Maria Rushworth, after the events of Mansfield Park, has been sent to live in exile with her aunt Norris in the country, somewhere in England.
Maria Bertram rose that morning with the same bitter feelings as usual. The room was small, the maid was late again, and she felt numb to everything. She was always numb now, underneath the lingering anger. Mrs. Norris was already calling from below as the maid finished helping Maria into the simple gown and capturing her hair into a plain bun.
Mrs. Norris was already at the table, finished a scant breakfast of toast and butter. She glared at Maria, who was heaping her toast with the expensive spread. Maria did not care, let her aunt rant and scold, she would eat what she wanted.
“You should have been out at least half an hour ago,” Mrs. Norris began.
Maria said nothing.
“We have made such a good profit from the hens; I will not have you ruining their laying with your indolence. If they are not fed early you know we lose production.”
Maria did not feel any need to reply. She had heard everything before. She did not care if they made profits or not. Her father supplied enough for them to live on and their efforts only served to increase Mrs. Norris’s already ample fortune. What did it matter? Maria was never to escape from this village.
“Maria, if you do not get the better of this melancholy you shall be of no use to anyone.”
A past Maria would have spoken, would have been angry or sulked, but that Maria had been crushed. Two years of exile and reduced circumstances, two years of a scant neighbourhood without a single person of status to visit. Her father had chosen too well, they were living in a small parsonage, the only house of note in the village and five miles beyond. The actual rector lived elsewhere and the curate was not rich enough to consider noteworthy. Maria was completely alone; beyond the reach of anyone who suspected her past as much as anyone she would have wished to know.
Without saying anything, Maria finished her bread and went out into the yard. She unlocked the coop and the chickens flowed out. She regarded them with a blank stare. Once they were scratching about the yard, she scattered their feed, checked the fencing for holes, and collected the eggs. Her apron was soon full and she brought them back to the house. They were piled into baskets, which she and Mrs. Norris would carry to their customers. This was the effort of each day; an unbroken march without a true goal or purpose.
Maria finished her deliveries and walked home. The inhabitants of the town disgusted her, lowborn, unwashed, peasants all of them. Without anyone of education to soften their natural ignorance they were beyond speaking to. Maria removed her work clothes and settled into her favourite chair. She did not wish to read from their scant collection of books, she had no ability to play as a pianoforte had not been provided, and no inclination to sing. She simply waited for the day to end.
Dinner was a meagre affair. As much as Maria demanded, Mrs. Norris would not deign to waste their money on a cook or on expensive meat. They chiefly ate bread, eggs, and vegetables from the garden. The single apricot tree provided almost all of their fruit for the year. Maria had quickly learned that Mrs. Norris’s love for her was easily overcome by her love for money. She had ceased to fight; she accepted everything as a matter of course. The bitter feelings in her heart enhanced by the bitter fare at the table. Sugar was too expensive.
The evening might have offered some entertainment, but Maria did not wish to hear sermons or idle gossip, no one was below the notice of her aunt, she retired to bed. It was not late, but there was nothing to fill her time or excite her interest. Sleep was her only refuge.
The morning came again, harsh light glaring through her window and demanding her attention. She dressed, ate, and set out to feed the hens. Mrs. Norris remained inside as usual. Maria watched the hens exit the coop again, her mind nearly blank. Then something moved on the road and she turned her head towards it. It was a gentleman, by the look of his clothes she was certain and by the groom riding beside him. How strange! Maria was suddenly conscious of her dress, she smoothed her apron and wished that she did not wear a bonnet of straw.
She found herself walking towards him and was at the end of the lane before she recognized him.
“Henry?” she cried, rushing to close the space between them. She wanted to scream with delight, he had finally returned!
He stopped as she drew near and she went as close as she dared, within an arm’s length. There was no smile upon his face, if anything he looked nervous. She waited for him to speak.
“How are you? Mrs. Rushworth.” said he.
Maria felt the words as a blow, she wavered, “I am Mrs. Ward here.”
“Your aunt is well,” said he.
Maria only nodded. “She is inside.”
Henry, uncharacteristically, seemed unsure of what to say. Maria looked at him as the silent minutes drew on. Finally, she demanded, “Why have you come? If you mean to act the innocent and pretend to forget my name.”
“I have come with an offer, though not my own,” said he.
“An offer?” Maria dared not hope.
“An offer of marriage,” Henry clarified.
Maria scoffed, “From whom? Who would marry Maria Rushworth, if you would not do it yourself?”
He unfolded a letter, “If you accept, we may leave directly. I have convinced a friend of my father. He is an older man; he wishes for a mother to tend to his children. He is an honourable man; I have heard nothing against his character. He is, however,” Henry paused, “a resident of Ireland.”
“Ireland?” Maria took the letter and inspected it, “Lives wholly in the country?”
“Away from anyone who might know who you are, Mrs. Ward.”
Maria looked at him with a blank expression, but inside her emotions were in tumult. An escape! To be married, respectable and at least to visit with someone. It was more than she ever could have expected.
“We may leave now?” she asked.
“You will wish to inform your family, I am sure.”
“It will only be a moment, I have almost nothing to pack.”
Maria walked with self-command slowly towards the house. She might have skipped and shouted; she would be gone. Her sentence was over, she was free! Mrs. Norris was busy in the kitchen, Maria packed her scant belongings, the few gowns she had preserved from her old life, and then headed to her aunt’s bedroom.
A locked box therein held their profits for the month. It was almost the end of the month. She knew the key was with her aunt. She took the fire poker and wrenched the cheap lock open in one fluid motion. It sprang open and she took every shilling. Leaving the letter in the box, she slipped back downstairs. Her aunt had not noticed.
Henry was standing there waiting, “My carriage is at the Inn.”
“I am ready,” said she.
“You will answer to Miss Crawford for the length of our journey,” he said, “I am sure you have no scruples now of travelling under an assumed name.”
“None at all,” said she, though there was a small pang, there would certainly be no renewal of his previous affections if she was to pose as his sister. She hardly cared; to leave Mrs. Norris behind was all she wanted now.
They took Henry’s hired carriage to Liverpool, then boarded a ship to Dublin. The journey was luckily unmarred by storms or other dangers. They landed safe in Dublin only a day later. Henry took her to a respectable inn and they waited. Mr. Walsh was to come as soon as they arrived, but Henry expected it to take a few days.
Maria took her money, which she fully considered rightfully hers, and spent every penny on new clothes. Most of what she bought was fabric but she was able to buy a single gown ready-made that needed only the barest alteration. It was not something she would have ever lowered herself to when she was Miss Bertram or Mrs. Rushworth, but Mrs. Ward’s gowns were old and the vestiges of her former life were hopelessly out of style or ruined by use. Strange as it all was, she wanted to at least look acceptable on her second wedding day.
The third day came and went and Maria spent the evening worried that it was all a cruel joke, that Henry meant to abandon her here, without money or friends, in Ireland of all places. Even her father had not been cruel enough to send her so far.
The next day, Maria awoke and tried to decide what she could do if he did not come. Henry seemed to be carrying a fair amount of currency, perhaps she could abscond with it. She began to regret that all that she had stolen was spent. It would have been enough for passage home. Maria reproached herself, if she did go home, where would she go? She could not return to Mansfield, she would not return to her aunt, that left Julia. Would Mrs. Yates take her sister in? She could hardly hope that she would.
“He will come,” Henry said, sitting across the room from her, “I am sure he is only delayed. The roads can be hard to travel this time of year.”
“Of course, you would have me wait here on a false promise, did you write that letter yourself or have Mary write it for you?”
Henry sighed, “I did not bring you here for some perverse revenge, if Mr. Walsh does not come it will be a surprise to me as well. I did not go through all the trouble of bringing you here for nothing.”
Maria looked at him, he was not at all like she remembered. There was something so much less about him, less frivolous, less carefree, she could not entirely understand it.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, for in the heat of the moment, she had never thought to ask.
“I am trying to make amends,” he said.
“If you truly wished to make amends, you would have married me.”
“Perhaps, but it is past a time when that would have helped. And as much as I am trying to reform and right the wrong of my past, we would have never been happy together. You know that.”
“I know that you were deluded enough once to offer marriage to my cousin,” Maria scoffed. A look of hatred flickered across his face and she knew she had hit upon the truth, “Are you still trying to win her back? She must be lost to you now.”
Henry did not answer and Maria, incensed, continued.
“My righteous prig of a cousin will never accept you now, not after what you have done.”
“What we have done,” he reminded her gravely, “I, at least, am sorry for my part in it.”
Maria perhaps might have said more, but the servant informed them of a visitor and Maria was suddenly standing face to face with her future. The gentleman who entered was not as old as she had feared, perhaps forty, with dark hair and eyes. She might not have called him handsome before, when she was Miss Bertram, but it had been a long time since she had seen a person of manner. He made a very positive impression. Mr. Walsh looked at her, and for a moment she feared his judgement, but it was a steady gaze. She did not feel condemned.
Henry stood and introduced them, using her real name, which she hated to hear. What stupidity had led her into that marriage and out of it. With this marriage, it would be erased. She would be Maria Walsh. Would her family accept her again? Would she ever be allowed to go home? She dared not think of it, but instead accepted what was to come. It was not everything she wanted yet, but it was enough.
This is an extract from a longer story that I may sometime finish, but it works as a little sequel to Mansfield Park too. In this story, Edmund and Fanny’s engagement has been called off, but this could simply be set before Edmund got over Mary.
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Ooh, interesting! I like it
Thank you!