Edmund Bertram's Diary

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 illness, 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 ill!’ 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 all. 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 well 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 all 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 called 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 still 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 all 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 tell 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 befallen us its pain was scarcely felt. I rallied quickly and asked my father, ‘Do we know who with?’

‘Yes. With Yates.’

‘Yates!’

So the legacy of the play was haunting us still.

‘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 will 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 ill; Maria disgraced; Julia run off; and Mary... I cannot think of Mary. My only consolation in all 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 all 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 enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who promised to become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, has quit her husband’s roof in company with the well-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 call. 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 all. 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 all tender feelings, for they were such as I could not believe any woman would utter in such circumstances.

‘I heard you were in town,’ said she. ‘I wanted to see you. Let us talk over this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations?’

Folly? I thought. To call such an act nothing but folly, when it would be the ruin of Maria, was incomprehensible to me. And to blame Maria as much as Crawford. I could not answer, but I believe my looks told her what I thought.

Her face fell. With a graver look and voice she said, ‘I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister’s expense.’ I felt relieved. For a moment I thought she had been about to do this very thing. But then she went on. ‘But it was foolish of Henry to be drawn on by a woman he never cared for, particularly as it will lose him the woman he adores. But oh!’ she broke out, ‘how foolish has been Maria, in sacrificing such a situation as she had, married to Mr. Rushworth, protected by his name, with his fortune at her disposal and such a house! The best in Wimpole Street! To give up all that, when a little discretion could have kept the whole thing from Rushworth and his odious mother. And for her to run off with Henry, under the idea of being really loved by him, when he had long ago made his indifference clear,’ she said, shaking her head.

I could not believe it. She did not feel distress at the act, merely at its discovery. And what was she suggesting? That instead of behaving as they ought, Maria and Crawford should have been more cautious, more duplicitous, and gone on with their affair regardless? And even worse, saying that her brother had never cared for my sister; that he had ruined her on nothing more than a whim; that he had cast her into a life where, disowned by her husband, she would endure shame and misery, to satisfy nothing more than his vanity and selfish desire?

I was horrified. For the woman I loved to speak in such a way, regarding the whole thing as nothing more than an indiscretion, and lamenting, not Maria’s reputation, but her house in Wimpole Street! I began to wonder who this woman was, standing in front of me. I thought I knew her, but standing there, looking at her, I realized I did not know her at all. I was so shocked I could not speak. But Mary had no such difficulty, each word making me more and more horrified at her callousness. There was no reluctance to speak of it, no shame, only worldliness and vice.

‘If anyone is to blame, it is Rushworth,’ she said. ‘His want of common discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond for the whole time of Maria’s being at Twickenham. And then Maria!

Putting herself in the power of a servant by leaving a lover’s note where it could be seen!

Foolish, foolish girl. Without that, they might never have been detected. It was only this that brought things to extremity, and obliged Henry to give up every dearer plan in order to fly with Maria.’

I was like a man stunned, but worse was to come. She began to talk of Fanny, regretting, as well she might, the loss of such a friend and sister.

‘He has thrown away such a woman as he will never see again. She would have fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever,’ she said. ‘Fanny, with all her sweetness and goodness, and all her quiet charm.’

There at least she spoke wisely, and I was almost relenting towards her when she broke the spell forever by bursting out, ‘Why would not she have him? It is all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object. He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again. It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.’

I could not believe it. How could she say such things? To say, to even think, that it was Fanny’s fault! Fanny, who had no faults, unless it was an inability to appreciate her own worth. Fanny, whose goodness was a shining light that brightened the lives of all who met her. And to say, further, that Crawford should have had a standing flirtation with Maria, and this when he was married to Fanny! How could anyone think of using Fanny so ill? Fanny, who had a right to the greatest happiness the world could offer? Whose tender heart could never stand such ill treatment?

The charm was broken. My eyes were opened, and I had only to regret what a fool I had been.

‘I cannot believe what I am hearing,’ I said. ‘I knew you to have been corrupted by your uncle’s influence, and by the influence of those around you here in town, but this... Perhaps it is better for me that you have spoken in this way, since it leaves me so little to regret; though I wish I did not have to think of you as being like this, corrupted and vitiated, lost to all sense and reason save that of expediency.’

She did not listen. She was too busy following her own thoughts.

‘We must persuade Henry to marry her,’ said she; ‘and what with honor, and the certainty of having shut himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must give up. I do not think that even he could now hope to succeed with one of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty. My influence, which is not small, shall all go that way; and when once married, and properly supported by her own family, people of respectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a certain degree. In some circles, we know, she will never be admitted, but with good dinners, and large parties, there will always be those who will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more liberality and candor on those points than formerly. What I advise is, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by interference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If, by any officious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry’s protection, there will be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust to his honor and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he gets his daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold.’

When at last I could command my voice, I said, ‘I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of mind into this house as I have done, that anything could occur to make me suffer more, but you have been inflicting deeper wounds on me in almost every sentence.’

She looked surprised.

‘I have often been aware of some differences in our opinions, but I never suspected something like this, that you would make light of your brother’s crime — for crime I call it to seduce a woman and take her away from her home — and all the time with no feelings for her. And to make light of wounding one of the gentlest creatures on earth. And then to suggest we promote a marriage that would lead to nothing but misery, for I would not ever want to see my sister married to such a man as your brother — the man I now know him to be. Inconstant, deceitful, immoral, everything that a man should not be. I see now that I have never understood you; that I have loved an image of you, and not you yourself.’

She did not know how to look. At first she was astonished, then she turned red, and I saw a mixture of many feelings, chief amongst them anger. I saw a great, though short struggle, half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried it. She would have laughed if she could.

‘A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your last sermon?’ she said sarcastically.

‘At this rate you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign parts.’

But her words could no longer wound me. I only said in reply, that from my heart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves, to the lessons of affliction. And then I left the room.

I had gone a few steps when I heard the door open behind me.

‘Mr. Bertram,’ said she. I looked back. ‘Mr. Bertram,’ said she, with a smile; but it was a smile ill suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite me in order to subdue me. I resisted; it was easy; and I walked on.

As I walked out of the house, I was shocked to see that our interview had lasted only twenty-five minutes. Such a short time to change so much!

I met my father soon afterwards, and though I did not tell him of everything that had passed he guessed it had not been good, for he suggested to me that I should write to Fanny and tell her to ready herself, then go to Portsmouth and take her home.

My gloom began to lift at the thought of seeing Fanny again, but I worried about leaving my father. He reassured me that he could manage alone, and so I sent my letter, telling Fanny I would be in Portsmouth tomorrow for the purpose of taking her back to Mansfield Park. I said also, at my father’s request, that she should invite her sister Susan for a few months, for he was sure Fanny would like to have some young person with her, someone who could help counteract her sorrow at the blow that had befallen her.

Wednesday 10 May

I arrived in Portsmouth early, by the mail, too worried to be tired by my lack of sleep, and by eight o’clock I was in Fanny’s house. I was shown into the parlor, and then Mrs. Price left me in order to attend to her household affairs whilst the servant called Fanny down. She came in, and I strode across the room, reaching her in two strides and taking her hands in mine, scarcely able to speak for happiness and relief at being with her again.

‘My Fanny — my only comfort now,’ I said, momentarily overcome. I collected myself, for what were my griefs compared to hers?

I asked if she had had breakfast, and when she would be ready. She told me that half an hour would do it, so I ordered the carriage and then took a walk round the ramparts. As I felt the stiff sea breeze, I thought of the moment I had taken Fanny’s hands, and I wondered at the strangeness of it, that her fingers were so tiny and yet they could put such strength into my own; for I had felt it flowing into me, strength and courage, when I had touched her, sustaining me in my misery, and I hoped that my touch had strengthened her, too. I was not long on the ramparts and was soon back at the house. The carriage arrived, and we were off.

I longed to talk to Fanny, but her sister’s presence kept me silent. The things I had to say were not for the ears of a fourteen-year-old girl. I tried to talk of indifferent subjects, but I could not make the effort for long, and soon fell into silence again.

And now we have stopped at an inn in Oxford for the night, but I am chafing at the delay. I want to get home, to Mansfield Park. I want to take Fanny to my mother.

Thursday 11 May

I had a chance to speak to Fanny a little this morning, for as we were standing by the fire waiting for the carriage, Susan went over to the window to watch a large family leaving the inn. Fanny looked so pale and drawn that I took her hand and said, ‘No wonder — you must feel it

— you must suffer. How a man who had once loved, could desert you!’ I could not believe Crawford could have been so vicious. But then my own pains rose up inside me, and I longed for the soothing comfort of Fanny’s voice, and the softness of her words. ‘But yours — your regard was new compared with — Fanny, think of me!’ I burst out. She found words for me, even in her own troubles, and then our journey began. I tried to set Susan at ease, and comfort Fanny, but my own anxieties were too much for me and after awhile, sunk in gloom, I closed my eyes, unable to bear the sight of burgeoning summer, which contrasted so heart-breakingly with the winter in my mind.

We reached Mansfield Park in good time, well before dinner, and my mother ran from the drawing-room to meet us. falling on Fanny’s neck, she said, ‘Dear Fanny! Now I shall be comfortable.’

And so it is. Fanny brings comfort with her wherever she goes. We went inside. My aunt, sitting in the drawing-room, did not look up. The recent events had stupefied her. I soon discovered that she felt it more than all of us, for she had always been very attached to Maria and Maria’s marriage had been of her making. For her to find it had ended in such a way had hit her very hard.

Tom was sitting on the sofa, looking less ill than previously, but still far from well. He had had a setback when he had learnt about Maria and Julia, but he had rallied and was gaining strength again.

Susan was remembered at last, and received by my mother with a kiss and quiet kindness. Susan, good soul, was so grown up for fourteen, and provided of such a store of her own happiness, that she took no notice of my aunt’s repulsive looks, for my aunt saw her as an intruder at such a time, and returned Mama’s greetings with sense and good cheer. We ate dinner in silence, and we were all of us glad, I think, to plead tiredness, and so go early to bed.

Friday 12 May

A letter has come from my father. He has not yet been able to find Maria, but he has reason to believe that Julia is now married. His letter was full of his feelings: that, under any circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but to have it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its completion, placed Julia’s feelings in a most unfavorable light. He called it a bad thing, done in the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though he said that Julia was more pardonable than Maria, for folly was more pardonable than vice, he thought the step she had taken would, in all probability, lead to a conclusion like Maria’s: a marriage conducted in haste, with a man as unprincipled as Yates, was likely to lead to disaster; particularly as he believed Yates belonged to a wild set. I comforted my mother as best I could, and Fanny joined me in the task. I drew Fanny aside this evening, and gave her an opportunity to talk of her feelings but her heart was too full. She said nothing of Crawford, but only that she hoped he and Maria would soon be found, and that Yates might turn out to be less wild than we feared, and that Julia and he might be happy.

Sunday 14 May

A wet Sunday. The weather brought out all the gloom of my thoughts and this evening, unable to bear it any longer, I confided everything in Fanny. I had hoped to spare her; to say no more than she already knew, that there had been a break between Mary and myself; but I was drawn on by her kindness. I told her of the disastrous interview with Mary; that I had at last realized Mary’s true nature; that I had been foolish to be so blind.

‘If only she could have met with better people,’ I said. ‘The Frasers did her no good.’

‘She met with you,’ said Fanny quietly. ‘She had an example before her, if she chose to see it.’

‘You are such a comfort to me,’ I said, squeezing her small fingers gratefully in my own. ‘But I can still not believe she was so very bad. If she had fallen into good hands earlier... Perhaps if I had tried harder...’

She said nothing, but she soon left me, appearing again a few minutes later, bringing something with her. She put it into my hands. It was a letter to her from Mary.

‘I cannot read this,’ I said. ‘It is addressed to you.’

‘I cannot watch you blaming yourself any longer, and so I give you leave to read it,’ she said.

‘Indeed, I think you must.’

My eyes went to it almost against my will. It was dated some time before, shortly after Tom fell ill, and as I read it I felt a coldness creeping over me, chilling me to the bone.

From what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery. I thought little of his illness at first. I looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a fuss with, and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him; but now it is confidently asserted that he is really in a decline, that the symptoms are most alarming, and that part of the family, at least, are aware of it. If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that part, that discerning part, and therefore entreat you to let me know how far I have been rightly informed. I need not say how rejoiced I shall be to hear there has been any mistake, but the report is so prevalent that I confess I cannot help trembling. To have such a fine young man cut of in the flower of his days is most melancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. I really am quite agitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning, but, upon my honor, I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor young man! If he is to die, there will be two poor young men less in the world; and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one, that wealth and consequence could fall into no hands more deserving of them. It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of a few days may be blot ed out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many stains. It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name. With real affection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by return of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me the real truth, as you have it from the fountainhead. And now, do not trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings or your own. Believe me, they are not only natural, they are philanthropic and virtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether ‘Sir Edmund’ would not do more good with all the Bertram property than any other possible ‘Sir.’

I felt sick. To hear Mary speak of my ordination as a foolish precipitation, a stain that could be hidden with varnish and gilding, instead of seeing it as my calling, an inalienable part of me, and one that needed no excusing was abhorrent to me. And what was this varnish and gilding to be?

A baronetcy. A baronetcy I was to gain by the death of my brother; by the death of Tom. Tom, who had been a part of my life always; Tom, who had ridden beside me, wrestled with me, swum with me; Tom who had laughed at me, plagued me and teased me. And Mary wished him dead.

Not only that, but she said Fanny wished it, too; that Fanny was smiling and looking cunning at the idea of it. Fanny, who could not look cunning if she tried; Fanny, who would be incapable of wishing evil on anyone; Fanny, who loved my brother for all the kindnesses he had shown her. I handed Fanny back the letter, feeling as though all life had been sucked out of me.

‘If not for you, Fanny, I do not know how I would bear it. And yet you, yourself, are suffering. Crawford played you false.’

‘No, I am not suffering,’ she said softly, folding the letter and letting it rest on her lap, where her goodness seemed to undo its malice, rendering it harmless.

I looked at her in confusion, wondering what she meant, for it must hurt her to know that her lover had betrayed her.

‘I never loved him, and I never wanted him to love me,’ she said. ‘Indeed, I do not believe he did. I saw his behavior towards Maria last year, and I suspected there was still an attachment between them. That is why I could not marry him. That, and—’

She stopped, and I did not press her. I knew her heart was too full to speak.

‘But is this true, Fanny? Is this really true?’ I asked her. ‘Has he not hurt you?’

‘No.’

‘Then it takes a great weight from my mind,’ I said in relief, feeling that here, at last, was something to smile about, some cheer to brighten the gloom. ‘You saw more than I did, Fanny. I was blinded in more than one way at the time. It is a funny thing, I used to be the teacher and you my pupil, but it seems that our roles have been reversed.’

She gave me a look of understanding, and I thought: Fanny has grown up. My mother rousing herself at that moment, for she had been asleep in front of the fire, our conversation came to an end.

Monday 22 May

Fanny and I went riding this morning. We rode in silence to begin with, for I was thinking about Mary and how I had taught her to ride. I remembered her enjoyment, and her saying that she was growing to love the country. But although my feelings were, to begin with, wistful, they began to change as I watched Fanny, who was riding beside me. Her face showed pleasure in the exercise and her enjoyment in the countryside. Hers was not the bright-eyed pleasure of novelty, it was the deep-seated pleasure of long acquaintance and genuine love. Her eyes sought out the new buds springing to life and the changes taking place around her. She would ride thus in ten years, twenty years, time, as I would, never growing restless or dissatisfied, because she belonged at Mansfield Park. I was reminded of my ride with Tom when we were boys, and the way his eyes had always looked beyond Mansfield. Mary’s eyes had looked beyond Mansfield, too. But Fanny’s never did. At Mansfield, she was at home.

‘I am beginning to think it is a good thing we are alone again,’ I said. ‘I missed going for rides with you, Fanny, when Mary was here.’ She looked at me anxiously, and I said, ‘There is no need to worry. I can speak her name without pain. I was hurt, it is true, but the countryside, and friends, can heal anything in time. If I am not deceived, the sable cloud has turned forth her silver lining on the night.’

She smiled.

‘Milton would forgive you your deviation, glad that you have seen the truth of his words, as your friends must be,’ she said.

We passed Robert Pinker and bade him good morning. We had just passed him when he called out, ‘Mr. Bertram!’

We reined in our horses and he approached.

‘I wonder if I could call on you this afternoon, at Thornton Lacey?’ he said.

‘By all means. Was there something particular you wished to see me about?’

He went red and stammered that Miss Colton had been good enough to accept his offer of marriage.

‘This is splendid news,’ I said, and Fanny added her heartfelt good wishes.

‘We would like to be married at the end of June,’ he said. ‘I have a house, there is nothing to wait for.’

‘Then call on me at three o’clock and we will discuss it.’

He thanked me and we set off.

‘That will be a happy marriage,’ I said.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Fanny. ‘I have been hoping for it for some time.’

‘You knew it was likely to take place?’

‘I visited Mrs. Colton when her mother was ill, and Mr. Pinker was there. Miss Colton looked at the floor and blushed a great deal.’

‘It is a puzzlement to me how women can behave so differently when they are in love. Mary was bold and confident — though perhaps she was not in love.’

‘I think she was, as much as she was capable of being,’ said Fanny.

‘Yes. Her nature perhaps admitted of no more. But Miss Colton was not bold, she blushed and looked at the floor. And yet when you did the same it meant quite the opposite, that you did not want Mr. Crawford’s attentions. I will never understand the fairer sex.’

‘Perhaps you will, in time,’ said Fanny, looking at me.

‘Perhaps.’

We turned for home.

‘I have had a letter from Julia,’ said my father, when we joined him and Mama in the drawing room. ‘She has begged my forgiveness and she now asks for the indulgence of my notice. I would like your advice, Edmund; and yours, too, Fanny. You have seen more clearly in this business than any of us.’

‘It seems to me to be a good sign,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Fanny. ‘If they wish to be forgiven, then I think you should notice them.’

She colored slightly for speaking so boldly but my father thanked her for her opinion.

‘What do you think, Lady Bertram?’ he asked.

‘I would like to see Julia again,’ she said wistfully, ‘and so would Pug.’

‘Then I will write and invite them to Mansfield Park. Perhaps something might be salvaged from the disasters that have befallen us over the last few weeks after all.’

‘Mr. Yates was frivolous but he was constant,’ said Fanny. ‘I believe he liked Julia from the first.’

‘Well, we shall see,’ said my father.

After luncheon, Fanny and I set out for Thornton Lacey, I to see Robert Pinker and Fanny to call on Mrs. Green, who has a new baby.

‘So that is the meaning of the dress you have been sewing,’ I said.

‘A new mother can never have too much linen,’ she replied.

We reached Thornton Lacey in good time and together we looked over the house.

‘Moving the farmyard has changed it completely,’ she said.

‘Yes, has it not?’

‘The approach is now one any gentleman might admire, and the prospect is much improved.’

‘And what do you think of the chimney piece?’

‘I think it is excellent,’ she said, running her hand across it. ‘It adds a great deal of beauty to the room. This is a good house, Edmund, and may be made more beautiful still if you wish.’

‘I am committed to improving it as much as I might.’

We went upstairs and she gave me the benefit of her advice on the cupboards before she left to see Mrs. Green. I soon received Robert Pinker, who told me of Miss Colton’s many virtues. I wished him happy and we arranged for the banns to be read. He left me in good spirits, and Fanny returned soon after, smiling brightly.

‘Mrs. Green was well?’

‘She was, and the baby was thriving.’

The world seemed a better place as we rode home together. Julia repentant, Tom improving, and Fanny growing in beauty and confidence daily.

I only hope it may continue.

Tuesday 30 May

Julia and Yates arrived this morning. There was some little awkwardness, but Julia was so humble and so wishing to be forgiven, and Yates was so much better than we had thought him, for he was truly desirous of being received into the family, that soon things became quite comfortable. My mother was delighted to have Julia restored to her, and the day ended more pleasantly than anyone could have rightfully expected.