Edmund Bertram's Diary

MARCH

Friday 3 March

And so it has been and gone, the best and worst evening of my life. I took a hackney cab to the Frasers’ house and entered it full of apprehension and hope, for although there had been no mistaking Mary’s indulgence the last time I had seen her, I was afraid that in London, with her fashionable friends around her, her feelings might have changed. My eyes ran round the room and when they alighted on her I thought she had never looked more lovely. She was flushed from conversation, and her eyes were bright. Her dress was the whitest silk, and her skin was glowing in the candlelight. I could scarcely wait to greet her, and made my way across the room to where she stood with her friend. She looked up; my heart leapt; I joined her; but as soon as I began to speak to her I felt a sense of foreboding.

‘You were not at your sister’s party,’ she said to me, when we had greeted each other, and though there was something playful in her manner, there was also something accusing there.

‘No.’

‘You were converting some poor old woman in Thornton Lacey, no doubt?’ she asked me in a derisory tone of voice.

Mrs. Fraser positively crowed. ‘See how he avoids the question! It was a young woman, I have no doubt.’

Mary’s lips set in a tight line. She did not seem pleased, and I was no more pleased at the notion that she really believed me capable of making love to another woman in her absence, as Mrs. Fraser’s remark implied.

‘I was with my brother,’ I said.

Mrs. Fraser gave her a knowing look, and I could see she did not believe me.

‘It is a pity you missed the party, whatever the reason,’ said Mary, ‘for then you would have seen Maria in all her glory, showing us all round the house like a woman who has got her penny’s worth and knows it. It is a wonderful house, is it not, Catherine?’

‘It is indeed,’ assented Mrs. Fraser. ‘It is the best house in Wimpole Street. If Fraser would only apply himself more, we might have a house like that ourselves.’

Fraser, standing at his wife’s elbow, ignored this remark, and escaped into his wine.

‘Have you ever been in the house, Mr. Bertram?’ Mary asked me, playing with her wineglass and turning glittering eyes on me.

‘No, I have not.’

‘I was in it two years ago, when it was Lady Lascelle’s, and prefer it to almost any I know in London.’

‘Lady Lascelle made a good marriage. She has moved on to even better things,’ said Mrs. Fraser, in an aggrieved tone of voice. ‘But then, Lascelle knows how to rise in the world. He has ambition.’

‘Ambition! That is what a man needs above all things. Do you not agree, Mr. Bertram?’ asked Mary.

The evening got no better. Every word was a barb. If not for the fact that I was sure she was being led astray by Mrs. Fraser and her sister I would have left the house there and then. But I knew Mary was capable of better things. Her worldliness had dominated her worthier feelings in her early days at Mansfield Park, but since Christmas her more natural feelings had been in evidence. I knew she was not really the cold, calculating creature I was seeing before me; her true nature was warm and tender and kindhearted. Her generosity to Fanny, her warmth to me, all told their own tale. And so I swallowed her insults and hoped for better things once her friend had left us.

‘And how do you like Mrs. Fraser’s house?’ she asked me, when Mrs. Fraser had moved on.

‘Do you approve?’

‘It is very elegant,’ I said, ‘but very cold.’

‘Then you do not approve.’

‘No, I do not.’

‘A pity. I like it here.’

‘You like the people?’

‘Yes, I do. Do you not?’

I looked around. They were dressed in the finest clothes and wore the finest jewels, but their glitter was all on the surface.

‘I do not believe there is one single happy person here,’ I said. ‘This is not the place for you.’

‘Do you want to save me, Mr. Bertram?’ she asked me in a droll voice. I replied to her seriously, ‘Yes, I do.’

‘But I am not one of your parishioners.’

‘I rather hoped you were more than that.’

‘Did you?’

‘Ah, my dear Mary,’ broke in a voice.

The interruption could not have come at a worse time, for beneath her drollery Mary had been warming to my words, I was sure. But the arrival of Lady Stornaway put paid to any rational conversation, and gossip — ill-natured gossip at that — took its place. And so I came home, less hopeful than when I went, jealous of the fashionable world with all its glitter and habits of wealth, and wondering if I had the right to ask her to abandon them. She was entitled to everything she longed for. But if she married me, even with our incomes united, we would not be able to afford the luxuries she craved.

If I did not believe she had some regard for me I would go, leave London and never return. But I am convinced she is not without a decided preference, and so I accepted Mrs. Fraser’s invitation to dine with them again. I cannot abandon Mary to avarice and spitefulness. If she pursues her present path she will end up like her friends; wealthy, indulged and unhappy. I love her too much to leave her to that fate.

Tuesday 14 March

I am becoming a frequent visitor at the Frasers, and though I like Mrs. Fraser no more than I did, I am grateful to her for inviting me to her house so often. I could not get near Mary to begin with, for she was surrounded by a crowd, but as Crawford was there I lost no time in asking him about his visit to Portsmouth, for I knew he had been there, and I was eager to hear news of Fanny.

‘Ah! You have heard about that. I could not stay away,’ he said. ‘I meant to remain in town after my return from my estate, for I was hoping that absence might do its work, but in the end my need to see Fanny was too strong for me. I put up at the Crown, not a bad establishment, and was soon at the Prices.’

‘And how did you find them?’

‘Well, all well. Mrs. Price was very busy, but Mr. Price invited me to see the dockyard, then on Sunday we walked on the ramparts. How good it was to be with Fanny, so that we could both rejoice in the view. It was a fine day, hot for the time of year, indeed it was more like June than March, and I believe the fresh air did her good, for I will not conceal from you, Bertram, she was looking less blooming than she ought. She misses the air of Mansfield, and counts the days she is away. Her family, alas, are a sore trial to her, lacking the refinement she is used to, and although she loves them, it is not difficult to see that their ways affect her nerves. I have offered to take her home at a moment’s notice, should it be inconvenient for your father to send the carriage, for I do not believe that Portsmouth agrees with her.’

‘Are you in town for long?’

‘No, I am going back to Norfolk. I have work to do there. I believe my manager may be trying to impose on me, and Fanny thinks, as I do, that I should make sure that everything is well.’

My sisters were also there, and Maria said, ‘Fanny seems remarkably interested in Mr. Crawford’s concerns.’

‘Naturally so,’ I replied, but as she seemed out of humor I did not continue that conversation, but turned it instead, saying, ‘How are you enjoying London?’

‘London is wonderful!’ said Julia. ‘There is so much to do, I do not know how we survived at Mansfield. There are parties and balls every night, something different all the time, and the company is very superior.’

‘Superior to what is met with at home?’ I asked her.

She laughed, and said, ‘It cannot compete with Pug, of course, but I believe it compares favorably otherwise.’

‘And yet I am very angry with you,’ Maria said, recovering her good humor. ‘You did not come to my party. It is a pity you missed it. It was a great success. Everyone said so. One of the parties of the year. The house was much admired, and small wonder, for it is one of the finest in town.’

She said nothing of Rushworth, until I enquired after him.

‘Oh, yes, he is very well. He is somewhere about,’ she said, looking round. I followed her eyes and saw them fall on Crawford. A cold look passed between them. I felt a moment of disquiet as I remembered what Fanny had said to me, that there had been something between them at the time of the play, and I wondered if perhaps Fanny had been right, for they did not appear to meet as friends. Maria said nothing, no word of greeting, but merely gave Crawford a nod, and I saw him drawback, surprised. I was sorry for it, for if she felt she had been slighted in the past, what did it matter? She was Miss Bertram no longer; she was Mrs. Rushworth now.

Crawford made her a bow and then moved away.

Maria recovered her composure and I listened to her continuing tales of triumph, interspersed by Julia’s remarks, for some time longer, until, seeing a space free near Mary, I made my way over to her. She was standing in a large group with Lady Stornaway. I waited, hoping for my chance to speak to her alone, but I became more and more disgusted with the conversation, for they were talking about the chances of Miss Dunstan catching the eye of Mr. Croker, a man they thought very desirable, despite his reputation for drunkenness, because he had £20,000 a year.

I was about to move away when Mary detached herself from her companions and said, ‘So, you are here. How pleased I am to see you. You are enjoying yourself, I hope? No, do not tell me. I can see you are not enjoying yourself as much as you do at Mansfield. Dear Mansfield! I must confess, Mr. Bertram, that I miss it. How happy we all were there over the winter. I find myself looking forward to June, when I will be there again.’

‘There is no need for you to wait so long. You will be welcome at Mansfield whenever you return,’ I said to her.

‘But then I would have to disappoint my friends here, for I have promised to stay. An agreement, once reached, must be honored, do you not think?’

‘Indeed it must,’ I said with a smile.

I was about to lead her aside and ask if I might have a private audience with her, when Lady Stornaway joined us. Raising her lorgnette, she asked, ‘And who is this?’

‘Mr. Edmund Bertram,’ said Mary.

‘Indeed. You are a country parson, I understand, Mr. Bertram?’

I felt Mary grow restless beside me.

‘I am.’

‘Well, it is not a bad beginning for a young man of your age, but no doubt you will soon be tired of it and will be seeking advancement in town.’

‘I can assure your ladyship that I am very happy in the country, and have no desire to make my mark in the outside world.’

‘Indeed? How very odd,’ she said. ‘A young man at your time of life has no business in settling for so little, when he could achieve so much. We must encourage him to enlarge his thinking, Miss Crawford.’

‘Believe me, Lady Stornaway, I have been trying,’ said Mary. ‘But, so far, without success.’

‘A young lady of your beauty, wit and intelligence will not be denied for very long. What do you say, Mr. Bertram? It would be ungallant of you to resist such loveliness, would it not?’

Mary looked at me challengingly, and, feeling myself trapped and uncomfortable, I said stiffly, ‘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 well pleased.

Wednesday 15 March

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

‘Wellmet, little brother.’

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

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

I shook my head; Tom was sympathetic; and before I knew it, I was telling 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 will be seeing her tomorrow, but if her mood is still 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 calling, we will be as sober as judges—’

‘Drunk, but not falling 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, pulling 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 all 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 will know what she truly desires.

Saturday 18 March

And so, I am back at Mansfield Park, with all 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 shamefully, I wrote to her this morning, apologizing for my tardiness in writing and telling 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 all 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 affection appears to me principally 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 attachment to you, she appears a very different 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 will 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 till 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 till she returns to Mansfield. But June is at a great distance, and I believe I shall write to her. I shall be able to write much that I could not say, and shall 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 matter over a little.

I laid my quill 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 quill and continued with news I knew must give her pleasure.

I am more and more satisfied with all 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 all 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 pretty well 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 written a line, however, when something happened which put everything else out of my mind. My father had a letter from a physician in Newmarket, telling us that Tom had had a fall, and that there was worse, for as a consequence of neglect and drink, the fall 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 travelled quickly, and now here I am in Newmarket, and not at all 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 ill but that I thought he would soon be well 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 ill 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 all.