Chapter Eight
Maria Bertram was one of the last people to come down for breakfast that morning. She had been up quite late the previous night, and if all had gone according to plan, she might not have awoken at Norland at all, but at an inn on the road to Gretna.
She did not trust herself to even meet Henry’s eye across the table, for fear of betraying what she felt.
Instead she peered at her other companions with a vicious curiosity, wondering who might have damaged the Crawford carriage to prevent their flight.
Her cousin John and his wife had the greatest motive, the Rushworths might have done it, and even her own father had reason to—she resolved to trust none of them, until she could see her way to some solution.
Last night had not been the time to think and scheme; frustrated at being thwarted by some unknown enemy, Maria had done little more than weep in Henry’s arms until he had carried her to bed.
She had begged him to stay with her, primarily for comfort, but willing even to be compromised if it saved her from being bound to Rushworth.
He had kissed her tears away, but insisted that the saving of her reputation must be a blessing.
She had lain awake half the night, wavering between a tender appreciation for his determination to act with honor, and a complete disregard—even outright contempt—for the rules of propriety that restricted them.
After her repast, she joined the rest of their large party in exploring the extensive grounds of Norland.
She would only walk with the Crawfords and her Dashwood cousins, for she feared nobody else could fully be trusted; she could scarcely trust herself, for she was in a constant anxiety of making some miscalculation.
To out with the truth, the whole sordid truth, still held more appeal than any other course, and while every other manner of selfishness must be justified, the resentment she felt toward her father was not quite strong enough for her to cause him such pain.
Perhaps she might do so indirectly, by provoking the dreadful Mrs. Rushworth, and yet she feared that if she made the old dragon too desperate, some further sabotage might be visited upon herself and Henry.
Happily, most of the people who she had come to consider her enemies were not of the walking party, and as those who had come out to enjoy the fine weather were very often shifting their groupings, she was allowed some space to contemplate her situation, in between spurts of conversation along the way.
Henry had stayed close to her as they set out, though of course they could not risk speaking of what was really on their mind.
Still, she was content enough that his presence prevented Rushworth from approaching her.
When it seemed that Rushworth was content enough to prevail upon their mutual cousin Elinor, and that Elinor was too forbearing to betray any signs of tiring of his prattle, Henry declared that he would walk a while with his sister, for Mary appeared very out of sorts herself.
“Of course,” she sighed, sorrier at their lack of privacy than at his diverting his attention elsewhere.
“It is a pity that Edmund should grow so sullen of late—he has little reason to be so morose. I really think he has taken his quarrel with our father over the theatrical far too seriously. Tom, too—but at least he took his displeasure elsewhere, instead of plaguing the rest of us with it.”
Another of her siblings was intent on doing the very same, for soon after Henry moved away, Julia approached Maria, arm in arm with Fanny Price.
“You look so very lonely,” Julia drawled, evidently mistaking Maria’s solitude for a sort of abandonment she might triumph over.
“But we have been very gay, have we not, Fanny?”
“I have enjoyed our excursion,” Fanny meekly agreed.
“But of course I mean our conversation,” Julia said. “Well, Maria, perhaps you have been one of the earliest proponents of our father’s plan to bring Fanny out more, but I am sure I have adopted it as my own little scheme.”
“You have less to occupy your time,” Maria quipped. “But, anyway, I am happy to hear of it.”
Fanny looked decidedly less pleased, and Maria might have spared her cousin a moment’s pity, but for the beginnings of an idea taking root in her mind.
“I mean to loan Fanny some of my gowns, until some news ones can be purchased for her,” Julia said. “Of course, yours are always so superior, but I am sure you must have a great need of them.”
“Not at all,” Maria replied, mustering every shred of forbearance possible to refrain from telling her sister that Henry would still prefer her if she came down for dinner in a barley sack.
“Indeed, I am sure Fanny and I are of a similar size. You must come to my rooms tonight, and I will get you fitted up. And with two such musical companions as Mary and our cousin Marianne, we might arrange some dancing lessons for you. What a pleasant scheme—I cannot allow Julia all the satisfaction.”
Julia’s smile twitched, but she maintained her composure. “Mamma has already said as much—you need not trouble yourself, Maria.”
“I wonder you should mention your little scheme at all, if not out of a desire for assistance.”
Fanny had observed them with discomfort, and finally pleaded her excuses, claiming that their Aunt Norris seemed to want her; she hastened away, leaving the two sisters alone.
Julia grinned at Maria. “I wonder at your sudden enthusiasm for Fanny, sister. If you think to get back in our father’s good graces, I am sure it shall not be enough.
He is determined you shall give Rushworth another chance, you know, for I heard him reassuring Mrs. Rushworth this morning, when you were still abed.
More’s the pity for you, but I am past offering your Mr. Crawford any comfort, once you are out of his grasp.
Although perhaps once I am done with Fanny Price, she might catch his eye.
What justice that would be,” she hissed, and moved away with a spiteful parting glance.
Maria could scarcely contain her laughter. This is Julia’s great plan? To use Fanny, of all people, to separate us? It was entirely laughable, for Maria knew the depth of their attachment was unshakable. Henry would no more look at Fanny Price than Aunt Norris!
And yet…. Maria walked on alone, mulling over the matter of Fanny’s emergence into society.
She had never thought much of her meek little cousin, but now the girl held a great deal of promise indeed.
Maria’s first inclination was to use Fanny’s coming out to push her at Rushworth—certainly a great dullard as he could hope for no better.
But now another idea began to prevail, and should she succeed, much might be accomplished.
After all, she still firmly believed that Mrs. Rushworth meant to promote the interest of the Dashwood girls no matter the outcome of her threats to Sir Thomas.
It was only a matter of time before the truth came out.
There was much Maria might do to hasten that event, but in the meantime she needed only to stall her father’s attempts to reconcile her with Rushworth, without giving him too much pain.
Even now Rushworth was looking her way, for Elinor had apparently tired of his nonsense and moved away. It would not do to remain unattached while he was in a similar state, and she hastened to Henry’s side to relay her new idea.
Fanny Price was intensely relieved when she saw her cousin Elinor come to her rescue. Mrs. Norris had been inclined to scold her; even her aunts’ high spirits at this visit to their childhood home had not changed Mrs. Norris’s habit of making her whole family’s concerns her own.
“You ought to have stayed in the house,” Mrs. Norris hissed, dropping her voice to make one final remonstrance.
“Sir Thomas has every hope of your recommending yourself to Mrs. Ferrars, who has not the mind to be scuttling about the meadow with all the young people. I would have kept her company myself, had I known you would shirk the duty—but I am needed here as a chaperone.”
Fanny made a feeble apology, keeping her composure while she internally rejoiced at the interruption Elinor offered.
“Aunt Norris, Cousin Fanny.” Elinor greeted them with a steady smile. “I trust you are enjoying this tour of the grounds.”
“Of course, I explored the place often enough in my youth,” Mrs. Norris said with pride. “But what a treat for all the young people—I was just telling Fanny what a privilege it is—Norland is one of the finest houses in all the land!”
“I cannot argue with that,” Elinor replied. “As you are the newcomer, Cousin Fanny, I should like to hear your impressions of the place. Would you walk with me?”
“I would be happy to, Cousin Elinor,” Fanny replied.
She dared a glance back at her aunt, who spared her one parting grimace before busying herself about uniting Julia with Robert Ferrars.
Fanny turned her gaze back to her companion, really pleased at such tranquil company.
Elinor had always been kind to her, on the few occasions when they had met as children, and Fanny was more at ease with Elinor than nearly anybody else in their walking party.
As they moved away from the group, toward a little stream and a pretty span of wilderness, Elinor gave Fanny a gentle smile. “Forgive me for saying so, but you appeared in need of saving, just now. Our aunt is rather severe upon you.”
“Oh!” Fanny really wished to say something in her aunt’s defense, but could think of nothing.
Elinor gave her a knowing look. “I do not say such things to trap you into agreement—perhaps I judge her too harshly, but I cannot imagine you could deserve such a scolding. At any rate, we need not speak of it. Tell me, what is your impression of Norland?”