by Lona Manning
And Fanny thought it best to turn the subject to the weather.
The carriage returned as the ladies were finishing their tea, and they resumed their seats within. Fanny, looking eagerly at everything around her, timidly expressed a hope that they might see something more of the dockyards and the sea while in Bristol; Mrs. Butters didn’t reply but instead directed the coachman to stop at St. Thomas Lane in front of an old, low ceilinged, gabled building that appeared to be a tavern.
“I will stop here a little while, you may accompany me or wait in the carriage, as you please,” she said. Fanny, surprised, elected to follow her benefactress, while Madame Orly declared her intention to rest in the carriage. Mrs. Butters boldly entered, and, looking around the large, empty room, maneuvered through a tangle of tables and chairs to a heavy table, piled high with broadsheets and books, where several earnest men and a lady were deep in conversation.
“The point is, that we should not be drawn into defending a proposition we have never made—no one ever claimed that the Negroes are a species of angel. They have faults and human failings like the rest of us,” exclaimed an older gentleman, quaintly garbed all in black, vigorously tapping the table for emphasis as he spoke, and leaning forward so that his glasses were in danger of slipping from his nose.
“But, the moods and caprices of this woman are being used, and not ineffectually, to discredit her testimony about the cruelties of the plantation system,” replied the gentlewoman he was addressing, a respectable-looking, dignified older lady whose simplicity of attire did not diminish her air of quiet authority. “I do not deny that if I had suffered one-hundredth of what she has suffered, and continues to suffer—repeated floggings, half-starved, forced to toil from before sunrise to after sundown, her health broken, separated from her family—I too would be of an uneven temperament. By what right the public expects a former slave to be cheerful, humble, and perpetually grateful, I know not. But Mary will not conform to this expected pattern, and it damages our cause.”
“If she could be provided with regular employment that did not overtax her strength, I feel certain—” a tall, slender young man was beginning to suggest, when his gaze fell on Mrs. Butters and Fanny. His face lit up in a most engaging fashion. “My dear Mrs. Butters! How good to see you at last! We wish you joy, by the by—what happy news! Twins!”
“Thank you, Mr. Gibson. We had our alarms, of course, but the little ones are thriving, and Mrs. Smallridge is doing as well as can be expected. She is following my advice and refraining from all bathing for the winter. My dear Miss More, allow me to present Miss Price, recently engaged as governess at my niece’s home. Miss Price, these are my friends Mr. Thompson and Mr. Gibson.”
After Fanny quietly greeted her new acquaintance, she looked down bashfully, as was her habit, and became transfixed by the engravings on one of the broadsheets, which showed an African, bound hand and foot to a large carriage wheel, over whom stood a man with a whip. The youngest man, following her gaze, explained in an undertone, “This is one of the methods of punishment in the West Indies for slaves, Miss Price. Our Society is endeavouring to educate the British public about the cruelties of slavery.”
“Ah, you are Abolitionists, Mr. Gibson. I have read a little about your movement.”
“Mrs. Butters is one of our chief patronesses, were you aware?” Drawing her a little aside from the others, who continued their conversation, he added in a low tone, “Her late husband built the ships, the very ships, which were used to transport these unfortunate souls from Africa to the Indies. But she, bless her, has renounced her past and put no small part of her husband’s fortune in the service of ending this abominable trade.”
Fanny looked concerned, and doubtful. Her respect and awe for her uncle, Sir Thomas, prevented her from even thinking critically of him—whatever he deemed to be correct and just, must be so; yet, the bald fact of humans in bondage, taken by force from their own country to toil in another, could hardly be considered by her with anything approaching equanimity. “I understand that the trade in slaves itself has been, or is to be, abolished. But how shall industries established on this system be reformed, Mr. Gibson? Shall the owners be compensated, if they are compelled to release those persons that they have paid sums to transport thither? Shall workers be found to replace the slaves? I do not ask this in defense of the sugar plantations, but merely ask for information.”
“Permit me to give you some of our literature, Miss Price. But,” he added doubtfully, eyeing the slight figure before him, “it is of a truly distressing nature, and as such, perhaps not advisable for persons of a delicate constitution.”
“I shall take care that the children do not see it. But I have long wished to learn more about this question on my own account.” She looked up again, and beheld a young man, with a most arresting countenance; a long, slender, handsome face, framed by dark curls around his high, broad forehead. His smile was gentle and peculiarly pleasing, but it was the vitality and intelligence of his expressive deep blue eyes, which twinkled behind small round glasses, which held her attention. “At any rate, I shall be pleased to have something new to read, because Bunyan and Addison have been my only diversions for a fortnight or more.”
Mr. Gibson laughed, “Indeed, you deserve to have some sweetmeats in this diet of wholesome gruel! Have you read Marmion? Yes? Let’s see….. There is a bookseller’s in the next street. Mrs. Butters, may I escort Miss Price to the bookseller’s?”
Mrs. Butters broke off from her animated conversation with the others and consented, so long as Fanny was ready in time to return home before dinner, and her new companion bowed, and offered his arm to the little governess. Fanny observed that his cuffs were frayed and his jacket was old and worn, though clean and well mended. He started eagerly for the street, without pausing to put on a greatcoat—Fanny thought it quite likely that he did not own such an article—then he realized he had to check his gait, as Fanny came barely up to his shoulder and could not keep pace with him without a struggle. They were soon talking volubly of books, favourite authors, favourite works, histories, novels and poems, and Fanny delighted in meeting someone whose love of reading equaled hers and whose knowledge of literature far surpassed her own. They had just reached the door of the booksellers, when Mr. Gibson gave her to understand that he himself was a writer, one of the editors of the Abolitionist’s Gazette, and also had seen several of his poems published in the Gentlemen’s Magazine. Fanny had never conversed with an actual published author before, and her look of unfeigned awe caused Mr. Gibson to feel that today was a propitious day indeed.
The sight and even the smell of a roomful of books was welcome, more than welcome, to Fanny, and her attention was diverted between her interesting new friend and the offerings for sale, both new and second-hand.
“I believe you said Cowper was your favourite poet, Miss Price. Here is an amusing satire on Woodsworth—The Simpliciad. I think you would enjoy it. Ah, here is something new in the Gothic line!” And, holding up a volume, he pronounced in exaggerated horror, “The Ruins of Rigonda: or, the Homicidal Father!”
Fanny smiled and shook her head. “These novels are too expensive for the passing entertainment they provide, I fear. A governess cannot afford them.”
“Never fear. I shall write a three volume novel featuring a ruined castle and an evil Prior and publish under it a woman’s name and make prodigious sums of money. And you shall receive a presentation copy, of course.”
“As you like, sir,” laughed Fanny, “but I should prefer to read some of your own productions.”
Instead of a three-volume novel, Fanny selected a well-worn book entitled Stories for the Young, as a welcome addition in the nursery. Mr. Gibson deftly plucked the book from her hand and examined it. Fanny found herself admiring his long fingers as they turned the pages, which were slender but gave the impression of much strength and dexterity. “Well, here is a happy coincidence, Miss Price,” he smiled. “The gentlewoman who was conve
rsing with us as you entered the tavern is—the authoress of this book! Are you acquainted with the works of Hannah More?”
Fanny was speechless. That she should have stood in the same room with not one, but two, writers, and one of them a lady, was a circumstance so wonderful that she could scarcely comprehend it. She recollected herself only when she observed Mr. Gibson attempting to purchase her selection for her, but he yielded to her gentle remonstrance and permitted her to lay out her own monies, as she thought only proper, but her gratitude at his kindness, artlessly but fervently expressed, caused him to laugh at her, and Fanny blushed and laughed in return, until their friendly confederacy was brought to a close by the sound of Mrs. Butter’s approaching carriage. Fanny was compelled to bid a hasty farewell to Mr. Gibson and climb in beside a slumbering Madame Orly, feeling that her trip to Bristol had been memorable indeed!
Chapter Nine
The sight of Mary Crawford standing by the large and welcoming fireplace in the dining-room of the Royal George Inn, after a fruitless day of visiting various hostelries around Oxford, was a blissful tonic to Edmund’s spirits and caused him to acknowledge that despite his current distress, she was never far from his thoughts—her eyes, her smile, her countenance, frequently appeared before him, and her materialization in the flesh seemed almost to be in response to his unspoken wishes.
Edmund thought Tom seemed rather more eager than otherwise to let the Crawfords continue the search for Fanny unaided, so that he could return to his usual habits and haunts. Edmund warmly offered to accompany the Crawfords anywhere in their pursuit of Miss Price. But although Miss Crawford’s lovely dark eyes eloquently told him how welcome his company would be, her brother argued that by taking separate routes, they might cover more ground. “You say you have learned the name of the lady—a Mrs. Renfro—who was in the coach with your cousin, and that she is a native of St. Albans. Should not one party pursue her, to enquire if Miss Price confided in her, while another traces your cousin’s supposed path to Portsmouth?”
“By Jove, that’s sensible, Crawford,” offered Tom. “You and I can go to St Albans—my particular friend, Hedgerow, lives just outside the city. Edmund, you have heard me speak of Hedgerow. Why don’t you go to Portsmouth on the morrow and placate our Aunt Price. We’ve never met her, you know, Crawford. Do you suppose she is as much of a Tartar as Aunt Norris?”
Upon this, Miss Crawford protested that she and her brother should accompany Mr. Edmund Bertram to Portsmouth. But, objected Tom Bertram, it had already been established that Fanny was not in Portsmouth, and he had no doubt that the Crawfords, with their skills of address, would obtain a more sympathetic audience with Mrs. Renfro. Edmund could not gainsay the observation, and moreover it was his duty to pay his respects to his aunt, who, he had no doubt, was beside herself with anxiety over the fate of her daughter. Mary felt some resentment that Edmund could not contrive an irresistible reason why she and her brother should not go to with him to Portsmouth, but as she could not confess her own reason, she gave up the point.
It so happened that Mr. Crawford was always in the habit of using the Raleigh Inn when in Oxford, and when the Crawfords retired there for the night, he enquired of the landlord if any errant young women had come through recently. He received a description of a timid, tired, shrinking young lady as left no doubt that the innkeeper had indeed seen Miss Price. When eagerly questioned as to her whereabouts, the innkeeper added that ‘she was in no danger,’ and when further pressed, allowed that she had left Oxford in the company of a wealthy widow of great respectability, but more the host declined to say, fearing reprisals either from Mrs. Butters herself, for having given her name to a stranger, or from the family of the wayward Fanny Price, for having aided a runaway girl.
“It appears that our little missing bird is safe enough, Mary,” ventured her brother after they had found a quiet corner in the dining-room. “However, I see no reason to alter our plans for the morrow—let us proceed to St. Albans with Mr. Bertram. Haven’t you always wanted to see the Abbey there? I understand it has the longest nave of any church in England.”
“Really Henry, you are incorrigible! Do you really intend to keep what we have just learned from the Bertrams? You will seize upon any stratagem to delay coming to the point with Maria Bertram. Very well, I shall not betray you, if you will assist me. I wish to retrieve a letter.”
“Where is this letter?”
“In Portsmouth.”
“Could you not have chosen a more salubrious place to misplace a letter? Ah, very well. After St. Albans, we will visit Portsmouth. And afterwards, London. A man may lose himself in London.”
“You will return me to Mansfield, if you please.”
“Where you will convey my regret to the Bertrams—say that I had no time to wait upon them, because the most urgent business called me to my own estates in Everingham.”
“The better to place everything in readiness for your wedding, I trust?”
“Ha!” laughed Crawford, “Do not importune me, dear sister!”
The Crawfords, brother and sister, took their leave of Oxford the morning after they had entered it, with plans to meet with Tom Bertram in St. Albans. Mr. Crawford was in the habit of sitting beside the coachman and either directing his driving or taking the reins himself, as he enjoyed nothing more than driving four-in-hand, but a cold pelting rain rendered the box seat less hospitable, and so he sat with his sister, who seemed ill-disposed for conversation. Mary’s agitation and impatience increased as the morning drew on, until her brother finally exclaimed, “When you will tell me why we need to retrieve a letter in Portsmouth, Mary? I think I deserve to know.”
Mary succumbed to the relief of confiding one part of the secret which had been weighing on her conscience. “I wrote to Miss Price, when we all supposed her to be in Portsmouth, and in that letter I said some things which were not… entirely true and which, upon reflection, it was unwise of me to commit to paper. You know my impulsive nature, Henry. I was carried away by my feelings and, in my defense, I believed I was acting for the best. Miss Price had formed a foolish infatuation for someone very far above her station in life, and to extinguish any hopes she had in that quarter would truly be the office of a friend. Further, I was let into the secret of some of her sentiments toward me, and my temper got the better of me, as it sometimes does. I intended the letter as a much-needed corrective. Had she received it, I am sure she would not have mentioned it to anyone, knowing her timid nature. But, as she was not in Portsmouth, the letter never came to her hand, and heaven knows what has become of it. I should be placed in a very awkward situation indeed, were that letter to come to light now….”
“So you will not name the gentleman upon whom Miss Price had fixed her affections?” he asked, after some moments of silence between them.
“What woman of feeling and delicacy would betray the confidence of a friend in such a fashion?”
At first, Henry naturally supposed that he was the person with whom Miss Price was in love, and he silently reviewed what he had said to her, and she to him, in the brief course of their acquaintance at Mansfield and discovered that, apart from the most commonplace remarks, they were entire strangers! She had never, to his recollection, sought his company, never smiled at him, or made a point of catching his eye, and while he may have missed some symptoms of love, as occupied as he had been with the Miss Bertrams, he was in general so alert to these overtures that Miss Price must be a most extraordinary young lady indeed if she could cherish tender feelings toward him while appearing so utterly indifferent—nay more than indifferent, as he could almost declare that she had avoided his company.
More moments of silence. Since the matter did not concern himself, he would not ordinarily have cared about the identity of the man the silly girl had fallen in love with, but the carriage ride was long and too slow for his liking, he was bored, and he loved a mystery. So far as he knew, the list of gentlemen of Miss Price’s acquaintance was not a long one,
as she almost never stirred from home. Rushworth? She had spent a great deal of time with him, helping that dull-witted fellow learn his two-and-forty speeches for the play. That fop Yates? Could a plain brown wren fall in love with a gaudy bird of paradise? Surely even the sheltered little Miss Price could understand that Mr. Yates was immune to female charms?
Henry eyed his sister narrowly. “You have been particularly distracted ever since Mr. Edmund Bertram decided to visit Portsmouth while we went to St. Albans.”
Mary looked out of the window and shook her head in vexation. “We may already be too late.”
Henry placed a consoling hand on hers and out of consideration for her mood, said nothing more.
Two more days saw the conclusion of their errand in St. Albans. The widow Renfro, while affable and open-hearted, and recalling Miss Price perfectly, could not recall anything the young lady might have said concerning her journey or its purpose. The Crawfords then resumed their travels and reached the environs of Portsmouth just before tea time on the day after parting from Tom Bertram. After consulting several passers-by, something Mr. Crawford was loath to do, but upon which his sister insisted— ‘or else we will roam about this dreadful town ‘til nightfall, Henry!’—the correct street and house were located. The narrow, dark lane, with its antiquated over-hanging buildings, smelt of the sea, and fish, and tar and rotting cabbage. Mary climbed down from the carriage and frowned in dismay, feeling ill.
“Henry, this horrid place cannot be where the Prices live, for heaven’s sake, do not leave—” she began, when the door was opened by a young girl, who confirmed that Lieutenant Price and his family dwelt within. Mr. Crawford ordered his driver to continue and promised to return for her in a quarter of an hour, and Mary Crawford, pulling her cloak tightly about her, was ushered into a small, cramped abode where she was greeted by the younger sister of Lady Bertram, whose path in life had differed so profoundly from the mistress of Mansfield Park, that in comparing the tired features and contracted brow of Mrs. Price with the placid expression of Sir Thomas’ wife, Mary felt here was a triumphant vindication of her maxim that it was everyone's duty to look out for themselves and marry well.
