Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. “This chapel was fitted up as you see it, in James the Second’s time—”

But before the dear lady could speak another word, came a sudden and rather dire interruption—a horrendous flutter of wings and a sound of screaming fowl, rude and terrifying.

Something came forth from beyond the pews in the back . . . something large and casting violent beating shadows about the chapel, the shadows of rapidly beating furious wings.

Maria gave a small scream, Julia exclaimed, while a few of the gentlemen instinctively put their hands up to protect themselves from the aerial assault.

The thing, flying like a hawk from heavens, large and of an indeterminate color—for it was moving too fast to tell—was neither an angel nor demon of hell, in this holy abode. However, this thing, this creature, made its way directly at none other than Miss Crawford.

With viciousness unbounded, indeed unexhibited by any normal fowl, it screeched, low and horn-like, and beat itself, threw itself, hurled itself like a banshee into Miss Crawford’s face.

“Oh dear God!” said Edmund. “No, it cannot be! Not Tom’s—not his own—not here—”

Miss Crawford however was undaunted, and she moved very fast (almost preternaturally so) to beat the attacking creature away from her, using her bonnet as a shield to cover her features, and raising her elbow in a crook to extend the protection around the rest of her person.

“Oh yes! Yes, it is, it must be!” cried Fanny. “Cousin, you are correct to surmise, I see the same dove-grey markings on its plumage, the white tips of feathers, yes—”

“What? What is it?” exclaimed Mr. Crawford in frustration, too stunned to come to his sister’s aid.

“It cannot be,” continued Edmund, “but surely it is indeed Tom’s—duck! The duck from Brighton! The one that had viciously flown into our mother’s face! I remember, father told him to get rid of it immediately, of course, but Tom had no heart to put it down. . . . Thus, if I recall correctly, he set it loose somewhere in the back of the stables, next to his mechanical contraption with all that steam and gears and—”

“Why yes, I remember too, cousin!” said Fanny. “The duck was rather beastly, the terror of the hens, and then, I believe it went wild, and, I suppose, was not seen again—”

“Not until now! You are absolutely right, Fanny, this is it,” exclaimed Julia, joining their reminiscences, “this is none other than the Brighton Duck! Silly Tom and his wild schemes!”

“Well yes,” said Maria, recovering her composure, “I also see it now, the resemblance—it must be the horrid creature. But—whatever is it doing here? So far away from Mansfield Park? How did it get here?”