Edmund Bertram's Diary Page 6

  We soon parted company, too soon for my liking, but we are to meet again tomorrow. Miss Crawford’s person and appearance grow on me daily and I find myself thinking that any day in which I do not see her is a day il spent.

  Thursday 21 July

  We were joined for dinner by Rushworth, for he had returned from visiting his friend. Maria seemed pleased to see him and introduced him proudly, which did much to al ay my fears about her feelings for him, and Rushworth seemed very pleased to be with us. Before long he began talking about the improvements his friend was making to his estate.

  ‘I mean to improve my own place in the same way,’ he said as we went into dinner. ‘Smith’s place is the admiration of al the country; and it was a mere nothing before Repton took it in hand. I think I shal have Repton.’

  ‘If I were you, I would have a very pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine weather,’ said Mama.

  ‘Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his grounds, which is little enough, and makes it more surprising that the place can have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton we have a good seven hundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, if so much could be done at Compton, we need not despair.’

  I saw Miss Crawford glance at Maria, and Maria looked pleased at this talk of her future home.

  ‘There have been two or three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house,’ went on Rushworth, ‘and it opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or anybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down: the avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hil , you know,’ he said. Fanny and I exchanged startled glances.

  ‘Cut down an avenue!’ said Fanny to me in an aside. ‘What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper? Ye fal en avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.’

  ‘I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance, Fanny,’ I said.

  The conversation turned to talk of alterations in general and Miss Crawford began to speak of her uncle’s cottage at Twickenham, but as she did so I was surprised to find that she seemed to blame him for the dirt and inconvenience of the alterations he was making. Her liveliness seemed out of place and her drol comments, instead of lifting my spirits, dampened them, for it was disagreeable to hear her speak so slightingly of the man who had taken her in when her parents had died.

  I was glad when the conversation moved on to her harp.

  ‘I am assured that it is safe at Northampton; and there it has probably been these ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often received to the contrary,’ she said. ‘I am to have it tomorrow; but how do you think it is to be conveyed? Not by a wagon or cart: oh no!

  nothing of that kind could be hired in the vil age. I might as wel have asked for porters and a handbarrow.’

  I smiled at her naïveté, for she was surprised that it should be difficult to hire a horse and cart at this time of year! What did she expect, when the grass had to be got in?

  ‘I shal understand al your ways in time; but, coming down with the true London maxim, that everything is to be got with money, I was a little embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country customs,’ she said. ‘However, I am to have my harp fetched tomorrow. Henry, who is good-nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche. Wil it not be honorably conveyed?’

  Her humor was infectious, and I found myself looking forward to the morrow, for if there is one instrument I like above al others, it is the harp. Fanny expressed a wish to hear it, too.

  ‘I shal be most happy to play to you both,’ said Miss Crawford. ‘Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother, I entreat you to tel him that my harp is come. And you may say, if you please, that I shal prepare my most plaintive airs against his return, in compassion to his feelings, as I know his horse wil lose.’

  ‘If I write, I wil say whatever you wish me,’ I replied, rather more reluctantly than I had intended, for I was dismayed to know that she stil thought of Tom, even though he was no longer with us.

  ‘But I do not, at present, foresee any occasion for writing.’

  ‘What strange creatures brothers are! You would not write to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the world. Henry, who is in every other respect exactly what a brother should be, who loves me, consults me, confides in me, and wil talk to me by the hour together, has never yet turned the page in a letter; and very often it is nothing more than, “Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems ful , and everything as usual. Yours sincerely.” That is the true manly style; that is a complete brother’s letter,’ she said comical y. Fanny, however, saw nothing amusing in it, and was indignant on behalf of her own brother, her much-loved Wil iam. She could not help saying boldly, ‘When they are at a distance from al their family, they can write long letters.’

  I was glad that love had driven her to do what encouragement had not; for it did me good to hear her join in the conversation and express her views, rather than sit quietly by.

  ‘Miss Price has a brother at sea, whose excel ence as a correspondent makes her think you too severe upon us,’ I explained, as Miss Crawford looked startled.

  ‘Ah. I understand. He is at sea, is he? In the King’s service, of course?’

  Fanny had by that time blushed for her own forwardness, but as it was an excel ent opportunity for her to speak, I remained resolutely silent, so that she had to continue. As she began to talk of Wil iam she lost her shyness, and her voice became animated as she spoke of the foreign stations he had been on; but such was her tenderness that she could not mention the number of years he had been absent without tears in her eyes.

  Miss Crawford civil y wished him an early promotion, and a thought occurred to me.

  ‘Do you know anything of my cousin’s captain? Captain Marshal ? You have a large acquaintance in the Navy, I conclude? ’ I asked her, thinking that perhaps something might be done to help Wil iam.

  ‘Among admirals, large enough, for my uncle, as you know, is Admiral Crawford; but we know very little of the inferior ranks,’ she said. ‘Of various admirals I could tel you a great deal: of them and their flags, and the gradation of their pay, and their bickerings and jealousies. But, in general, I can assure you that they are al passed over, and al very il used.’

  Again I was surprised and unsettled by her lack of respect for her uncle and his friends, and I replied with something or nothing, saying, ‘It is a noble profession,’ and the subject soon dropped.

  A happier one ensued, and before long we were talking of the improvements to Sotherton again. Crawford’s opinion was sought, as he has done much to improve his own estate, and the long and the short of it is that we are al to make a trip to Sotherton, so that we can give our opinions as to what should be done with the park.

  Friday 22 July

  I found that Miss Crawford’s remarks about her uncle preyed on my mind and I decided to consult Fanny, for I knew I could rely on her judgment. I repaired to her sitting-room at the top of the house and tapped on the door. A gentle ‘Come in’ bid me enter, and I was soon inside the room. I felt better the moment I stepped over the threshold. Everything about the room spoke of Fanny’s personality: the three transparencies glowing in the window, showing the unlikely juxtaposition of Tintern Abbey, a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland; the family profiles hanging over the mantelpiece; the geraniums and the books; the writing desk; the works of charity; and the sketch of HMS Antwerp, done for her by Wil iam, pinned against the wal . I believe there is scarcely a room in the house with so much character or so much warmth.

  ‘Wel , Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford now?’ I asked her as I took a seat.

  ‘Very wel ,’ she said with a smile. ‘Very much. I like to hear her talk. She entertains me; and she is so extremely pretty, that I have great pleasure in looking at her.’

  ‘She has a wonderful play of feature!’ I agreed, lost, for the moment, in remembrance of her be
auty. But then I returned to my reason for coming. ‘Was there nothing in her conversation that struck you, Fanny, as not quite right?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ she said at once, as though reading my mind. ‘She ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did.’

  I knew she would see it and I let out a sigh as I was reassured that I had not been wrong. But when Fanny went on to speak of Miss Crawford as ungrateful I had to defend her, saying,

  ‘Ungrateful is a strong word. She is awkwardly circumstanced. With such warm feelings and lively spirits it must be difficult to do justice to her affection for her departed aunt, without throwing a shade on the admiral.’

  ‘Do not you think,’ said Fanny, after a little consideration, ‘that this impropriety is a reflection upon that aunt, as her niece has been entirely brought up by her?’

  At this, I was struck anew by Fanny’s intel igence, for that was undoubtedly the case: Miss Crawford’s faults were not her own, they were the faults of her upbringing.

  ‘Her present home must do her good,’ I said, much relieved. ‘Mrs. Grant’s manners are just what they ought to be. I am glad you saw it al as I did, Fanny. No doubt, before long, Miss Crawford wil see it al as we do, too.’

  Having eased my feelings, I spent the afternoon seeing to estate business, but I could not keep my mind on my work, for it kept drifting back to Mary Crawford. She is the kind of woman I most admire, with a slight figure, dainty and elegant, and just the sort of features I love to look at. She has sense and cleverness and quickness of spirits. She is in every way an addition to Mansfield Park.

  Saturday 23 July

  The harp has arrived, and after dinner at the rectory, Miss Crawford took her place at the instrument. Beyond her was the window, cut down to the ground, and through it I could see the little lawn surrounded by shrubs. Clad in the rich foliage of summer the garden made a striking contrast with her white silk gown and set her off to great advantage. I was surprised at Crawford, who whispered to my sister Maria throughout the recital, for the music was excel ent, and I could scarce take my eyes away from Miss Crawford as she played.

  ‘You are an avid listener, Mr. Bertram,’ she said, as she stood up at last. ‘I do not believe I have ever had a more attentive audience.’

  I thought fleetingly of Tom’s ease with women and the kind of clever reply he would have made, but I was not adept at teasing phrases and I could only assure her of my great pleasure in listening to her. It seemed to satisfy her, however, for she smiled at me, and I felt myself drawn to her even more.

  The sandwich tray was brought in and Dr Grant did the honors. Even this simple activity seemed ful of interest tonight and the time passed so quickly that I could scarcely believe it when it was time to leave.

  I thanked Miss Crawford and she said that I must come again. Mrs. Grant echoed her invitation and I accepted with pleasure.

  What a summer this is turning out to be!

  Monday 25 July

  It has always been Miss Crawford’s habit to take a strol in the evenings and it has now become a regular thing that we al walk out together. My work about the estate is being left to others, and I am spending less time with my family, but I cannot help myself. Miss Crawford is so agreeable that I cannot tear myself away.

  Saturday 30 July

  ‘I saw you ride past my window this morning,’ said Miss Crawford to my sisters as she and her family joined us at the Park for dinner. ‘How I envied you your exercise.’

  ‘You must come with us,’ said Maria.

  ‘It would do no good, for I cannot ride.’

  ‘Cannot ride?’

  The idea was startling.

  ‘Then you must learn,’ said Maria.

  ‘Alas, I have no horse,’ she said rueful y.

  ‘Then you must borrow one of ours.’

  ‘Indeed you must,’ I pressed her. ‘I have just the animal, a quiet mare who is perfect for beginners.’

  ‘What if I am frightened?’ she asked, glancing at me teasingly, so that I could not tel whether she meant it or not, for her temperament is so different from my own that half the time I do not know how to understand her.

  ‘There is no need,’ I said, taking her at her word. ‘She is the quietest creature imaginable. I bought her for Fanny when the grey pony died.’

  ‘In that case I must decline,’ she protested. ‘I cannot think of taking Miss Price’s mare from her. It would be very wrong.’

  ‘There would be no question of that. If Fanny does not object, it would only mean taking the mare down to the Parsonage half an hour before your ride, wel before Fanny usual y goes out, and you may both have your exercise.’

  Fanny said at once that she did not mind at al .

  ‘Then I wil bring the mare down to the Parsonage tomorrow, ’ I said.

  ‘And wil you instruct me?’ Miss Crawford asked me.

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘I do wish. I wil feel safer with you there, for I am sure you wil be able to teach me how to go on, you are such an experienced horseman. I should have learned before this; Henry was always trying to teach me; but somehow I never had the urge before now.’

  ‘Then we must not disappoint you. I wil be at the Parsonage early with the groom.’

  Her face fel .

  ‘I have no habit,’ she said.

  ‘That is nothing,’ said Mrs. Grant, ‘you may borrow one of mine until you can have one made. You wil want something in a newer style eventual y, but mine wil serve you for the present.’

  As the ladies continued to talk of their habits, I found myself looking forward to the morrow with an eagerness I have not felt since I was a boy.

  Sunday 31 July

  I set out after church for the Parsonage, rejoicing in the day. It was calm and serene, with just enough cloud to prevent it being too hot, and a welcome breeze. Miss Crawford was waiting for me, attired in Mrs. Grant’s habit.

  ‘You must excuse my dress,’ she said drol y, glancing at the yards of material that trailed on the floor behind her. ‘My sister is inches tal er than I am.’

  Tom would have thought of a compliment, but such things do not spring easily to my mind. Instead I told her that her habit would do very wel and helped her to mount. She was almost as light as Fanny, and with my hands round her waist she was soon sitting on the mare. She looked nervous to find herself so far off the ground, but I reassured her, and she laughed at her fears and was soon restored to her usual humor. I gave her instructions on how to sit, and how to hold the reins, and everything else necessary for her to begin, and then told her how to walk forwards, which she did with surprising grace.

  ‘If I had known it was so enjoyable I would have learnt to ride long ago,’ she said, as her confidence grew, ‘though I suppose with riding, as with everything else, it is the company that determines the enjoyment.’

  She cast me a smiling glance and I felt that she had read my mind, for it was her company that was making the day so enjoyable for me.

  After half an hour I felt she had had enough and she reluctantly dismounted.

  ‘You seem formed for a horsewoman,’ I said to her as I escorted her back into the Parsonage.

  ‘And for a musician,’ she said, glancing at the harp. ‘If you wil but give me a moment to change out of my habit, I wil play for you.’

  ‘I should be getting back to the house. Fanny wil be wanting her mare.’

  ‘Cannot the groom take her back? I feel I cannot let you go without a reward for your efforts. Do not make me shame myself by taking so much from you without giving you something in return.’

  I could not resist her and, having instructed the groom to take the mare back to the Park, I awaited her in the sitting-room. Mrs. Grant sat with me whilst I waited, tel ing me how pleased she was with her brother and sister, and before long Miss Crawford returned, to entertain me with her playing. I do not know whether it was the liquid notes of the harp or the graceful movement of her white arms across the strings that enthral ed me most but I
was held captive, and I felt that I had never spent a pleasanter morning in my life.

  AUGUST

  Monday 1 August

  Miss Crawford made even better progress this morning than she did on Friday, and delighted me with her daring.

  ‘This is wonderful!’ she said, as she walked the mare about the stable yard. ‘Why have I never done this before?’

  ‘Because you have lived in town, and there it is not so easy to learn.’

  ‘But here, with you, it is simple,’ she said, giving me a smile. ‘I am beginning to think a country life is the life for me after al . To spend my time in the open air, in country pursuits, is becoming the ideal for me, whereas a few months ago the thought of it fil ed me with horror. What, to live amongst green fields with no shops or theatres to entertain me? But then I did not know what pure entertainment could come from simply living.’

  I felt she had been in the saddle long enough, and was about to help her dismount when she said she wanted to try her skil s beyond the stable yard. She was playful yet determined, and at last I gave in. Mrs. Grant, coming into the stables at that moment, proposed that we made a party of it, and before long Dr and Mrs. Grant, Crawford, Miss Crawford and I ventured into the meadow, escorted by our grooms.

  We were about to walk round the meadow when Crawford suggested that, if I would escort his sister, the rest of the party would watch her and see how she did.

  ‘We can observe her much better if we are not too close to her,’ he said. The others were agreeable and Miss Crawford and I set off round the meadow together. To begin with we went at a walking pace but then she said, ‘This is so tame! Why do we not go faster?’

  And with that she began to canter. She had a good seat and sat with her back straight and her head held high. Her veil was blowing behind her in the wind and a lock of her hair fel clear of its pins and blew about her face. It drew my eye, and I was not sorry when I had to cal her to a halt and show her how to manage the bridle.