Murder at Mansfield Park (16 page)
‘I—I hardly know what to say,’ she stammered, her cheeks in a glow, wondering what she should make of such a gratifying compliment. ‘I truly believe you have done all that could be expected of you. And your letter to Weymouth may yet lead to some thing. In the mean time we can only wait, and hope for the best.’
Mr Bertram took her hand, and shook it warmly. ‘Thank you, Miss Crawford. I do not know what we should do without you. My younger sister, in particular, will, I fear, continue to need your help in the coming days. She is not strong, and the strain of this dreadful situation, coupled with the burden of supporting my mother’s enfeebled spirits, is more than her own delicate constitution can withstand. I am sure it would be a great relief to her if she could confide in you, as a friend.’
‘Pray tell her I am at her disposal; she has only to ask,’ replied Mary but as she watched her companion return at a brisk pace to the house, she wondered, not for the first time that afternoon, if Julia really wished to have her as a
confidante
or whether there was, in fact, some thing preying upon her friend’s mind that she had decided to keep to herself, and reveal to no-one.
With the rain returning in full force that evening, the weather added what it could to the mood of gloom and despondency at Mansfield. A storm raged all night, and the rain beat against the parsonage windows, but by eight o’clock the following morning the wind had changed, the clouds were carried off, and the sun appeared. Mary had never been so eager to be out of doors, and walked to the village before breakfast to fetch the letters, a task usually assigned to the groom. She was disappointed in her hopes of a line or two from Henry, but consoled herself with the prospect of a day in the sunshine and fresh air, and offered to assist Mrs Grant in cutting what remained of the roses. The two ladies spent the morning in calm, sisterly companionship, and were just beginning to think with pleasure of luncheon and a glass of limonade, when they were startled by shouts and cries of alarm from the other side of the hedge. They hastened to the gate, to find one of the workmen, with a dozen others at his heels, and in his arms, the apparently lifeless body of Julia Bertram. Her clothes were clinging to her thin frame, her lips were blue, and her eyes closed; she did not even seem to breathe.
‘She was like this when we found her,’ the man stammered, his face white and terrified. ‘We didn’t know what else to do, but bring her here.’
‘Quickly!’ cried Mary. ‘Carry her into the house, and have the maids fetch blankets and hot tea. I fear she has been quite soaked through.’
‘You mean she b’aint dead after all?’ said the man, as he followed them inside. ‘It took us so long to free her, and all the while she neither moved nor spoke. I don’t mind telling you, we feared the worst.’
‘Bring her through here, if you would,’ said Mrs Grant briskly. ‘Lay her on the sopha—gently now! Mary, rub her temples, and send a maid to find my salts. Heaven only knows how long she has been in this state.’
Mary looked up at the man, who was standing in the doorway, twisting his hat in his hand. She had seen him before—a tall, handsome fellow, who had touched his hat to her once or twice when she had encountered him in the park.
‘Did I hear you aright—did you not say some thing about
freeing
her?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, miss. We saw her as soon as we got to the avenue—she’d gone and chained herself to one of those old trees. How she managed such a thing on her own, God alone knows, but I swear she weren’t there when we left the place last night.’
Mary wondered for a moment why they had not sent immediately to the Park for help, given the much greater distance to the parsonage, but she had seen the trepidation in the man’s eyes; in the face of what must have seemed to be a fatal catastrophe, he had no doubt feared that his employer would be only too ready to lay the whole blame of it at his door.
‘You have nothing to fear,’ she said quickly. ‘You have acted quite properly. But I am very much afraid that Miss Julia is extremely ill. We must dispatch a messenger for the apothecary at once, and send word to the Park. Her family will already have missed her.’ Even as she uttered the words, her heart ached for the distress the Bertrams must be in— first Fanny, and now Julia, gone from the house with no explanation. What must they be thinking?
Mrs Grant was clearly of the same mind; she went immediately to her writing-desk, and penned a short note to Lady Bertram. ‘If you will be so good as to take that to the Park,’ she said, holding it out to the workman. ‘And with all speed, if you please.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, bowing, and with a parting look at Mary, he was gone.
The apothecary was not long in arriving thereafter; it was lucky for them that he was close by, having been attending a case of pleurisy in Mansfield-common, and he was able to give his opinion on the invalid without delay.
‘I am afraid, Mrs Grant, that it is a very serious disorder,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Her strength has been much weakened, and in consequence the danger of infection is very great. I will prescribe a cordial for you to administer, and you must convey her upstairs to bed at once. On no account should she be moved unnecessarily. I will call again later today.’
‘Thank you, Mr Phillips, you may rely on us,’ said Mrs Grant. ‘I will see you to the door.’
When Mrs Grant returned to the parlour she found Mary sitting at Julia’s side, her eyes filled with tears. ‘I should have foreseen this!’ she said. ‘I knew she had been neglecting her health—I knew she was half frantic about the felling of the avenue—I should have talked to her—comforted her—’
Mrs Grant sat down next to her, and took her hands in both her own. ‘I am sure you did every thing you could, Mary. I know your kind heart, and I know your regard for Miss Julia. This latest folly of hers was in all probability the whim of the moment—how could you possibly have anticipated she would do such a thing? And on such a night!’
Mary wiped her eyes. ‘It was her last chance,’ she said softly. ‘They were to start the felling today. She must have been truly desperate.’
‘Come, Mary,’ said her sister, kindly, ‘the best way for us to shew our concern is by ensuring she is well cared for. The maids have prepared the spare room, and lit a good fire. Let us ask Baker to carry her upstairs.’
Mrs Grant went in search of the man-servant, and Mary was left for a few moments to herself—a few moments only, for she was soon roused by a loud knocking at the door, followed, without announcement, by the unexpected appearance of Mrs Norris. This lady looked exceedingly angry, and seemed to have recovered all her former spirit of activity; she immediately set about giving loud instructions to the maids, and directing her own servants to carry Julia to the waiting carriage. Mary intervened most strenuously, citing the apothecary’s advice, her own concerns, and the certainty of the best possible care under Mrs Grant’s good management, but to no avail. Mrs Norris was not to be denied, and even the reappearance of Mrs Grant herself could not dissuade her.The two were seldom good friends: Mrs Norris had always considered Mrs Grant’s housekeeping to be profligate and extravagant, and their tempers, pursuits, and habits were totally dissimilar. One of the Mansfield footmen was already lifting Julia in his arms, when Mary made one last attempt to prevent what must, she believed, be a wretched mistake.
‘I beg you, Mrs Norris, not to do any thing that might endanger Miss Julia any further. Mr Phillips was most definite—she was not to be moved.’
‘Nonsense!’ cried Mrs Norris, turning her eyes on Mary with her usual contempt. ‘What can
you
know of such things? I have been nursing the Mansfield servants for twenty years—Wilcox has been quite cured of his rheumatism, thanks to me, and there were plenty who said
he
would never walk again. And besides, we have our
own
physician to consult—quite the best man in the neighbourhood, I can assure you. Not that it is any of
your
concern. What are you standing there gaping for, Williams? Hurry up, man—take Miss Julia to the carriage!’
‘In that case,’ said Mary firmly, ‘I hope you will permit me to accompany you back to the Park. It would comfort me to know that Mr Phillips’s instructions were conveyed correctly.’
‘That is quite ridiculous!’ cried Mrs Norris, her face red. ‘Absolutely out of the question! Even if there were room in the carriage, how dare
you
suggest that
I
cannot comprehend the instructions of a mere apothecary, or that the Bertrams are incapable of caring properly for their own daughter!’ And with that she turned, and without the courtesy of a bow, swept out of the room.
Mary was about to follow her when Mrs Grant put a hand on her arm. ‘Let her go, sister.You know it is useless to remonstrate with her when she is in such a humour as this.’
But Mary was not to be restrained, and shaking herself free, she ran out of the house towards the carriage, only to stop a moment later in amazement and confusion. For who should she see helping to settle Julia into the carriage, and arranging the shawls gently about her, but Edmund! She had been thinking him two hundred miles off, and here he was, less than ten yards away. Their eyes instantly met, and she felt her cheeks glow, though whether with pleasure or embarrassment she could not have told. He was the more prepared of the two for the encounter, and came towards her with a resolute step, ignoring his mother’s agitations to be gone.
‘Miss Julia is most unwell,’ faltered Mary. ‘The apothecary—he was concerned at the harm that might be caused by such a removal—I do not think Mrs Norris—’
‘My mother can be very resolute, once she has determined on a course of action,’ he replied, with a grim look, ‘but once I understood her design in coming here, I insisted on accompanying her. You may trust me to ensure that the journey causes Julia the least possible discomfort, and that she will have every attention at the Park.’
‘And your own journey?’ she asked quickly. ‘You must have arrived very recently.’
‘This very hour,’ he said, with a look of consciousness. ‘I am sure you will be relieved to hear that Sir Thomas improves daily, but Mansfield is a very different place from the one I left. You, I know, will understand—’
At that moment they were interrupted once again by the sharp voice of Mrs Norris from her seat in the carriage. ‘I thought
Miss Crawford
professed herself concerned for Julia’s health. In which case I cannot conceive why she is deliberately delaying our departure in this way, and forcing the carriage to wait about in this heat.
That
will do Julia no good at all, you may be sure of
that.
’ Edmund turned to Mary. ‘Perhaps you would do us the honour of calling at the Park in the morning?’ he said quickly, with a look of earnestness. ‘You will be able to enquire after Julia, and perhaps I might also take the opportunity to have some minutes’ converse with you, if it is not inconvenient.’
‘Yes—that is—no, not at all. I will call after breakfast.’
He bowed briefly, and the carriage was gone.
Mary kept her promise; indeed, she could not suppress a flutter of expectation as she dressed the following morning, and rejoiced that the continued sunshine made it possible for her to wear her prettiest shoes, and her patterned muslin. She knew she
should not
be happy—how could she be so when the family at the Park was labouring under a threefold misery? Even if the news from Cumberland continued to improve, there had been no tidings of Fanny, and at that very moment Julia might be dangerously ill; but whatever Mary’s rational mind might tell her, her heart whispered only that she was to see Edmund—and an Edmund who was now, for the first time in their acquaintance, released from an engagement to a woman who had evidently never loved him, and whom, perhaps, he had never loved. Whatever her feelings ought to have been on such an occasion, hope had already stolen in upon her, and Mary had neither the wish nor the strength to spurn it.
But whatever joyful imaginings might captivate her in the privacy of her chamber at the parsonage, every step towards the house reminded her of the wretched state the family must be in, and her duty to offer what comfort she could, without thought for herself. By the time she rang the bell at the Park she had reasoned herself into such a state of penitent selflessness, as to almost put Edmund out of her mind, only to find that all the ladies of the Park were indisposed, and unable to receive visitors. She should, perhaps, have expected such a reception, but she had not, and stood on the step for a moment, feeling all of a sudden exceedingly foolish, her good intentions as vain and irrelevant as her good shoes. She recovered herself sufficiently to leave a message enquiring after Julia, but the very instant she was turning to go, the housekeeper happened to cross the hall with a basin of soup, and glimpsing Mary at the door, hurried over at once to speak to her. She was a motherly, good sort of woman, with a round, rosy face. Even had Mary been in the habit of chatting with servants, Mrs Baddeley was rather too partial to gossip for Mary’s fastidious taste, but the circumstances being what they were, she swallowed her scruples and accepted the offer of a dish of tea in the housekeeper’s room. Mrs Baddeley was soon bustling about with cups and saucers, while Mary listened to her account of Julia’s restless and feverish night with growing concern.
‘I don’t think the poor little thing slept a wink all night, that I don’t, Miss Crawford. Tossing and turning and moaning she was, babbling one minute, and as good as dead the next. And that terrible rash all over her poor arms. Mr Gilbert came again at first light, and has been with her these two hours, but I doubt he has seen ought like it, for all his notions and potions.’
‘I am very sorry to hear it, Mrs Baddeley,’ Mary replied, her heart sinking.
‘Between ourselves,’ said the housekeeper, moving a little closer, ‘I think you was right to tell Mrs Norris she shouldn’t have been moved. That will be at the root of the mischief, you mark my words.’
Mary flushed. ‘I am not sure I take your meaning—how did you know that I—’