Chapter Four
Fanny Dashwood curled her lips with distaste.
She and her husband John sat across from one another at breakfast, each reading over the daily post. John had been pleased to receive a letter from his uncle in Northamptonshire; Fanny felt none of the same sentiments at receiving a missive from Mrs. Rushworth of the same county.
She did not open her letter directly, but put it aside to listen to John exclaim over Sir Thomas’ communication. “What news from Mansfield, my dear?”
“Well—there is a great deal of it,” John said, idly chewing his bacon and eggs as he looked over the pages.
“Uncle Thomas is back from Antigua, and wishes to come for a visit. He includes some warm wishes from my aunt, who was very sorry not to come and condole with us at Father’s passing.
Well, that’s a pretty sentiment.” He smiled to himself and took another bite of food as he continued to peruse the pages.
Fanny pondered the idea, which initially struck her as rather forward.
She had never much cared for her husband’s Bertram relations, for though they were excellent connections in terms of Sir Thomas’ baronetcy, their want of fashion and influence in London society meant that Fanny had never been induced to exert herself and show them her full powers of pleasing.
Of course, after months of being forced to endure the Dashwood women, the Bertrams seemed infinitely preferable.
“Let them come, if they will. After all, we have done little enough entertaining since we came to Norland, and have made a great many improvements that want exhibiting.” Having made her decision, Fanny picked up the letter from Mrs. Rushworth.
Fanny had not particularly cared for the old woman, who was a relation of the widow Dashwood.
However, she recalled that Mrs. Rushworth’s son was affianced to one of the Bertram girls, and supposed that they must wish to be of the party.
“Well!” John smiled widely at his wife. “I believe I can guess what your letter may contain, though you have yet to read it yourself.”
“I was just beginning to—and indeed I am sure the Rushworths wish to be a part of the Bertram party.”
“Yes, it seems my uncle is of a mind to bring half the county with him—some people called the Crawfords wish to accompany them, as well. A young man and his sister—apparently they are quite attached to the Bertrams.”
Fanny was beginning to feel rather ill-used. “John, think of the expense!”
He only shrugged. “My uncle is very fair about it, of course—he writes that we needn’t ask the Crawfords if we do not wish it—but of course he must desire it, or he should never have asked. Well, we had better host them all. I should not like to seem miserly before my relations, my dear.”
“Miserly! No indeed—how could anybody think that? I should call it perfectly reasonable for a gentleman to wish a prior acquaintance with any person who seeks to dine at his table and reside beneath his roof.” Fanny scowled, and turned her attention to the letter from Mrs. Rushworth.
After reading the thing once through, Fanny set the letter aside in a huff of exasperation. “Shocking,” she tutted.
“What is it, my dear? Does Mrs. Rushworth not wish to come amongst us again?”
“She does, to be sure, and she has assumed the liberty of inviting your mutual relations.”
“My stepmother and sisters?”
Fanny twitched with irritation. “Yes.”
“Well.” John’s countenance grew pensive as he mulled it over.
“I can hardly object. This was their home for nearly twenty years. Besides, you know my father desired that I do something to assist them. What better way to dispense with my promise than to allow them the occasional visit? I am sure the society would do them much good—they are cousins to the Bertrams, too, and perhaps my uncle might wish to do something for them as well. I can easily bring them to his notice—and perhaps this Crawford fellow….” John glanced down at his own letter.
“Yes—Henry Crawford of Everingham—well, if he were to take notice of one of my sisters, I am sure we might never be troubled by them again.”
Fanny bitterly considered. She knew nothing of this Henry Crawford, and she took the letter from her husband as she formulated her next protest. “Really, John! We know nothing of this fellow—he might be very old, or married already—perhaps he has warts and a leer! If he was really an eligible fellow, your uncle Thomas must desire him for his youngest.”
“If that were the case, I am sure my uncle would not be so indifferent to the Crawfords’ inclusion in the visit.
At any rate, I suppose it matters little.
It is not even certain my stepmother and sisters will come at all.
Margaret seemed very strained, indeed, when they left us in August. To be a visitor where once she was mistress must be uncomfortable for her. ”
This was too much for Fanny to overlook; she smiled inwardly. “Yes, true. Well, at any rate, I am sure we must try to make them comfortable.”
“Then you agree?”
“Of course—you know it is not my nature to be troublesome,” Fanny said with feigned nonchalance. “I am fond of your relations.”
“And we have long desired Norland, have we not? What a fine thing, an estate of our own to host a house party!”
“Yes, indeed. Do you know, it puts me in mind to invite my mother—how she loves company! I am sure we shall all be very snug.”
“Excellent. I shall go and make my reply.”
Fanny’s placid smile lasted just until her husband had quit the room, and then her ill-humor prevailed.
If she was to endure the society of the inferior Dashwood ladies, and a pair of perfect strangers besides, she must bolster herself with some allies.
It would not do to have Edward attend them, after his partiality for Elinor had been so plainly displayed before, but her brother Robert and their mother would at least make the coming weeks bearable.
She cringed at the expense of it all—a dozen guests eating them out of house and home—it seemed tantamount to robbing her son directly, but she would bear it with all civility. She always did.
2 November—Barton Cottage, Devonshire
Margaret Dashwood was seated in a posture of absolute contentment.
She had expected to spend the day picnicking at Delaford, the estate of Colonel Brandon, whose society was frequently enjoyed at nearby Barton Park, though her daughter Marianne had never cared for that poor gentleman’s affections.
When the good colonel had been unexpectedly called away to London on urgent business almost as soon as his guests had arrived, the company had dispersed, and other entertainment sought.
Marianne’s preferred suitor, the handsome Mr. Willoughby, had taken her on a drive about the country before joining them at Barton Cottage.
Mrs. Jennings, a kindly older woman who had taken an eager interest in the Dashwoods since their arrival in the county that August, was seated with Margaret now, speculating on what the young lovers had been about.
During the hours of Marianne and Willoughby’s absence, the two older women had improvised a picnic of their own just outside the cottage—Mrs. Jennings has contrived to come away from Delaford with a great many of the delicacies that would have been served to them, which might have gone to waste in the face of Colonel Brandon’s rapid departure.
Thus, it had all worked out well enough, for her girls were well amused and their whole group very well-fed. “But poor Colonel Brandon,” she sighed.
“Yes, it is a pity he was called away—and how very serious he looked,” tutted Mrs. Jennings, whose look turned confidential. “However, I believe I can guess his business—it must be to do with Miss Williams.”
Though Marianne had little regard for the colonel—a sentiment Margaret could not blame her for, given Mr. Willoughby’s fine looks and happy, youthful manners—she appeared interested enough to hear Mrs. Jennings’ information.
Even Willoughby was attending the conversation now, when before he had been quite distracted in picking an offering of flowers for Marianne. “Miss Williams?”
Pleased to know what was not common knowledge, Mrs. Jennings laughed to herself, and patted the blanket for Willoughby to come sit beside her. “Yes, yes—Eliza Williams—but do you not know of her?”
Snacking on sweet meats, Marianne leaned in with interest as Willoughby sat down beside Mrs. Jennings. “Eliza Williams—well, it is a common name. I cannot be quite sure. Pray, who is she?”
“She is a relation of the colonel’s—a very near relation.” Her voice dropped to what she must have intended to be a whisper. “She is his natural daughter. There now—I hope I do not shock the ladies.”
“I am shocked indeed,” Marianne laughed.
Margaret only arched an eyebrow. She knew these things were wont to happen, but could not credit the stoic colonel as the sort of man to have a child from the wrong side of the blanket. Then again, she had been shocked before by such things.
Willoughby was plainly interested in this information about his rival. “Is that so?”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Jennings replied. “And very like him, she is. I daresay she will inherit all his fortune, if he does not marry and father a legitimate child, of course.”
Here Marianne only rolled her eyes. Willoughby laughed nervously. “And where does this Eliza Williams reside? In London, I suppose.”
“Oh, no. She is full young yet—about sixteen, I believe. Quite a comely creature, though! She resides with friends in the country—Surrey, I think, or Sussex. I cannot quite recall. But I am sure his going off today must have to do with her. Poor creature, I do hope she is well, and said as much to Colonel Brandon. I think I can guess where you have been off to, by the by.”