Chapter Eight #2
Fanny could hardly shrink from such friendly overtures.
Though she dared not say what she really thought of her aunt, of Norland she was sure she could give an unrestrained opinion.
“It is the grandest house I have ever seen,” she said with feeling.
“I am fortunate to call Mansfield home, and I went to Sotherton Court over the summer—that is Mr. Rushworth’s estate. ”
“Yes, we were speaking of it a little while ago. He is my cousin, on my mother’s side—but I have never seen Sotherton. He tells me it is a fine house, though he thinks the grounds want some improvement. Do you think him right in this, or is he merely being modest?”
“Oh—I hardly know. He must be the judge of his own house, I am sure.”
Elinor smiled encouragingly, and linked her arm through Fanny’s. “It is refreshing, you know, to encounter someone like you, who I am sure would never say anything unkind about anyone.”
“Do you really think so?” Fanny’s reticence had never been praised in such terms; she herself had long felt it an obstacle, but she had not the temerity to overcome it.
“Indeed I do. We live in a world where there is much to be gained from tearing others down. You will not do so, and I think it shows a strength of character that ought to be valued more.”
“Oh, but I have no right to behave in such a way,” Fanny cried.
“Those who do behave in such a way seldom have the right to—merely the inclination,” Elinor said gently.
“How very true,” Fanny agreed, thinking of one or two persons of her acquaintance in particular.
She smiled back at Elinor, feeling more at ease now.
Julia’s overtures of friendship had been so sudden, and rather extreme, doing more to frighten Fanny than to please her.
With Elinor she might be more comfortable, for there was little chance of being tempted into bad behavior, and none of the pressure to alter herself in any other way.
Even Elinor’s manner of praising Fanny was tolerable, for rather than focusing on matters of vanity, Elinor saw Fanny as she wished to be seen, for her virtues of character.
They lapsed into silence for a moment, but this was not unpleasant for Fanny.
Indeed, she found it vastly superior to her Aunt Norris’ lectures, Julia’s impertinence, and Edmund’s perplexing solemnity.
Elinor appeared on the verge of speaking again, but before she could, she looked up sharply, her eyes wide with alarm.
Fanny followed her gaze—Mr. Rushworth had fallen into the stream, and was wet through and knee-deep in water once he had gotten to his feet.
There was laughter in the distance—Maria and Mr. Crawford made no effort to restrain their hilarity, and several others of their party looked on with almost equal amusement.
Mrs. Rushworth, who had been speaking with Margaret Dashwood, hastened toward her son with a fearful squawk, which seemed only to heighten his embarrassment.
Fanny let out a little gasp. “Oh, dear.”
Beside her, Elinor chewed her lip with concern. “Poor man. They should not laugh at him.”
“No indeed,” Fanny agreed. “I am sure he suffers a great deal.”
“Yes, I believe he does.” Elinor said no more, but Fanny studied her face for a moment; all that Fanny had witnessed these last three months had given her ample reason to pity Mr. Rushworth, and though Elinor was too circumspect to say so, Fanny suspected Elinor’s empathy belied some knowledge of his ill-usage.
It was written on her face, and Fanny liked her all the better for it, especially as she had all the satisfaction of knowing they shared such an opinion, without having to be so indelicate as to actually speak of it.
“I suppose he will have to return to the house,” Fanny said.
“I ought to show him the way back, for it is faster through the groves than through the meadow, and he may take a chill if he tarries too long,” Elinor replied. “I hope we shall speak later, Cousin.”
“Of course,” Fanny said. Far from feeling abandoned by the pleasantest companion she’d had all day, she was really quite proud of Elinor for such kindness.
In many ways she felt a quiet kinship with Mr. Rushworth—he was far above her in every way, and yet they were both the sort of people that nobody much thought of, or spoke to when there was any alternative.
Elinor’s kindness to him was nearly as dear to Fanny as their own budding camaraderie.
Fanny walked on alone for a little while.
She had often been glancing in Edmund’s direction, but other than a few brief, forced smiles in her direction, he had made no attempts to put her at ease as Elinor had done.
Her Aunt Margaret was the next to seek her out; Fanny had observed her aunt have a tense exchange with Mrs. Rushworth, just after Mr. Rushworth’s tumble into the stream and subsequent retreat to the manor with Elinor, but she appeared in good humor now.
“May I walk with you a little while, Niece? I hate to see you left all alone by your cousins.”
“Oh! I could not object to Elinor going to Mr. Rushworth’s aid….”
“That is very good of you, but I spoke of your Bertram cousins. You have been with them these ten years, is that not so?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, I rather expected you to be quite one of them, and yet it does not at all appear to be the case. There is some talk of bringing you out, but I gather that you have been more a servant to your Aunt Norris until now. How very strange!”
Such talk as this made Fanny very uncomfortable, but her aunt did not seem to expect any reply. “Would that my Henry had known of it—I am sure something might have been done. You appeared to get on well with Elinor—we ought to have had you girls together more.”
Fanny felt this would have been pleasant indeed, for though Marianne seemed rather overpowering at times, young Margaret was amusing to watch, and Elinor’s steadiness held real promise for a friendship to grow. “Oh! My condolences, Aunt—I ought to have said so before.”
It had been more than six months, but Aunt Margaret still wore full mourning black, and she smiled sadly at Fanny’s conciliatory speech. “Thank you, my dear. I ought to have likewise offered my regards for your family. They are very near, I think—surely Portsmouth is no more than a day’s ride.”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Have you any plans to visit there, while you are in the area?”
“I had not thought—that is, I should like it very much—but….”
“But we must go,” Aunt Margaret insisted. “I have never met your mother, but I feel it is my duty to succeed where my late husband failed, in healing the breach.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Aunt Margaret studied Fanny for a moment. “Come, child, do you not know?” Fanny could only shake her head. “Well,” her aunt continued, “I daresay you ought to.”
Fanny hesitated. Her aunt’s bearing resembled Marianne’s emotional intensity more than Elinor’s calm equanimity, and Fanny felt a growing sense of fear that she might be led into a conversation she had to right to partake in.
She was given no choice in the matter, for her aunt went on.
“Well, it was many years ago—I am sure there can be no harm in my telling you—really, I am not at all sorry for it. As my aunt says, the truth must always prevail. Well! My late husband was brother to your mother, of course. He was born Henry Ward, though the terms of his inheritance required him to take the Dashwood name when he took possession of Norland. Of his three sisters, only your mother objected to the change—I cannot think why, but I understand she had something of a wild streak about her. I am sure she was no older than my youngest daughter at the time, and she is just the same, bless her.”
Here she paused to give an affectionate shake of her head.
“Well, you must also know my Henry was married once before—to your cousin John’s mother.
She died quite young, but during her lifetime, her father ruled her life, and even Henry was often cowed by him.
Just before her death, your mother married your father, and while Henry might have shown mercy—might have taken pity, and even done something to help them—but his first wife’s father insisted he cut all ties with them to avoid the degradation.
Poor Henry! It was but a few months later that his first wife passed, and I think he was really in great need of consolation—he offered an olive branch to your mother, and might have done a great deal for her and her children—but he was refused in the harshest of terms.”
Fanny gasped. “Impossible!”
“Do not mistake me for casting judgement on anybody,” Aunt Margaret assured her.
“In such a situation, I might very well have acted the same. Still, it is a pity that Henry had not the chance to do something for the Prices—indeed, he might have done a great deal. He was a good man, truly good, though he had been so ill-used.”
Fanny was struck speechless at such a revelation.
Naturally, her first inclination was to wonder what might have been, had the Prices reconciled with the Dashwoods all those years ago.
She might never have gone to Mansfield—this thought caused her some pain—and yet how many hardships of her early years might have been precluded?
“I hope I have not upset you, my dear,” her aunt said softly.
“It was not at all my intention. I only wished to say that I hope I might be a friend to you. My circumstances, and those of my daughters, have been greatly reduced since Henry’s passing, but if ever I am in a position to be of any real assistance to you, I should very much like it.
It would honor my Henry, and you really seem to be a most worthy young lady.
My Elinor was so forlorn today—but with you she seemed nearly content.
Any mother might be won over, you know, by those who are kind to her children. ”