Chapter Nineteen
The rest of the house was up when Fanny Price awoke the next morning; she found her mother and Susan in the kitchen and she put on an apron to help them prepare the midday meal.
Mrs. Price swatted at her. “What do you think you are doing? It is kind of you, Fanny, but we are nearly finished here, and your friends will be here any minute to eat with us before you return to Norland.”
“I only wanted to help—I am sure they will not mind….”
Mrs. Price shooed Susan out of the room, and then took Fanny by the shoulders. “If you want to help, marry one of those rich men,” she said softly.
“Mother,” Fanny gasped. “I hardly want to argue with you—but neither has asked, so there is little point.”
Mrs. Price searched her daughter's eyes. “And if one of them should ask you?”
Fanny sighed and shook her head. “I do not think it likely. Please, there is no need for us to quarrel over something imaginary.”
Mrs. Price patted Fanny’s arm and nodded sadly. “Very well, if you like. Only do not be cross with Susan for telling me. It was right of her.”
“I know she cares for me, and for my happiness,” Fanny said. “I know you do, too. You sent me to Mansfield for a better life, and I am grateful.”
“But not so much that you would turn away a wealthy man—that is not what the women in that family are bred to do.”
“That is hardly fair,” Fanny said, willing herself to keep her voice down.
“Life is hardly fair, if you had not noticed,” her mother snapped. “Look around, would you? Look at what affection and esteem has done for me, after more years at Norland than you have had at Mansfield.”
Tears pricked at Fanny’s eyes, and she turned her face away.
“And did you listen to those who would dissuade you?” With her head turned, Fanny did not see it coming when her mother gave her a slap.
Her face stung, and was scuffed from the roughness of her mother’s chapped fingers.
She straightened her shoulders and met her mother’s eye.
“You could have had help from Uncle Henry, but you refused it.”
“Hush, girl,” her mother huffed. “You know nothing about that, and I will not have you accusing me of wrong when you are determined to be obstinate yourself.”
The kitchen door was swung open; Aunt Margaret and Lady Bertram came in, instantly alerted to the tension between mother and daughter. “What has happened?” Lady Bertram rushed to Fanny’s side. “Surely Fanny would never be obstinate. Sister, what is happening?”
Fanny was mortified that her aunts had come to her aid over her mother’s, but she knew her face must still be red from the slap.
She looked to Aunt Margaret, and thought of what they had spoken of the day they had first discussed coming to Portsmouth.
“Forgive me, Aunt,” she said softly. “I do not know if you were telling me in confidence, but I think I have some right to an answer. Mother, why did you turn away Uncle Henry’s offer of aid? Why would you not let him help us?”
“It was no offer of help, it was a proper bribe,” Mrs. Price growled. “And it is none of your affair, Fanny, not when I only accepted Sir Thomas’ help for your sake, after all he’s done against this family, and you mean to throw it away.”
Lady Bertram snapped her head up with unusual alacrity, and Aunt Margaret began to wring her hands nervously. Fanny was in agony. She had never quarreled thus with anybody, and yet to back down now felt quite impossible.
“If I were to marry—if I were to marry well, as my friends all desire, I hope you know I would help you. But as much as I love you all, it will never be the first reason for my accepting a man. That place will always be for affection and esteem, as you say—I cannot marry without it, not for any sum. You cannot ask it of me when you yourself have turned away aid that would not have come at the expense of… of my whole life!”
Lady Bertram wrapped her arm around Fanny and murmured some gentle assurance.
“Sister, I think I would also like to know why you turned away help from Henry—I never knew he offered,” she said placidly.
“I would also like to know what you meant when you referenced my husband. Fanny is correct—we have some right to hear it.”
Aunt Margaret had begun to shake, and picked up a bit of discarded paper to fan herself. “I think this is a discussion for another time.”
“No, it is not,” Lady Bertram insisted. “I really do not think we should wait a moment longer to hear what Frances has to say.” Her eyes locked on Aunt Margaret, as Fanny shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps you are already aware.”
Mrs. Price opened a cupboard and pulled out a dirty bottle of amber liquid. “Have your other friends come?”
“Mrs. Jennings and Mr. Rushworth are playing with the children,” Lady Bertram replied evenly.
“Well, go and see to them, Fanny. Take them for a walk.”
Fanny was trembling, tears streaming down her face, and she could not will herself to move. “I want to know.”
Aunt Margaret patted Fanny’s cheek. “No, my dear, I do not think you do. We can speak later, but for now you had better leave us.”
Fanny relented and nodded her head, but the tears did not stop as she left the kitchen; she was obliged to pause in the short hallway that led to the single main room of the house. She leaned her back against the wall and covered her face as she gave in to her distress and wept.
Mr. Rushworth came around the corner. “Oh! Forgive me—I heard the kitchen door and thought to offer some assistance—but I should offer….” He patted at his coat pockets. “Forgive me, Miss Price—I have used all my pocket squares trying to figure out how Mrs. Jennings makes those little rag dolls.”
For a moment Fanny laughed through her tears, and she drew her hands away from her face a little. “Please, do not trouble yourself.”
Mr. Rushworth hesitated; as much as she did not want him to see her in such a state, neither did she really want him to leave her.
She inched closer to him, and he moved nearer as well.
“But I hate to see you cry, Fanny,” he whispered, and he drew her into an embrace.
“I have no handkerchiefs left, but my coat is at your disposal.”
Fanny leaned in as he pressed her to his chest, and her fingers curled around his lapels as she laughed for a moment, and then gave way to weeping again. “Forgive me,” she muttered.
“There is nothing to forgive.” He held her a moment longer. “Perhaps, Fanny, we might get you some fresh air? I wonder you have not been found out by your brothers and sisters already, and though they are lovely, I cannot think it will help.”
“You are right,” she breathed.
“Will you walk with me?”
“Yes—let me get my pelisse.” Fanny rushed through the front room, but her pelisse was not where she left it—Annie and Martha had carried it off to play with, and so she grabbed somebody’s shawl, she knew not whose, and wrapped it around herself.
Mrs. Jennings was rushing toward her now. “What is this, Fanny? What has distressed you?”
“It is nothing, I shall be well in a moment.”
Mr. Rushworth hovered protectively close to Fanny. “We shall take some air, Fanny and I. Better not to overpower her,” he said gently.
“I ought to object,” Mrs. Jennings said; she made a droll face, but then waved them off.
Mr. Rushworth grabbed one of his handkerchiefs, which was rather strangely knotted, off the floor and tucked it into his coat pocket, and then offered Fanny his arm and led her out to the waterfront lane.
They were quiet a moment, but Fanny did not mind, for she was still in a state of shock over the argument, over her mother’s striking her, and the strange way all three older women had behaved before she was dismissed.
She was no longer angry that she was not to have an answer to her question—only that her own feelings were so little understood.
After they had walked some distance from the house, and Fanny’s tears had fully ceased, Mr. Rushworth laid his hand on hers as he had done the night before. “If you are in any distress, Fanny, I would be happy to hear anything you wished to say. But I will not press you.”
Clutching at her shawl, Fanny wrapped one of her fingers around him, some small acknowledgement of the growing affection between them. “You are very kind, sir.”
“James,” he said. “Mr. Rushworth and Miss Price have always been so dull—I think James and Fanny lead lives of more excitement.”
Fanny laughed in spite of herself. “I have had rather too much excitement today. James.” She smiled at the feel of his name on her lips, and repeated it.
He smiled at her. “Shall you recover from it? I hope it was not anything very bad.”
“I quarreled with my mother—was quarreling with her the very moment you all arrived.”
“That is unexpected. She seems so very fond of you.”
“I know she is, but she asked me to do something against my character, against my own better judgement, and I refused. I am sorry for arguing with her, but I cannot be sorry for doing what I think is right.”
“Nor should you,” he said with feeling. “I think you a fine judge of what is right. You should be proud that you have stood up for what you believe.”
“That is just what Mrs. Jennings would say.”
“I thought so—she always seems to know what to say to you, and I am trying to learn some of her wisdom, you see.”
“Why?” Fanny caught her breath—she suspected she knew why, and she ought not to have been so bold.
“To put you at ease,” Mr. Rushworth replied, as if her question had been a natural thing to him. “To recommend myself to you, because we are very much the same, I think.”
“You do?”
“I do. In fact, if you will allow me to confide something, I expect I must quarrel with my own mother soon, and for much the same reason.”
“Oh dear. I am very sorry for you.” Fanny sniffled again, and another burst of tears was upon her. Mr. Rushworth fumbled for his handkerchief but it was blown away in the wind, and so he pulled her near to him again.
“Do not, despair, Fanny. It is a right thing to stand up for yourself.”