Murder at Mansfield Park - Lynn Shepherd [55]
‘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