How are Susan’s raptures to be described, when she heard footsteps approaching from the shadows? She thrilled down to her gloved fingertips, flushing delightedly at the thought of being so soon united to her love. She was moments away from flinging herself into his still-shadowy arms, when he spoke, and all her thrills took a decidedly different direction, and life itself because too cruel to possibly be born.

“Well, cousin,” said Tom calmly, as though meeting a cloaked and hooded Susan, carrying a travel bag, was a perfectly common occurrence at this time of night, “out for a midnight stroll? Quite wise of you to wear a cloak, as the evening air can be quite chill.”

Mute with despair, Susan couldn’t even bring herself to answer. If Lord Marcus were to come now, while Tom was still here—oh! She shuddered to think of the catastrophe. On the other hand, if Tom was here, did that mean that somehow he had discovered all, and had already dealt with Lord Marcus? She recalled his conversation with Sir Thomas earlier in the day, and shivered again.

“But come, you are cold,” Tom said with apparent concern. “Come, let us return to the house. I daresay we can fix you a hot cup of tea, which ought to help you sleep. Come.” He took her arm to lead her inside.

Susan, not knowing what to do or even think, pulled her arm away and—to her horror and disgust—burst into tears. Tom merely stood back and let her cry without even offering her his handkerchief, something Susan found most ungentlemanly. As she had neglected to include a handkerchief in her packing, she had to make do with wiping her eyes and nose on the corner of her cloak—for which Fanny would have scolded her greatly, had she been there to see it.

It finally became simply impossible to continue sobbing while Tom stood there so gravely and dispassionately, so with one final wipe of her eyes, Susan hiccoughed once or twice, and said in broken tones, “Do not be so unkind to torment me any longer, Tom. You must know all, else why would you be here? Tell me, where is Lord Marcus?”

“Lord Marcus,” Tom replied grimly, “Is no longer any concern of yours. I warned him that if he ever came within ten yards of you ever again, I would give him the thrashing he so richly deserves, regardless of his father’s title or wealth, and sent him on his way earlier tonight.”

At that, Susan broke into loud sobbing once more. “You don’t understand,” she wailed. “I love him, and we were to be wed! What is so dreadful about that? You simply have no heart, Tom; you care nothing for my wishes or feelings.”

Tom took her by the arm and shook her slightly. “It is you who do not understand, my simple little cousin,” he said sharply. “Lord Marcus had not the slightest intention of marrying you. His aim was to seduce you and leave you, with no money, no reputation, and no friends to help you. He never loved you, Susan, can’t you see that?”

“No, I can’t!” Susan cried, stung. “How dare you say such things about him? You know nothing of what he is truly like! He does love me, and he will find me again, no matter what you threaten or how you try to separate us, and we will be together forever, you’ll see!”

Tom sighed. “I should have let Fanny tend this part,” he muttered. “Listen to me, Susan. Had Cassandra not inadvertently told me your plans for this evening, Lord Marcus would have met you here—not to take you to Gretna Green, as you thought, but to a secluded cottage far away, where he has performed other seductions in the past. No, listen!” he said, as Susan shook her head and tried to pull away. “There is proof of his dastardly acts in the past. Why do you think I was so reluctant to let you near him? He delights in luring innocent young girls from their homes and guardians, only to desert them when he tires of them. You were nothing more to him than an idle plaything. He admitted it all when I confronted him earlier. He never had any serious or honourable intentions toward you, Susan, and he would have destroyed you utterly.”

“I don’t believe you,” Susan said defiantly. Inside, however, she felt the first crack of doubt in the wall of romantic dreams she had built up, and that doubt only served to infuriate her more. “No,” she cried. “You are lying to me! I don’t know why you wish to make me miserable, but I cannot believe you, and I refuse to listen to another word. Since you obviously have succeeded in temporarily separating us, I beg of you that you will let me go to my room, where I can drown in my sorrows alone and unhindered.”

“Susan,” pled Tom. “Do try to be reasonable.”

“No! I pray you, leave me be!” With which passionate cry, she tore herself from his grasp and fled back through the house and into her room, where she locked the door and flung herself onto the bed in a storm of weeping, feeling quite sure that her heart had shattered into hundreds of jagged little pieces.

When her tears had all cried themselves out, Susan lay quite still in an exhausted stupor, unable to think or reason properly. How long she might have stayed supine on her bed, insensible to all the world around her, is quite unknown, had not Fanny knocked on the door sometime the next morning.

At first, Susan was inclined to send her away, thinking it far better to indulge her grief alone, rather than listen to her sister’s reproaches, but eventually Fanny’s gentle pleas because too persistent to ignore, and she unlocked the door and bade her sister enter.

“My poor dear Susan,” was Fanny first soft cry as she enveloped Susan in a warm hug. This, undoubtedly, was far better than either being reproached or suffering alone, and Susan allowed herself to be petted and soothed quite as though she was a mere child again.

“Oh, Fanny,” she sniffed. “It is all so dreadfully unfair. Tom—I can never forgive him. My heart is broken.”

Fanny wisely let her pour out her grief without saying one word as to the foolishness of Susan’s actions, or even in defence of their cousin, either of which, surely, would have been justified under the circumstances. Perhaps she felt that if she said anything at all, Susan was likely to go into even deeper of a melancholia and rage. She was truly troubled at her sister’s pale, haggard appearance and wild, fever-bright eyes, and reproached herself most bitterly for not having been a better sister to her.

She said as much when Susan finally ran out of words. “My dearest sister, I blame myself entirely for this misadventure. Had I been more attentive, more sensitive and compassionate to your needs, things could never have gotten this far. The fault is mine entirely; I shall never forgive myself for leaving you to feel your own way forward in this most difficult of times.”

“I am not a child, Fanny!” Susan cried resentfully, forgetful of the child-like comfort she had just been drawing from her sister’s mere presence. “I do not need your guidance, nor your platitudes. I knew perfectly well what I was doing, and had Tom not interfered, all would have been well. And if you,” she continued even more wildly, “had not raised Cassandra to be a sneak, she never would have informed on me to Tom, and none of this would have happened!”

Fanny longed to say something in defence of her daughter, who, after all, was but a child of three years and could know nothing as of yet of the importance of keeping confidences, but considering her sister’s now nearly hysterical condition, she deemed it best to say nothing at all. So she diverted all her energies into soothing Susan and bringing her into a calmer state of mind, pleading with her to try “just a little tea, Susan dearest, and perhaps some toast. Do try; it will make you feel ever so much better, I am certain.”

“Tea and toast?” Susan managed to combine scorn and a sob dramatically. “My heart is broken, and you can think of no greater consolation than tea and toast? Oh! Fanny, you do not love Edmund; no, you could never have loved anyone the way I love Lord Marcus; if you did, you could never offer such insipid comfort. Leave me, leave me, you torment me with your complacent pity and heartless support! I shall die alone here, knowing that no one in the world understands and sympathizes with my plight.”

“Now really, cousin, such indulgent self-expression is most unbecoming,” said Julia, who, unnoticed by the sisters, had entered the chamber. “You really must learn to control yourself. Now, wash your face and brush your hair, change your frock and come downstairs. Mama is really quite concerned about you—she has already asked for you above twice this morning—so do your duty by my family and compose yourself.”

“You?” Susan stared disbelievingly at Julia. “You can speak of composure? You, who told me that the greatest joy a woman could have was to inspire such passion in a man as to make him run off with her? Julia, I had thought that you, of all people, would understand my sorrow!”

Julia blushed uncomfortably under Fanny’s grave and grieved stare, but she tossed her head with an uneasy laugh. “I? What nonsense you speak, Susan! Of course I never dreamt you would take me seriously. Only a goose would have taken my words so to heart. Now, you have already caused Yates and me quite a bit of discomfort here—my father blames us for exposing you to Lord Marcus, while he is so outraged at his treatment at Tom’s hands that he is quite likely to make our lives in town this winter perfectly intolerable. You really are behaving quite selfishly, so I suggest you start making amends.”

“Julia, I hardly think now is the time for such matters,” Fanny protested. “Can’t you see she has made herself quite ill with grief? If we cannot calm her down, I shudder to think of the consequences.”

“Well really, Fanny, that is exactly what I am trying to do,” Julia protested.

“Yes, but can’t you see you are only making her worse?” Fanny’s mild voice was so rarely raised in anger that Julia’s contemptuous retort was stopped before she could utter it. She looked at the grief-stricken girl, once more prostrate on the bed, moaning and clutching her hair, and acquiesced.

“Perhaps you are right; it does not seem to be helping. Well, do what you can with her, Fanny. Goodness! I am glad such an unprincipled, undignified person is not my sister.”

With which astounding statement she swept out of the room, leaving Fanny the unenviable task of bringing Susan to see reason. In this, she was aided by the fact that Susan’s strength, already weakened by two sleepless nights and very little food, was unequal to her grief, and, being unable to maintain her former level of weeping, soon allowed herself to be calmed and tended to. Fanny even managed to persuade her to rise and dress herself, and then, while the formerly despised tea and toast was bringing a hint of colour back to Susan’s cheeks, Fanny brushed her hair with long, even strokes, designed to calm her jangled nerves as well as smooth her dishevelled locks.

Eventually, calmed to the point of being able to function, Susan accompanied Fanny outside to the gardens, where the elder sister deemed the time right to speak of the previous night’s events. By dint of much heavy logic, Fanny was at last able to make her realize that Lord Marcus had truly never intended to marry her. Though Susan was loath to believe such an atrocity, she could not believe that Fanny would deceive her in this manner; nor, much as she hated to admit it, would Tom. This admission, though, did little to comfort her, and her anger against her cousin still burned fiercely. Her heart was still too attached to Lord Marcus for there to be any anger against him; no, it was Tom who bore the brunt of her disappointment and rage. Fanny grieved over this, but knew there was little she could do or say that would change Susan’s feelings; only time could effect the necessary revolution.

Deciding it was best to turn their conversation to other matters entirely, Fanny relayed to Susan the news that William, now captain, had written to her saying that their brother Richard had just been made lieutenant. As a paltry year separated Susan and Richard, the two of them were nearly as close as William and Fanny were, and this news was enough to take Susan’s mind off her own affairs, at least momentarily, and rejoice in her brother’s good fortune.

“Dick must be beside himself,” she said, her eyes temporarily losing their deadened expression. “He has waited so long to be made lieutenant … it really seemed as though there was a spite against him. But now he is made, and what a difference it will make! Lieutenant Price … truly, it does have a grand ring.”

Fanny well remembered her feelings of pride and joy when William was made lieutenant, and entered into Susan’s rejoicing quite heartily, feeling exceedingly thankful that her sister was able to focus on something good, rather than her recent disappointment.

All too soon, however, Edmund came in search of them, and at the sight of him, Susan’s face closed up again, and she looked perilously near bursting into tears again.

“Oh Fanny,” she whispered piteously, clutching her sister’s arm, “Do not let him lecture me; I could not bear it, not today. Please, Fanny, it would truly be beyond human capabilities to listen to one of Edmund’s sermons now.”

To her relief, however, Edmund merely asked if she was able to attend his mother, who was most distraught over the disarray in the household, and he required Fanny’s presence himself, in the study. Only too happy to escape a homily, Susan hurried off to her aunt, and Fanny accepted Edmund’s arm gladly.

“How does she do?” he asked gravely, watching her receding figure.

“As well as can be expected upon receiving such a shock,” Fanny replied. “I appreciate that Tom wished to spare your father’s feelings as much as possible by taking on the task of stopping Susan himself, but I cannot think he did it the right way. Had he sent Lord Marcus away, and called for me to explain to her the man’s ill-intentions, it would have been far greater. But to go out in all the excitement of meeting her lover, only to be stopped and informed of his perfidy in such a manner! It is no wonder she fell into hysterics.”

“Well,” said Edmund. “However poorly Tom managed the affair, it is we who are to blame the most, for neglecting her morals to the point where she could even consider such a deed. My father is quite distraught, knowing that it is only by a mere chance he did not lose yet another of his daughters—for so he considers both you and Susan, my dearest Fanny—to a scheming, careless villain.”

In the time it took Fanny to control her emotions at hearing of Sir Thomas’s love for her and Susan, and his grief at Susan’s waywardness, they reached the study, where Tom was awaiting them.

“Is she well?” was his immediate question.

On being assured that Susan was as well as one can be who thinks her heart is crushed forever, he heaved a sigh. “I have mismanaged this whole thing entirely. I do not blame her for being angry; I will not blame her if she never forgives me. The only thing to discuss now is: what is to be done?”

“Must anything be done?” Edmund asked. “Surely, now that Lord Marcus is removed, and my father speaks of sending Julia and Yates away as well, for there is little doubt that certain careless words of Julia’s had a hand in encouraging Susan, there is no need for anything more radical. In time, with our careful guidance and tutelage, Susan will come to a realization of the folly of her ways, and all will be forgotten.”

Tom disagreed. It seemed to him that only an immediate change of place and people could help Susan overcome her grief and learn from her errors. Though he did not say it outright, it was in his mind that Lady Bertram’s indolence, Sir Thomas’s heavy-handed discipline, and Edmund’s interminable preachments were not the best way for Susan to change her mindset and behaviour. Fanny, to be sure, was a good and steadying influence on her sister, but between parish duties and her responsibility as a mother, Fanny had less and less time to devote to Susan.

“Well then, perhaps she ought to go home for a time,” Edmund suggested. “Surrounded by loving parents and siblings, surely then she will be gently led into the paths of righteousness.”

Fanny coloured and spoke. “I do not like to disagree with you, Edmund, or to say anything that would seem disrespectful of my parents’ home, but I do not think that is at all the kind of influence we want Susan to fall under. There is far too much freedom there—I fear it would be dangerously easy for her to come into contact with poor companions who would only lead her further down the path of folly, perhaps even to run away.”

“No, Portsmouth is not possible,” Tom said decisively. “In fact, I have the perfect solution. Edmund, you recall my friend Lord Mercer?”

“The Earl of Campion’s son?”

“The very one. His youngest sister, the Lady Elinor, is about the same age as Susan, and in need of a companion. How if we were to send Susan to stay with them at their country estate?”

Edmund hesitated. “I do not know, Tom. You recall Lord Mercer’s … unorthodox beliefs. Really, in some ways, he almost seemed a Non-Conformist—practically Evangelical in his views of the Church. I am not sure that his would be the best influence for Susan, particularly in this vulnerable time. You wouldn’t want her to be swept up into some spiritualistic kind of fancy.”

Perhaps Tom thought that a simple, heartfelt religion would be just the thing for Susan, coming after Edmund’s dry sermons and Sir Thomas’s stern morality, but all he said was that Lord Mercer would hardly be at Campion Lane at all, and certainly Lord and Lady Campion were as traditional in their beliefs as anyone.

Fanny concurred with Tom’s idea, and eventually even Edmund was forced to agree, though he was still darkly foreboding. It was agreed that Tom would write to Lord Mercer that very day, suggesting that Susan come stay with the family as a companion for Lady Elinor until such a time as all parties agreed upon to end the arrangement. Edmund was detailed to inform Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram of the plan, and Fanny took it upon herself to enlighten Susan as to the upcoming change in plans.

That young lady was hardly pleased at being told she was being sent away without even having a say in the matter.

“Am I being punished for my misfortune of falling in love with a man who meant me harm?” she cried indignantly. “Mansfield is my home; why should I be sent away? My aunt needs me, and I do not wish to go. Is it that I am such an embarrassment? Perhaps I should go stay with Aunt Norris and Maria in the country, if that is how you feel! It would be much more convenient to have all the family disgraces in one place.”

“It is for your own good, dear,” Fanny explained. “We had thought of sending you home”—

Susan paled at this, and without even letting Fanny finish, clasped her hands together in entreaty. “Do not send me back to my parents, please! I will do anything, only do not ask me to return there. I have always only been a nuisance to Mama, and Papa does not care one whit about me. Richard is not there … I have nothing and no one who cares about me or needs me.”

“Peace, Susan!” Fanny said, distressed. “You are mistaken, our parents are indeed quite fond of you. Mama simply has too many cares to shew affection to anyone, and you know that Papa is quite taken up with naval matters.”

Susan did not seem convinced, and Fanny could not blame her, as their parents didn’t care about them, and both knew it. Still, appearances had to be maintained, and it simply didn’t do for Susan to go about saying such things about her own family. What would the Earl’s family think of her?

When Susan heard where she was going, she couldn’t help but be somewhat interested, though she still resented being sent away. Still, a wealthy estate, and an Earl’s daughter, could not help but sound an improvement on Mansfield Park, being as that was only the home of a baronet, and not a very wealthy one at that. She soon agreed to the change, though still inclined to grumble at being “transported like an unwanted trunk.”

Still, the greater grief at having been deceived and used by the false Lord Marcus took greater precedence over the comparatively minor grief at leaving Mansfield, and the tears Susan shed into her pillow that night were over him, rather than anything else. Though she knew he had foully abused her innocent love and trust, she could not wrench him from her heart. She still loved him, and in the excitable folly of youth, believed she would always love him. Never, she thought, would another man be able to win her heart the way he had. No, she was doomed to die alone and unloved, and most likely sooner rather than later.

With such reflections, it is no wonder that Susan’s heart was too heavy for hope or comfort, or to allow her much interest in her forthcoming home, Campion Lane.