Chapter Eighteen #4
She felt a certain obligation to all her companions—it was just what Mrs. Jennings would advise against, she knew—but she felt it nonetheless.
She could not like to think that she should be the only one among all them to really take pleasure in visiting, and that her enjoyment of the trip might be lessened from worrying that they really wished themselves elsewhere—and then she felt very guilty for thinking ill of her friends.
Beyond this, she was worried at what they would think of her childhood home.
She had not been back in nearly ten years, and yet she recalled well the condition of life she had experienced in her youth.
It was not something any of her companions would be accustomed to, and she even doubted her own ability to reacclimate to it.
She would be as much an outsider amongst her own parents as much as she had been at Mansfield and Norland; she must seem a pretender to all.
And yet how awful of her, for she ought not to be ashamed, either of the people that had brought her up, or those that had brought her back today. But to see the collision of both worlds, and she maintaining the shaky balance of one foot in each, began to feel too much to bear.
The carriage conveyed them first to the inn where her companions would stay—Fanny was insistent that she should not insult her mother by electing not to stay at the house—and after they had freshened up from the road, they all walked to the Price residence.
Aunt Margaret and Lady Bertram, who had been on easy, convivial terms since the first day at Norland, led the way, chatting amongst themselves.
Mrs. Jennings and Mr. Rushworth walked on either side of Fanny, each holding her by the arm, for she began to noticeably tremble as they turned down the waterfront road she had grown up on. “Fanny, dear,” Mrs. Jennings cried. “You have worked yourself up into quite a state, poor girl!
“Mrs. Jennings is right, Fanny—Miss Price,” Mr. Rushworth agreed.
She smiled nervously at him, trying to still her shaking. “I think I must be just Fanny in Portsmouth, sir—it rather suits.”
“If you like,” he said softly.
“Very good,” Mrs. Jennings said. “Whatever puts you at ease, my dear. I daresay I can guess what you are thinking at such a time, but there is no need to fret about anything. When we get to the house, you must forget we are here and act naturally. You know you really are very happy to see your family, and you needn’t worry over what we shall think of how you get on. ”
“Oh, dear Mrs. Jennings!” Fanny smiled widely at the kindly older woman. “How right you are.”
“I can read this one like a book,” Mrs. Jennings teased Mr. Rushworth. “I have a gift for it, for I shall tell you both a secret—I was very like Fanny here, when I was a young girl. Very like her indeed, if you can imagine that!”
“I think it a credit to you both,” Mr. Rushworth replied. “Would that I possessed your talent and wisdom. Or yours, Fanny.”
Fanny laughed. “Do not think to flatter me out of my anxiety, Mr. Rushworth.”
“I daresay he shall not, if his praise is only to be laughed at,” Mrs. Jennings chided her. “If I were Mr. Rushworth, I would not put up with it!”
This only made Fanny laugh more; she began to feel wild with the anxiety of it all, and yet she wished to take all the comfort her companions meant to offer.
The house was in sight now, and Fanny pointed it out to them, falling silent and still as she was flooded with childhood memories.
Aunt Margaret and Lady Bertram were at the door, and a moment later her parents and siblings were spilling out of the house to greet them.
Tears filled Fanny’s eyes, and she felt all her fear washed away, replaced by pure bliss.
There was her family, calling out to her, many of them actually jumping with joy to see her.
“Well, go on Fanny,” Mrs. Jennings said gently.
Mr. Rushworth still held Fanny’s arm as she stepped forward, but Mrs. Jennings reached out to stay him. “They are all family, you know. We must let them have their reunion—they shall introduce us when they are ready.”
Fanny glanced back at Mr. Rushworth; he smiled and nodded encouragingly, and at this Fanny abandoned every dreadful feeling that had clouded her heart, and she ran into the embrace of a multitude of merry Prices.
James Rushworth could not help but grin as he watched the Prices swarm Fanny at the door.
Her mother embraced her first and longest, and he was struck both by the resemblance of Mrs. Price to Lady Bertram, and the stark contrast in their mode of dress and expression.
Mrs. Price was rough around the edges, perhaps, but warm and gregarious.
She continued stroking Fanny’s hair, patting her shoulders, and remarking on all her finery as Fanny moved on to greet her siblings, of which there were a great many—the younger children were in such constant motion that he could scarcely count them.
Fanny was brighter than he had ever seen her, absolutely radiating joy as the younger siblings hugged at her neck and tugged at her skirts, and it occurred to James that he should like to hang about her so, to take her in his arms and tell her how delightful she was.
Beside him, Mrs. Jennings cleared her throat. “I can also read you like a book, you know.”
“Pardon?”
She linked her arm through his and patted his hand. “Come now, when I have decided to befriend somebody, there can be no getting out of it. The question is, will you accept a friendly word of advice?”
James stared at her in disbelief for a moment. Mary Crawford had apparently detected something the day before, and now Mrs. Jennings. “I suppose I am in too deep,” he sighed. “I have only just realized it, and I have not the slightest idea what to do. I bungled the last courtship so thoroughly.”
“So you have told me,” Mrs. Jennings commiserated. “But you will not get anywhere with Fanny if you woo her the way you might have done Miss Bertram, I can tell you that. Crawford lavishes her with praise, and no matter how much she deserves it, she does not like it.”
“But she does deserve it.”
“I was right to take a shine to you,” Mrs. Jennings laughed. “Fanny Price will never grasp what she deserves without believing it is right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lavish praise, fancy things—all your wealth is nothing to her but a pile of reasons to say no. But look at her with them. People—human connection—there is so much sincerity about her. Fanny’s pursuits….”
“Are that of the human spirit. Yes, I know.”
“Well then! That is how you connect with her. It is how everybody ought to do it, but what do I know?”
“A great deal, I daresay,” James replied. “That is where I have failed. I have never tried to be much of anybody, not really. I am Rushworth of Sotherton.” He shrugged.
“If you do not even know what that means, how is she to discover it? I said the same to her, believe me—she still has some discovering of herself to do yet, but if you meet her halfway you might both find out together. All that chatter in that carriage about trees and gardens—that was you.”
“It never interested Maria.”
“Well!” She made an emphatic face at him.
“Oh—I see.”
“Oh, they are waving us over. Come along, Mr. Rushworth, time to be introduced. Just be yourself, be a real person, and try not to give such a fig what anyone else thinks.”
Fanny felt a blush creep across her face as they all stepped into the Prices’ poky, messy house.
Her father leapt out of his chair and pulled her into a tight hug, exclaiming over her growth since last they met, and how very grand she looked.
“Turn about then, let us all have a look—very fine, very fine indeed, Fanny!”
She lost herself in the moment, spinning around and letting her skirts swirl about her legs as her younger siblings clapped and exclaimed. When she came to a stop, dizzy from so much affection, more than the twirling, her eyes alighted on Mr. Rushworth, who had joined in the applause.
“Oh, Fanny,” her mother said tenderly. “How tall you have grown—how fine your figure! You are quite grown up. Oh, to see you at Norland….”
“Your daughter is a credit to the house,” Mr. Rushworth observed. “In addition to all these charms, she has a gentle wisdom and kindness, she is so willing to be a friend to anybody, for she has such sincerity of heart.”
“We are all in raptures over her,” Mrs. Jennings agreed, seating herself comfortably on a very shabby sofa. “They are to give a ball in her honor a few nights hence, and I am sure they could not have bestowed the distinction on a worthier person.”
“A ball,” Susan cried. Nearest in age to Fanny, her sister squealed and pressed Fanny’s hand. “Your letters are always full of such marvels—it does not take much to impress me, to be sure, but a ball! Oh, I cannot wait to hear of it!”
A period of noisy chaos ensued, in which all her family was talking at once.
Aunt Margaret and Lady Bertram were adding to the praise that Fanny endeavored not to balk at, and as they chatted amiably to her parents, Fanny watched with curiosity as Mrs. Jennings began to entertain little Annie and Martha, the youngest girls.
Seeming utterly oblivious to her surroundings, Mrs. Jennings had picked up a sewing basket and began to contrive a little doll out of one of her own handkerchiefs—now Mr. Rushworth attempted to do the same.
Mrs. Jennings was almost suspiciously adept at it; Mr. Rushworth was not, but he bore it cheerfully when the girls laughed at his haphazard creation, and he took up a wooden sword to play with young Freddy.
Susan caught Fanny’s eye, and gave a little tip of her head in that direction. “Well done, Sister,” she muttered.
Before Fanny could make any reply, her father interrupted them all with a clap of his hands. “Well, I am so damned tired I think I might skip dinner and hit the hay if we do not sit down directly!”