Manslaughter Park, page 11
Fanny sagged against the wall, hardly noticing Edmund’s hand on her shoulder. She wasn’t surprised to hear that Maria thought so little of her. She’d known in under a week at Mansfield that Maria saw herself quite above Fanny, and she’d been a mere child then. But to hear Maria voice these opinions aloud. In front of guests.
It wasn’t just mean-spirited, it was improper.
Julia spoke up then. “Maria! Someone might overhear.”
Someone. Not Fanny. Of course not. Because no one cared what she thought.
“Come on,” Edmund whispered. “Hold your head up high.”
She nodded once and then took his proffered arm and followed him into the foyer.
“Good morning,” Edmund said pleasantly. “Are you all about to go out to the storehouse?”
“Good morning,” Miss Crawford said, her voice just slightly too loud and slightly too eager. It was the only sign she gave of . . . embarrassment? Fanny wasn’t certain. She didn’t know the young lady well enough to get a sense of if she was guilty or merely abashed at nearly being caught out gossiping.
“What are you two—”
Tom started to speak at the same time Miss Crawford rushed to ask, “Will you both be joining us?”
“We’d love to,” Edmund said, inclining his head slightly toward Miss Crawford. Fanny managed a faint smile, and despite the sting she felt at Maria’s insult just moments earlier, she got a small twist of satisfaction at the look Maria and Tom exchanged—equal parts baffled and annoyed.
But her plan worked—no one challenged them, and so Edmund and Fanny were able to tag along as Tom and Mr. Yates, Maria and Julia, and the Crawfords led the way out of the house.
“I am so glad to see you recovered from your fall, Miss Price,” Miss Crawford said once they were out in the sunshine. “I felt absolutely horrible about the whole ordeal.”
Fanny was momentarily tongue-tied, both at Miss Crawford’s concern and by how pretty and innocent she looked, lit by the morning sun. “It was nothing, really. Thank you for your concern.”
“You must be made of hardier stuff than me, to say that what we put you through was nothing!” Miss Crawford’s smile wasn’t unkind, but it still took Fanny a moment to realize that the other young lady was teasing her.
It wasn’t often that someone teased her without meaning to put her down, so Fanny merely smiled, but it felt more like a grimace.
“Fanny is very familiar with the grounds, and all the paths and trails of the estate,” Edmund cut in. “She’s an avid outdoorswoman.”
“Well, that might be a stretch,” Fanny hastened to add, lest Miss Crawford get the wrong idea about her. “I simply enjoy nature. And walks.”
I simply enjoy nature and walks? What a positively inane response!
But it did the trick of taking Miss Crawford’s full attention off of her, for something in her tone must have put off the other young lady. She and Edmund began speaking of riding—which Fanny quite enjoyed, actually, but her rudeness the previous evening had put an end to the possibility of joining them—and Fanny found herself a quiet tagalong to the conversation until they reached the storehouse.
The party was full of oohs and aahs as Tom ceremoniously unlocked the storehouse and threw open the double doors to usher them all inside. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “welcome to Mansfield Emporium!”
“Oh my,” Miss Crawford breathed as they stepped inside. “It’s larger than I imagined.”
Fanny wondered exactly what Miss Crawford had imagined. Piles of money, perhaps?
“I must admit, I am impressed,” Mr. Crawford agreed.
“Come,” Maria said, gesturing broadly toward the aisles on the first floor. “Let’s begin our tour over here.”
Mr. Crawford obliged by offering her his arm, and Fanny glanced at Edmund to see if he noticed. He was pointing out the piano to Miss Crawford, telling her how he’d tuned it himself. Julia noticed, though. She fell back with Fanny and muttered, “It’s not fair. She’s already engaged.”
The last person she wanted to discuss the matter of equality with was Julia, so she offered a limp smile and was satisfied when her cousin followed after Maria and Mr. Crawford with a huff. Fanny lingered behind, glancing toward the stairs. Sir Thomas had kept an office upstairs, which was where the business ledgers and invoices must also be kept. She wasn’t certain what she was looking for, precisely, but she knew that if answers were to be had, she must start there.
The problem was in slipping away unnoticed.
Fanny trailed behind the rest of the group as Tom and Maria jockeyed for the position of tour guide. They’d scarcely gone down two aisles before her cousins devolved into squabbling over provenances.
“That’s not the Templeton, it’s the Templeworth,” Maria corrected her brother.
“It’s Templeton, I’m sure of it. I just read the provenance letter—”
“Oh, well, if you read the letter!” Maria shot back.
Fanny wanted to cover her ears, but she was surprised when Miss Crawford fell back beside her and said, “You seem restless, Miss Price. This tour must be boring you.”
“Oh no,” Fanny said, striving for a polite smile but not quite managing it. “I enjoy spending time here. Although I haven’t been since . . .”
An awkwardness settled between them, and Miss Crawford swallowed hard. “Right, of course. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
Edmund also fell back to join them, having heard the exchange. “I assure you, we have more happy memories here than unhappy ones. Fanny especially. She’s quite the artist. She’s too modest to say so, but she’s always sketching and painting in her free time.”
“It’s merely a hobby,” Fanny rushed to say, not trusting the keen interest in Miss Crawford’s eyes. “I’m no professional.”
“You should let us be the judge of that,” Edmund said, to Fanny’s horror.
“Oh yes, I would love to see your work sometime,” Miss Crawford added.
“Really, there is no need.” Fanny looked pointedly at Edmund, hoping he’d drop the subject. “It is just something I do to keep myself occupied.”
Her tone was just an edge too sharp to still be considered polite, but it did the trick of bringing Edmund and Miss Crawford into momentary silence.
But horror upon horrors, she’d garnered the attention of the others. Mr. Crawford had turned to look at them, evidently having heard Edmund’s praise. “As an appreciator of art and an artist yourself, Miss Price, you must approve of our plans for Mansfield Emporium.”
“Proposed plans,” Maria corrected, but there was no force behind her words. In fact, they sounded almost playful, as if she were putting up an opposition for the sake of argument alone.
Fanny decided to dodge the question. “It’s not my place to say how the business dealings ought to proceed.”
“Oh dear, that rather sounds like disapproval to me,” Mr. Crawford replied, but he was smiling as though he expected this. “Truly, you think it’s a poor idea? Please, be honest. I’m curious to know what the average art appreciator thinks of our model.”
She hoped Tom or Maria would intervene with a cutting comment at her expense—she’d take it if it meant getting out of saying what she truly thought. But they all awaited her response. “I admire that you wish to make art, and owning art, more accessible. Surely everyone comes out the better for it—the artist who benefits from the sale and the new patron who benefits from owning artwork.” And Mr. Crawford and his host or hostess, but she didn’t dare say that. “But I find the notion of arranging social gatherings for the sole purpose of tricking one’s acquaintances into a business dealing for personal gain . . . rather off-putting. I don’t think Sir Thomas would have approved.”
“Well, it’s a very good thing that my father didn’t will the business to you, then!” Maria said, trying to make a joke of it. But her voice was as tart as a fresh lemon.
“I’m sorry if my words offend,” she said. “But Mr. Crawford asked my opinion.”
“Indeed I did,” he said with a laugh that seemed to indicate he’d taken no offense whatsoever. “And I appreciate your candor, Miss Price.”
“May I ask,” Miss Crawford cut in, delicately, as if she were hoping to change the course of the conversation, “have you sold any pieces of your work?”
“Oh no.” Fanny felt embarrassed by the question and, strangely, by her response. “My uncle gifted one of my paintings to a patron once, as a gesture of goodwill. But as I said, I am not a true artist.”
Then why did she feel a strange wave of shame for wishing that she could be? For wishing that her artwork could be sold—not in one of Crawford’s horrid social gatherings, but maybe in a gallery one day or a private sale?
“You create, therefore you are an artist, are you not?” Miss Crawford asked. “Or do you think that because your work hasn’t sold, it is not true art?”
All of this attention was going to cause Fanny to break out into hives. “Of course not. I am just saying that what I do . . . it’s not the same as all of this!”
“Why not?” Miss Crawford asked.
As Fanny gazed into her blue eyes, as striking as they were probing, she found that she couldn’t come up with a coherent answer. Her pulse quickened and she was overcome with a feeling so big, so overwhelming, she couldn’t begin to find the words to describe it. It was as if a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions was swirling inside of her, and she wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry, stand her ground or flee.
Mr. Crawford broke the silence when it became clear that Fanny was unable to respond.
“This is why artists need us!” His tone was light, almost playful. “They must eat, they must be clothed, and they need a roof over their heads. Not to mention, they need the tools of their trade. And unless they are independently wealthy or have a patron, they must sell their artwork. I just don’t see how a healthy, thriving economy is a bad thing.”
“Hear, hear!” Tom agreed.
But Mr. Crawford wasn’t finished. “And with so many artists hoping to make their way in the world, well . . . they can’t all be masters fit for kings and nobility. Perhaps they are merely good, and perhaps someone is willing to part with their hard-earned money for a pretty painting on their wall. We help ensure a smooth transaction, and elevate new artists.”
Fanny couldn’t stand his self-assured tone, but this was an argument she’d had no wish to engage in in the first place. “Of course, Mr. Crawford. You know your business far better than I.”
“I am glad to hear you think so,” he said with an affable smile that got a laugh out of everyone—everyone but Miss Crawford, curiously. “What we do is good for artists. Those who might otherwise languish in poverty or obscurity or who give up their craft altogether are benefited by what we do.”
And so are you, Fanny thought. Just how much of a sale went to the artist and how much went to the Crawfords and their party hosts? And when they held auctions, did they do so in the hope of getting the most money for the artist . . . or lining their own pockets? And besides, what did he know about poverty? Had he ever feared being a burden on society and his family?
Surprisingly, it was Miss Crawford who interrupted him. “All right, Henry, you’ve made your point. I am sorry for my brother, Miss Price. He can be rather dogged about his passions.”
Fanny acknowledged this with a nod, but Mr. Crawford made no such apologies. Luckily, he seemed to grow tired of arguing with her, and Mr. Yates took this opportunity to inquire about Mr. Crawford’s opinion on some O’Rourke sculptures. They soon concluded their tour of the lower level and turned toward the stairs.
Fanny lingered at the bottom, but only a moment. Someone had cleaned up the blood that had fallen on the wood floors, scrubbed it away so neatly it was as though it had never been there. But Fanny had seen it. She could remember it, clear as day.
Stay the course, she reminded herself. Do it for Sir Thomas.
But once she was at the top of the stairs, something horrifying occurred to her: her replica of the Millbrook painting was still at the back of the storehouse, sitting on its easel just as she’d left it that fateful day. The thought of her cousins and the Crawfords seeing it, judging it, after all they’d just said, made her feel ill. And what would they think about her replicating someone else’s work? Likely that she was getting above herself.
As Tom said, “Down here we have quite the collection of Swiss figurines—perhaps not quite in fashion, but surely valuable to the right buyer,” Fanny lingered at the back of the group.
They all went ahead of her, even Edmund, and Fanny wavered. The door to her uncle’s office was just a few paces away. In the opposite direction was her replication. Did she choose self-preservation or her investigation?
She wasn’t proud of it, but self-preservation won out.
Tiptoeing past the group, she slipped down an aisle on the far side of the storehouse and made her way to the back of the building, hoping no one would notice her absence.
Her painting, all her tools, everything was exactly where she’d left it more than a week earlier. Her own replication was tilted on its easel, but it wasn’t enough to merely cover it with a drop cloth—that would just pique the Crawfords’ curiosity. As quietly as she could, she picked up the painting and looked about for a hiding place. It wasn’t heavy, but the size of the canvas was awkward, and she didn’t wish to damage her work. She slid it carefully behind a dusty crate and arranged a drop cloth around it, hoping that would do the trick of concealing it. Tom’s voice drew closer, so she dashed down an empty aisle and circled back to rejoin the group from behind, just as they came before the Millbrook.
“My word, Bertram,” Mr. Crawford declared, “you didn’t tell me that you had a Millbrook!”
“You recognize the artist?” Fanny asked in surprise, slightly out of breath.
“Yes,” he said, striding forward to inspect the painting. “No one paints quite like him. This must be an early piece—I’ve never seen it.”
“Father bought it from the artist himself a couple of months ago now, I think?” Maria said, following Mr. Crawford to stand right behind him. “He’s been holding on to it for some inane reason.”
“Fanny was—” Edmund began to say, but Fanny elbowed him hard.
Mr. Crawford didn’t seem to notice. “Your father met Millbrook? He’s notoriously reclusive. Lives on some country estate in York, I think.”
“I heard Sussex,” Mr. Yates added.
“No matter. He’s quite the sensation in London right now. Six months ago, a portrait of his was purchased by Lady Wilkshire, and it became the talk of the town when she displayed it in her ballroom. Now people are clamoring for Millbrooks, but the man can’t paint fast enough to satisfy the ton. Why, this . . . this is just the thing we need to make an auction ball at Mansfield a success.”
Fanny distrusted the gleam in Mr. Crawford’s eye, but his excitement was infectious.
“Truly?” Maria asked. “I had no idea we were sitting on such a gem. I assumed it was a silly domestic painting that Father paid more than he ought to, and was waiting in the vain hope its value would increase.”
“If so, the gamble paid off,” Mr. Crawford said, stepping back to better behold the entire picture. “Mary, what do you think?”
“It’s beautiful,” she said, stepping closer. “It doesn’t have the sophistication of the paintings we saw in London last month, but an early work will certainly be of interest. And this one has such exquisite layers.”
Fanny felt a burning sensation right below her heart.
“How much do you think something like this might go for?” Tom asked.
“I know at least three people who’d offer you two hundred pounds on the spot,” Mr. Crawford said. “But I’d advise you not to take it.”
“Oh?” Maria’s voice was coy.
“If it went to auction, we could easily sell it for three hundred. Likely more. Maybe even as much as five hundred.”
“And five hundred pounds is a lot of money?” Julia asked.
Fanny nearly fainted. Of course it was a lot of money. It was a nearly unheard-of sum for a single painting.
“It’s enough,” Tom said, and she could hazard a guess at what he was thinking: it would wipe out a sizeable chunk of their debt.
“But—” Fanny said, though she stopped herself before she could say more. Sir Thomas had kept the painting because it intrigued her, because she had loved it. And then he’d given her the task of painting it because he saw that she had talent. She’d never forget the day that he looked upon her efforts and deemed her worthy of lessons. Worthy of more than just an existence doing meaningless, endless tasks to make her aunts happy and comfortable.
Fanny had felt whole in that moment.
No, she’d felt like a real artist.
“Are you all right, Miss Price?” Miss Crawford asked in a hushed tone. She’d sidled up to Fanny without her noticing. “You’ve gone a bit pale.”
Before Fanny could respond, they were interrupted by the arrival of a footman, who appeared suddenly behind Fanny, out of breath. “Begging your pardon,” he said with a gasp, addressing Tom. “You’re needed in the house, sir.”
“Good God, man, did you run here?” Tom asked. “Surely whatever it is can wait until we’re finished.”
“I’m afraid not,” the poor footman said, looking very much as though it pained him to contradict Tom. “You have two . . . visitors awaiting you.”
“Tell them we aren’t accepting callers today,” Maria instructed. “If it’s urgent they’ll leave their card.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, miss,” the footman said. “They won’t leave. They’re bailiffs, and they say they’ve come to take up residence at Mansfield Park.”
