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 Norris? As I understood it, she was to take charge of the nursing."

"Well, if you call it taking charge. There’s been a lot of shouting and bawling, and calls for footmen in the middle of the night, but not much of any use, in my opinion. If you ask me, she’s never got over the shock of Miss Fanny taking off like that. That marriage was going to be the making of her. Her and Mr Norris both."

The mention of Edmund’s name recalled Mary to herself, and she hastened to thank Mrs Baddeley for her tea and depart, before she found herself made the confidante of observations of an even more awkward nature.

She had almost given up any hope of seeing Edmund, but as she went back up the stairs she saw him at the outer door in the company of Sir Thomas’s steward. The two were deep in serious discussion, and it was several moments before they became aware of her.

"My dear Miss Crawford," said Edmund at once, "do forgive me. I have been engrossed, as you can see, with Mr McGregor." He stopped, momentarily discomfited. "I recall now that you were so good as to agree to call on us today. I have had so much to attend to since my return that my mind has been too much engaged to fix on anything else. Were you able to see my cousin?"

Mary shook her head. "Miss Julia is not well enough to be disturbed. I am afraid it is as I feared."

Edmund nodded, his face grave. "My reason hopes you are wrong, but my heart tells me otherwise."

It was the first time she had ever heard him speak so; his manner was as serious as ever, which was only to be expected, but there was a composure in his mien that she had not seen before. She was still pondering what this might signify when he enquired whether she might like to accompany him to inspect the channel for the new cascade.

"I am sorry that my time is so occupied this morning, but Mr McGregor wishes to consult me on a number of practical matters before he allows work to resume. It is a fine morning for such a walk, and it may interest you to see the progress made on your brother’s plans? I am sure the paths will be quite dry."

As Mary well knew, the path a gentleman considers to be dry enough for walking, may still prove ruinous for a lady’s shoes, but she elected to keep her concerns to herself, and the three of them made their way into the garden and across the park. She thought regretfully of the tête-à-tête she had so fondly imagined; no doubt it had been fanciful to expect Edmund to open his heart to her, when so much remained uncertain, and his family was in such affliction, but the presence of a third person prevented any conversation beyond the most common-place remarks, and Edmund was soon deep in discussion with Mr McGregor on the subject of the excavations.

"This first channel was cut some days, ago, sir," the steward was saying, as they approached the place, "but there has been so much rain since then that we were obliged to desist. I became concerned when one of the side walls began to fall away. In Mr Crawford’s absence, I thought it best to wait until I might consult with you on the wisdom of proceeding."

They had just reached the edge of the chasm, and the base of the channel came into view. Many times thereafter Mary would try to recapture the exact order of events, but however hard she strove, the picture always remained confused in her mind. She remembered seeing what appeared, at first sight, to be a dirty bundle of clothes, lying at the bottom of the trench; she remembered wondering how they came to be there; but she could never remember whether it was the stench, or the sight of that terrible face, that revealed the true nature of what lay before her.

She saw McGregor start back in dismay, and cry "What the devil — ", but then her head began to spin, and there was a buzz in her ears. She turned and stumbled a few yards, before sinking on her knees in the damp grass, without the least thought of the injury to her gown. "Please God," she thought, " — not again — do not ask me to endure such a thing again."

She could hear Edmund’s voice behind her, and even in her confusion, it struck her how oddly his calm and measured tone jarred with the horror that now filled her mind.

"Mr McGregor," he was saying, "could I prevail upon you to return to the house at once and summon the constable? You should also send a messenger to Mrs Grant at the parsonage — Miss Crawford has been taken ill."

"No!" Mary cried wildly. "Do not distress her! I am quite well — quite well!" Edmund was at her side in an instant; she heard his voice, and felt his hands lifting her up.

"You are not well." he said firmly, "nor could anyone expect you to be so. Mr McGregor will accompany you back to the house. Pray believe me that I would escort you myself, if it were at all possible, but I have a duty to await the arrival of the constable."

"There is no need — I can remain here," she said weakly, but her knees trembled under her, and she could not deny it.

"Indeed you cannot remain — you must not remain," he continued. "This is no place for a lady. Mr McGregor? Your arm, if you please."

How long it took them to attain the house, Mary had no idea, and likewise she retained no recollection of what happened subsequently.The next few hours passed in a haze. She had some visionary remembrances of figures passing to and fro before her sight, of screams and cries that seemed to come from a great distance, of lowered voices, and a cup of tea pressed into her hand that tasted dull and cloying in her mouth. When at last she came to her senses, she was lying on a bed she did not recognise, in a room she had never seen. But the young woman sitting quietly sewing by the bedside, she had seen before. It was Rogers, one of the Mansfield Park housemaids.

"Oh, miss! You’re awake!" she cried, as Mary struggled to sit up. "We were that worried about you — Mr Gilbert came and everything. It’s just as well Miss Julia is a little better — he’s had his hands full enough with you, and all the other ladies. Your sister’s been sitting with you above three hours, but Mr Norris just persuaded her to go home and get some rest. She was looking almost as pale as you do. Give me a minute, and I’ll go and call Mrs Baddeley — "