Chapter Three
Six days. One hundred forty-four hours, thirty minutes, since last Maria had seen Henry Crawford.
She sat down heavily on the garden bench next to her sister after leaving her father’s study.
She hoped Julia might perceive her distress and make some gentle sisterly inquiry, but a pervasive silence hung between them as Julia fidgeted with her bracelets.
“I have been speaking with Papa again,” Maria ventured, desperate to confide in somebody. “Henry has not come back, nor even sent any word—our father would have me reconsider Rushworth.”
The trace of a smile that curled up at the edges of Julia’s mouth was just what Maria had feared.
She had first sought Edmund, then her aunt, and even her mother, but none were to be found in any of the common rooms of the house.
If Julia was not kind to her, Maria would have to descend on the East Room and her mouse of a cousin, Fanny Price.
Julia held Maria’s gaze, her attitude smug and her brow lofty. “Poor Maria.”
It had never been a secret between the sisters that Julia had considered Henry Crawford her rightful property since the forming of their acquaintance, for Maria’s choice had already been made.
It had evidently mattered little to Julia that Henry obviously preferred Maria, and she him—Julia was determined to be missish about it all, despite all of Mr. Yates’ attention during the theatrical.
Yates had decamped just before Henry, and since then Julia had moped over the loss of both gentlemen, without much caring for how deeply Maria was suffering.
“I suppose Papa has come to his senses, then,” Julia said. “It is good that somebody has.”
“Julia, please.” Maria laid her hand on her sister’s arm, her imploring look wasted when Julia did not meet her eye, but stared ahead with a wide smile.
“Can you not see why he should support me?”
“I cannot see why you, of all people, should ask it of him at all. You have never been romantic. You accepted Rushworth for his money, and you were sure enough then that his fine carriages and house in Town would keep you happy. That is all you care about, and I rather wonder at you wishing to throw it all away. Perhaps Papa sees it just so.”
“I am sure he would not think so meanly of me, though you are determined to,” Maria spat.
“But he insists you honor your engagement?”
Maria drew back, her posture defensive. “Not exactly. He only wishes me to take more time in considering it, before he will call the matter quite closed. He says I must give Rushworth another chance, though I cannot think what it will accomplish.”
“A great deal, I imagine. Crawford has abandoned you, and Papa might delay long enough, I daresay, for you to overcome your unusual interest in romance and return to your old ways. I suppose you shall have Rushworth in the end. I have been slighted even more than you, but at least I am not bound to a fool, and might cherish some small hope.”
Maria scoffed. “You must think me devoid of every proper feeling. I cannot think why—you must know that Henry and I have grown attached.”
Julia rolled her eyes. “You have enjoyed his flirtations—I can well understand it, considering what a dull future awaits you with Rushworth, but I have never believed it more than that.” She stood to leave, but froze.
Maria followed her sister’s gaze; there were two figures approaching on the path from the parsonage.
It was a man and a lady, and Maria recognized their confident stride up the gravel walk.
Her heart leapt, and she jumped to her feet.
Now it was for her to triumph over Julia, and yet she could not tear her eyes from the sight of the Crawfords—one of them in particular.
Once in hailing distance, Henry waved and called out to them. It was all Maria could do to maintain her composure and not rush out to meet him. She would have all the satisfaction of a pleasant reunion, however, for Julia turned on her heel and stormed away.
Mary Crawford regarded her brother with more contentment than she felt for herself.
His reception had been warm and cheerful, everything desirable for a pair of lovers.
Her own reception, in the drawing room of Mansfield Park, had been decidedly wanting.
She had not been to Mansfield for a few days, for she had wished to allow Sir Thomas some time with his family; she had always meant to resume their daily congress once Henry came back.
She wondered if this short period of absence had vexed Edmund.
As much as she admired him, she was often reminded of how little she knew him, beginning with the great shock of discovering him destined for the clergy.
That he had been loath to participate in the theatrical had been less of a surprise than a disappointment, and yet she had felt that he had come round to it in the end.
Perhaps it might be anything, but she could not be at ease until she discovered what he was about, and why he could scarcely look at her.
The whole family was in the drawing room, and Mary knew she must wait for some opportunity to draw Edmund out.
He was pale, with a look about him that suggested a lack of sleep and want of spirits, his gaze fixed on the stilted conversation Maria and Henry were attempting with Sir Thomas.
Though the last was pleased to see Henry returned, the baronet appeared at odds with himself in hearing Henry’s friendly overtures.
There, as well, Mary was obliged to wonder if aught was amiss.
She had learned a pretty little skill from her friend Mrs. Fraser in London—it began as an idle occupation in the fine drawing rooms of the capitol, the reading of posture from afar, and Mary had grown more an expert even than her worldly friend.
She observed Maria’s nervous shifting between Henry and Sir Thomas, Henry’s erect spine as if not fully comfortable with the baronet’s reception, and that gentleman’s obvious desire to end the conversation entirely, for he was often casting his eyes toward the ever-silent Fanny Price.
Here there was little difference—Miss Price sat a little away from them, shrinking under the commands Mrs. Norris was wont to hiss at her, and every time casting a look of desperation at Edmund.
He seemed unusually indifferent to his poor cousin on this occasion—indeed, Edmund seemed scarcely aware of any of them.
He had appeared not to hear her every attempt at conversation, leaving Mary to the mundane observations Lady Bertram occasionally directed at the group.
Mary grew restless, and contrived to move about the room in an effort to be noticed and amused.
If she could not discover what was bothering Edmund, she might at least draw his eye, and strolling languorously across the room allowed her to catch some little bit of what Henry was saying to Sir Thomas.
“What a pity that you mean to depart so soon after my return,” was all Mary could hear of it; she swallowed her shock and schooled her countenance as she approached Miss Price.
The poor creature deserved better than the admonitions of Mrs. Norris, whose ill-featured countenance did as little to recommend her to Mary as her tiresome manners.
“What do you work on there, Miss Price?” Mary offered the girl a smile as she took a seat most advantageously situated to allow her to converse with Fanny while listening to the conversation that really interested her.
The poor girl looked absolutely mortified at being noticed, and looked no higher than her lap as she softly answered, “A cushion for my aunt’s pug.”
Mary made some show of admiration for the work, which was really quite good, but her only reply was a smile, that she might hear Maria speaking nearby.
“But if it is to be a family house party, you might come as our guests—you and your sister. My cousin and his wife are more than ten years my senior—but they would not mind more young people, I am sure.”
Concealing her interest, Mary addressed Fanny Price first. “I should be quite enraptured with a puppy, I am sure, if Lady Bertram’s pug should ever have a litter, and I would commission you to make a cushion exactly like this for me.”
Fanny blushed at the praise, but said nothing. Nearby, Sir Thomas grumbled. “I had meant to go alone, perhaps with Edmund. Maria, my dear, I had wished you to stay—but, well….”
Mary braved a glance in the baronet’s direction, and saw his jowls twitching in a strange gesture of confusion.
She thought it odd that Sir Thomas should be going to see other relations so soon after returning to his own family.
That he was conflicted about bringing Maria must have something to do with her severed engagement, an obstacle she knew Henry had every hope of finding removed upon his own return.
Something was amiss, but she could not quite puzzle it out.
Surely with the engagement broken off, it would be ideal for Maria to remove from the county, and be courted by Henry elsewhere; why could Sir Thomas not like it?
A glance in Edmund’s direction made Mary wonder if perhaps she was the problem. She had been vocal these many months about not wishing to have a clergyman—perhaps since last they had met, Edmund had resolved not to have her, and thought to distance himself.
Amidst Mary’s calculations, Fanny Price had remained silent, but Mary realized that the girl had all the appearance of equal interest in what was passing with Sir Thomas. When their eyes met, Mary winked at the girl, and flicked her gaze back to the baronet and his daughter.
Maria huffed at her father, her posture toward Henry betraying her every feeling. “But you had even mentioned bringing Fanny! Forgive me if I had presumed this meant the whole family would go, and in your lengthy absence the Crawfords have become very like family.”