Chapter Three #3
The matter of putting her forward—whatever that might mean—had been touched on again at dinner, for by then it was quite resolved that they would all go to Norland very soon.
Her panic increased, for among all the conversation and planning, she had lacked the courage to inquire what she most wished to know—was she to return with them when the family came back to Mansfield?
Or did this journey portend some new and uncertain future for her?
After the family dined, the animated chatter in the drawing room afforded her some opportunity to slip away to the East Room.
The space had formerly been used as a school room, but since the governess had left them, the room was considered by all to belong to Fanny.
Here were her plants and books and little objects of comfort; Mrs. Norris would not allow Fanny a fire of her own, but it was cozy enough on most occasions merely for the peace it afforded Fanny.
Tonight, there was none to be found, and all the pleasure of her many hours whiled away in the East Room felt like a comfort that might very soon slip into her distant memory.
Her uncle had been heavy with his praise of her since returning to England.
This alone had surprised Fanny, and the notice made her uncomfortable.
She could neither conclude on her own, nor muster the temerity to inquire, what Sir Thomas might intend for her now, but there was a rising fear in her heart that he meant to be rid of her.
It was true that John Dashwood was her cousin by blood, for his father had been brother to her mother and aunts.
Yet he was twice her age, and had taken little notice of her when last they met.
She had been a girl of twelve or thirteen, and still so daunted by everything at Mansfield, and everybody so high above her.
What could he, his wife, and mother-and-law possibly want with her, much less do for her?
What strange notions had Sir Thomas in mind?
Surely he could not think that whatever improvement he had perceived in her appearance—a frightening sensation on its own—might raise her prospects enough to bring her into the notice of virtual strangers.
She paced the room for a half an hour or more, her thoughts increasingly wretched, and every moment she wished Edmund would come.
He was always so mindful of her absence from the family circle, and was often coming after her here, when something or other caused her to withdraw to her favorite place.
And yet, Edmund had been acting strangely all day. He had spoken harshly to his father on more than one occasion, both in the drawing room and over the course of their family dinner. He was all barbs and brooding, and it was very unlike him to be so long out of humor.
Beset by another cause for alarm, Fanny began to agonize over what had caused Edmund such distress, and why he had not sought her out to share his troubles, as he had always done before.
It occurred to her that his problem and hers might be one and the same—whatever her uncle’s intention for Fanny might be, perhaps Edmund could not like it, and could not speak to her of the matter.
Amidst such heavy woes, Fanny was late in hearing the door open and the soft footfalls on the floor; she looked up in some surprise to find Julia lingering in the center of the room. “Oh!”
“I thought I might find you here,” Julia said. She went and sat in the window seat and peered out at the twilight before beckoning Fanny to join her.
Fanny’s habit of obliging her cousins was too strong to be broken, even under such duress. She sat at the other end of the window seat, and Julia moved closer. “Well, Fanny, what do you think of this Norland business? I cannot like it at all.”
Fanny could not remember the last time Julia had asked for her opinion on anything of greater importance than a bit of ribbon or the state of the weather. Her hands fidgeting in her dress, she merely replied, “It was most unexpected.”
“Exactly so! I cannot think why Papa should wish to travel at all—and so far! He has only just come home. He might have let the theatrical go forward, if he wanted some amusement.” Julia folded her arms and huffed, leaning back against the window casement in a childlike pout.
As a poor and dependent relation, Fanny could not bring herself to question her uncle’s decision; indeed, this was the very substance of her own quandary.
But no more could she confide such a thing to the cousin who had not her trust, who had really never endeavored to speak so candidly with her before.
No, Fanny could speak freely to none but Edmund.
“I wonder what he thinks of it—Edmund, I mean.”
“Why, you heard him—he is all in favor of it! I cannot think why that should be, either. He is never cross with Papa, and I am sure he cares as little for Cousin John as the rest of us. You must remember his Fanny—Mrs. Dashwood, I mean. Vulgar and rude is how I recall her! Mrs. Rushworth said he turned his own sisters out of the house when Uncle Henry died. Well! If our Dashwood cousins are at Norland, I shall take every chance of slighting Fanny Dashwood for them.”