Chapter Eight #3
“My cousin Elinor was kindness itself,” Fanny said in all sincerity. She’d had no notion of Elinor being downcast, but felt a pang of sympathy for her cousin. “If there is anything within my power to lift her spirits, I am sure I shall try.”
“That is good of you, my dear. I hope we might all be friends, you and I, and my daughters. Indeed, what do you say to a trip to Portsmouth?”
Fanny’s heart leapt at the notion. She was nearer the home of her birth than she had been in ten long years, and the prospect of visiting, of being amongst true equals, was almost too much to think of with any modicum of composure.
Tears of joy pricked at her eyes, and she nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes!”
“I am sure it might easily be arranged—I would like to pay my respects to your mother, perhaps bring some small gifts and essentials, and young Margaret would love to see all the great ships.”
“With my uncle’s permission….”
“Of course, of course! Well, do not fret about it, my dear—I am sure I shall arrange it all. Well, here is Mrs. Jennings waving me over—but I hope we shall speak again later, dear Fanny.”
Not long after her aunt had moved away, Mrs. Jennings waved Fanny over as well.
Fanny’s instinct was to look over her shoulder, certain that some other of their party was the old lady’s object, but Mrs. Jennings called out to her by name.
“Miss Price,” she cried out in a sing-song way. “Miss Price!”
Anxious that such a display must draw a great deal of unwanted attention, Fanny hastened toward the dowager, who began to speak with great energy before Fanny had gotten close enough that they might converse at a normal volume.
“There she comes, what a pretty girl, too,” Mrs. Jennings fairly bellowed.
“How refreshed you look from walking—but I am sure I am quite knocked up! How you young people confound us old ladies, to be sure! You would all walk directly to London, I daresay, if there were any occasion for it! Bless me, but I grow weary—you must keep me company, dear girl—I am really most eager to know you—what praise of you I have heard from everybody! Such a pretty face—so many glowing reports could not be wrong—come, let me have a proper look at you! I am sure you were quite in hiding last night!”
Fanny had completed her approach by the time Mrs. Jennings concluded her lengthy and exuberant speech, and she steeled herself to the lady’s effusions.
Truly, such praise as this was nearly as troubling as censure, though Fanny reminded herself it was kindly meant.
Mrs. Jennings was a great friend of her Aunt Margaret’s, and after her aunt’s heartwarming overtures, Fanny knew she must exert herself to be pleasing.
“I retired early last night—I had no notion of being missed among so many people.”
Mrs. Jennings laughed. “We are quite a crush! Poor Mr. Dashwood, and Mrs. Dashwood, too! Ah, but it is very generous of them to open their home to us all. And what a home! Your mother was raised here, I understand. Well! I am sure I have never seen anything so grand, though my daughters are both so very well settled in Devonshire.”
“Norland is most impressive,” Fanny agreed.
“Well, now, do not rattle away at me,” Mrs. Jennings cried, and laughed for longer than necessary at her own jest. “You must stay awhile with me—I have called for my carriage, for I am far too fatigued to make the walk back. But your cousin Edmund says you have not the sturdy constitution of these other young folks—what a serious fellow he is! And then your dear aunt has been recommending your gentle sweetness! And I have had it from your uncle, who is so high and mighty—Lord!—but you are to come out at last. And so, here we are, my dear, and you must stay with me—we shall both ride back to the house in my carriage, us delicate creatures, and grow better acquainted.”
Mrs. Jennings, handkerchief at the ready, waved her hands in excitement as her carriage appeared in the distance—the gravel drive that encircled the house was not so very distant, and Mrs. Jennings led Fanny by the arm to the luxurious barouche.
“Come, dear, let us go on, then. The rest of our party might tarry awhile, as they choose, or go back directly, but we shall be snug and comfortable.”
Fanny was tired from her walk, and her gratitude for Mrs. Jennings’ offer redoubled at the notion that Edmund had been behind it. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Well thank you, I daresay! An old widow like myself must always be pestering the young people, you know—it keeps me quite active—but I love to see you all together, and it quite fills my mind with every manner of plans and schemes for happiness!”
They entered the carriage now, and Mrs. Jennings made a great fuss of attending to Fanny’s every comfort as they situated themselves.
She instructed her driver to make a full circuit about the house rather than taking the quickest route back, and then leaned back and fixed Fanny with a look of matronly affection.
“I am in no great rush, you see. We shall take in the fine view together, you and I, for I wish to know you better.”
“Oh!” Fanny could not imagine how she could have inspired such curiosity, for though Mrs. Jennings was open and amiable, she was by all appearances also very wealthy, and must surely have any number of interests to occupy her. “I hardly know what to say.”
“Well! That is not a condition one sees in most young ladies nowadays, but no matter, my dear girl. I am sure all young ladies have their own stories, their great secrets, hopes and wishes. And attachments, too!” She leaned back with a ribald laugh.
“Ah, but just look at you! Oh yes, I am sure you have your secrets, Fanny Price, and I shall wheedle them out of you, mark my words!”
Fanny attempted to school her countenance.
The great lady was good-natured enough, and Fanny could not doubt that her overbearing declarations were made in a spirit of generosity, yet it was not her nature to bare her most intimate thoughts and wishes to a perfect stranger.
Certainly her attachment to Edmund must never be spoken of—it ought only to be overcome, and in secret.
As to any other information, she had little experience in making herself interesting to others, and timidly admitted as much to Mrs. Jennings.
“I am sure I have little to say that anyone would wish to hear,” Fanny murmured.
Mrs. Jennings laughed again; she was a portly woman, and had likely never been really handsome, but her whole body shook with the force of her cheerful laugh, and Fanny found it oddly endearing.
“Fie, fie,” Mrs. Jennings cried. “Perhaps you only mean to be mysterious—but if that is the case, well done!”
“Not at all,” Fanny cried. “I only mean to be honest with you. I am in every way quite plain and ordinary, and have little enough to say of my own experiences and opinions—I should much rather listen to you.”
Still smiling indulgently, Mrs. Jennings appeared to consider this. “I have discovered some of your history—so, you have really never left Mansfield, eh?”
“I have been there since I was a girl of ten, and have had little need to ever go anywhere else. I am very happy there.”
“And never wish to leave the place?”
“I am grateful to be allowed to call it home,” Fanny began; she might have said a little more, but Mrs. Jennings latched on at once.
“Ah! That is it!”
“Ma’am?”
“You are all gratitude and deference, which is a fine thing—just as it should be—quite a credit to you. But you know, these Bertrams would not have brought you forward with any expectation of your never seeing the world or having thoughts and feelings of your own!”
“My aunt and uncle have been very kind….”
“Of course they have! I should wager they have been kinder to you than you ever have to yourself. Your first thought is to speak nothing but good of them, which is natural and proper—but I think you fear that to really state any decided opinions of your own would be tantamount to ingratitude! You are a shrinking violet, and they have placed you near a window but you will not stretch your petals out and grow!”
The metaphor was a strange one—violets, Fanny knew, preferred indirect sunlight—but even this gave her pause. Yes, the message was clear and rather poignant, and Mrs. Jennings allowed a heavy silence to fall between them as Fanny processed the idea in its enormity.