by Lona Manning
Mary laughed, and Edmund had never heard a sound half so enchanting. “Your wit, Mr. Bertram, could be used to start a fire, so dry as it is.”
And Edmund was almost ready to forget that not half a minute ago he had been distressed to hear Mary speak of her brother’s imprudence, merely imprudence, and not his honour. He thought to himself that he would have to relate some part of the conversation to Fanny, as was his habit—then started slightly when he remembered that Fanny was gone.
“Yes, what is it, Mr. Bertram?”
“I own myself surprised that Fanny would go away without confiding in me...”
“Yes! It shows such a want of consideration and respect for you, as must astonish anyone who knows of your kindness to her. So patient with her timidity! So indulgent of her dependence on you! Can you speculate on her reasons for leaving so abruptly?”
“I think I can. She has been living among us since she was a child, and yet has not always felt herself to be one of us, and you were recently a witness to an instance of why this is so. I think it has, at times, been difficult to bear—even more difficult than I supposed.”
“She may have resented being left at home to protect your good mother from ennui while your sisters were attending balls and dinner parties?”
“I do not mean to imply that she felt resentment. You have seen how truly modest and retiring she is. I recollect when you said that Fanny seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women were of neglect. Your powers of observation are remarkably acute.”
Mary was pleased that her companion had stored a casual remark she had dropped in his memory, and even more pleased that he did not list jealousy of herself as the reason for Miss Price’s departure. He seemed to be entirely unaware of his cousin’s regard for him. She shivered delicately, as though she required protection from the cold night air, and hung upon his arm even more closely. “You know her best, of course, Mr. Bertram. I think her a dear, queer, little thing, in some respects like a child of eight, in others like an old woman of eighty, but very unlike the young ladies of eighteen that one ordinarily encounters! Recall her raptures over the trees of Sotherton, her quaint way of talking: ‘to look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment’!” She began to laugh, then checked herself.
“While I can say nothing in defense of her mode of leaving your household, it may be for the best—yes decidedly it is for the best—for her to spend some time amongst her own people, of her own class, wouldn’t you agree? As direct as your dear aunt can be, she spoke the truth—Miss Price is not one of you, not by birth, or fortune, and while the education and manners she has acquired under your roof may help her attain a station in life above her expectations, it would be cruel to allow her to think that she could win the affection of any gentleman of consequence.”
“Are you speaking of matrimony? Fanny married? In my imagination I always pictured her residing here with my family. But now that you broach the topic, I must say that the man who sees Fanny’s worth, and takes her for his wife, will have chosen wisely.”
Miss Crawford stumbled a little here, and Mr. Bertram placed his arm around her waist, briefly, while she steadied herself. She looked up at him, slowly, and his breath caught in his throat.
“Do not imagine such a thing—yet, Mr. Bertram. She is still very young, and younger still in knowledge of the world. I wish her a safe and speedy journey to Portsmouth! But I cannot judge her too harshly for leaving you as she has done, as selfish and thoughtless as it was. Her yearning to see her own family is very natural. Having lost my own parents at an early age, I can imagine no greater felicity than being with those I love, knowing that I belong to them and they belong to me!” This last was uttered in such low, thrilling tones that Edmund might have spoken there and then, had he not recalled that the great dispute between them—his determination to become a clergyman—had not been resolved.
* * * * * *
Fanny had paid for a fare to Newbury, in an attempt to convince any pursuers that she was proceeding on to Portsmouth. It was late afternoon when the coach reached Oxford, and Fanny alighted, her limbs stiff and her spirit subdued. She bid a quiet farewell to Mrs. Renfro and, carrying her portmanteau through the cobbled streets, walked for about half an hour to find the Raleigh Inn where she sought the landlord to enquire after Mrs. Butters. Oh yes, he knew the lady, and she travelled through twice a year at least, but she was not there, and yes, this was the only Raleigh Inn by that name in Oxford and if the young lady had no more foolish questions he would go about his business.
Fanny was at a loss, and she felt the familiar tears stinging in her eyes. Sighing, and resolving to compose herself, she found a quiet corner in the inn’s dining-room and pulled out her letter from Mrs. Smallridge to confirm the name, date, time, and place, everything she had read above fifty times before. Putting up the letter, Fanny reasoned that Mrs. Butters might have been delayed in her journey from London, and that she, or some communication, might appear on the morrow.
Fanny forced herself to consider the possibility, however, that she had fled her home to meet with a woman who might never appear. What ought she to do? She attempted to steady her fluttering heart with deep breaths, retreating deep into the hood of her travelling cloak to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze. To return to Mansfield would be ignominious. To find other employment in a strange city where she could not give a good accounting of herself, appeared utterly daunting.
She finally concluded that, supposing she never heard another syllable from Mrs. Butters, she would continue on to Portsmouth and visit her family. Perhaps they would have some use for her, or help her to some employment. However, she resolved, at the very least, to spend the following day in Oxford, and walk about the ancient city as a tourist in the place where her beloved cousin had attended college. Having made her resolution, she composed herself enough to walk outside again, past the high courtyard walls of the inn, to watch the setting sun, as it finally emerged through the rain clouds at the end of the day and lit up the spires of the chapels and colleges, until an enveloping dusk fell over all.
She didn’t know the price of a private room for the night; she was too timid to enquire, too modest to share a bedroom with strangers and afraid of being laughed at. But by observing the other guests, she learned how to place her request for some ale and pigeon pie, which in turn bought her the right to remain where she was. She spent her first night in the great world, nodding and stirring and nodding again in her chair, her portmanteau clutched in her lap, enveloped in her travelling cloak, and occasionally weeping silent tears.
It was not to be wondered that her thoughts were all for Edmund during that long night. She had never felt so utterly alone, and it was all her own doing.
* * * * * *
Warming himself by the fire after his walk across the Park, Edmund wondered at the coincidence of Fanny leaving the household on the same night that the others had been preoccupied with Maria’s affairs. Had she known of the intrigue between Henry Crawford and her cousin? Hadn’t she, in fact, once hinted about it to him, and hadn’t he dismissed the possibility? What else had his quiet, watchful cousin observed that he had not?
And again, why no note, no final word to him, whom she had always acknowledged as her best friend, her supporter and protector? Had he given offence somehow? Was she vexed with him? He had seen Fanny in tears on more occasions than he could count, he had seen her frightened, or worried, or nervous, or uncertain—had he ever seen her in a temper? Her letter to her uncle—while its language was calm, while there was neither accusation nor complaint, its brevity alone was a reproach to Sir Thomas and all the family, and its firmness of tone was so unlike Fanny that, if he did not recognize her handwriting as well as his own, he would have denied it could have come from her pen. Did he know his young cousin as well as he thought he did?
Ah well, he reflected. Another few days would bring a reply from Portsmouth. And so a long, miserable, uncertain day drew to its close.
&nb
sp; Chapter Six
Leaving word at the inn for Mrs. Butters, and leaving her portmanteau in the care of the landlord’s wife, who, busy and harassed though she was, was not unkind, Fanny left the inn, intending to walk all the morning. The light rains of yesterday had given way to fresh sunshine and the city beckoned. As she made her way along High Street to Magdalen College, she began to discover the curious elation that comes on the traveler who has left behind anyone who knows ought of them. She had never walked along such a busy street; she had never looked through shop windows like a little vagabond child while eating warm gingerbread purchased from a street vendor. She had never had such freedom of choice in her life before, and perhaps the ability to make choices would lead in time to a more discerning, more confident Fanny Price. She prayed it would be so.
Fanny was a little light-headed, not merely from lack of sleep or proper food, but from the intoxication of actually seeing the spires of Oxford and all the well-known buildings of which she had heard so much from her cousins. She thought with reverent wonder of the antiquity of the great colleges, the brilliant scholars who had studied there—who had, perhaps, walked where she was herself walking, until the many sensations flooding her breast threatened to overpower her.
She was craning her neck to look upward at the handsome tower of the Church of St Mary the Virgin when to her mortification, she collided with a well-dressed gentleman who, after the initial surprise, seemed not at all discomposed by the accident. He silenced Fanny’s profuse apologies with an eloquence and an assurance of address that Fanny had never before encountered—he was delighted to meet someone as enchanted by the beauties of Oxford as he. He had spent the happiest years of his life studying here. But surely the young lady was being neglected by some errant brother who was coming to meet her?
“No, indeed sir, that is…. my cousin is, that is to say, my cousin was….” Fanny could barely stammer a reply.
Without knowing what happened, she found the stranger’s arm supporting her own, and herself being guided away from the main thoroughfare. “William Elliot, madam. At your service. And I have the honour of addressing...?”
An inner voice whispered to Fanny: Governesses do not walk arm-in-arm in the street with strange men. She pulled her arm away as though she had been scalded. Mr. Elliot raised an eyebrow and smiled; a most engaging smile. “Forgive me for my presumption. Your scruples do you great credit, but please be assured that I offer myself as your guide and protector.” Once again her arm was pinioned against his side. “Did you know that you are standing only a few steps away from where the great martyrs of our faith were burnt at the stake? We shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out. Pray, allow me to show you the way.”
His eye was so mild, his tone so reasonable and his manner so agreeable that Fanny briefly wavered, but again her inner voice counselled her: If you do not have the self-assurance to tell this man to desist, then you must get back on the coach and return to your refuge in the East Room. You have not the courage, nor the presence of mind, to be a governess.
“Sir! Thank you, but I must decline your offer. We are not acquainted and—and I have pressing business.”
“Only a little further this way, and then you can decide if you wish to appoint me as your guide or no.”
“If, sir, you are a gentleman, you will release my arm immediately.”
Fanny had never addressed anyone in such a fashion in her life, and she prayed that Mr. Elliot could not feel how violently she trembled as she spoke. The stranger stroked her arm, feeling the slenderness of it, insolently running his fingers down her forearm, to firmly hold her delicate wrist. Fanny grew truly alarmed; he felt her pulse fluttering under his grasp, and suddenly he released her.
“Did you think yourself in danger? Do not flatter yourself, solemn little lady. I find on closer examination you are a little minnow that I would just as soon release back into the pond. Perhaps in a year or two you will be worth what a man must lay out in bait, hook and tackle.”
Fanny ran away, with the faint laughter of William Elliot chasing after her.
* * * * * *
Mrs. Butters and her maid, coachman, and groomsmen, having been delayed in their journey from London by an accident to one of her carriage-wheels, arrived at Oxford at about dinner-time. She was between fifty and sixty, in possession of a good fortune from her late husband, active and energetic, inclining to stoutness, decided in her opinions and confident in sharing them. She was a native of Bristol but, to be closer to a married son, now dwelt in Stoke Newington on the outskirts of London. As her niece, Mrs. Smallridge, was expecting her confinement at Christmastime, the kindly widow had agreed to pass the holidays in the retirement of the countryside, where her anticipated reunion with many acquaintances from her earlier life in Bristol was some compensation for leaving the metropolis.
The landlord of the inn saw to her every comfort and soon she was installed in a private dining-room overlooking the thoroughfare, whereupon she lost no time in ordering an early dinner. As he was retiring, the landlord spied Fanny, very tired, thirsty, and extremely footsore but completely gratified by her morning’s sojourn in Oxford, walking slowly up the street.
“There’s the young lady as was enquiring after you, Madam.”
Mrs. Butters had been in receipt of Fanny’s letter upon arriving at the inn and as she desired to interview the prospective governess immediately but did not want to wait for her dinner, Mrs. Butters spoke for more food to be sent up and bade the landlord bring Miss Price to her.
Now came for Fanny the moment when she hoped to impersonate a self-possessed, capable young woman, and not the frightened, tired child she really was. The landlord chivvied her impatiently upstairs, she was not to keep Mrs. Butters waiting—a quick trip to the privy was the only preparation he would allow—and Fanny, who had had perhaps five hours’ sleep in the previous eight-and-forty, unable to wash, brush, or arrange her dress, was ushered in to meet the aunt of Mrs. Smallridge. Her exhaustion contributed to the feeling of unreality, of moving through a dream, which had pursued her since leaving Mansfield Park.
A subdued “how do ye do?” was followed by an uncomfortable silence as Mrs. Butters took her survey of the demure applicant. “You look as though you could do with a hearty meal, Miss Price. Pray have a seat. Do not thank me, I intend to eat too much dinner and then I intend to fall asleep until tea time, so this is the only convenient time for our interview.”
Prompted by Mrs. Butters, Fanny answered her queries, interspersed with mouthfuls of roast beef, turnip, and onions, and found herself growing more comfortable than she could have imagined. Mrs. Butters’ manner was abrupt, but not unkind, and when she learned that Fanny was the daughter of a lieutenant of marines, her face brightened. “Is he indeed? In Portsmouth, you say. My late husband was a shipbuilder in Bristol, so we are both from sea-faring families. Where is the gravy boat? Dear me, that’s the only boat I have anything to do with nowadays. That was a jest, child. That’s better.”
Mr. Smallridge, Fanny learned, was seldom to be found at home. He was of an old and eminent family, had no profession, and had obtained his estate and his independence through his judicious marriage. Mrs. Smallridge desired her children to acquire sufficient education to enable them to mingle in society but, cautioned Mrs. Butters, “We want no prodigies, no bluestockings or eccentrics fiddling about with home laboratories and dephlogisticated air or nonsense of that sort. What is your philosophy of education, Miss Price?”
“I… that is…. “
“Have you read Emile’s Rousseau? Or was it Rousseau’s Emile?”
“Yes ma’am, I have.”
“In the original French?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Well, I have not and I dare say I never shall. My lady’s maid tells me the book has to do with education.”
“Yes ma’am, as I recollect, Rousseau believes that if the child is led with kindness, he will d
evelop according to the dictates of nature, and a love for learning will unfold within him.”
“And what do you think?”
“I have observed that learning one’s letters is a drudgery, and if not compelled to do it, most children would not be put to the trouble of learning to read, but of course reading is the means whereby we may acquire all the published knowledge of the world. Rousseau’s thoughts are impractical, I conclude. And I was told that his own children were not schooled in the fashion he advocates, so his advice should be regarded, I think, with some misgivings, as he never endorsed them by actual application.”
“I was informed that this Rousseau believes it is better to praise a child into acquiring knowledge, rather than beating it into him.”
“Oh, as a general principle, ma’am, I must agree.” Fanny thought of the unsmiling and meticulous Miss Lee presiding over the school-room at Mansfield Park. “However, ma’am, a governess should lead by example in being strictly self-disciplined herself, the better to enforce the same expectation in her pupils.”
“Very well. Now let us turn to your accomplishments. Do you play the piano?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you play any instrument?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Can you draw?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Paint in watercolours?” Fanny’s heart sank at being thus exposed.
“No, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Smallridge asked me to enquire. But I don’t believe in the efficacy of these so-called accomplishments as some do. Where there is real aptitude and inclination, of course, masters can be engaged. But in my opinion the nation has its full complement of accomplishment—” she paused to see if Miss Price would smile at her wordplay, but she did not— “mediocre painters and sketchers, that is. And how many excruciating recitals in various drawing-rooms have I suffered through! Have you been to London?”
