Chapter Twelve #5
“Perhaps you are right. Indeed, I am sure we have all been remiss in giving you so little practice. We are rather alike, you know. We are thought well of, or well enough, but never remembered or spoken to, when we are in so large a group as this.” James stopped, fearing he had embarrassed her with such a speech—he had rather embarrassed himself in making such an admission.
Miss Price sipped her wine and gave him an encouraging smile. “You may stay and speak with me if you like, sir. I am sure it shall be just as good practice for me, and I hope not too great a labor for you.”
“Not at all—that is, it shall be no great labor—I should be obliged—but perhaps you might read to me? You really did a good job of it before, and I find such moral tomes hold considerable appeal to me at present.”
Miss Price read softly to him for a half hour, and James was determined to repay her kindness by conversing with her afterward, for the sake of her practicing.
He might have praised her out of generosity alone, but there was truth in all his words as he commended her for speaking well, reading with eloquence, and expressing herself with grace and poise.
He found he really enjoyed her company, and took pleasure in stoking the fire as she drew her shawl tighter about herself.
When the players at whist shifted, and Mrs. Dashwood summoned him to join her, Mrs. Ferrars and Maria at cards, James acquiesced without knowing what he was about, yet felt heartily sorry for agreeing to a change in what had been perfect contentment.
Miss Price looked tranquil enough at his departure, and though he could not account for why this should disappoint him, he took no comfort in the listless smile Maria offered him as he sat down to play cards.
Fanny Dashwood poured a heavy dose of sleeping draught and slumped forward against her dressing table, idly swirling the concoction in a small crystal glass. Behind her, John paced the room in his dressing gown. “I suppose I shall retire to my chamber, Fanny, if you are so unwell.”
“Unwell? John, how could you—I am wearied from all this dreadful business—I feel I am coming quite unraveled for fear we shall lose everything.”
“Well, I am sure you need not work yourself into such a state,” he replied.
“Your mother has put her lawyers on the matter—and Sir Thomas hopes that as paltry proof as a few portraits may be, it shall all be hushed up yet. Mrs. Rushworth has not spoken yet, and surely she knows nothing will come of it—she only wants my cousin Maria for her son.”
“Your sister,” Fanny spat. “The little minx. I thought fortune had favored us when her paramour started courting that little mouse Miss Price, but Maria Bertram may not have Rushworth.” She downed the sleeping tonic and stood to pace, as if to hasten the draught’s effects.
“The little tramp was vastly impertinent to Mrs. Rushworth all night, I cannot think what she is about. And then I begin to wonder if Rushworth will have her at all! His mother is pressing him at Elinor—she thinks to have both estates, I know it! And how she swooned today at that nasty Edmund Bertram—Sir Thomas may be well pleased, there, that one of his sons might have Norland, and never mind you!”
Exhausted from her rant, Fanny sat down heavily on the corner of the bed. Her clothes began to feel restrictive, but she would not dress for bed with John still present.
“My dear Fanny, do not distress yourself. What you are describing is the sort of intrigue one finds in novels! This shall all be settled with legal proceedings done very discreetly, their feeble evidence presented and duly refuted, and all the world none the wiser.”
Fanny narrowed her eyes at him. Her husband was not so confident as all this, and the wringing of his hands betrayed him. “You cannot mean it! Do not lie to me, John, or think me so foolish. Something must be done or I shall go mad!”
John contorted his face as he did when pondering anything, and Fanny could not bear the sight of him. She turned away. “Fanny, dear, I am doing my best. My father and I can only hope that Maria can be turned back to Rushworth. It does seem to be working….”
“Your sisters must be sent away—the Dashwood girls. I cannot like the idea of that horrible woman promoting Elinor’s interests.”
“I cannot send them away—indeed, perhaps I ought to do something for them. A small sum might be dispensed with—it would be better than parting with….” He gestured broadly. “Everything.”
“What, pay them off? Rob your son? You must be mad, John! No indeed! If you are so certain it shall work to our favor, why part with money unnecessarily?”
“Then you do believe it will turn out right?”
“Certainly not,” Fanny cried, throwing herself back on the bed. The sleeping draught was indeed beginning to work it’s magic on her, and she gave in to the dizziness for a moment. “We shall all be ruined forever,” she groaned.
“Fanny, I worry for you, my dear.”
She only laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. Unable to bear her dinner gown any longer, she groaned again. “Leave me, John.” She waited to hear him leave as the canopy above her head grew hazy. She wished to undress, else she would face a vastly uncomfortable night, but sleep claimed her directly.