Murder at Mansfield Park

A week later, Mary was sitting in the garden at the parsonage, a parasol at her side, and a book, unopened, in her lap. It was such a lovely day that her sister had finally relented and permitted her to take the air outside. It was the first time she had been out of doors since the events at the White House, and she breathed the fresh air with the purest delight, noticing how the last flowers of the summer had already started to fade, and the first edges of gold were appearing on the leaves. But her pleasure was not wholly unalloyed. She had not yet been able to visit the Park, whither Edmund had now been removed, and she knew that his recovery was neither as complete, nor as swift, as Mr Gilbert had hoped. They had kept it from her at first, fearing a relapse in her own condition, but Mrs Grant had, at last, admitted that while Mr Norris was now out of danger, the family were apprehensive for his future health. Mary had not yet heard from Mr Gilbert that morning, and when she saw her sister approaching from the house, she presumed at first that she was coming with a message from the physician.

"There is someone to see you, Mary," said Mrs Grant. "I have explained that you have already seen Sir Thomas today, and are still too delicate to receive so many visitors, but he will not be gainsaid."

Mary smiled. "Let me hazard a guess — it is, perhaps, Mr Maddox to whom you refer?"

"The man has scarcely been out of the house since the day you — well, since the day of your accident. I am more than half tempted to start charging him board and lodging."

"I do not recommend it!" laughed Mary. "I am sure our table is better stocked than Mr McGregor’s, so he will very likely take you at your word, and then where will you be?"

Mrs Grant smiled, despite herself. "With an unwanted lodger taking up the only spare room, that’s where I would be. How do you go on with your book?"

Mary smiled. "Not well. It is very entertaining — the author blends a great deal of sense with the lighter matter of the piece, and holds up an excellent lesson as to the dangers of too great a sensibility, but I fear my spirits are not yet equal to the playfulness of the style."

"Well, if you do not wish to read, perhaps you have energy enough for conversation? Shall I fetch Mr Maddox? He says there is something he wishes to discuss with you. I’ll wager it’s about what is to be done with Mrs Norris — there have been messages going to and fro between him and the magistrate for the best part of a week. Mrs Baddeley told me she is to be shut up in a private establishment in another part of the country — some where remote and private, by all accounts, and with her own mad-doctor in constant attendance. If you ask me, she should have paid the price for what she did, but it appears she has quite lost her reason, and become quite raving, and Dr Grant says that even if there were a possibility of her ever standing trial, the jury would be forced to acquit her by reason of insanity. As you might imagine, Sir Thomas will not hear of a public asylum."

"I am not surprised at that. I have acquaintances in London who have visited Bedlam, and I would not wish even Mrs Norris incarcerated in such a terrible place. People make visits there as if it were some sort of human menagerie — they even take long sticks with them, so that they can provoke the poor mad inmates, purely for the sake of entertainment. It is unforgiveable. Sir Thomas would never permit such inhumane treatment, even for the murderess of his own daughter."

Mrs Grant stood up and touched her sister on the shoulder. "You

have become quite the daughter to him, these last few days."

Mary blushed. "I think he wished, in the beginning, to thank me for what I have tried to do for the family, and especially for Julia. But since then we have spent more time in conversation, and have found we enjoy one another’s company."

"I am sure that you are more than half the reason why he seems to be becoming reconciled to Henry as a nephew."