by Robin Helm
“I do apologize,” Mrs. Bingley repeated.
“Mud pie?” scoffed Henry. “I thought we had agreed to no more mud pies.”
“Not mud,” said Mrs. Bingley, after a long exhale. “A substitution of salt for sugar.”
“Is the cake ruined?” wailed Harriett. What was the point of a birthday without the special cake?
“Do you think your brother would ruin The Cake?”
Harriett became thoughtful and calmed. “No, he would want to eat it.”
“Just so. Sadly, he will not be eating the birthday cake but will be enjoying his salty tart.”
Everyone grimaced.
“That just leaves June,” Charles said, anticipation glowing in his eyes.
“Do I look like I have been planning a prank?” June said drolly.
Chuckles resounded, and the conversation drifted to other matters. Given the occasion, the men agreed to forego their brandies and ports for the time being, and everyone moved into the drawing room. As if on cue, Louisa turned to June.
“June, will you not sing for us? One of those Irish ballads in honor of our Irish guest.”
“Ah, I see,” Fanny said, nodding prosaically. “I shall not stay if you begin The Last Rose of Summer.”
Mr. Russell chuckled. June attempted a likewise response but she seemed a bit uncomfortable after such a big meal, seated upright. The duration of the meal had been somewhat moderated due to the presence of young children, but June had grown increasingly restless.
“Perhaps I could just play the pianoforte,” she offered.
“June, dear, are you quite alright?” Mother inquired, walking briskly to her daughter’s side.
“Do not fuss, Mother,” June chided. “I will play one song and return home. I do think I could sleep for days on end.”
Mrs. Bingley, much experienced in the ways of her stubborn offspring, accepted the terms and moved to her guests.
“You must have your birthday dance, Fanny!” cried Harriett, relentless in the strictures of tradition as children will often be.
Father joined Fanny, and the brothers lined up for their turns, as they had to break into the dance throughout the course of the song, thus giving each his turn. In the mirror, Fanny caught a glimpse of gown of ivory and gold brocade shimmering in the candlelight as she floated in her father’s arms. Her dark, glossy curls hung in a waterfall effect from her crown and continued down her back. Scattered throughout the curls, white rosettes and crystal-studded pins added an ethereal lightness.
CHAPTER VIII
Before Charles had a chance to dance with Fanny, the music abruptly stopped, and June gasped. Dismay filled her eyes as she focused on her mother.
Mrs. Bingley nodded in a business-like manner. After eleven pregnancies, she could easily recognize the signs.
“My dear,” she said, walking quickly to her husband and taking his arm, “you have not shown our guests the library. This would be an excellent time to do so.” She expertly herded the men out of the drawing room before they realized what was happening.
As she returned to June’s side, she gave further orders.
“Louisa, you take the children upstairs and help the maids get them tucked in. Perhaps some warm milk…,” she suggested.
“Come children,” Louisa said, motioning for the children to follow.
“What of our cake, Mother?” Henry inquired, full of concern.
“Tomorrow,” Mother replied brusquely.
Louisa followed the children out.
“Fanny,” June said between deep breaths, “I am so sorry to ruin your party.”
Fanny laughed. “But June! You have won the best prank again!”
“In truth,” June replied, “my prank was meant to be a great show of this, just acting it out, at dinner. But you had guests, and even I was not up to such a display in front of strangers.”
“Never mind,” Fanny remarked kindly. “Just be sure to wait until tomorrow to have the baby, for I would rather not fall behind a seat.”
June laughed, gasped, and returned her focus to breathing.
“You are progressing quickly, child,” Mother noted.
“I felt a few pangs before dinner, but I am quite sure I now sit in a puddle.”
“Ah,” was Mother’s response. “Fanny, fetch Mrs. Doyle and have a boy sent to fetch the doctor.”
“Not Doctor Morrison,” June contested. “Midwife Jones would suit.”
“My dear, this is your first. You could be early…,” Mother began.
“Do I look like I am early?” June scowled.
“You could have two,” Mother amended.
“Mother!” June cried.
“We shall send for Dr. Morrison and let him decide if the midwife should be called.” Mother nodded assertively in Fanny’s direction.
“And, Fanny,” June called, “send a message to this address. Urgently.” June moaned when she leaned over in order to access the hidden pocket containing a slip of paper.
Fanny did as she was bid. Mrs. Doyle collected several maids and began barking her orders, Wilson took charge of sending a boy for the doctor, and Fanny went to find paper in her father’s study.
Charles had taken over as host, since Mr. Bingley was in a state of shock. It was one thing to have a wife in this state, but it was quite another to have a daughter like so.
Fanny crept quietly around the men and began searching through her father’s desk for paper worthy of such a note. Mr. Dunby, who sat nearby, rose to offer assistance.
“I believe it was… here,” Mr. Dunby said, locating the paper easily. “Your father helped me send a message this morning… or was it afternoon… if you recall.”
“Ah yes, thank you. I would normally fetch paper from Mother’s sitting room, but I am determined to stay away from that side of the house,” Fanny explained, smiling. She scribbled a brief message, making several underscores, folded and addressed it. “That should do the trick,” she said merrily. In answer to Mr. Dunby’s upraised brows, she continued, “my sister’s husband. He is just gone to London. Come,” she said, latching on to Mr. Dunby’s elbow as she moved around the desk toward the door. “Perhaps I will be safe, if you are with me.”
“Still avoiding?” he teased, happy enough with his purpose. She chuckled in response but continued to move cautiously, checking around doors and corners before progressing. At last, she was able to pass the missive to the butler.
“Wilson,” she whispered urgently. “How is the drawing room?”
“The drawing room has been vacated and is deemed to be quite safe, Miss Bingley,” the staid butler replied with a twinkle in his eye.
Fanny, who had relinquished Mr. Dunby’s arm before reaching Wilson, indicated he should follow her towards the drawing room.
“Shall we fetch your friends?” she inquired, pausing in the threshold of the open door.
“I believe they are bolstering up your father with that delayed port,” he stated.
“Fanny!” whispered a child’s voice from just inside the room.
“Harriett?”
“Make haste!” the girl hissed.
“Fanny grinned at Mr. Dunby and led the way further into the room. Harriett softly closed the door behind them.
Harriett stood in her slippers and robe, her hair in two long plaits that framed her face.
“Harriett! What are you doing from bed?” Fanny asked quietly.
“My room is across June’s, and she has taken offense to Doctor Morrison’s methods,” the child stated. “Besides, I thought you should have your birthday dance,” she added sweetly, grinning between Fanny and Mr. Dunby.
“Oh, Harriett, I do not think…,” Fanny began.
“Excellent notion, but who shall play?” Mr. Dunby asked gamely.
“I shall play!” Harriett volunteered. Seeing Fanny’s reluctance, Harriett took on a pleading expression. “We had no cake, Fanny,” she lamented.
Fanny rolled her eyes upwards in a gesture of defeat
. When Harriett glided to the pianoforte, Fanny mouthed, “So sorry,” to Mr. Dunby and grimaced. He was soon to understand why. Harriett was by no means a proficient, but the tune was somewhat recognizable.
Harriett’s choice of song was, of course, her favored lullaby, Lavender’s Blue. Fanny blushed as the words of the song came to mind, but Mr. Dunby, being a gentleman, pretended not to notice. Being a lullaby, it had no formal dance steps, and the two were forced to make up the steps as they went along, causing many chortles and apologies. The tune was well-known and had a pleasant rhythm for dancing, so the couple quickly eased into a pattern complete with turns, rolls, and spins- much like a slow waltz. When Harriett’s rendition came to an end, Fanny curtseyed prettily to Mr. Dunby’s deep bow.
“Well done, Miss Harriett,” he praised, clapping quietly, to Harriett’s delight.
“But now, she truly must be off to bed,” Louisa scolded gently from the door. Harriett shuffled glumly from the room, and Louisa winked at Fanny. The door was left open, and their departing footsteps were heard as they passed down the hall and began the climb to the upper floor.
“Thank you for my birthday dance, sir,” Fanny said finally into the stillness of the room.
“The pleasure was mine, indeed.”
“I imagine you would prefer to join your friends now,” Fanny said kindly. “You need not stay here with me.”
“I will see quite enough of my friends over the next few days,” he replied with a smile, “not but what we should be leaving soon. Tomorrow begins with an early rise,” and, saying thus, Mr. Dunby reached into a pocket to retrieve his watch fob.
CHAPTER IX
Fanny inhaled sharply, earning a glance from her guest.
“May I see your timepiece?” she asked softly, eyes fixed on the circular mechanism Mr. Dunby held. He placed it into her hand, studying her intently. She turned it over carefully several times. “Tis the same. I am sure of it,” she mumbled breathlessly.
“I cannot imagine you have seen this particular watch,” Mr. Dunby said doubtfully.
“But I have! Ah, here it is,” she said triumphantly, and, turning the crown and the cover just so, a secret compartment opened in the back. She smiled broadly, proudly showing Mr. Dunby her achievement.
“How could you have known that?” he asked in wonder.
“When I was very young, just a girl of four or five, we had visitors arrive in our village. I was there with my mother. You must understand that we did not have as many visitors then as we do now with the rails being so near, and I remember it vividly. One gentleman was very tall and serious, and he was looking for someone to mend his watch- this watch. My sister, June, was handy and demanded to see it, much to Mother’s chagrin, but the stranger was pleased to show us his special watch. Imagine our delight to see this secret compartment! Well, my sister knew just where to take him and led him away, leaving me behind with the other gentleman who wore a uniform. He also claimed to have something special.” Fanny was full of excitement as she, in turn, reached into her hidden pocket and retrieved a coin. She held it out in her hand for Mr. Dunby to see.
“You see,” she explained, “the gentleman had been at war on the continent. He had been gambling, just light gambling to pass the time he assured my mother, when they came under fire. Without thinking, he put this coin into his breast pocket and was soon after shot! The bullet struck the coin, you can see the indentation here, and the man suffered only a bruising, though I would assume it was a bit worse than he described.”
“And he gave this to you?” Mr. Dunby asked, holding the coin reverently.
“Yes! I have often wondered why. He said it was his good luck pendant, for he wore it on this chain, and he wished for me to have it. I wear it during the daytime but must hide it in my pocket for evening occasions.”
“But, this is remarkable!” he replied at length. “To have these relics together again.”
“I have long forgotten the names of the gentlemen,” she said sadly, assuming Mr. Dunby had acquired his fob from a shop.
“Abercromby,” Mr. Dunby said quietly.
“Abercromby,” Fanny repeated. “Yes! That is it! That was their name - the older was called ‘Uncle’, I believe. But how do you know this?” she asked in confusion.
Mr. Dunby presented the watch. “My father’s.” He flipped the fob to reveal the hidden opening. “This likeness is of my mother. Her maiden name was Dundas.” Then he presented the coin in his other hand. “My great uncle’s. I cannot tell you how many times I heard the story of the coin as a boy. He has been dead many years now.”
“I am so sorry,” Fanny said, eyes burning. Stepping closer, she closed his hand around the coin. “You must keep it now. It should be yours.”
Mr. Dunby laughed, a soft, gentle rumbling sound. He looked up from his treasures to study Fanny closely.
“The fact is,” he began warily. He paused, glanced at his hands, exhaled sharply, and looked back into Fanny’s eyes. “The fact is that my uncle died shortly after giving you this coin. We searched for it everywhere!” Mr. Dunby shook his head at the irony. “As my father began to sort through Uncle’s papers, he found a journal entry, stating that he had gifted the coin to a small girl. He wished for one of his boys to find it again in a decade or so.” His smile was small but sincere. “My brother and I were his boys, you see, for he had no children of his own.” He returned his gaze to the coin. “Uncle did not mention where to find the girl.”
Mr. Dunby breathed deeply and turned his attention to his other hand. “This timepiece was given me but two months ago. My father lay dying and charged me with finding a good wife to which I replied it was an impossible task for which I had no time. He gave me this and said, ‘Take your mother with you, as she was always the social one. Let her introduce you to the right young lady. The watch will keep your precious time.’”
Fanny stared, mesmerized by the account. Her mind flipped through the conjured pictures her imagination created throughout his account as well as through the memories from her own encounter with the men.
“Your dimple,” she said, focusing on Mr. Dunby’s chin, eager to finally alight on something her mind could fathom.
Mr. Dunby grinned. “The Abercromby trait.”
Fanny fixed her gaze now on his eyes.
“Your name.”
“A cross of Dundas and Abercromby, for I was christened Robert Campbell Dundas Abercromby. My brother is the elder and is called by our surname. It was my mother who dubbed me ‘Dunby’ as she felt her name should be represented.”
“How did I not recall the name ‘Abercromby’?” Fanny cried in dismay. “With all of my research on military campaigns.”
“Military,” Mr. Dunby acknowledged wryly, “or law. Those are the options for an Abercromby,”
“Which did you choose?” inquired Fanny, clasping her hands anxiously.
“Much to my family’s dismay, I chose medicine,” he answered wryly, clasping the treasures in his palms. “The military campaigns of our day have yet been… disappointing, but our countrymen obey their orders and suffer injuries. I began my training at Oxford and continue my practical training in the London Hospital and St. Bart’s. I have also done some work with Potts and Gray in the prosthetic limb field and am pleased to say they are making great strides in the functionality of their pieces.”
“But you are restless,” Fanny observed, for Mr. Dunby had begun pacing the room as he spoke of his work.
He stopped, turning to face her.
“That is exactly what I am,” he said, as if just realizing his state. “So much of the medical field is unregulated. Education is either passed by lecture or by in-field training but not both. In America, the medical field is being sharpened and honed into something much more efficient and practical. Educational standards and regulations for practice are being put into place. While I do not agree that the same doctor need provide every service, as they are expected to in America, I do appreciate the blurring of th
e lines that enables the doctor to completely care for his patient.”
“What do you wish to do?” inquired Fanny, captivated by the gentleman’s passion.
“What can I do? Everywhere I turn, I am met by belligerence and obstacle,” Mr. Dunby returned, deflated.
“Look at me, Mr. Dunby,” Fanny demanded. “See me now as I stand in my finery. This is my uniform by which codes and regulations I am held. The useless works of my hands fill my days. Not a single life has ever been saved by sewing screens or arranging flowers. All I have left to do to complete my orders are to marry and to have children, two things over which I have little control.” Fanny’s expression was as tempestuous as it was sincere. “You will not stand here, bemoaning the strictures of your Society upon your ambitions. You wish to study medicine? The doors of Oxford swing open. You wish to have practical experience? The hospitals of London welcome you. You have an interest in artificial limbs? The men who specialize in the field hope you will stop by. You have friends among the Elite. You have the law at your disposal. You have war in your blood. Fight your fight.”
“By jove,” murmured Lord Somerset from the doorway. “If only every young man was privy to that speech.”
“I shall hire her for my next campaign,” agreed Colonel Scarlett, following closely behind.
“Miss Stanton and Miss Mott could use a speech writer,” added Mr. Russell. His predecessors scowled at first but settled into a comfortable chuckle.
“Oh dear,” Fanny said, gently touching her fingertips to Mr. Dunby’s sleeve. “I do apologize.”
“Not a bit, Miss Bingley,” Lord Somerset assured her benignly. “A man needs to hear that he can do a thing every once in a while.”
“Are we going to see this map of yours, Miss Bingley?” inquired Mr. Russell.
“Oh, no,” gasped Fanny. “I should be embarrassed,” she said softly. Her pleading eyes met Mr. Dunby’s, but he did not seem overly compassionate.
“I should like to see it, Fanny,” her brother, Charles, said from the doorway. “I should like to see what you have done with all the papers and journals you had me fetch from Town.”
