Edmund Bertram's Diary

  Mary looked at me chal engingly, and, feeling myself trapped and uncomfortable, I said stif ly, ‘I would not deny Miss Crawford anything I could in reason give her.’

  Lady Stornaway took my answer to mean I would seek advancement, and I had nothing more to do but to extricate myself from my predicament as quickly as I could. If only I could extricate Mary from her London friends so quickly, I would be wel pleased. Wednesday 15 March

  I saw Tom in the park this morning, where we were both riding, and he hal ooed me at once, riding over with his party of friends.

  ‘Wel met, lit le brother.’

  He was looking wel , and was in good spirits, having won at the races.

  ‘So, how is the little fil y?’ asked Langley. ‘Got her into harness yet?’

  I shook my head; Tom was sympathetic; and before I knew it, I was tel ing him my troubles.

  ‘Women are the very devil,’ said Langley.

  ‘Not worth it,’ said Hargate.

  ‘This one certainly isn’t. Why not marry one of the Miss Owens instead?’ asked Tom. ‘Any one of them would make you a respectable wife.’

  ‘Because it is Mary I want.’

  Hargate nodded sagely.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Tom.

  ‘I wil be seeing her tomorrow, but if her mood is stil as changeable, and if I have no chance to speak to her alone, I intend to go back to Mansfield and hope for better things once she rejoins her sister there in the summer.’

  ‘Brother Edmund has a rocky road ahead of him,’ said Tom. ‘We must make sure he enjoys himself this evening, to fortify himself for what is to come.’ He saw my look and said, ‘Never fear, in deference to your tender years and cal ing, we wil be as sober as judges—’

  ‘Drunk, but not fal ing down drunk!’ said Hargate.

  ‘As sober as country parsons,’ amended Tom.

  ‘Which means snoring drunk,’ said Langley.

  ‘As sober as young ladies in the seminary,’ reproved Tom.

  ‘Good God! He means it,’ said Danvers, pul ing a tragic face which was, nevertheless, so comical I could not help but laugh.

  ‘Much better,’ said Tom.

  His high spirits lifted my own, and we had a merry day of it.

  Thursday 16 March

  I dined with the Frasers this evening, but I had no chance to speak to Mary alone, and no desire to do so. Her conversation made it clear that she is torn between a love of wealth and al it can bring, and a desire for something deeper and richer which money cannot buy. But instead of choosing between them, she is tormenting herself because she cannot have both. By the time she returns to Mansfield I hope she wil know what she truly desires. Saturday 18 March

  And so, I am back at Mansfield Park, with al the business of the parish to think of, for which I am grateful, as there is nothing I can do now with regard to Mary but wait for her to learn her own mind.

  Thursday 23 March

  Realizing I had neglected Fanny shameful y, I wrote to her this morning, apologizing for my tardiness in writing and tel ing her that, if I could have sent a few happy lines, I would have done so straightaway.

  I meant to ask her how she was and give her al the London and Mansfield news, but speaking to her, through the medium of the letter, I found myself pouring out my feelings. I am returned to Mansfield in a less assured state than when I left it. My hopes are much weaker, for Mary’s friends have been leading her astray for years. Could she be detached from them! — and sometimes I do not despair of it, for the af ection appears to me principal y on their side. They are very fond of her; but I am sure she does not love them as she loves you. When I think of her great at achment to you, she appears a very dif erent creature, capable of everything noble, and I am ready to blame myself for a too harsh construction of a playful manner.

  I cannot give her up, Fanny. She is the only woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife. If I did not believe that she had some regard for me, of course I should not say this, but I do believe it. I am convinced that she is not without a decided preference. You have my thoughts exactly as they arise, my dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory, but it wil not be a less faithful picture of my mind. Were it a decided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know how to bear it; but til I am refused, I can never cease to try for her. This is the truth.

  I have sometimes thought of going to London again after Easter, and sometimes resolved on doing nothing til she returns to Mansfield. But June is at a great distance, and I believe I shal write to her. I shal be able to write much that I could not say, and shal be giving her time for reflection before she resolves on her answer. My greatest danger would lie in her consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at a distance unable to help my own cause. I must think this mat er over a lit le.

  I laid my quil aside, wishing I had Fanny to talk to, instead of having her so far distant. As I read over what I had written, I realized I had spoken of my own concerns and nothing else. Such a letter would surely be enough to tire even Fanny’s friendship, so I picked up my quil and continued with news I knew must give her pleasure.

  I am more and more satisfied with al that I see and hear of Crawford. There is not a shadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows his own mind, and acts up to his resolutions: an inestimable quality.

  I hoped this would make her think more kindly of him, for to remember her when al the pleasures of London were distracting him was a sign of no ordinary attachment. I told her of Maria:

  There is no appearance of unhappiness. I hope they get on pret y wel together — and Julia —

  Julia seems to enjoy London exceedingly — and then Mansfield — We are not a lively party. You are very much wanted. I miss you more than I can express — before finishing with, Yours ever, my dearest Fanny.

  I sealed the letter and my father franked it, then I went over to Thornton Lacey and saw what had been done to the house, before attending to parish business. Tuesday 28 March

  I made up my mind to it, and this morning I began my letter to Mary. I had scarcely writ en a line, however, when something happened which put everything else out of my mind. My father had a letter from a physician in Newmarket, tel ing us that Tom had had a fal , and that there was worse, for as a consequence of neglect and drink, the fal had led to a fever. Tom was on his own, for his friends had deserted him. I was alarmed, and said I would go to him at once. My father said he would write to my sisters and let them know the news. I travel ed quickly, and now here I am in Newmarket, and not at al sanguine. Tom is much worse than I expected. He did not know me when I walked in to the room. His physician said he was not to be moved, and I agreed it must not be thought of.

  I wrote to my father, but played down my fears, saying only that Tom was il but that I thought he would soon be wel enough to be brought home.

  Thursday 30 March

  Tom continued feverish and there was no chance of my taking him home, for he was too il to be moved. I wished he would recognize me, but his eyes opened rarely, and when they did, I do not believe he saw anything at al .

  APRIL

  Saturday 1 April

  There was some improvement in Tom’s condition today. The fever seemed less, and for the first time I felt there was hope, real hope, that he would recover.

  Tuesday 4 April

  Tom had a good night, and the physician said that, if his improvement continues, he wil be wel enough to make the journey to Mansfield tomorrow. I am more relieved than I can say. I want, more than anything, to have him safely home again.

  Wednesday 5 April

  The physician cal ed again this morning and pronounced himself satisfied with Tom’s progress. I made arrangements for the journey, and once the carriage was as comfortable and warm as I could make it, I carried him downstairs and put him inside. He smiled weakly, and said it made a change to have me carrying him when he was il and not drunk, and I smiled, too, but my smile was no stronger than his. I was seriously worried, for he weighed nothing
at al . I wrapped him about with blankets and then we set off. The journey was good and the weather fine, but he became progressively weaker as the day went on, and he was feverish again by the time we arrived.

  Mama was horrified at the sight of him, and to be sure he looked very il when he was carried into the house, for he was white and sweating, and he was delirious. My father looked very grave and Tom was quickly got to bed whilst our own physician was sent for. He did al he could for him, and now we must trust to the fact that Tom is at home, where he can be properly cared for, to bring him about.

  Monday 10 April

  Julia has offered to come home if we have need of her, but there is nothing she can do, and my father thinks she is better where she is. I wrote to her directly, tel ing her that she need not come home at present. She has not seen Maria recently, for Maria is spending Easter with the Aylmers at Twickenham whilst Rushworth has gone down to Bath to fetch his mother. Julia has seen Mary, though, and has told her of Tom’s il ness. I wish I had more time to think of Mary, but with Tom so il , I can think of nothing else. And perhaps it is a good thing, for I am worn out by asking myself if Mary wil have me or not.

  Wednesday 12 April

  Tom is out of danger, thank God, and Mama is at last made easy. It has been a terrible week for her, seeing Tom laid so low. But the fever has subsided, and we have encouraged her to think that, now it has gone, Tom wil soon be wel . She smiled again for the first time since she heard of Tom’s fal , and she wrote to Fanny straightaway, to tel her that he was much improved. I do not know what she would have done without Fanny this week, for although Fanny is not here, her presence is everywhere felt. Mama has found it a comfort to write to her every day, sharing her hopes and fears, and my father is grateful for it. But today I felt compel ed to write my own letter to Fanny, to let her know the real state of affairs, for although Tom’s fever has subsided there are some strong hectic symptoms which we are keeping from Mama. The physician cannot say which way things wil go. They may go wel , in which case Tom wil make a ful recovery, but if they go badly, there is a danger to his lungs. Al we can do now is watch and pray, and hope Tom’s youth and vigor wil see him through. Thursday 13 April

  I sat with Tom again this morning and he felt strong enough to talk, saying, ‘What a fool I have been, Edmund.’

  ‘Nonsense. Your spirits are low. You wil soon be wel again, and then you wil think yourself a very clever fel ow,’ I said.

  He laughed at this, but his laugh turned to a cough which tired him and so I refrained from talking to him afterwards, instead bidding him to lie quietly and conserve his strength. I was about to leave his room when he restrained me with a feeble hand, saying, ‘Stay. It does me good to have you here. My father is too loud, and my mother too tearful. You are the only one I can stand.’

  And so I sat beside him again, glad to be of use.

  Friday 14 April

  Tom seemed a little stronger today, and I read to him.

  ‘What? Not The Rake’s Progress?’ he asked, as I took up the book. It was good to hear him joking, and I pray he may soon be wel . If the hectic symptoms abate, then there is every chance of it. And with the better weather coming, it wil be possible for him to sit in the garden and make a ful recovery at his leisure.

  MAY

  Monday 8 May

  Just as one problem is abating, another has presented itself, for my father received a letter this morning which agitated him immensely. I thought at first it must be news of more il ness, but he reassured me; saying, however, that he must go to London at once. He left me in charge of the estate and told me not to leave Mansfield in case he needed me. He was just about to depart when another letter came by express. As he opened it he let out a cry and sat down. His eyes passed rapidly over the hasty scrawl and when he had finished he sat as though stunned.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  He did not reply, but sat staring in front of him with unseeing eyes.

  ‘You are il !’ I said, going to him in alarm.

  But he waved me away.

  ‘No,’ he said, passing a hand over his eyes. ‘I have had a shock, that is al . But what a shock!

  Edmund, I am going to need your help. These letters are from one of my oldest friends. The first revealed that there was some gossip about Maria and Mr. Crawford, and that it would be wel for me to go and see her, for her husband was uneasy. I was displeased, but not unduly alarmed, for it seems that Maria and Crawford met at Twickenham; an innocent enough occurrence, as Crawford’s uncle has a cottage there; and this fact, coupled with Rushworth’s absence, would be enough for many an idle person to gossip about. But his second letter, come just now, is much worse. Here You had better read it.’

  He handed it to me, and I read it quickly, and with growing horror. Maria had run away, and Mr. Harding, my father’s correspondent, feared that there had been a very flagrant indiscretion. He was doing al in his power to persuade Maria to return to her home in Wimpole Street, but he was being obstructed in this by Rushworth’s mother, who did not want her back, for it appeared the two of them had never liked each other.

  My father had by this time recovered himself and strode to the door. I offered to go with him, and before long, having communicated what was necessary to the rest of the family, we set off. We arrived in London late this evening, but Maria’s flight had already been made public beyond hope of recovery. We cal ed briefly at Wimpole Street, where Rushworth and his mother were loudly lamenting the fact, and as there was nothing to be gained by staying there, we went next to Crawford’s uncle’s house. Crawford had already left, as if for a journey, and there could no longer be any doubt that Maria had run off with him.

  I thought of Fanny, and her idea that there had been something between Maria and Crawford. She had suspected his liking for Maria, and she had been wary of him because of it. I had told her she was wrong, but it was I who had been wrong.

  Poor Fanny! As soon as I began to grow used to Maria’s shame, I saw that she, too, was a sufferer in this, for Fanny had lost the man who had offered her marriage, the man to whom she had been almost engaged.

  I felt the blow deeply. For us to suffer did not seem too terrible, for we were strong enough to bear it, but for Fanny to suffer cast me down, and I resolved to go to her as soon as I could. But it could not be at once, for there was stil much to be done. My father suggested next that we go and see Julia, who was staying with her cousins, to reassure her that we were in town, and that we were doing al we could to save her sister. But when we reached the house, another calamity hit us, for the house was in turmoil. My father’s cousin went ashen when he saw us, and invited my father into his study. My father emerged a few minutes later to tel me that Julia had eloped!

  I could not take it in. It was too much. At any other time I would have felt it as a terrible blow, but by the side of the other calamities that had befal en us its pain was scarcely felt. I ral ied quickly and asked my father, ‘Do we know who with?’

  ‘Yes. With Yates.’

  ‘Yates!’

  So the legacy of the play was haunting us stil .

  ‘It seems she had another motive for wishing to visit my cousins when she did. Yates lives nearby,’ said my father. ‘What have I done to deserve such daughters?’ he asked, in a moment of distress.

  I offered him my sympathy and he quickly recovered himself.

  ‘Julia has gone to Scotland,’ he said. ‘She left a note for her maid. I cannot go after her tonight. I must find Maria.’

  ‘I wil go.’

  ‘No. They have too much of a start. You would never catch them. Besides, you are needed here. We must try and find out where Maria has gone, but we can do no more tonight. We must get what rest we can and begin again in the morning.’

  And so we retired, but I cannot sleep. It has been a year of calamities. Tom desperately il ; Maria disgraced; Julia run off; and Mary . . . I cannot think of Mary. My only consolation in al this trouble is Fanny; good, dear, sweet,
Fanny, who is everything that everyone else should be, but is not.

  Oh, that she should have to suffer, too! If only Maria had run off with someone else, and not Crawford. Then it would have been bad enough. But Fanny must now sustain the double blow, a disgraced cousin and a lost lover; she who has never deserved anything but love and affection in the whole of her life.

  Tuesday 9 May

  I rose early, unable to sleep, indeed I had not closed my eyes for more than a few minutes al night. I took up the newspaper this morning, hoping for news of the war to divert my thoughts, but I saw to my horror that the story had already reached its pages. Was there ever such shame? The report could scarcely have been worse:

  It is with infinite concern that this newspaper has to announce to the world a matrimonial fracas in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name has not long been enrol ed in the lists of Hymen, and who promised to become so bril iant a leader in the fashionable world, has quit her husband’s roof in company with the wel -known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R. It is not known, even to the editor of this newspaper, whither they are gone.

  No sooner had I put the newspaper down than a note was delivered from Lady Stornaway, begging me to cal . My heart sank. The note must have been written at the behest of Mary. What feelings of shame and wretchedness she must be enduring! I could scarcely breathe for the pity of it al . Poor Mary! For her to have learned that her brother had disgraced my sister and ruined her forever.

  I went at once, in a state of mind so softened and devoted that I believe, if she had cried, I would have proposed to her there and then.

  But instead she met me with a serious, even an agitated air. I could not speak, so much did I feel for her, in her state of distress. But her first words shocked me out of al tender feelings, for they were such as I could not believe any woman would utter in such circumstances.