by Lona Manning
“Oh, certainly, my dear,” her swain interrupted her eagerly. “Only the eye of friendship can make her tolerable.”
“I thought the Meriwethers were your friends as well.”
At last, Mr. Fenwick heard the warning, and he changed his course. “Goodness! My dear Maria, I am proud to count the Meriwethers as my friends. Excellent people, both of them. Pray take no notice of a little harmless raillery.”
All of a sudden Maria wondered, how did Mr. Fenwick amuse his acquaintance when she was not at his side? Was “Maria Crawford, the merry widow,” ever the butt of his jests?
Maria rose, and held out her hand with impenetrable gravity. “Good morning, Mr. Fenwick,” she said, and he had no choice but to take his leave.
Maria never hinted at any portion of this conversation to Margaret, but hearing her friend thus abused by Mr. Fenwick awakened her own conscience. She had never placed a high enough value on Margaret’s sweetness of temper, loyalty and friendship. She still prized wit very highly but from then on ceased to think it an essential quality in a husband.
* * * * * * *
In preparation for their book-finding excursion, John wrote out a grid map of London, showing the locations of the various booksellers, and with the help of Prudence, filled in a key with symbols denoting their specialities—foreign books, scientific treatises, classical works and et cetera. This, he explained, would bring a degree of order and rationality to their search for rare volumes.
Prudence, meanwhile, obtained the list of requested books from Mr. Gibson. She found only one of the volumes on the list in her father’s shop; the rest they must search for. Prudence and John agreed their first call should be at Lackington’s, the largest book shop in London. Prudence showed John Mr. Gibson’s list and as they walked, John ran his eye over the titles.
“Leviathan?” he asked. “I’m surprised he wants that.”
“Mr. Gibson,” replied Prudence with a knowing air, “told me one of the things he intended to do whilst in prison, was to read the books which everyone knows about, but hasn’t actually read.”
“True enough,” said John. “I would wager more people know of Leviathan, than have ever read it. Me, for example. Perhaps,” he added, with dawning interest, “I will take a quick look at it myself before you deliver it to Mr. Gibson.”
“I do not think that would be the properest thing to do,” Prudence objected.
“You speak as though you know Mr. Gibson better than I, when it was I who introduced you,” John answered. “He was for ever loaning me his books, when he lived in London.”
“I would like to show him with what dispatch I can fulfil his instructions. But perhaps he would not object if you keep the book only for a day or so, as he is so generous and kind. Do you know, he gave me more than enough to buy all the books, and extra for hansom cabs, and he said, we ought to stop and take some coffee at the Turk’s Head, in his honour. He says it was his favourite place in town.”
Prudence continued to sing the praises of Mr. Gibson as they walked to Finsbury Square. “He is really so very—-so very natural, and charming! I think some gentlemen look the better for wearing spectacles. There is something altogether pleasing about his countenance, especially his eyes. And his smile. And his voice is so pleasant.”
“He is always interesting to converse with,” John agreed. “And there are few people one can say that about.”
It seemed to John that Prudence was not really talking to him, but rather to herself, as she went on, “I should never have imagined that I would one day be assisting a famous writer! This is the most exciting thing which has ever happened to me!”
And the more she spoke, and spoke of Mr. Gibson, his rare qualities and his goodness, the more John found himself wishing she might take up some other subject.
“Prudence, have you heard the theory about lightning rods?” he asked. “It is thought that the use of lightning rods may be the reason for the strange fluctuations in the weather, because they divert the electrical power of the atmosphere from its natural course—”
“Oh! How interesting!” said Prudence. “Does the weather only change in those countries which employ lightning rods on their buildings, as compared to the more backward places? I wonder what Mr. Gibson would say to that.”
“He is not an expert on everything in the world, you know,” said John. “He did not even finish university—I suppose he did not tell you that. He left early.”
Prudence slowed, and looked at him with some surprise.
“John, why are you speaking against Mr. Gibson? He spoke so well of you.”
“I just think, if someone is fortunate enough to go to university, he ought to finish what he started. I should have given a great deal to be able to go.”
“Of course you would have!” Prudence was quiet for a little while, and then asked, “so, why did he leave university? I dare say it is because he lacked the funds.”
“No, he said it was because his uncle was paying the fees, and his uncle intended him to go into the law, and he did not want to, so—”
“So he would not take monies from his uncle under false pretences,” cried Prudence triumphantly. “So you see, that only shows how refined and noble his principles are! Imagine if he had let his uncle pay for his education and then refused to do as he wished! That would have been wrong.”
John could not think of anything to say in defence of defrauding the uncle, so he said nothing.
The first thing that met John’s eye when he arrived at Lackington’s was a prominent display in the shop window of Steam & Sagacity, along with printed engravings of “the illustrious author, now confined in prison.”
“Oh! I must buy one of those prints!” exclaimed Prudence. “I wonder, if I took it to Mr. Gibson, would he—”
“Let us not speak of Mr. Gibson any more,” said John crossly. “He is not the only thing worth talking about, you know.”
“Why, John,” Prudence cried, “I do believe you are jealous.”
To his utter astonishment, she leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“You have no need to be,” she said.
Chapter 7: Bristol, Spring 1814
It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring. She had not known before what pleasures she had to lose in passing March and April in a town. She had not known before how much the beginnings and progress of vegetation had delighted her… To be losing such pleasures was no trifle; to be losing them, because she was in the midst of closeness and noise, to have confinement, bad air, bad smells, substituted for liberty, freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitely worse.
Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, Chapter XLV
Even a less acute person than Mrs. Butters would have detected from Fanny’s correspondence in the months following Mr. Gibson’s arrest, that she suffered from want of spirits. Fanny wrote of her happiness in her sister’s marriage, of joining a new lending library, of sewing new caps and frocks for everyone, but there was a reserve, a sadness, which could not be concealed.
The kindly old widow believed Fanny needed a change of scene and better occupation for her mind. She was more right than she knew.
In her time at Portsmouth, Fanny suffered bodily, no less than mentally. She acquired a tenacious cough, and her complexion lost its bloom, though she doggedly clung to her daily round of domestic occupations. As there was no-one at home interested in hearing anything she had to say, she spoke less and less, and withdrew into herself.
Mrs. Butters wanted Fanny to make her home with her in Bristol—she cared not what Cecilia Butters might have to say about it. But the invitation was delayed for some time, for Mrs. Butters first resided with her niece Honoria Smallridge while selecting a new home, a home which required some repair before she could take occupation of it, and these repairs took twice as long and cost three times as much as the widow had bargained for. At length, however, she wrote to Fanny—an invitation which was greeted by Fanny as a schoolboy greets the
holiday, perhaps even as a prisoner—but Fanny could not think of herself as a prisoner, not when there was another prisoner to think of.
Her own preference, and a candid regard for her own health and happiness, of course inclined Fanny to go. Moreover, she honestly believed it was a matter of indifference to her mother whether she stayed or went. This conviction enabled Fanny to accept Mrs. Butter’s invitation without feeling herself negligent in her duty to her remaining parent.
She did worry about the consequences for Betsey. Young Charles had been placed, over his great protests, with the same apothecary shop where his brother Tom was apprenticed. Betsey was the last child still at home, always her mother’s darling, and coming to that interesting age requiring the greatest guidance. Fanny dreaded leaving her to her mother’s care, at once negligent and over-partial. But Betsey had never submitted herself to Fanny’s gentle admonitions. What little influence Fanny had obtained over Betsey was lost when Fanny incurred her sister’s lasting displeasure for throwing off Mr. Gibson. Betsey still mourned his loss and resented Fanny for abandoning him. To destroy her own health and peace of mind in the vain hope of improving Betsey’s character, understanding and temperament was a sacrifice even greater than Fanny’s tender conscience could prescribe as a duty.
By way of amends for leaving, Fanny promised to send her mother every shilling she could spare out of the interest of her meagre savings. Mrs. Price was indeed willing to relinquish her daughter on those terms.
Accordingly, after almost a year and a half of patient attendance upon her mother, Fanny left for Bristol where she was greeted with great affection, and her friends promised to restore her to good health once again. She was immediately swept up into the busy concerns of the household—Mrs. Butters had a large acquaintance and most of her activities revolved around her philanthropic or political interests. The widow’s parlour was always open to her many like-minded friends who gathered to discuss, confer, argue, and eat Mrs. McIntosh’s excellent refreshments. It was a way of life which was congenial and stimulating to Fanny, particularly after the intellectual poverty of her mother’s home.
Even Mrs. Butters’ lady’s maid Madame Orly had taken up a cause that was dear to her heart—she made frequent pilgrimages to Stapleton Prison to visit the French prisoners of war. The circumstance of a Frenchwoman residing in England, wishing to bring succor to her captured countrymen, needs no apology. And Fanny was pleased to accompany Madame Orly, for she thought if she could bestow some charity upon the captive men, it would atone in some measure for her abandonment of another prisoner, a friend who was seldom out of her thoughts.
The walk to the prison, outside of Bristol, was reckoned such a pleasant one, that scores of people chose it for a weekend excursion. The grounds surrounding the prison commanded a fine view of the area. Those bold enough to pass under the arched gate set in the high stone walls could gape at the French prisoners of war confined there.
The day chosen for Fanny’s first excursion was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun. Mrs. Butters had declined to join them, pleading fatigue, and Madame Orly never walked when she might ride, and the distance—two miles there and back—was too far for Fanny to accomplish as yet, so the ladies were conveyed by James McIntosh, the old coachman.
Fanny was surprised to learn from Madame Orly that the prisoners of war were permitted to hold a market for several hours every day, to sell little items of their own manufacture—carvings of wood and bone, ship’s models and the like, by which they earned a pittance to supplement their meagre rations. She resolved to carefully survey the articles for sale in the prison, and purchase anything with the appearance of usefulness or ornament.
Madame Orly’s thoughts, as became evident to Fanny, revolved around one prisoner in particular.
“Their captain, Captain Duchesne, he could have taken his parole and gone to live comfortably in some country village, but non, he declares he will not leave his men.” Madame Orly had a great deal more to say about the captain—his goodness, his gallantry, and a suspicion began to dawn on Fanny, a suspicion soon confirmed when the ladies reached the prison and were admitted, along with others, to the courtyard where the prisoners sat or walked or lounged.
Captain Hippolyte Duchesne, an elegant man of middle years, appeared at their side at the instant of their appearance in the courtyard. He greeted Madame Orly with cordiality and begged the honour of being introduced to Fanny. He expressed his eternal gratitude for the foodstuffs ladies had brought, and with an efficiency and dispatch which belied his extravagant and formal manner of speaking, attended to its distribution to the sickest and weakest of the prisoners. Then he asked to be granted the very great favour of escorting the ladies about the prisoners’ market.
The captain cut a much better figure than the regular soldiers, who gave the general impression of being dirty, ill-shaven, and idle-looking. Some glowered with resentment at their visitors, no doubt feeling themselves to be not unlike specimens in a menagerie. Some were clad only in trousers, many had no shoes, or wore only sandals fashioned out of braided straw. Their forlorn condition aroused Fanny’s compassion.
“I think their diet must be inadequate,” she exclaimed to Captain Duchesne, “Some of these men are like scarecrows.”
The captain asked to be permitted to compliment Fanny on her excellent French, and then answered, “The food supplied here is of poor quality and the rations are not generous, this is true, but my unhappy countrymen might be better clothed and better fed, save for their own improvidence. It mortifies me to acknowledge anything to the detriment of my own men, Mademoiselle Price, but these fellows will sell their food, their clothing, even their teeth, to obtain ardent spirits and tobacco. Or they will lose everything at gambling. But I cannot speak of the vices of these men before a young lady so innocent and charming. With misery and degradation, Mademoiselle Price should have nothing to do. The vision that you and your lovely friend present today will, I trust, awaken their better impulses.”
“I suppose their poor habits are a consequence of having nothing else to do, and being so far from home,” said Fanny dubiously, but she was inwardly certain that William Gibson, whatever his condition, employed his time in a more rational manner.
“And in justice, I must add, Mademoiselle, that I think we are better treated than our English counterparts in France.”
“And better,” said Madame Orly, with feeling, “than our friends, swept up in the Terror.”
“Ah, Madame,” said the captain. “There is a sympathy between us that only you and I, a Frenchman and a Frenchwoman, can comprehend. Only we can truly know what it is we have lost, and what may never be recovered. I was a young cadet at the time, fighting in Flanders, and we never knew from one month to another who was in authority over us, or who would prevail back in Paris.”
“And I,” said Madame Orly, “of course, was just a child.”
Fanny looked away and hid a little smile here. Her friend’s declaration, however, had no other effect on the captain but to make him express his admiration for Madame, for having created a new life for herself in England, and for having supported herself, bereft of family and any nearer tie.
The ladies and their gallant escort had now almost completed their circuit of the courtyard, and were returning to the gate when Fanny observed a group of fellow-visitors, all men, eagerly handling some trinkets and cheerfully disputing the price with those who offered them. Fanny stepped forward to peek at the items which had aroused such interest, but the captain placed a light hand upon her arm and said, “Mademoiselle Price will not be interested in those particular articles.” He and Madame Orly exchanged a knowing glance.
Fanny was perplexed, but did not dispute the point.
Captain Duchesne then recommended they conclude their visit with a stroll around the exterior of the prison. “I understand the view on the other side is very pleasant,” he said with a wry smile.
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br /> Before they departed, Fanny found an excuse for talking with the turnkey for a few moments, so that Madame Orly and the captain might enjoy a brief conference alone.
“Pray, are the prisoners here well acquainted with the progress of the war?” she asked.
“Oh yes, madam,” said the turnkey, “and some of them is hoping to go home soon, and some of them is breaking their little frog hearts over their precious Boneyparte, and saying they would follow ‘im to ‘ell and beyond—begging your pardon—and they is refusing to believe that we ‘ave nearly got them beat at last.”
“Should the war end—” Fanny began.
“When the war ends, begging your pardon—” returned the turnkey.
“Of course. When the war ends,” said Fanny, “will all the prisoners be compelled to return to France? That is, what if some of them would rather remain here?”
The turnkey scratched his chin. “Stay ‘ere in prison?”
“No, I meant, should they prefer England to France, and wish to live here, might they do so?”
“Uh. Mebbe. But most of them think everything is better in France, and they’ll waste no time telling you so. Arrogant bastards. Begging your pardon.”
Madame Orly, usually so vivacious and talkative, was rather quiet as they returned to town. Fanny did not tease her about the captain, but said a few calm words in his praise, which appeared to gratify her. “He bears his captivity so lightly, so well, compared to the others,” she ventured.
“Naturally!” said Madame Orly. “He is of a very distinguished family, or was, before the Revolution turned the world upside down.”
“Do you suppose he prefers Napoleon, or the old royal family?”
Madame Orly shrugged. “He is a soldier. He is loyal to the army.”
“But when the war is over, he could resign, could he not? Surely his first loyalty need only be to himself, after all that has transpired.”
