Edmund Bertram's Diary

‘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 tel 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 tel 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 cal ed 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.