And Who Can Be In Doubt Of What Followed Page 6

  “I shall begin at once,” cried Catherine enthusiastically, ignoring this critique and hastily making her way to the door.

  “Not so fast, young lady,” her mother called. “I think you had best start with the storeroom. It will give you something concrete to record, rather than just your romantic professions.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” replied Catherine, a bit downcast.

  “And tomorrow you may oversee the commencement of the laundry!” were the matron's parting words, spoken while suppressing a chuckle as her eldest daughter exited the room.

  “Why do you smile so, Mama?” Sally asked, having listened to the exchange between her sister and mother with no small degree of interest. “I cannot imagine anything humorous to be found in the wash. It is a horrid task.”

  “It is not the activity I find amusing, my dear, but my own vision of the content such occupation will provide your sister's nascent journal.”

  “Oh! I understand,” nodded Sally. “Catherine will write something along the lines of, 'My love for you, dear Henry, is like the store closet, endless in its bounty!' Will she not?”

  Mrs. Morland allowed her laughter free rein, “Perhaps not quite the style I had imagined her composing in, but you have captured the essence of my mirth, dear. Well done!”

  **********

  In keeping with her mother’s prediction, and in spite of her own conviction that the following months would prove the longest she had ever endured, Catherine was surprised to discover how very quickly her wedding day approached. Between visits from Henry, shopping excursions with Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Morland's not so subtle determination to keep her daughter constantly occupied, and Catherine's own faithful letter and diary writing, the days had a way of slipping rapidly by. Soon her constant question became not, “How much longer must I wait?” but, “How am I to accomplish all that must be done?” Both inquiries found satisfaction in the end, and not only was the day of her marriage imminent, but Catherine was as thoroughly prepared for it as an innocent girl of eighteen could possibly be. As she prepared to spend her last night in the bedroom of her youth, Sally, with whom she shared the room, kept up a steady stream of conversation.

  “Are you not a bit frightened, Catherine? Mr. Tilney seems a very fine man, but how well do you really know him, having spent only intermittent time together this past year?”

  “These are daunting questions to be asking me now, my dear, but be assured that I have no fears. I may not have spent endless hours in Mr. Tilney's company, but those I have revealed his character most thoroughly. He is not some creature from a novel, come to sweep me off my feet and then betray a dark internal nature only after marriage,” she said sagely, “and if he were, what would be his motivation to conceive such a deception? I am no heiress, and his willingness to thwart his father's wishes in proposing to me proves the sincerity of his feelings.”

  “But James thought that Miss Thorpe was so disinterested, and you saw first hand how that sad affair came to an end.”

  “Sally, do not even begin to compare Isabella Thorpe's character to that of Mr. Tilney's! There can be no two more different creatures, one making constant protestations that her behavior negated, while the other has ever been consistent and true. I have no false notions that everything will always be perfect. Mama has been most insistent that we, like all couples, will have our trials to bear, but there is no one in this world with whom I would rather spend this life with, throughout its triumphs and tribulations, than Henry Tilney. When you fall in love, you will understand exactly what I mean.”

  True to her word, when Catherine walked down the aisle the next morning on her father’s arm, she exuded confidence and radiant happiness. Her loving gaze brought a fervent prayer of thanks to Henry’s heart, already overflowing with the pure contentment a true gentleman deserves upon achieving his heart's desire.

  The bells rang and everybody smiled, though none more so than the bride and groom themselves. To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well. Some interested in the young couple might suggest that the General’s unjust interference, so far from being really injurious Henry and Catherine’s felicity, was rather conducive to it, improving their knowledge of each other and adding strength to their attachment. Whether the tendency of this work be to recommend parental tyranny or reward filial disobedience is a question I leave to the philosophers amongst you. I, like another author, am content to set aside moral undertones in favor of romantic gratification.

  Henry and Maria

  “Come along, Maria. It's rather brisk out here, you know, and I should not wish to catch cold.”

  Maria Rushworth barely heard her husband, lost in contemplation of the townhouse before which her luxurious carriage stood. She had never been one to swoon, having always enjoyed excellent health, but the prospect of entering the edifice made her knees weaken and quake. Tonight she would see him, the man she had loved, for the first time since her unfortunate marriage to the oafish fellow waiting to hand her down, tottering from one foot to another in an attempt to emphasize his need for warmth – an action, like all of his, which filled her dejected heart with the utmost disdain. Chiding herself for lack of courage, she reluctantly grasped the plump hand extended to her and set forth to confront her fate.

  The Rushworths, upon entering the house of Mr. and Mrs. Fraser, garnered no small amount of attention. Though Mary Crawford had only confided to her dear friends, Mrs. Fraser and Lady Stornaway, the events that had occurred the previous fall at Mansfield Park, it is understandable how the tale spread from these ladies to their many acquaintances. Miss Crawford had only imparted the story of Maria Bertram's flirtation with Mr. Crawford as a means of soothing the ruffled sensibilities of her old friends, understandably disturbed upon learning that Henry's long-sought heart had been taken, and by a lady with few worldly prospects. It was natural that Mrs. Fraser should tell the tale to Miss Fraser, as it was with this young woman that her expectations for Mr. Crawford had rested, and that a young girl of dashed hopes would keep such a tantalizing bit of gossip to herself is almost inconceivable. The new Mrs. Rushworth was quite the sensation of the season, and if that elegant lady, with her striking good looks and respectable fortune, had failed to entrance Mr. Crawford, what chance had a Margaret Fraser? And to be the cousin of the mythical Fanny Price, the lady who had succeeded where so many others had tried and failed – how much more deeply must the blow have been felt by Mrs. Rushworth, knowing that her father had harbored such a viper under her own roof, and at her own family's expense? Miss Fraser, thanks to Miss Crawford, knew that tonight would be the first time the two had met since the lady's marriage, and she and her companions were agog with curiosity to see how events would transpire.

  Miss Fraser was certainly correct in assessing Maria's sentiments towards her cousin. That Fanny, of all people, should have proved a rival to Miss Bertram was excruciating. Never mind that when Mr. Crawford had fallen in love with Miss Price, Miss Bertram had already become Mrs. Rushworth – such reflections could not ease the pain of knowing that her frumpy, wallflower of a relation had succeeded where she had failed. And then to have rejected Mr. Crawford's proposals! This notion was even more shattering to Maria's pride. While she was relieved that she would not be meeting a Mrs. Crawford, her outrage in knowing that Fanny had thought slightingly of what she most coveted tore at her vanity, never previously tried until Henry had entered her life.

  Maria felt the eyes of the room upon her as she entered, finding strength in the knowledge that her husband's wealth, if not providing happiness, had at least purchased the exquisite gown so carefully chosen for the occasion, determined as she was that both Mr. Crawford and the world would see her to the utmost advantage. Yet gratitude for becoming armor was insufficient in overcoming her disgust for Mr. Rushworth. No amount of money thrown away at the best tailors London had to offer could disguise the inelegance of his figure, and no amount of worldly worth could overcome the disdain th
at, she was certain, all thinking people would instinctively feel for him as soon as the sorry man opened his mouth to utter a word. For Maria, forced to further suffer the clumsiness of his conjugal attentions, he was abhorrent. In her innocence she had believed that familiarity and a handsome income would overcome her revulsion, but never had she been more wrong. Each day only increased her misery.

  Surreptitiously, she glanced around the room, searching for the man with whom all her hopes had once lain, but she did not see him. For a moment she felt a burst of hope that he would not, after all, be present, but the sensation was fleeting, replaced by an unaccountable wave of disappointment. She would rather meet him when secure in the glory of her best looks than accidentally be taken by surprise one day. Besides, she had rehearsed her greeting, carefully calculated in its indifference, and it would be, she rationalized, a shame to waste the preparation.

  “There is your brother Edmund, my dear, over by Miss Crawford. Shall we pay our respects?” He offered her his arm, which she took with the lightest touch she could contrive, all contact with him filling her with repugnance. They moved across the room, smiling at acquaintances, with all the appearance of a happy couple, or at least Maria hoped. If the more discerning members of the gathering, such as the two whom they now approached, could see through her facade, she trusted her husband remained in complete ignorance.

  “Maria! Rushworth! How do you do this evening?” greeted Edmund. Maria smiled at him, assuring him of her well-being, and he responded in kind. Though the siblings were not close, they could not have lived all their lives in the same house without detecting the uneasiness that lay behind both their happy pretensions. Edmund felt some innate sympathy for his sister's plight in such a husband, but she had made her choice and must abide by it. Maria, in turn, felt all the damage the Crawfords had inflicted, and took some malicious comfort in the knowledge that her brother, too, suffered at their hands.

  Mr. Rushworth took himself off to the card room, where he would surely lose to the many professed friends who found him lucrative bait, but Maria remained in her brother's company. Pleased to be relieved, for the moment, of her husband's unwanted companionship, she tried to forget her anxiety for the approaching encounter and had almost succeeded, diverted by Miss Crawford's always amusing banter, when suddenly he was there, just inside the room, greeting the Frasers warmly. It took all of Maria's self control to not walk towards him, as her body and her heart instinctively told her to. He looked just as always: that striking, dark countenance which had once seemed so undeniably plain in her eyes was now undoubtedly the most handsome she could imagine. He was smiling, that irresistible smile, all ease, the epitome of what Mr. Rushworth lacked. He must have known that she would be there, but he made no effort to seek her in the crowd. His indifference steeled her nerves. Mustering herself, she managed to turn away and focus her attention back on the conversation at hand. She stood by his sister; he would come to her.

  Mr. Crawford was not as indifferent to the new Mrs. Rushworth's presence as he feigned, having immediately noticed her upon entry into the Fraser's house. It was hard not to, so resplendent was she in her dashing gown and jewels. He thought of Fanny, just briefly, and how uncomfortable she would be in such finery, and a sense of self-congratulation filled his being. He was not one to be blinded to the diamond in the rough when presented with a jewel that sparkled more, though it was of lesser value. Knowledge of his own perception could only bring pleasure. The fact that Fanny had not yet consented to be his wife did not trouble him. Her reluctance only increased her worth, especially when compared with Maria, who had proved such an easy conquest. He completed his civilities to his hosts – was that a hint of resentment he detected in Miss Fraser's eyes? – and made his way towards his sister.

  “My dear Mary! How do I find you this evening?”

  “Perfectly well as always, brother, so long as I confine myself to the very best company the room affords. How incongruous that it should include a clergyman!”

  ”Hello Bertram. It is always a pleasure. I trust all at Mansfield are well?”

  “Very much so, Crawford. Thank you. I believe you have the most recent information regarding my cousin in Portsmouth, whom I trust you found in health.”

  Henry frowned. “Not as well as I would have liked. I'm afraid that close quarters have robbed her of her bloom. I do not think Sir Thomas would have sent her there had he been fully aware of the conditions in which the Price family live.”

  “Indeed? I would not doubt my father's knowledge of their situation, as it was precisely that which motivated him to suggest the visit. But here you see my sister, Mrs. Rushworth, to whom city life has caused no ill-effects.”

  He finally turned to look at her and was shocked by what he saw, though Edmund was correct: it in no way smacked of ill-health, only imperiousness. Henry knew he had made some impact on Maria Bertram's heart, but he was unprepared to be greeted by such a profound degree of resentment. Edmund, too, was surprised by her haughtiness, quite unlike the usual manners of his thoroughly well-bred sister, and the recollection of Fanny's words regarding Mr. Crawford's former attentions to Maria rose unbidden in his mind.

  Collecting himself, Henry bowed and said, “My dear Mrs. Rushworth. Marriage suits you indeed.”

  Maria dropped the slightest of curtseys, saying only, “Mr. Crawford,” in acknowledgment.

  But Henry was not one to be so easily put off. “And where is Miss Bertram this evening? I thought to see her here.”

  “She is dining with cousins of ours.”

  “I see. Please convey my best wishes to her, and my hopes to meet her while she remains in town.”

  Maria nodded in response.

  Stepping into this most awkward conversation, Edmund thought to return to the subject he perceived to be not only the safest, but also the most pleasing to himself, by inquiring again after Fanny's well-being.

  “I really am quite concerned, Bertram,” replied Henry, with an affecting degree of worry etched upon his face. He was not sorry to see Maria's chin jut even farther into the hemisphere. Clearly her pique had more to do with his choice of bride than her own disappointment. This he could not only bear, but thought quite proper, as it fulfilled his intention of proving to the lady what sort of woman it was that could attach a man of sense. “I offered to convey her home at any time. All she need do is send a line to my sister, but I fear she will not be budged.”

  “No. Fanny would never dream of leaving Portsmouth until my father called for her. I do hope your worry is unfounded. My cousin has never been of robust constitution, and the lack of exercise to be had in her family home must account for her current disorder. But do not fear. Once she is returned to Mansfield, she will be as she was, and, if my father is correct, far better for having gained an appreciation for the luxuries she has come to take for granted.”

  “I cannot think that Miss Price has ever taken anything for granted in her life,” Miss Crawford said, having been watching Mrs. Rushworth with a great deal of scrutiny, and finding herself unable to resist the urge to praise the often overlooked Fanny. “You do her a disservice, Mr. Bertram. Never have I known a more appreciative creature.”

  “My dear Miss Crawford, if anyone understands Fanny's finer qualities, I think it must be I, having always been her best friend. No, indeed, I think my father is quite correct in his approach. Fanny has been sheltered at Mansfield, and a taste of life's realities can only do her good.”

  “I hope you are right, Bertram. While I appreciate Sir Thomas' efforts, recognizing them to have been made on my behalf, I do hope the treatment may soon be considered complete.”

  “Excuse me,” said Maria, unable to endure any more, “but I believe my husband beckons me. Edmund, Miss Crawford, Mr. Crawford.” She pronounced the last name with significant disdain.

  Later that evening, when Henry and Mary were able to converse more privately, she teased him on Mrs. Rushworth's account. “Never have I seen the lady so put out, H
enry. Clearly, your proposal to Fanny has been perceived as a personal slight.”

  “If Mrs. Rushworth learns from this experience what qualities are truly pleasing to a man of discernment, she will be better for it in the long run. I trust I have done her a service.”

  “I do not think she regards it in that light.”

  “No. She clearly does not. I suppose I should have expected it, but I must say that it chagrins me to see her so cold when I am used to her inviting smiles. I wonder if I cannot sooth her resentment? It will not do for us to always meet so when we are cousins.”

  “No indeed. Only be careful, Henry. You do not wish to trifle with her, not when Fanny is your goal. I think she cannot have as much satisfaction in her marriage as she would wish the world to suppose, and in such a situation, a proud lady can prove volatile.”

  “Do not worry for me, Mary. I know where my heart lies, as does Mrs. Rushworth. Did you note her face when I said I'd like to collect Fanny from Portsmouth?”