Mansfield Park the Crawfords' Redemption Read online

  Mansfield Park

  The Crawfords' redemption

  An improved end to the classic story

  1st Edition

  by

  Kirsten bij't Vuur

  Contents

  Chapter 1 5

  Chapter 2 12

  Chapter 3 20

  Chapter 4 27

  Chapter 5 34

  Chapter 6 42

  Chapter 7 50

  Chapter 8 59

  Chapter 9 67

  Chapter 10 76

  Chapter 11 82

  Chapter 12 90

  Chapter 13 100

  Chapter 14 106

  Chapter 15 114

  Chapter 16 122

  Chapter 17 129

  Chapter 18 138

  Chapter 19 149

  Chapter 20 159

  Chapter 21 168

  Chapter 1

  As he drove away from Portsmouth towards London, Henry could no longer deceive himself: the sweet tempered and artless girl he had fallen for, whom he had offered to sacrifice his freedom to, did not love him.

  On that trip, passing beautiful natural scenery as well as picturesque villages without even seeing them, he finally realized he had been fooled by her mild manners and loving personality into believing himself loved by the sweetest, most tenderhearted creature in existence.

  Of course she had not only rejected him when he proposed to her, she had afterwards told him repeatedly that she didn't like his attentions, that she wanted him to stop talking to her about his love and affection, but her manner had not been truly repulsive and without such proof of her dislike his vanity had not been able to accept that an unsophisticated, unspoiled girl like Fanny could resist all his attempts to please her. She had to like him, women always liked him, loved him, tried to hold on to him.

  How could it be that he had fallen deeply, hopelessly in love with the one superior creature he could not convince of his honorable intentions? Was this his punishment, for having played with women's feelings all his adult life?

  For having broken so many hearts with his flippant gallantry, his easy manners? Was the first time he had ever fallen in love himself to be the time he would have his own heart broken for good? He could not imagine a life without her, how could any woman ever live up to her standard, how could he ever fall in love with someone less perfect?

  His newly found insight in how things really were between them was a bitter pill to swallow, worse, for it could not be done in but a moment, with only a faint aftertaste of disappointment. No, the realization that she had been wishing him elsewhere all the time that he had been convinced he was creating a sincere affection in her, was deeply humiliating and genuinely hurtful.

  Fanny had not been happy to see him, his coming had embarrassed her, he guessed she thought him indelicate in his expressions of his love for her, as

  reasonable and as guarded as they seemed to him. He was glad he had chosen to visit as William's friend instead of Fanny's admirer, or his case must have been utterly hopeless by now, the love burning inside him wasted forever.

  He flattered himself that she had seemed to look upon him with less disfavor than on his previous visits at Mansfield Park, but he also realized some of those tender feelings might very well have been due to her missing her home exceedingly, despite the careless way she was treated by nearly anyone there, her qualities undervalued or even derided by her relations of inferior temperament and understanding.

  Of course Bertram did give her all the love and the most attention he could, but who could compare the value a cousin had for his younger niece to the ardent feelings she had created in him, the need he felt to protect her, the happiness he wanted to give to her?

  And Sir Thomas meant well, but his interference on Henry's behalf had done his suit no good, he was certain of that. His sweet, sensitive Fanny had such a fear of her uncle's severity that it had hurt her more than once, her uncle probably urging her to accept an offer that was so advantageous to his family, financially and with regards to connections. Henry had seen her pale complexion, her reddened eyes, on the day after he had asked her uncle for permission to wed his niece.

  He was afraid his own persistence and his inability to understand that all his efforts to please her were having the opposite effect on her sensitive nature, had greatly contributed to her unhappiness.

  Well, no more, he could not profess to love someone as ardently as he did this beautiful and morally superior creature, and cause her to retreat from him in pain. She thought him inconsistent, and only steadfast behavior from him was going to prove her wrong, only time could be his friend here. He would have to steel his resolve to win her by virtue instead of gallantry and flattery, taking care to embarrass her as little as possible by his attentions. Gentleness and quietness were going to be the way into her sweet affections.

  She had approved of his actions at Everingham, he was sure, doing right was clearly important to her. Therefore he would be certain to go back there and see the matter settled as his honor demanded, only spending the night in London and call on Bertram on his way through to tell him his niece was aching to hear from him. He decided he might stay at the Bertram's house instead of the Fraser's or his uncle's, Edmund approved of his efforts to make

  his beloved Fanny happy, and Henry might share his newly found realization that Fanny really didn't love him with the person who knew her best, and whom she probably loved best after her brother William. Bertram might have some more advice for him how to proceed to win the most beautiful and most deserving creature in the world.

  Passing by an especially beautiful natural scene, he recalled their walk along the harbour yesterday, where they had admired the lovely view over the sea with the same intense feeling of wonder and awe. For one blessed moment he had felt a certain connection between the two of them, and he hoped she had felt some good will towards him as well.

  Later during that walk, and on the other side of the path, a little beech had caught their attention, struggling against the salt-spray, bending towards the land to avoid the harsh touch of the sea-breezes. The little tree had been stunted by its deprivations, but it had also attained an almost supernatural beauty in its brave efforts to stay alive against the odds, its sweeping shape strangely pleasing to both their eyes.

  She had to see the similarities in their tastes, she who was so acutely observant to everything in her quiet life. How she had clung to his lips and his face as he read Shakespeare to her that one unforgettable time at Mansfield Park, if only he had received those compliments with more sensibility for her delicate nature and with much, much less gallantry.

  He longed so much to bring her into society, show all the world how much he loved this beautiful girl, introduce her to the elevated pleasures of professional theatre, superior music, and when she needed exercise and quiet, ride with her to all the beautiful spots in nature that he had discovered over the years, sit in reverie together, feel her touch on him again.

  That touch yesterday, he still felt it on his arm, it was ever so light, even when she got tired from the walk with her strapping family, how he longed for such a touch to be bestowed on him freely, with feeling instead of need for support.

  He would be so solicitous of her health, he would never tire her beyond her strength, he would stay with her in the fresh country air rather than see her health deteriorate in the city. She had not looked well yesterday, the lack of fresh air and exercise, the undoubtedly lesser quality food, and the constant noise about her had taken a lot of bloom from her already, in less than a month.

  He decided to give Edmund a description of her deprivations, of her loss of strength, hoping this acco
unt would then reach Sir Thomas and result in his beloved's being allowed to return to Mansfield Park, where she would be happier and healthier, and where he would be allowed, as her acknowledged suitor, to start showing her the gentle side of his character, the morals he so appreciated in her and most certainly had himself, and his appreciation of evenings spent in quiet solicitude instead of animated conversation or noisy entertainment, if only he could spend them by her side.

  He might be allowed to take her to some of the higher pleasures of society, not ordinary balls, but art, and poetry, he would read to her again, stir her feelings towards him by showing her his taste in literature. He could accompany her on her rides and they could share their deep appreciation for nature, now convinced this would be the way into her heart.

  But her lack of strength kept nagging at him, what would he be allowed to do for her as long as she refused to give him the power to make her happy?

  Would she let herself waste away in Portsmouth rather than appeal to him to have her taken back to the country? Her delicacy would not allow her to actually take him up on his offer to bring her home, and if she had to rely on the family to think of her it would never be done.

  The only family member who ever thought of her beyond selfish interest was miles away from her, in London, too busy trying to gather enough courage to propose to Henry's own sister to consider the state of his cousin. She might die of deprivation, or catch consumption, before anyone thought of her health and fetched her back to Mansfield Park.

  No, Henry thought, it would be up to him to keep a close eye on the health of his most beloved Fanny, and he would find an excuse to visit her within the week. She might not love him, yet, but he was not going to let her pine away in loneliness whilst enjoying himself in London. He would find some news on William's whereabouts, news on the Thrush, something only higher ranked navy officers would know, to give him a reason to visit.

  And if that didn't work, maybe he could deliver a message from Bertram to his niece personally. If he stayed with Edmund in their town-house, he might as well give him a few hints to improve his chances with Mary.

  Neither of them had ever confided in him, but he could see what was happening in that quarter, and though Bertram was only a second son with no fortune, Henry could not but hope for the union of their families to take

  place.

  He knew Mary's objections to the clergy, but as he did not share them, having a respect for the cloth that sprang from their influence over the population and their ability to reach out to people's feelings, he seriously hoped his friend would succeed in gaining his sister's affection and hand. He did know that Mary had a clear preference for Bertram's strong character and high morals, combined with his feeling and sensitive nature, and, admittedly, his tall figure and personal beauty. Mary's chances of happiness with him, even though she would have less income than she might wish for, were as certain as his own were with Fanny.

  And he could not prevent himself from thinking, that if their families were already connected, his intimacy with the Bertrams must grow, giving himself more chances of showing Fanny that he was steadfast in his love for her, he might be able to make her a little happier even before she gave herself up to him, for he did not allow himself to feel any doubt she would.

  Chapter 2

  Had Henry known that Fanny's affections were already engaged by the steadfast character he was on the point of visiting, he would have been shocked, and maybe not a little disheartened. For how could a man ever compete with the familiarity of someone who had been in her life for nearly a decade, and whose moral standards and natural delicacy were so decidedly above his own? Who had had years to gain her affection, and had always actively improved her happiness by doing everything in his power to help her. Income could not be of any importance with her simple needs, familiarity was everything to her.

  Of course, Edmund loved another, had never in his life considered thinking of his shy and self-deprecating cousin in that way, convinced as he was that in a marriage tempers should differ at least to some extent, therefore setting his sights on a more lively character than his own, and certainly not an even more quiet one. The fact remained, that the only way Henry would ever stand a chance with his beloved Fanny, would be if Edmund married someone else.

  With her low self-esteem, and the constant neglect of her wishes and needs at Mansfield Park and now at her parents' in Portsmouth, she did not need the expectation of Edmund ever returning her affection to keep her love for him thriving. That would have been an honor beyond her comprehension, even allowing herself to fantasise about him loving her would induce self-recrimination for stepping above her station.

  No, as long as Edmund was free, Fanny would love him without ever expecting anything in return but a kind word and some interference on her behalf to promote her welfare or secure her some pleasure that would otherwise pass her by.

  Of course Henry knew nothing of Fanny's predisposition, and he kept wondering why even his best efforts didn't seem to have any influence on the object of his affections. But he might be well on his way to promoting his own happiness by calling on Bertram to share his feelings of discouragement and maybe help him win Mary's affection.

  Fortunately Fanny did not know anything of all this, she was just relieved to have seen Mr Crawford leave, with his hints of their future together, and his compliments on her person, and the constant fear of her relations falling into their usual disgusting behavior, embarrassing her even further. Though she had found a certain pleasure in talking about Mansfield Park, the people in it, the scenery, with someone who knew them all, she could not wish him to stay any longer.

  His general behavior did seem to have improved, he was more gentle and obliging, and much less oppressively lively this time, his manners towards her family engaging and free of implications and open display of affection towards her. They had had a few moments of common interest, in the admiration of the beauty of the scenery and nature, and he seemed genuinely concerned about her health. She hoped his report would reach Edmund, resulting in some communication from her cousin to herself. Though she dreaded the news of his betrothal, knowing nothing at all was even worse.

  Crawford, meanwhile, had indeed found a warm welcome within the Bertram's town-house. Of course Tom was staying there as well, but he saw little of the elder brother, having met him just long enough for a superficial greeting, before Tom was off again to a dinner-party at some friend's house.

  Henry could not help but notice that the future baronet looked decidedly the worse for wear. His life of constant partying and loose pleasures must be taking its toll on his body, for he looked pale and fagged, and so unnaturally jolly that it was painful to behold.

  Tom's eyes were bleary, with dark circles below them, and his shape was not as trim as it used to be, his posture sloppy and his stomach distended with the signs of abuse of spirits. This was no sportsman, and Henry thought that if Mary could but see Tom in his current state, she would be struck with the superiority of his younger brother all over again, in looks, but also in strength of character and principle, which he supposed Mary must value above a large income when all was said and done.

  It was also clear that Edmund suffered from his brother's behavior, his fastidious nature made the sight of his elder brother, whom he was supposed to look up to, in a state of drunkenness or the resulting downcast state the morning after, a disgusting sight and a constant punishment to behold. Henry believed his visit was very welcome to Edmund, to give him some relieve from his constant worries over his worthless older sibling and his ongoing

  uncertainty about Mary's feelings for him. They had dinner together, and when they sat by a cheery fire afterwards, both nursing a glass of excellent brandy besides their coffee, the moment that Henry had been waiting for arrived, that quiet moment reserved for contemplation and intimacy.

  It was very clear to Henry that Edmund was sorely tempted to open his mind to his good friend, but holding back because of his deli
cate nature and high principles, not wanting to impose on his visitor and start a conversation on subjects that might be regarded as unseemly.

  Since Henry was much more communicative as a person, and because he was really troubled by his recent insights into his chances of getting Fanny to love him, he decided it would be up to him to use the moment and start the exchange of intimacies.

  He said: 'Bertram, I come to you in supplication, for I am just returned from a visit to your sweet cousin Fanny in Portsmouth, and having finally observed her actions with the respect they deserve instead of coloured by my own vanity and fondest wishes, I am very much pained by the discovery that she does not love me at all.

  She was not happy to see me, my very presence embarrassed her, though her father and mother were very glad to see me and received me very handsomely, and she was as mild mannered and as sweet tempered as ever and didn't show her displeasure much. But I finally saw it, my vanity and her obliging manners no longer fooled me. She does not approve of me, she doesn't trust my motives, and she does not feel the slightest love for me.'

  Admitting this to an understanding and discrete friend made him feel his own words even more than when he had first realized their truth, and he sat in silence, his countenance as depressed as Edmund had ever seen it.

  This was a stunning confession to Edmund, and he could not give a sensible answer straight away, so he took the time to formulate as mild an answer as he could from his own observations on the subject.

  'I am very sorry to have to support your observations, Crawford, as much as I could wish Fanny to return your feelings, I have not seen any encouragement from her either. But please hear me as well when I say she could very well come to love you, for you do have morals, tastes, feelings in common.'

  This put a little heart back into Henry, and he observed: 'She did seem a little less disapproving of me when I told her how I had saved one of my tenants from disgrace by an unjust accusation of my steward, who wanted a family