Murder at Mansfield Park

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 a wink all night, that I don’t, Miss Crawford. Tossing and turning and moaning she was, babbling one minute, and as good as dead the
next. And that terrible rash all over her poor arms. Mr Gilbert came again at first light, and has been with her these two hours, but I doubt he has seen ought like it, for all his notions and
potions.’
    ‘I am very sorry to hear it, Mrs Baddeley,’ Mary replied, her heart sinking.
    ‘Between ourselves,’ said the housekeeper, moving a little closer, ‘I think you was right to tell Mrs Norris she shouldn’t have been moved. That will be at the root of
the mischief, you mark my words.’
    Mary flushed. ‘I am not sure I take your meaning—how did you know that I—’
    Mrs Baddeley gave a knowing look. ‘Servants may be dumb, Miss Crawford, but we be not deaf into the bargain. Young Williams, the footman who carried Miss Julia to the carriage, he told my
Baddeley what you said, and he told me . There be no secrets in the servants’ hall, whatever our betters might choose to believe.’
    Mary had never doubted it; she had once been a housekeeper herself in all but name, and had learned more about human nature from those few short years than she had from all her books and
schoolmasters, even if it was an experience she now preferred not to dwell on, at least when among genteel company.
    ‘If you ask me, the ladies could do with having someone like you in the house, Miss Crawford,’ continued Mrs Baddeley. ‘The whole place is at sixes and sevens. Are you sure I
cannot fetch you a piece of cake? Very good cake it is, made to my mother’s own receipt.’
    ‘No, thank you, Mrs Baddeley.’
    Her companion settled her ample form more comfortably into her chair. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that her ladyship is of no use in a sick-room, and Miss Maria
isn’t much better—from the moment they brought her sister back yesterday she’s been all but frantic— crying and falling into fits, and needing almost as much attention as
poor Miss Julia.’
    ‘And Mrs