Murder at Mansfield Park

"Really, Julia, this is hardly the time for idle tittle-tattle. You know as well as I do that we still have the bridesmaids’ gowns to finish this afternoon. And after I have been slaving myself half the night to contrive yours from what remains of that blue satin, you can at the very least give me your help in putting it together. There are but the seams, you know; you may do them in a minute. I should think myself very lucky to have nothing but such a simple task to do, but I will have to give all my attention to the filigree for dear Fanny’s veil — that will not stitch itself, I can tell you. And we have still not received those shoe-roses from Northampton, despite all the haberdasher’s assurances, and no doubt the task will fall to me to resolve, as usual, and meanwhile here you are wasting your time gossiping."

Seeing tears in Julia’s eyes, Mary hastened to renew her offer of assistance. Mrs Norris was evidently surprised, and looked her up and down for a moment before replying, "Well, I suppose you might be of some use for the hems. anything that does not shew, and requires little refinement, may perhaps be entrusted to you. If you care to come to the Park in the morning, the housekeeper will direct you as to what you should do."

She then gave a stiff bow, and led her niece away to their carriage before Mary was able to reply.

Mary rose early the following morning, and left for the Park as soon as she had breakfasted. After so many days of rain, it was a bright, clear morning, and as Mary made her way towards the house she thought of the task that awaited her, and could not suppress a smile. If Mrs Norris had only known, she would not think of wasting her talents on the tedious drudgery of hems. Mary had been taught fine needlework when still a young girl, and shewed a rare aptitude for the most intricate and delicate lacework. Indeed, after their uncle died there was a time — a very short time — when she had been obliged to support herself by placing her skills at the disposal of the fashionable ladies of Hanover-square and Berkeley-street. Her work was highly prized, and much sought after, especially for wedding gowns, but Mary took no pleasure in it, and nothing but the direst necessity would induce her to adopt such an expedient again. It was long indeed, before she could take up her needle for anything but the most common-place work, but it still gave her pleasure to devise beautiful things for those she loved, and she had smiled to herself more than once when a shawl she had embroidered for Mrs Grant was admired in the Mansfield Park drawing-room.

Sir Thomas’s graceful, elegant house looked particularly beautiful in the bright sun, and the walk from the parsonage shewed it to best advantage, the lawns dotted over with timber, and the handsome, stone house standing well on rising ground. There was mist in the hollows, and in the curve of the valley, the workmen were beginning their labour on the channel for the new cascade; the sound of their voices carried across to Mary on the mild morning air. It was a charming view, of a sort to ease the mind, and lift the spirits, and Mary entered the house with a lighter heart than she had known for some days past.

But what was peace and harmony outside, was uproar and disorder inside. Servants were running hither and thither, doors were banging, and the house was all noise and confusion. Mary stood in the entrance, as motionless as she was speechless, scarcely knowing what to think or do, when the door to the drawing-room flung open, and Julia came rushing towards her, threw herself into her arms, and cried, "Oh Mary, Mary, thank God that you are here!"

For some minutes the girl could say no more, and Mary held her gently, allowing her sobs to subside, fearing that she knew only too well the cause of her distress.

"Is it your father?" she said at length. "Has there been news from Cumberland?"

Julia raised a face that was as white as death, and wiped her eyes. "No," she said softly, shaking her head, "it is not my father I weep for. It is Fanny."

"Fanny?" repeated Mary, in amazement. "I fear I do not understand you. Am I to understand that something has happened to Miss Price?"

"She is gone," gasped Julia, her handkerchief to her mouth. "When her maid went to wake her this morning, she was not there."

"Not there?"

Julia shook her head. "She has fled from the house, with nothing but the gown she had on, and we have no idea where she can be — or," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, and her face crimsoning over, "with whom."