And so I sat beside him again, glad to be of use.
Friday 14 April
Tom seemed a little stronger today, and I read to him.
‘What? Not The Rake’s Progress?’ he asked, as I took up the book. It was good to hear him joking, and I pray he may soon be well. If the hectic symptoms abate, then there is every chance of it. And with the better weather coming, it will be possible for him to sit in the garden and make a full recovery at his leisure.
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.