by Lona Manning
Fanny sat without moving or speaking while Mr. Miller made some entries in one of his ledgers, which he did slowly and deliberately, dipping his quill and adding up a column of figures. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock on the wall and the scratching of Mr. Miller’s pen. At last, the merchant threw down his quill and looked up at her.
“Well, Miss Price?”
Scarcely able to meet his disapproving glare, Fanny said, “Mr. Miller, I came to say something very particular to you.”
“Are you come to plead with me to allow my son to marry your sister?” Mr. Miller fetched a deep breath, evidently in preparation for issuing a long and stern rebuke, but Fanny swiftly answered: “No sir, I am come to inform you I shall not marry Mr. Gibson, nor will I ask any of my family or friends to acknowledge his acquaintance hereafter.”
“Indeed!” Mr. Miller was momentarily taken aback. The speech he had just been preparing and was on the point of delivering now appeared to be unnecessary, but it was no easy matter for him, having harnessed and saddled all of his arguments, to pull in the reins so abruptly.
“Marriage, Miss Price, is not just about them who are going to be married. It is the joining of two families. And I would never allow my son to call a radical jailbird like Mr. Gibson his brother. And aye, Jacob is of age, but I told him, if he takes a step without my blessing, he’ll find himself cut out without a penny, and nothing to keep his wife on. So I’ve told him that as matters stand, there can be nothing between our family and yours.”
“You can have, I hope, no objection to Susan herself? No question as to her good character?” Fanny managed to say, as she struggled with both mortification and anger. Of all things, the conviction that she had displeased or disobliged another person was painful for Fanny, and it was exceedingly difficult for her to encounter the scorn of the older man.
“Oh, no, no. Susan is a good girl—and a sensible, hard-working girl. But, Miss Price—” he gave her his most searching look. “Do I hear you correctly—do you say you will throw Mr. Gibson over?”
Fanny felt a catch in her throat, and her eyes welled with tears. She might have qualified the question by adding, there was no formal understanding between them. But she merely nodded.
Mr. Miller pushed some papers around on his desk, closed some ledgers, then said, with an awkward cough: “Well, you cannot have been—that is, you are wiser than I had supposed, for a young ‘un—and indeed, I know he was very good to your brother the commander—your family has reason to think well of him—or once had, at any rate.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Say now,” exclaimed Mr. Miller—for he had not become a wealthy man of business by being the dupe of others— “do you mean you will not marry this Gibson fellow until after my son marries your sister, or do you mean to say you will not marry him while he is cooling his heels in jail, or do you mean to say you will not marry him, not now and not ever?”
“I think sir, even if I were inclined to marry Mr. Gibson in the future, he would not be prevailed upon to marry me, since I have forsaken him when he stands most in need of a friend. But when I said I would not marry Mr. Gibson, indeed, I intended by it, that I would never marry Mr. Gibson.”
Mr. Miller then looked as most men look when in company with a female who is struggling in vain to hold back her tears — exceedingly uncomfortable.
“There, lass,” he said. “There, now. It is for the best, as you will see.”
Fanny nodded. “I will not make a match which would be disadvantageous for my family, and which does not meet with the approbation of my uncle. I understand my duty, Mr. Miller. I trust you will take my word in this matter?”
“Oh yes! Why, certainly!” Mr. Miller, regretting his earlier harsh tone. “One has only to look at you, Miss Price, to er—that is—.”
A moment’s silence prevailed. The clock continued ticking softly, and Fanny looked down at her hands.
“You mention your uncle, Miss Price,” Mr. Miller resumed. “The baronet. Yes, we all know of your uncle—your mother has taken care that the entire street knows of your uncle the baronet. Yet, I cannot see how my family will be the better, or the wiser, or the richer, for the connection. Do you not think that I, too, have a duty to see that my son makes an advantageous match?”
“Sir,” Fanny replied, “you may not have been informed that Susan will have fifteen hundred pounds on the occasion of her marriage.”
Indeed, Mr. Miller did not know, and could hardly have known before that moment. Sir Thomas himself would have been surprised to hear it. It was a sudden, almost wild, scheme of Fanny’s, taken into her head as she walked to the bakery, and firmly resolved upon at the exact moment she stepped across the threshold.
Henry Crawford left three thousand pounds to Fanny, in atonement for involving her in his false marriage scheme. Her resolution to give half of it away to Susan was no sacrifice, as compared to giving up Mr. Gibson. Impoverishing herself was a sort of guarantee that the prospect of marriage was pushed even farther out of her own reach, so that she would not waver in her determination.
Fanny watched the last of the hostility, the suspicion, drain from Mr. Miller’s face, to be replaced by cheerful complacency. “Then sir,” she said, fearing that should she linger any longer, she would begin crying in good earnest, “may I take my leave, in the assurance that there is now no cause for dissension between our two families?”
Fanny rose, and he followed, seeing her to the door and calling out loudly for Jacob to select some good things for Miss Price to take home with her, with his compliments.
Now that the awkward interview was concluded, he sought in vain to think of something to say, to attest to his very good opinion of Miss Price. His bath buns and molasses bread must be eloquent on his behalf. As for Jacob, it was utterly delightful to Fanny to watch the comprehension dawn across his countenance, as Mr. Miller said, “Well, son, it appears Sir Thomas has settled something on Miss Susan and I reckon that if it is all right with Sir Thomas, it is all right with me.”
Jacob’s raptures rendered him speechless, until he had the happy thought of asking his father for leave to escort Miss Price home.
I must always recollect this moment, Fanny thought to herself, as she watched Jacob attempting to throw loaves and buns into a large basket whilst putting on his greatcoat at the same time. I must think of this moment whenever I am feeling downcast. To be able to bestow such happiness upon Jacob! And my dear sister!
Jacob fairly dragged Fanny down the street in his haste. “I hope you know, Miss Price,” he said earnestly as they hurried along, “I would have waited for Susan, for so long as it took to persuade my father.” Fanny nodded, almost out of breath.
While Fanny truly rejoiced in the expectation of her sister’s future happiness, it was more than she could support at that time, to be a witness as Jacob burst into the parlour, snatched Susan’s hand, and exclaimed, “Sue! Sue! My father gives his consent! We can be married!”
In the clamour immediately following his declaration, amid the gasps of surprise, cries of wonder, the smiles mingled with tears, Fanny retreated to the staircase and listened, until a sob clutched at her throat, and she turned and ran up to her bedchamber.
Her room was directly above the low-ceilinged parlour, and of course Fanny heard everything passing below. Mrs. Price gave her blessing to the match, and congratulated Jacob on marrying a girl with such excellent connections— “niece to a baronet, mind!”
“I am most excessively obliged to him!” the young man answered with feeling.
“Oh, as to being obliged,” said Mrs. Price, “I will write him and send him your best compliments and service, and I shall be sure to tell him of my very good opinion of you, so I think you need not be under any fear as to how he will answer.”
“But has he not already written his approval?” Fanny heard Jacob say. “Miss Price came to tell us—”
“Ah! Yes, Fanny writes to her uncle and aunt very regularly, an
d she must have told them of it. Sadly, I am too taken up with the cares of my household, and seldom find a quiet moment to write to my sister Bertram. But Fanny has done it.”
Susan came upstairs an hour later, and the sisters embraced. Susan, ever more direct in her manner, took Fanny’s face in both her hands and said earnestly, “Fanny? You have given up Mr. Gibson? Was it for my sake?”
It was no great falsehood, so Fanny told herself, to assure Susan that, even had there been no Jacob Miller in the case—had there been no infamously tyrannical Mr. Miller—she would still have ended her attachment to Mr. Gibson. She was convinced, she told Susan, of their unsuitability as to temperament—she could neither meet him in his bold disregard for the consequences of his actions, nor would she demand that he change, restrain, pinion himself, for her sake. “Susan, while I esteem Mr. Gibson and I always will, I am unequal to encountering the uncertainties attendant upon tying my life to his. Indeed, I would rather remain as I am, than attempt it.”
Fanny stressed this aspect of the difficulty, trusting Susan would believe that Fanny’s private misgivings were the only reason for her decision. The fairest, happiest prospects were opening for Susan and Fanny did not want her to feel—now or ever—the slightest degree of obligation.
Susan had every reason to wish to believe it, and she wept softly and clung to her sister. Fanny comforted and reassured her, that it was all for the best, and Susan had nothing to do now but to be happy.
There could be no turning back now. The monies which came to her by Henry Crawford were attached to a scandalous chapter in her past which she blushed to recollect—sharing those funds with a worthy young couple offered a form of atonement. Perhaps in the future she might assist Betsey in some fashion as well. Just as her friend Mrs. Butters, whose fortune derived from the slave trade, had employed her wealth in the cause of abolition, so Fanny would use her ill-gotten monies to help her family. And no action could better testify to the earnestness of her resolution to put her family before herself.
For most of her life, Fanny had supposed she would never marry. As a child, she had held herself too insignificant, too plain, to be capable of attaching anyone; from a very early age she gave her heart to her cousin Edmund, without the expectation or even the hope of a return. Brief, very brief indeed was the season in which fairer prospects had bloomed; these now must be laid aside.
She recalled a time, early in their acquaintance, when she was recovering from a grave illness, when Mr. Gibson had called upon her.
“And as for you being weak, what nonsense,” he had said. “You must be stronger than you know, stronger than you ever imagined.”
Fanny would have work for her hands, occupation for her mind and objects for her affection. Her regrets must—surely would—abate in time. She had always been considered as sickly and weak. But this decision to sacrifice her own happiness and, at least for a time, Mr. Gibson’s as well, demanded all her strength and resolution. She must deaden the pain within, fight down her remorse, and urge her heart to turn to stone. She must forget the feel of Mr. Gibson’s hand on hers, the feel of his arm around her waist, his lips brushing her cheek, his voice murmuring in her ear. The inner strength Mr. Gibson once praised would be turned against him.
* * * * * * *
The Millers paid a visit of ceremony to Mrs. Price, who received them graciously, and Fanny nodded and smiled while many allusions were made to a future happy day. Mr. Miller, understandably, supposed that Susan owed her dowry to the benevolence and approbation of Sir Thomas, and Fanny did not disabuse him on that score. The baker had set aside larger sums for his own daughters, but the fact of Susan’s having anything, when he had been led to expect nothing, was a very great surprise which operated agreeably in Susan’s favour. The happiness of the lovers, and the confidence with which they projected their future together, was a balm to Fanny’s wounded soul.
Fanny privately informed her mother of her resolution to give half her money to Susan, and the offer was accepted on Susan’s behalf, with the calm reflection that “no doubt Sir Thomas will settle something on you. He obliged himself to support you, after all, when he took you in.”
As Fanny stitched away at her sister’s trousseau in the following weeks, she silently tormented herself with wondering how William Gibson, sitting in his prison cell in York, had felt when he received her letter. Every variety of human sentiment passed across her mind; she saw him reading her words with tenderness or with resentment, with regret for having forced the unhappy choice upon her, or with scorn at her timidity or even with relief, at being freed from someone who was so unsuited to be his wife. Yes, of all things, she hoped he was secretly relieved, that the pain of their separation lay as lightly as possible on him. She would even rather think of him as filled with anger and resentment, than picture him desolate and abandoned in a dark prison cell.
In fact, the conditions of his imprisonment were not so grim as she feared and certainly not as dire as Betsey and Charles imagined. He was not shackled hand and foot in a damp, dripping dungeon, nor was he put to the rack. As a state prisoner, he was not thrown in with the coarser sort of thieves and vagrants, and his accommodations were not much different from the humble rooms he habitually rented in London or Portsmouth, the main difference being, of course, that he was not permitted to leave them.
Fanny longed for and dreaded the postman’s knock. Silence and uncertainty were almost preferable to what he might say to her.
When a letter did come, it was addressed to Betsey.
I apologise for the circumstances which prevent me from calling upon you to conclude our story of the fair Princess Tamatina, he wrote.
In my absence, for however long it may be, please be assured I will hold you and all of your family in my thoughts, most warmly and affectionately.
Here, in brief, is the end of the story of Reginald and the Princess. After many adventures, Reginald brought the fair princess to reside in England. She was as gentle and innocent as a little bird, and so, leaving her beloved home and going to the remote, cold and strange country called England, was exceedingly difficult for her. Alas, Reginald saw that his beloved Tamatina could not accustom herself to a place so different in its manners, customs and climate. Her affectionate heart pined for her family. She drooped and saddened; he feared for her health, even her life. Reginald realised it was wrong of him to ask her to forsake everything she held dear.
For the love of her, he consented to their parting. He never ceased to regret her, of course, and she remained in his mind as the loveliest, kindest, noblest woman he had ever known.
Remember to pay attention to your lessons,
Your fellow story-teller,
William Gibson
Chapter 4: London, February 1813
Harriet Butters had for a number of years resided near London, rather than her native Bristol, to be near her son and his family. When she left the city in which she had passed most of her days, when she left her many close acquaintance and the fine mansion bestowed upon her by her late husband, she expected to find compensation in the respectful attentions of her son and daughter-in-law.
Alas, as Mrs. Butters’ many friends could attest, this expectation was unfulfilled. And why should she, or her friends, shrink from speaking plainly of the lamentable want of affection, duty and regard shown her?
Mrs. Butters had been particularly vexed the previous summer when her daughter-in-law Cecilia vowed she would never again cross her mother-in-law’s threshold so long as Miss Price resided there. Yes, there had been a peculiar scandal in Fanny’s past—she had pretended to be married to the late Henry Crawford—but she had not, as vulgar-minded persons might suppose, lived with Mr. Crawford without benefit of clergy. In Mrs. Butter’s estimation Miss Price was guilty only of being over-eager to assist her brother to a promotion; her love for her brother had overcome her usual prudence But when the story reached her daughter-in-law’s ears, it provided her with an excellent pretext for an attack agai
nst Miss Price. The denunciations of Cecilia Butters forced Fanny out of her teaching position at the sewing academy, and she vowed, moreover, to keep her three innocent daughters away from their grandmother’s house so long as Fanny resided there.
The old widow did not doubt that enmity, rather than offended virtue, lay behind Cecilia Butters’ attack on Fanny. The younger Mrs. Butters was jealous of the preference given to Miss Price. Fanny, through the sly stratagem of being innocent, mild-tempered and friendless, had won the old woman’s compassion. Further, using her devious arts of kind attention and unfailing respect, she had secured to herself a sincere return of that affection.
Mrs. Butters hoped that the intercourse between the senior and junior branches of the family would improve when Miss Price removed to Portsmouth in the wake of her father’s death. But although she had triumphed over her rival, the change did not bring an amendment in the cold manners of Cecilia Butters. Her visits to her mother-in-law’s house were rare and brief. She brought her daughters along only grudgingly, and then perhaps only to point out how very trying it was to go visiting in the winter without having a carriage at one’s disposal.
Mrs. Butters ultimately concluded that removing herself might be the best remedy. Both mother and daughter-in-law would find it easier to be civil to each at a distance. The widow resolved to return to her native city, where many affectionate friends and relations might supply in part what was deficient in nearer domestic ties. Her sense of what was due to her as a parent may have been wounded, but she was not without other sources of consolation. She wished to invite Fanny Price to come and live with her once again, but her removal to Bristol could not be contemplated until the spring, and Fanny would surely be a married woman by then.
But then came the shocking intelligence of William Gibson’s arrest, followed by a mournful letter from Fanny. Mrs. Butters’ knowledge of Fanny’s character, principles and temperament enabled her to pity Fanny more than censure her.
