Chapter Eight #4
It was true that the Bertrams had given her every advantage—they had housed her, clothed her, and fed her for a decade.
She had been given opportunities her siblings in Portsmouth could only dream of—her younger sister, Susan, had indeed made it clear in their regular correspondence that she would have made more of such a chance.
Certainly Edmund, who knew her better than anybody, wished her to see more in the world, to become an active participant and not an observant bystander.
It was what Sir Thomas and Julia had begun to press for.
And now, even a brand new acquaintance had quickly cut to the heart of the matter.
Fanny was so overcome that she hardly knew what to say; she was just as surprised as Mrs. Jennings when she suddenly burst into tears.
“Oh, no, my dear!” Mrs. Jennings shifted her heavy frame in the confines of the carriage to sit on the seat beside Fanny; the old widow wrapped her in such a motherly embrace as Fanny had never gotten from her aunts at Mansfield, and Fanny felt that until this moment she had never known how very much it had been needed.
She leaned into the older woman, who stroked her hair and gently murmured reassurance.
“There, there, now—better let it out, child. Well! I had no notion of distressing you, but I wonder if this might not be just what was needed.”
Fanny nodded feebly through her tears. She had been driven before to such pitiful lamentations, and yet on this occasion it felt strangely enjoyable to release her tears in the arms of a doting old matron. It was a cathartic experience, once she yielded to it.
Mrs. Jennings continued her gentle ministrations until Fanny’s tears were spent.
“There now,” said she, as Fanny’s sobs gave way to a few jerky breaths and gasps.
“Well now, you have had your cry out—and we need not go back to the house quite yet.” She leaned her head out of the window and called for the coachman to take them once more about the gravel drive.
“Now, dearest, tell me what is on your mind, that we might put it all to rights.”
Fanny considered. There was still some hesitation on her mind—such a display as she had just made was unfathomable to her, and to confide her feelings further must be a selfish, unseemly thing—but it was very tempting. “I am frightened,” she said plainly.
“My dear girl,” Mrs. Jennings cried. “I promise I am a friend—there can be no harm in telling me what distresses you.”
“No—no, I mean, that is what distresses me. I am so very afraid all the time.” Fanny let out a shaky breath, her words and thoughts now forming apace, until a great deal more feeling than she had ever given voice to came tumbling out of her lips.
“I have never really been aware of it,” said she.
“I was so young when I went to Mansfield, and yet I suppose it is true—that is, I know that not everybody feels as I do, this constant sense of anxiety over saying or doing aught amiss—that the smallest misstep or offense might result in everything I have been given being swiftly ripped away.”
“I see,” Mrs. Jennings replied. “Well, it is understandable, to be sure—you wish to please your benefactors, and fear that you might seem ungrateful if you show any expectation of being treated as equal to the daughters of the house. Is that right?”
“Yes, exactly so. I had not thought I minded the distinction so much, only….” Adequate language escaped her, and Fanny could only shrug her shoulders.
“Yes, well, any blessings bestowed in such a way must quickly lose their luster, when the recipient is in constant fear of their loss. How can you enjoy a thing at all, in such a state?”
Fanny sniffled and wiped at her face. “Yes, I think that is what I wished to say.”
“Well! And now I understand you perfectly, my dear. I thought I did, before—for I have watched you with no little interest all day—but I could not puzzle you out. You are very different than Miss Maria and Miss Julia to be sure, though Sir Thomas is clearly fond of you. Mrs. Norris—well, you need not say anything about her—I am sure I hold her in enough contempt for the both of us!”
Emboldened by her new friend’s candor, Fanny allowed herself one smirk before she grew quite serious again. “Oh, Mrs. Jennings—thank you!”
“Well, what have you to thank me for?”
“I am sure I have never spoken thus with anybody in the whole course of my life.”
“And, despite your tears, child, have you enjoyed it?”
Fanny needed not an instant to reflect—she agreed at once. “Truly I did—I shall be forever grateful to you.”
“Pah! You must not let your gratitude go too far, sweet girl—but what a tender heart you have. I confess, I like you very much—far better than I expected to, which was quite a bit already. What an interesting, complex little creature you are. But if we are to be friends, let us stand together as equals, for I shall tell you quite candidly that my birth is little better than yours. But that is ancient history, to be sure!” Mrs. Jennings laughed merrily.
“Oh yes, my dear, we shall get on famously. What a promising beginning!”