Murder at Mansfield Park

credit. You
are worth more than that—you can achieve more than that. I know enough of you already to be quite sure that you would be an inestimable support to me in my profession—and not
merely a support, but a partner, in the truest, fullest sense of the word. Your eye for detail, your capacity for logical thinking and lucid deduction, surpass any thing I have seen, even among men
whom I admire. You have a genius for the business, Mary, and if you do not choose it, it seems that it chooses you .’
    She drew back in confusion, aware that she ought to be displeased at the freedom of his address, but he had already taken her hand—not with lover-like impetuosity, but with cool
deliberation; he lifted her fingers slowly to his lips, his eyes on hers in a gaze of passionate intensity. Some thing passed between them, that Mary felt all over her, in all her pulses, and all
her nerves. Denial was impossible; there was a connection between this man and herself; an attraction that she had long been blind to, and even longer denied.
    Such reflections were sufficient to bring a colour to her pale cheeks; a colour that Maddox saw, and seized upon. But he knew better than to press her.
    ‘I am very sensible of the honour you are paying me, Mr Maddox,’ she began, dropping her eyes.
    ‘But?’
    ‘But I will need some time to consider it.’
    ‘Of course,’ he said, getting to his feet, and preparing to go. ‘Pray take all the time you need. My own affections are fixed, and will not change. I love you, Mary Crawford,
and I give you my word, that in marrying me, you will lose nothing you value that is associated with that name, and you will gain a freedom that only Mary Maddox could dream of
attaining.’
    The effect of such a conversation was not to be underrated, especially for a mind that had suffered as hers had done, and it required several hours to give the appearance of
sedateness to her spirits, even if they could not bring serenity to her heart. She did not know what to think; she was flattered, tempted, disarmed. She could not deny that the prospect he
described held an irresistible attraction for her; having done so little, and travelled so little, to have a life so full of novelty and endeavour! To be at once active, fearless, and
self-sufficient—to move, at last, from a state of obligation to one of such brilliant independency! And yet, did she love him enough to marry him? Did she, indeed, love him at all? She had a
regard for him, she admired his intellect and esteemed many of his fine qualities, but she also knew him capable of acts that were abhorrent to her principles, and she had challenged and condemned
his gross want of feeling and humanity where his own purposes were concerned. Pity the wife who might fall victim to such barbarous treatment, and all the more so as she suspected that, however
high she appeared to stand in his regard, he had no very high opinion of her sex in general. If he became her husband, would she not be more than half afraid of him?
    With a mind so oppressed, she longed for the calm reflection of solitude, and after a quiet dinner with the Grants, she professed herself equal to a short walk in the park, and having allayed
their very natural concerns, she set out at a gentle pace. The harvest moon had already risen, and was nearly at the full, hanging like a pale lantern over the sheep grazing peacefully on the
farther side of the ha-ha. On the other side of the valley the labourers were once again at work, and she had no doubt that her brother was present to direct and dictate; Sir Thomas having
determined that the improvements should, after all, be completed, Henry had insisted, to Mary’s very great pleasure, on offering his services. Though the triumph and glory of his scheme would
never now be realised: Sir Thomas had decreed that the avenue was to remain, in lasting tribute to the daughter he had lost.
    How it happened, she could not tell, but Mary found her footsteps were drawn towards the White House. It was not in hopes of seeing Edmund, for she knew that could not be; nor was it to recall
what had happened there only a few short days ago. Had she been asked her purpose, she could not have told, she had only a sense of some thing unfinished, and incomplete. She unlatched the garden
gate, and walked slowly across the lawn. The late summer shadows were lengthening under the trees, and she did not perceive at once that she was not alone. He had his