Murder at Mansfield Park

It was a very quiet wedding. Neither Mary nor Edmund had any inclination for needless ostentation, but it would not have escaped the notice of those schooled in matters of fashion, that the refined elegance of the bride’s gown owed as much to the generosity of her brother, in sending for silks from London, as it did to her own skills as a needlewoman. They had been obliged to wait until the three months of deep mourning were over, but that period had been, all things considered, a happy time; Mary had worked on her wedding-clothes, and wandered about the park with Edmund all the autumn evenings, under the last lingering leaves, raising his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness. His health improved so well under this agreeable regimen that by the time the couple met at the altar he was able to walk from the church unaided, with his bride on his arm. Sir Thomas was not the only onlooker to observe the effect of real affection on his nephew’s disposition, nor the only one to attribute it to Mary’s lively talents and quick understanding. Mr Maddox had been cruelly disappointed by her rejection, even if he had not ranked his chances of success very high, but his self-control in her presence had been punctilious, and when he departed the neighbourhood some few days thereafter, he had called at the parsonage to bid her the farewell of one who wished to remain always her friend.

They had stood on the sweep before his carriage, his trunks and notebooks neatly stowed, and his assistants waiting at a discreet distance.

"I hope you are leaving us with the reward that is owing to you, Mr Maddox," she said.

He smiled. "I would rather be leaving with something quite different. But, yes, my pockets are well enough lined; Sir Thomas has been very generous. Though he had no compunction in pointing out that there was another, to whom he was almost equally indebted, for bringing the full truth finally to light."

"I did very little."

"You are, once again, under-valuing your talents. It is a habit I would have cured you of, had I been given the chance." He paused. "I hear you are to remove to Lessingby with your brother, after you are married."

"Indeed so. There is a small house on the estate that we may have — Henry tells me it sits by the side of a lake, and has its own garden leading down to the water. It is peaceful, and the views are said to be beautiful. I think it will be exactly calculated to please us."

"And Mr Crawford will take possession of the Hall?"

"He has already done so — he arrived three days ago, and will return in time for the wedding. He writes that the house is large and draughty, and the grounds are happily in great need of improvement. I imagine he has work enough for two summers at least."

"I am glad to hear he will be so usefully employed, with so much money at his disposal, and so little to provoke him."

It was a strange turn of phrase, and she had seen his dark brows contract. "What do you mean, Mr Maddox?"

Maddox looked at her joyful, unsuspecting face, and made a decision. Ever since Fraser’s return from Enfield, he had been debating with himself whether to tell her what his assistant had discovered. Henry Crawford may, or may not, have killed his mistress, but he had lied from the first about his whereabouts on the day of her death. It had not been difficult for a man like Fraser to find the old washer-woman who had claimed to have seen him, nor had it taken long to persuade her to divulge why she had decided to retract her story: Crawford had bribed her, and bribed her very generously, considering his own straitened circumstances at the time. It was enough to make Maddox uneasy, but it was not enough to hang the man, or destroy his sister’s happiness for ever.

"It is nothing," he said at length. "A momentary distraction, that is all. You have my most sincere good wishes, Miss Crawford," he continued. "I hope Norris values you as he should.And you are no empty-headed girl — you understand the nature of the choice you have made, and I am sure you will make the best of it, and not repine for what you might have had."

"You do not need to pity me, Mr Maddox," she said with a smile. "I am sure I shall be quite as happy as I deserve."

"But what will you do, when you are not submerged in conjugal duties and household chores? How will you occupy yourself?"

"Oh, as to that, I think I will try my hand at writing. If the book I am reading is aught to go by, there might be an opportunity there for an intelligent woman, with a modicum of wit, to apply her mind, and even, perhaps, earn her own bread."

"I wish you luck," he said, as they shook hands. "I will scour the London booksellers in search of your name."

"I fancy I would prefer to remain merely “a lady”," she laughed, as he opened the carriage door, "but I will most assuredly send you a copy, and with the greatest of pleasure. If I am successful, of course."