have played my part, not al owing her to sink into idleness but giving her errands to run, making sure she did not expect to have the carriage ordered for her, seeing to it that her clothes did not match those of dear Maria and Julia, and ensuring she never had a fire in her room. I reminded her of how fortunate she was, to be taken in by her wealthy relatives—’

‘That is certainly true,’ I said, as she paused for breath. ‘You never let her forget it.’

She was stil ranting when I left the room.

I found my father in his study, and felt a momentary qualm as he told me he was at my disposal. Maria and Julia had disappointed him, and I was afraid I was about to do the same, for I knew there had been some truth in my aunt’s words, and that he hoped I would marry a wealthier woman than Fanny.

But when I told him that I loved Fanny, and that I would like his permission to marry her, his response was everything I could have wished for.

‘To think I once feared this outcome!’ he said. ‘My feelings are now so very different that I give you my permission wil ingly, even happily. That is, if Fanny accepts you.’

‘I have already asked her and yes, she does.’

‘Then I wil also add my blessing. I used to want something very different for you, but I am sick of ambitious and mercenary connections, and I am glad you never wanted them. I have been watching the two of you with pleasure for some weeks now, and hoping you would find your natural consolation in each other for al that has passed. Events of recent months have made me prize the sterling good of principle and temper, and there is no one with better principles or a better temper than Fanny.’

I found Fanny in the garden and told her of my father’s consent. She smiled happily, and as we walked together down the avenue, under the shade of the arching trees, with the warm air playing about us, I said, ‘I have been thinking about Thornton Lacey. I think we wil enlarge the garden, then you can grow your geraniums there.’

‘Oh, yes, Edmund, I would like that.’