Murder at Mansfield Park

forthcoming marriage would be a bitter blow.
    ‘You must understand now why I wished to consult you,’ continued Tom. ‘On the day Fanny went off, the prospect of an alliance with Rushworth, begun under circumstances such as
these, filled us with horror; at any time it would have been unwelcome, given her longstanding engagement to Edmund, but to have it so clandestinely formed, and at such a period, would have been
the severest of trials. But as the days have crept slowly by, and no news has come, we have all been reduced to the faint hope that it would indeed be Rushworth, and no worse a scoundrel, who would
prove to be guilty in this affair. My father might have been brought, in time, to forgive the foolish precipitation of such a match, and receive him into the family. But now, our fears can only
increase with each hour that passes.’
    ‘And Miss Price is now twenty-one,’ said Mary thoughtfully. ‘If she was determined upon marriage, there is no impediment now to prevent her.’
    Tom nodded grimly. ‘Fanny’s coming of age should have been a day of celebration, especially now that my father’s health is improving. It was instead marked by the most bitter
recriminations. I know I can trust to your discretion, Miss Crawford, when I say that we are all angrily blaming one another for being blind to the truth and strength of Fanny’s feelings,
which now seem only too obvious. It is a wretched business, and I do not know what else we can do. What do you advise?’
    ‘ I advise, Mr Bertram! I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified for an adviser.’
    ‘You should have a juster estimate of your own judgment, Miss Crawford. I know Mr Norris holds you in very high regard. He himself suggested, in his last letter from Cumberland, that I
might turn to you for counsel, and rely on your good sense.’
    ‘I—I hardly know what to say,’ she stammered, her cheeks in a glow, wondering what she should make of such a gratifying compliment. ‘I truly believe you have done all
that could be expected of you. And your letter to Weymouth may yet lead to some thing. In the mean time we can only wait, and hope for the best.’
    Mr Bertram took her hand, and shook it warmly. ‘Thank you, Miss Crawford. I do not know what we should do without you. My younger sister, in particular, will, I fear, continue to need your
help in the coming days. She is not strong, and the strain of this dreadful situation, coupled with the burden of supporting my mother’s enfeebled spirits, is more than her own delicate
constitution can withstand. I am sure it would be a great relief to her if she could confide in you, as a friend.’
    ‘Pray tell her I am at her disposal; she has only to ask,’ replied Mary but as she watched her companion return at a brisk pace to the house, she wondered, not for the first time
that afternoon, if Julia really wished to have her as a confidante or whether there was, in fact, some thing preying upon her friend’s mind that she had decided to keep to herself, and
reveal to no-one.

 
    CHAPTER XI
    With the rain returning in full force that evening, the weather added what it could to the mood of gloom and despondency at Mansfield. A storm raged all night, and the rain
beat against the parsonage windows, but by eight o’clock the following morning the wind had changed, the clouds were carried off, and the sun appeared. Mary had never been so eager to be out
of doors, and walked to the village before breakfast to fetch the letters, a task usually assigned to the groom. She was disappointed in her hopes of a line or two from Henry, but consoled herself
with the prospect of a day in the sunshine and fresh air, and offered to assist Mrs Grant in cutting what remained of the roses. The two ladies spent the morning in calm, sisterly companionship,
and were just beginning to think with pleasure of luncheon and a glass of limonade, when they were startled by shouts and cries of alarm from the other side of the hedge. They hastened to the gate,
to find one of the workmen, with a dozen others at his heels, and in his arms, the apparently lifeless body of Julia Bertram. Her clothes were clinging to her thin frame, her lips were blue, and
her eyes closed; she did not even seem to breathe.
    ‘She was like this when we found her,’ the man stammered, his face white and terrified. ‘We didn’t know what else to do, but bring her here.’
    ‘Quickly!’ cried Mary. ‘Carry her into the