Chapter One
If Mrs. Norris had been discomfited the day before by not having the distinction of trumpeting Sir Thomas Bertram’s return from Antigua, she was doubly vexed today.
Her mortification at his censure for her role in promoting the theatrical scheme had been an unwelcome shock; she did her best to claim a blind affection for his children, and turn his mind to other matters.
The Rushworth engagement was her triumph. Here, her brother by marriage must see her devotion to his interests—and her value. She expounded upon the virtues of the match, extolling her efforts on Maria's behalf, and was met at length by some measure of approbation.
Sir Thomas was duly impressed with Mr. Rushworth, and owned that he had been pleased when the young man shared his preference for throwing off the ill-conceived and unseemly theatrical scheme, in favor of the usual manner of visiting in a small family grouping.
“I have not been expecting a genius,” he said.
“But what I have found in his manners is well enough.”
Another round of praise followed from Mrs. Norris, as much of it for herself as the young man in question.
The subject soon progressed to some inquiry on his part about the Crawfords, of whom he had received letters containing much information.
The Crawfords had absented themselves upon his return the night before, and he had been made to understand that their not being seen at all today was a singular occurrence.
“Having heard such general praise of them, I had hoped to form an opinion of my own,” said he.
On this topic, Mrs. Norris was no less voluble than any other.
Edmund’s likely attachment to the young lady, who was lively, handsome, and rich, was immediately brought forward.
She moved on to speculate upon the misfortune of Mr. Crawford and Julia not seeming much attached, though she was not without hope.
Sir Thomas bore her effusions in his usual custom, allowing them for a time, and seeming to give his characteristic consideration to all her insinuations, until at last he had heard enough.
Knowing she was soon to be dismissed from his study, and wishing to supersede his actually telling her to go, Mrs. Norris moved to the door to give her final recommendation, that the Crawfords must be summoned as soon as may be.
Sir Thomas followed her to the door, agreeing to the next day or day after as ideal for an introduction; he halted his speech with consternation as something else caught his eye.
He gestured to a small, square place on the wall, where the papering appeared darker than the space around it.
“I recall there was something here, Mrs. Norris—a family picture, I think. I am still confounded by the changes to my study from all this theatrical nonsense, but I cannot account for the moving of paintings.”
“Oh, that.” All Mrs. Norris’ former glory returned. “Mrs. Rushworth approached me back in August with a mind to purchase a family portrait. She chose the one from when the children were still very young, and as you have several that are newer, I thought it well to part with.”
“Whatever could Mrs. Rushworth want with a family portrait of ours?”
“She was thinking of Maria, sir. She wishes to discreetly set up a few familiar things from Mansfield in her son’s London home, so that our dear girl will feel better at ease there after she and Mr. Rushworth are married.”
Sir Thomas looked taken aback. “Has she taken anything else?”
Trying to still her fidgeting, Mrs. Norris replied, “A pair of miniatures—one of the boys, and one of the girls, and one of you and my sister around the time you wed. I think it a fine thing for Maria to have such pleasant family reminders in her new home!”
Sir Thomas did not look convinced; indeed, he appeared rather stern.
“A fine thing for Maria, but for myself I am not pleased at the liberty you have taken. I might have given them on loan for a short while, though I hardly think it necessary before a wedding date is set. Perhaps I have newer portraits, but that one was hung in my favorite room because it was dear to me. I shall speak to Mrs. Rushworth about it—I think it was not at all done how I would like.”
Mrs. Norris blanched, offered more apologies than he was wont to hear, and hastened away to be useful elsewhere.
24 October—Mansfield Park, Northamptonshire
Maria Bertram strode across the front drive with tremendous purpose, having embarked upon the first honest and brave course of action in the whole of her life.
Watching Henry Crawford depart Mansfield for perhaps the last time, she found herself incapable of any tranquility; catching him up before he was halfway back to the parsonage, she called out to him in a trembling voice. “Henry!”
He was thankfully alone, having been outpaced by Dr. Grant on their retreat, and Maria could only hope that his being so much slower than the old parson must bespeak a degree of dejection at their parting. When he turned to look at her, her heart leapt with a hope that it was so.
“Why did you not tell me that you meant to go?”
Henry closed the distance between them before answering. “I had no notion of leaving until last evening.”
Maria furrowed her brow. She could well understand why, for her father’s dissolution of the theatrical pleased none but himself, and had given all the young people such discomfort and want of spirits.
And yet, what was the end of their acting to the loss of something so real?
Remembering their posture in rehearsal, even at the moment of her father’s ill-timed return, Maria placed her hand on Henry’s heart.
He completed the gesture by placing his own hand atop hers, but would not meet her eye. “You must think me a great coward.” When she made no answer, he added, “I am sure that I do.”
“Then why go? It is the impulse of the moment—decided before you met my father—and see how he favored you just now!”
Henry nodded, finally looking at her; she could see his calculation, weighing every option.
“It is true; when we left here, day before last, my elder sister was sure Sir Thomas would not want much to do with anyone outside his family circle. Certainly Lover’s Vows would not proceed.
Mary said I ought to spend some time at Everingham, so as not to push in on the family. But yes, your father was very genial.”
“And he would think no less of you for reversing your decision now. Surely you wish to stay.”
Henry captured her hand in his; they had been in full view of the house, but now he led her away from the parsonage path, into a little copse of trees. “I will not stay to see you wed another, or to see you disgraced by what has existed between us.”
This was the closest either had come to admitting that there had been something there, almost from the earliest moments of their acquaintance that summer.
Had she not already been engaged, how easy it might have been for them to admire one another—they might even now be on the brink of their own happy event.
Instead it had all been ardent looks and subtle flirtation, their mutual affection every day implied but never stated directly.
“Is it certain, then, that my feelings must be a disgrace? Must we be no more than Agatha and Frederick?” Maria tried to still her own shaking.
It had increasingly been her hope that Henry would be the first to speak, and though it was perhaps honorable and to his credit that he had not, Maria still wanted the resolve to take matters into her own hands so fully.
And yet, she had come this far. “If you really mean to quit Mansfield, I shall have my answer.”
Henry groaned, the sound of a mind as tortured as her own.
She was at once gratified by the evidence of his feelings, and the lack of any right to speak of such things.
Reading her mind, he replied, “You are still promised to Rushworth. I understand your father has formed a favorable impression of him.”
Resentment boiled in Maria’s stomach. Let her father think what he wished—he had not yet heard enough of Rushworth’s nonsense to know what he was about. “Of course it must be so,” she said with asperity. “I thought well of Rushworth when first we met.”
Henry met her eye, seeing what she meant; still he held her hand, and gave it a slow squeeze. “And now?”
She only shook her head.
He brought his hand to her face, hesitating just as his fingertips brushed her cheek. “I have gone too far already to turn back, further than a man of honor would go—but I can go no further. You must be the one to say it, if you would spare me from utter villainy.”
Maria shuddered, breaking their passionate gaze. “I wish I had met you first.”
The trace of a smile appeared on his countenance, and he cupped her face in his hand, his expression one of searching. “Maria….”
She bit her lip. “I love you. You must know it—I know you do—and I have longed to believe you feel the same, but if you go away….”
She was spared having to give voice to what would have been so unpleasant to hear; his lips came down on hers as he drew her close. Maria gave herself up to the kiss, the culmination of every secret hope she had cherished for three long months.
When finally they separated, Maria instantly ached for more, and Henry held her against him. “I will stay away only a short while, my love.”
She looked up, half agony and half hope. “You still mean to go?”
“I do have some little business at Everingham. I will go in all haste, and return in four days, perhaps five. It will be a blessing, I think, to separate briefly like this. There is something to be done before we can be together, you know.”
“And I must be the one to do it,” Maria sighed. She was filled with dread at having such an interview with her father, or worse yet, being made to encounter Mr. Rushworth again. “I will break it off; I must.”
“I hope you are right, with all my heart.” He kissed the top of her head and drew away.