“No, my dear. That would not do. I must return to my own little wilderness in Cumberland, and discover how my poor neighbours have been managing without me. To tell the truth, I have been feeling remorseful about them for some time; many of them are old and poor, very poor, and I find means to be of use to them. I have neglected them for too long. I was eager to come to Mansfield—partly out of curiosity, I must confess—but now it is time for me to leave.”
“Curiosity, ma’am?”
“I had heard such a deal about the place from your aunt Mrs. Norris—about you all—that I seized on the chance to come with my brother, having a great wish to see you all in the flesh, to see how the reality measured up to the report.”
“And how did it measure up?” asked Susan, smiling. “Remembering my aunt, I can imagine some highly prejudiced reporting!”
“Yes; but I was able to sort out the grain from the chaff. And the reality, I must say, has been exceedingly engrossing. I shall have plenty to think about, in the snowy Cumberland winters!”
“Can you not remain, even for a short period, to make the better acquaintance of Fanny and Edmund? And so that Mr. Wadham can have his excavation after the harvest at Stanby Cross?”
“Poor Frank! I fear he will never have the chance to unearth those ruins! He will have to content himself with excavating some Hindoo temple.—No, my dear; we would both find residence in the White House too sad, after our close connection with dear Mary. Frank was a little in love with her, you know.”
“I think that everybody was,” said Susan. “She was—she was so uncommon. Different from other people.”
“You must not be belittling yourself, my dear,” said Mrs. Osborne, looking at Susan shrewdly. “Frank has been a little in love with you too. Frank is very susceptible to beautiful young ladies.”
“With me?” Susan was astounded. “Mr. Wadham has always been the height of kindness and friendliness, but surely—”
“Oh, he would never make a push to try and gain your hand, my dear. We have talked it over, very often. He knows that is quite out of the question. We both see that you can never transplant from Mansfield. You and your cousin are made for one another. And Frank would not be so culpably inconsiderate as to suggest removing you to the dangers of a tropical climate, where he has almost died himself. He is, indeed, resigned to dying a bachelor; in fact (between ourselves) I think a bachelor life suits him excellently well.”
Susan was so thunderstruck at these revelations that she could only gaze at Mrs. Osborne in silence for a moment or two. Then, after some hesitation, she said doubtingly, “Just now, ma’am, you said—I think I understood you to say—something about my cousin? My cousin Tom?”
“Has he not offered for you yet? Silly fellow! He loves you so dearly—he has been worrying at me for ever about you—wondering if you would have him—wondering how he could bear it if you would not—”
“But, ma’am—don’t you think that he wishes to offer for me—simply so that I shall not marry Mr. Crawford? Simply so that I shall continue to look after his mother?”
“No, I do not!” said Mrs. Osborne emphatically. “Otherwise I would not advise you to accept him—even if that meant leaving poor Lady Bertram to the tender mercies of Miss Yates!”
“But you do—do you advise me to accept him, then, ma’am?”
“Foolish girl! If I were in your shoes, I would have said Yes at the very first opportunity!”
Susan thought of Fanny’s letter.
My dearest Susan:
I confess I am a little alarmed at the thought of your proximity to Henry Crawford. I can see how that may develop! You are just the woman for him. And, in many ways, it would be an excellent match, if, as I collect, he has now settled down.
Yes, thought Susan, if I were ever quite sure that I could trust him. As I could trust Tom.
But if you were to marry Henry Crawford, what of poor Tom? It has for so long been Edmund’s and my deepest wish that you and Tom should be married. You seem so admirably suited to one another—when Tom has had time to look around him and discover your worth! Pray, pray, dearest Susan, do not do anything hasty. Wait, at least, until Edmund and I are at home to advise you!
Your loving sister, Fanny.
“Excuse me a moment, ma’am—” said Susan. “I see that my aunt is just waking up. Do you step up on to the terrace; she will be so delighted to see you . . .”
On winged feet, she herself flew in the opposite direction. She knew where Tom was, in the paddock, doggedly schooling Pharaoh.
Leaning on the fence, Susan called to him: “Tom! Tom! Pray can you come here a moment? I have something I wish to say to you . . .”
***
What did Susan say to Tom? No more than she should; no more than a well-brought-up young lady may do in such a situation, but enough to inform him that, in the light of further information received from Mrs. Osbome, she was prepared to listen again to his solicitations; to listen with a softer heart and a greater inclination to receive such offers as he might chuse to repeat.
“But how is this, Susan? I thought you had said you would never, never have me?”
This question was asked only after promises were safely exchanged, and her hand in his.
“Oh, Tom! Dunderhead! Had you ever said that you loved me? Not one word! Not one single word on that. All you said was—that my aunt needed her companion, and Mansfield its stewardess.”
“Well, I am no hand at making fine speeches,” said he. “And never shall be, I daresay. But I do love you, Susan—very truly. When I thought I had lost you to Crawford—then my eyes were opened, indeed. I realised all that would be gone from my life.”
“Like the dog in the manger that sees its bone taken away,” said Susan, laughing.
“Oh, I was in such despair! For three days I thought the sun would never rise again. I thought you were bound to accept him in the end, you know—elegant, clever, accomplished as he is.”
“Almost as much so as his sister,” said Susan, venturing, with some hardihood, on dangerous ground.
“You know, Susan, that I was half in love with her? I can, I must admit this to you—there must be no secrets between us. She was so very—extraordinary—we shall never meet with her like again—how could I help but love her? You do not blame me for that?”
“Of course I do not, Tom. I fully understand. I loved her, too.”
“I knew that I could never—nothing could ever have come of my love. I knew that, almost as soon as I knew that she was dying. We were too far removed from one another’s spheres. But she has done me an infinite amount of good, Susan; opened my eyes to so many things that I had never understood previously.”
Susan did not make inquiry as to what these things might be. She remembered her friend saying, “Some female unknown to me will in future have cause to thank me.”
I have not betrayed my promise to Mary, she thought, for no promise was ever exacted. Thoughtful, perceptive Mary! She knew better than to lay binding injunctions on her friends. Susan must, in course, grieve for Henry, left wholly alone, but she could hope that in time he would find solace; he was an intelligent man, with abilities and resources; he must ultimately be able to find a means to allay grief and worthily occupy his life.
“But do you really love me, Susan?”
“Oh Tom! Blind Tom! Since the age of fourteen, I daresay! Only, of course, I found no difficulty whatsoever in concealing the fact—even from myself—particularly when you were so overbearing and disdainful and used to address me as Miss Bones.”
“I can never have called you that!”
“Come,” she said, slipping her arm within his, “let us go and break the news to your mother and Mrs. Osborne.”
***
The marriage of two persons so closely connected, so well suited to one another as Tom Bertram and Susan Price could
cause little stir. To the hearts of their intimate friends it gave delight indeed. To Fanny and Edmund, back from Antigua, joyful to be at home once more, the news could only round off their perfect happiness. In Lady Bertram, assured now that she need never be subjected to the fatiguing process of learning to understand the speech and ways of an unknown daughter-in-law, the union of her son with his cousin must induce a deep, if calm, gratification.
“I am very pleased, Susan,” she said. “You and Tom had better have the Tapestry Chamber. Mrs. Whittemore will know where the tapestries have been stored, I daresay. And I shall have my garnets cleaned, and you shall have them.”
To Julia, of course, the announcement brought unmitigated chagrin. Not only was her despised cousin Susan, the poor relation, the interloper, now put in complete possession of Mansfield Park, able to rule it as she chose, with full right to defend herself against any interference; but also Julia must begin all over again in her pursuit of a husband for her sister-in-law, whose peevish and supercilious ways had by now rendered her odious to the whole Yates household. Her brother had never liked her; and Julia had only tolerated her in the belief that she would be speedily married to Tom and thus established as vicarious authority at Mansfield.
Julia’s comments were bitter.
“It was a disgraceful, hole-and-corner business, indeed! But what could you expect, when you introduce vulgar, scheming upstarts into a respectable and honourable establishment? Mansfield is now lost to us for ever. We shall never be welcome there now.”
So it proved. Julia’s visits became less and less frequent and presently ceased altogether; and, an elder brother of John Yates’s subsequently dying and advancing him one step nearer to the peerage, it was found convenient for the family to remove from Mansfield to a dower house where they might keep closer watch over their interest; and so Northamptonshire saw the last of them.
Mr. Wadham and his sister remained for the weddings of Tom and Susan, William and Louisa Harley, which were celebrated at the same time; and then Frank Wadham set sail for the East Indies and Elinor returned to her cottage in Cumberland.
“But I shall come and visit you every summer,” she said. “You have not seen the last of me. For it was I, after all, who was the means of uniting you; without my intervention, there is no saying where you might be now.”
About the Author
The late Joan Aiken was a scholar and a prolific author of children’s books and Jane Austen sequels and continuations. She is the author of Emma Watson, which completes Jane Austen’s posthumously published fragment The Watsons, and of Eliza’s Daughter, a sequel to Sense and Sensibility.
Joan Aiken, Mansfield Park Revisited
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