Lynn Shepherd - Murder at Mansfield Park

Judging from the expression on her face, Miss Bertram clearly found this prospect absurd, but confined her incredulity to some lines shewn about the corners of her mouth.

"All the same, Miss Crawford," she pursued, after a moment, "I am sure you must have some idea — some theory — about what could have happened?"

Mary sighed, and shook her head. "I find it hard to comprehend how, or why, Miss Price left your father’s house."

Maria gave a short, bitter laugh. "As to the why, Miss Crawford, I am sure you know as well as I do. Fanny was desperate to avoid marrying Edmund. Her manner to him of late has been utterly indifferent. Indeed, I am more and more convinced that she never wanted to marry him at all, but merely acquiesced in a plan of others’ making. And to others ’ advantage," she concluded, with a look of meaning.

"But even were that so," replied Mary, who did not doubt it, "she must have been desperate indeed to throw in her lot with someone she hardly knew."

Maria looked at her archly. "Why should you say that? I can think of at least two gentlemen she knows quite well enough — either one of them might have found her fortune, if not her person, sufficient inducement."

Mary coloured in shame and vexation. "Miss Bertram may not have heard that my brother left Mansfield some days ago for Hertfordshire. I expect to hear from him presently."

"I am pleased to hear it," replied Miss Bertram, "for your sake, if not for his. But there is still Mr Rushworth to be considered."

Mary looked at her in some surprise. "I was told he had departed for Bath?"

Maria raised an eyebrow. "So was I. So were we all. But we do not know that is where he is. Do we, Miss Crawford?"

And with that she gave a brief bow, turned on her heel, and walked quickly back towards the house.

If Mary had been concerned how to keep the matter secret from her sister, her fears proved of little consequence; as Miss Bertram had suspected, there was not a house in Mansfield that had not heard the news of Fanny’s elopement by Monday evening. It was not to be expected that a lady of such an open and inquisitive temper as Mrs Grant would not find much food for conjecture in so extraordinary and uncommon an event, and Mary had to endure many hours of such speculation from her sister, as well as observations of a more severe and moralising character from Dr Grant. The only event to enliven the quiet and anxious days that followed was a letter from Henry, much longer and gayer than his usual communications, and full of such entertaining accounts of mud waded through, and deluges averted, that could not but make Mary laugh despite herself. Once, and once only, was she able to see Julia, when she was persuaded to leave her sorrowing mother to her sister’s care, and sit for an hour with Mary in the Mansfield flower garden. Mary saw at once that although her young friend had grown even thinner, her looks were greatly improved; the explanation for this gratifying change was soon forthcoming.

"We have heard from Edmund," she said, slipping her arm through Mary’s. "He writes that my father is in every respect materially better — the fever has all but abated, and although he still has all the weakness and debility of such a serious illness, the physician believes he will make an entire recovery."

Mary expressed her sincere relief at such welcome news. "And how is your cousin?" she continued, in a guarded manner.

Julia sighed. "If what you really mean to ask is whether Edmund has been told the news from Mansfield, then the answer is yes. My father is as yet too weak and nervous to withstand such a shock, but Edmund has sent a letter of advice and assistance to Tom, which has been an inestimable support to him. He has also promised to leave Cumberland as soon as he may, my father being out of danger, and Edmund’s presence being so much wanted here. As to his own feelings on the matter, I cannot tell. My cousin has always been reserved, and a frank expression of his sentiments was not to be expected in such a letter, at such a time."

"No indeed," thought Mary, who felt a respect for him on the occasion, which only gained him ground in her good opinion. Even were she to suppose him heart-broken by the news of Fanny’s duplicity, his dignified restraint under such a trial could not but augment her tenderness and esteem.

A few moments later they turned from the garden into the green shade of the lime walk, which stretched beyond the garden to the boundary of the pleasure-grounds. It was a charming walk, leading to a belvedere, which, by reason of its position on the top of a considerable bank, afforded a delightful view towards the stream and the valley beyond. When they had seated themselves on the bench, Mary ventured to introduce the subject of Compton, and enquire of Julia what it was that she had wished to discuss with her.

"I know it seems a long time ago, and so much has happened since then, but I cannot forget how distressed you seemed. It appeared to be a matter of some urgency."

Julia bit her lip and looked down, avoiding Mary’s eye. Did she imagine it, or had a shadow passed across the girl’s face at her words?

"Miss Bertram? Have I said something to offend you?"

"It was nothing — a — a misunderstanding," said Julia quickly. "My apologies, my dear Miss Crawford, but I find the walk has tired me more than I expected. Perhaps we could return to the house?"

"By all means," replied Mary, quite at a loss to know how she had transgressed.

Julia rose to her feet, and stood for a moment looking over the balustrade. The workmen were clearly visible on the far side of the stream, as was the cart in which their tools were stored; they had already completed the first length of the channel, and an ugly black gash was perceptible against the verdant green bank.

Julia’s brow darkened. "How long, do you suppose, Miss Crawford, before they start to fell the avenue?"

Mary went to her friend’s side, "I am afraid I do not know. It will depend what instructions my brother has left in his absence."

"So there may still be time," said Julia, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Time to prevent it."

They returned to the house in time to see a messenger mounting his horse, and departing down the drive. Seeing their approach,Tom Bertram came down the steps to meet them, but it was clear even before he spoke, that the letter had brought nothing of significance, concerning either Fanny, or Sir Thomas’s health. Julia took the opportunity to excuse herself, and hastened away into the house without meeting Mary’s eye. Still wondering at the sudden alteration in her manner, Mary was about to take her leave, when Tom asked if he might take a turn with her for a few minutes, and consult her on the subject of the message he had just received.

"I would be most happy," she said, as they moved towards the garden, "but I am not sure what assistance I can provide."

"On the contrary," he replied earnestly, "the advice you were previously so good as to offer, was exactly what Edmund suggested in his letter. Your happy interposition saved us at least three days. We are all — the family — most grateful."

Mary wondered for a moment at that "all’, suspecting that Mrs Norris was in all likelihood experiencing quite another emotion, but she knew better than to voice such a sentiment aloud.

"All the same," she replied, "I gather from Miss Julia that following my advice has not advanced you very far."

Tom shook his head. "The messengers made every possible enquiry on this side of London, renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in St Albans and Barnet, but without any success; no-one answering to Fanny’s description had been seen to pass through. I believe a carriage was seen early that day on the turnpike road, three miles from here, which may, or may not, have contained the fugitives. It was travelling at speed, with the blinds drawn, and bore no livery. But beyond Northampton it cannot be traced."