Amanda Grange: Edmund Bertram's Diary

‘I might at that.’

‘If you do, have pity on me, and keep the prayers short. My knees were aching last Sunday.’

The rain began to fall and we retreated inside. Washed and dressed, I went downstairs. Mama was on the sofa, playing with Pug. Aunt Norris was telling Maria that her new hairstyle was very becoming, and that she would have a string of suitors when she was older; Julia was asking if she would have a string of suitors, too; and Tom was lounging on the chaise-longue, laughing at them.

Wednesday 6 August

Our visitor has arrived, and a small, frightened thing she is. I can scarcely believe she is ten years old; she looks closer to seven. Her eyes are large and her face thin; in fact, she is thin altogether. Her mother says she is delicate, and Papa has told us to be gentle with her. I believe such a child would provoke gentleness in anyone. She quaked whenever she was spoken to, and looked as though she wished to be anywhere but in the drawing-room. Papa was very stately in his welcome to her, and I believe his manner frightened her, though his words were kind. Mama’s smiles seemed to reassure her, and Maria and Julia, awed into their best behavior by Papa, added their welcome.

‘She is a very lucky girl,’ said Aunt Norris. ‘What wonderful fortune she has had, to be noticed by her uncle, and brought to Mansfield Park. It is not every child who is so lucky. You will be a good girl, I am sure, Fanny, and will not make us regret the day we brought you here. You must be on your best behaviour, if you please.’

Mama invited her to sit on the sofa next to Pug, and Tom, in an effort to cheer her, goodnaturedly gave her a gooseberry tart. She thanked him timidly and tried to eat it through her sobs, until Nanny rescued her, saying she was tired from her long journey, and took her up to the nursery.

Thursday 7 August

Maria and Julia were given a holiday so that they could get to know Fanny better, but they soon tired of her, remarking disdainfully, ‘She has but two sashes, and she has never learnt French.’

I saw her standing in the middle of the hall this afternoon looking lost and I asked her what she was doing. She blushed and clasped her hands and said that Aunt Norris had sent her to fetch her shawl from the morning-room, but that she did not know where it was. I undertook to show her the way, and said kindly, ‘What a little thing you are,’ but this seemed to make her more anxious so I made no further comments on her size. Once she had found the shawl I watched her until she disappeared safely into the drawing-room.

‘She looks at me as though I am a monster,’ said Tom when I mentioned it to him later. ‘I found her in the drawing-room this morning and asked her how she did. She did not reply, so I told her not to be shy, and she blushed to the roots of her hair.’

He suggested we go fishing, and we took our rods down to the river, where we caught several fish which were served up at dinner with a butter sauce.

Friday 8 August

Aunt Norris is very pleased with her protégée and after dinner, when Fanny had left the drawing-room, Mama and Papa remarked that Fanny seemed a helpful child who was sensible of her good fortune. Maria and Julia pulled faces at each other at the mention of Fanny, but said nothing more than that she seemed very small and always had the sniffles. I could not blame them, for she does always seem to be ill, poor child.

Wednesday 13 August

Tom and I rode out early, basking in the warmth. The dew was on the grass and all nature seemed to be waiting expectantly for the day to begin. Tom laughed when I said as much, and said I should become a poet.

We made a hearty breakfast and then he rode into town whilst I returned to my room. As I did so, I heard a strange sound, and I realized that it was sobbing. I followed it, to find our little newcomer sitting crying on the attic stairs.

‘What can be the matter?’ I asked her, sitting down next to her and wondering how to comfort her, for she looked very woebegone.

She turned a fiery red at being found in such a condition, but I soothed her and begged her to tell me what was wrong.

‘Are you ill?’ I asked her, for to tell the truth, she did not look well. She shook her head.

‘Have you quarreled with Maria or Julia?’ I asked, wondering if they had upset her.

‘No, no not at all,’ she whispered.

‘Is there anything I can get you to comfort you?’

She shook her head again. I thought for a moment and then asked, ‘If you were crying at home, what would you do to make yourself feel better?’

At the mention of home, her tears broke out anew, and it was easy to see where her sorrow lay.

‘You are sorry to leave your mama, my dear little Fanny, which shows you to be a very good girl,’ I said kindly. ‘But you must remember that you are with relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you happy. Let us walk out in the park and you shall tell me all about your brothers and sisters.’

I took her by the hand and led her outside, for the morning was such as to cheer anyone. The sky was blue and soft breezes were blowing across the meadows. I heard about Susan, Tom, Sam and the new baby, but most of all I heard about William.

‘How old is William?’ I asked her.

‘Eleven,’ she told me, with the awe that only a ten-year-old can muster for such an advanced age.

It was with William she played, William who was her confidant, William who interceded with her mother on her behalf when needed, for he was clearly a favorite with Mrs. Price.

‘William did not like I should come away; he said he should miss me very much indeed,’ she said with a sob.

I handed her my handkerchief and persuaded her to take it, for her own was wet through.

‘Never fear, he will write to you, I dare say,’ I reassured her.

‘Yes, he promised he would, but he told me I must write first.’

I soon discovered that this was the cause of her tears, for she had been longing to write to him since her arrival but she had no paper.

I took her into the breakfast-room so that she could send a letter at once, but as soon as I had furnished her with everything necessary, a fresh worry raised its head and she was afraid it might not go to the post.

‘Depend upon me it shall : it shall go with the other letters, ’ I told her, ‘and, as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing.’

The idea of my father franking it frightened her, as though such an august personage should not be expected to help her, but I reassured her and at last she was easy.

‘Now, let us begin,’ I said.

I ruled the lines for her and then sat by her whilst she wrote her letter. I believe that no brother can have ever received a better one, for although it was not always rightly spelt, it was written with great feeling.

When she had finished, I added my best wishes to her letter and enclosed half a guinea under the seal for her brother. The look of gratitude she turned on me was enough to reward me ten times over for my small trouble, and I began to feel that she was a very sweet little thing, with an affectionate heart. I took some trouble to talk to her and discovered that she had a strong desire of doing right, as well as an awe of Maria and Julia.

‘You must not be afraid of them,’ I said to her. ‘They are only further ahead than you because they have had a governess, whilst you have not, but life is not all French and geography, you know. It is fun and games as well. You must remember to play with my sisters, and to enjoy yourself. We all of us want you to be happy, and you will oblige us greatly if you can manage it. will you try?’

She nodded timidly.

‘Good.’ I saw my sisters on the lawn. ‘Look! They are out in the garden. The sun is shining, it is a beautiful day. You should go out and join them.’