by Lona Manning
And Edmund would nod and reply, “Only I can know how lucky.”
For the private Mary Crawford Bertram was a trial to Edmund and the entire household, frequently restless and dissatisfied—but only, Edmund reminded himself, when she was thwarted, as when, for example, he vetoed the purchase of a new set of dinner china or a trip to London. At those times, the nursemaids knew to take Thomas and Cyrus out for a stroll in the park, to be away from the sound of their mother’s angry voice, raining down denunciations on Edmund’s head.
Little Thomas was old enough, and wise enough, to imbibe some of his father’s philosophy. Edmund told him to think of his mother’s rages as a lightning storm that would pass, as all storms pass, and soon enough, his mother would be her smiling, laughing self again. He must not mind the thunder and lightning too much, but seek shelter until the storm passed.
Such was Edmund Bertram’s assessment of his wife, after six years of marriage, and he remained resolute in endeavouring to accept matters as they were, and not as he wished or once expected.
Edmund had many other compensations in his life as headmaster of St. George’s Academy. He was well-suited to the post. The Reverend Bertram’s erudition, his kindness, and his care for his pupils earned him the confidence of the board of governors.
In his private life, he was a devoted father, Thomas promised well, even at such a young age, Cyrus was a lively and affectionate boy, and their daughter, Anna Imogen, was a placid, happy infant. On the Bertram side of the family, Edmund maintained a regular and affectionate correspondence with his parents, his sisters and his brother Tom in America.
And so matters might have continued, but for an unfortunate addition to Belfast society in the spring of 1815.
Captain Templeton was a distant cousin to one of the governors of Edmund’s school—so distant, in fact, that Dr. Ritchie had not even known of the captain’s existence until he arrived with a letter of introduction and the expectation that he stay with Dr. Ritchie and his wife for some unspecified period of time.
The Captain had served in Portugal under Wellington, but declined to describe his experiences there, except in the most general way. His humility made him even more interesting in the eyes of the ladies. His bearing was martial, his features, while somewhat red and coarse, were agreed to be quite striking.
True, his voice was sometimes too loud and unregulated, his expressions occasionally ungenteel, and he did not possess that elegance of address which proclaims a true gentlemen, but this was laid to the fact that he had spent his adult life in military camps and not in drawing rooms.
The Bertrams first observed him out walking with Dr. and Mrs. Ritchie, and he came to a reception at Mrs. Malcolm’s.
At this last-named gathering, Mary Bertram was gratified, but not surprised, when Captain Templeton particularly requested an introduction, and upon being admitted to her acquaintance, was profuse in his admiration.
“Mrs. Bertram, when my eyes first beheld you in this Irish wilderness, I was amazed. ‘Who can this vision be?’ I said to myself. ‘From where has she come?’”
“We ladies are reluctant to tear away any veil of mystery, Captain, but there is no mystery here. The whys and the wherefores are quite comprehensible. My husband is the master at St. George’s Academy.”
“And you, the faithful wife, followed your husband here.” The Captain glanced over to where Edmund stood, deep in conversation with two elderly clerics.
“It would be more accurate to speak of the reverse. My very dear friend, Lady Delingpole, is cousin to the Marquess of Donegall. Her interest obtained the position for my husband.”
“Still, a considerable sacrifice for you, dear lady!”
“Not at all, Captain,” answered Mary, a little stung at the imputation that by living away from London, she had fallen below the fashionable standard. “Here in Belfast, we have some society. I much prefer it to living in Northamptonshire—my husband’s parish was so very backward! The Church of England, in its wisdom, requires that their officiants know how to read the Old Testament in Greek. This is to qualify them for life in some barren rural village surrounded by people who can barely make their mark with an “x.” Here, at least, my husband can converse with other educated men.”
“As he is doing right now, and, speaking as a selfish man, I hope he will continue his conversation for some time!” The captain moved a little closer, and lowered his voice: “And what of society for you, Mrs. Bertram?”
Mary glanced about her, then leaned closer to the Captain, whilst gracefully shielding her smile with her fan. “The Irish ladies compete amongst themselves to display the latest London fashion, London novels, London music, and London gossip, all while preening themselves on being proud Irishwomen. As for Irish manners, what is different from our English ways, is not worth emulating.”
The Captain laughed, but a little too loudly. “You are too clever to misunderstand me, dear lady. When I enquired whether you had formed new friendships, can you suppose I meant, only the companionship of other females?”
“Of course my husband and I have a large acquaintance.” The fan fluttered briefly.
“Spoken very carefully, Mrs. Bertram. May I say, I hope that in time, you will think of me as a friend, one in whom you can confide?”
The lady did not frown, and feeling himself encouraged, her admirer went on: “For my part, I am delighted with the Irish. They are so open and honest a race, are they not? Compared to we English, with our reserve and our hypocrisy.”
“Do not speak so unkindly of hypocrisy, Captain. Hypocrisy serves us all well, and smooths over the bumps of social intercourse,” laughed Mary. The fan batted him lightly on the arm and the tête-à-tête continued rather longer than Mary intended.
The Captain’s admiration came as no surprise to Mary Bertram—it was only natural, that of all the belles of Belfast, she would be the one preferred. Unfortunately, Captain Templeton did not improve upon better acquaintance. He drank too much, and when he did, his manner became vulgar.
After only a fortnight, his admiration began to cloy. His praises of her beauty and charm, carried back to her, were so enthusiastic as to make her feel uncomfortable and even vexed. She did not wish him to hang at her elbow every time they met. Worse, his conversation soon took an insinuating turn. He would ask her, most particularly, when she might be at home alone, or where and when she rode out.
In the past, with other gentlemen, a word, a look, sufficed to say: this far and no farther. In vain did she attempt to retrace the steps along the path of intimacy and to assume an air of coolness or indifference when Captain Templeton approached her. The man seemed to think she was playing a game, pretending to reject his addresses when she really invited them, and his attentions became even more assiduous.
But what was to be done? To speak to him plainly required a moment of privacy, and there was no such thing as privacy in Belfast. Mary was torn between hoping that her husband had not noticed and wishing that he had. Edmund ought to be jealous, he ought to resent the captain’s overfamiliar addresses.
Edmund had of course perceived Captain Templeton’s admiration of his wife. He found the captain’s company increasingly irksome, but he was the guest of Dr. Ritchie, one of the governors of the school. Then came a particularly mortifying occasion when the captain had too much to drink at Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm’s dinner party. The following day, Edmund happened to be meeting with Dr. Ritchie on school business, and he resolved to ask, how much longer did the captain intend to remain in Belfast?
The doctor did not look surprised at the enquiry. He removed his spectacles, closed his eyes and rubbed the sides of his nose. “Mrs. Ritchie and I have given him not a few hints to be gone. We are almost resolved to shut up our house and take an extended trip to Dublin, as being the only expedient by which we may rid ourselves of him.”
Such a reply invited Edmund to speak frankly in return. “My dear doctor, you have been exceedingly generous to this cousin of yours. I d
o not know that I would have endured him for so long under my roof.”
“We Irish have been graciously welcoming you Englishmen to our shores for many generations,” Dr. Ritchie observed, replacing his spectacles so that he might gaze at Edmund over the top of them, “and—the present company most notably excepted—you seldom send us your finest specimens. We receive your failures, your drunkards, your runaways, your scoundrels, your landless sons—all those, in short, who could not succeed in their native country. Our poor, starving, bleeding land must supply room, and milk and honey, for you as well. I say this without malice to you, of course, Bertram.”
“Now you make me ashamed,” Edmund exclaimed, “and I have half a notion to invite Captain Templeton to visit with us, so as to give your poor wife some respite.”
Dr. Ritchie looked solemn. “He will do less mischief where he is, I think. I shall deal with him, my good fellow. But I do not intend to leave town until after the dinner at the Linen Hall, so, we must enjoy the captain’s company for a few weeks more.”
Chapter 9: Northumberland, Summer 1815
When Sir Thomas removed from his grand estate in Mansfield to Norfolk in the year ‘10, he felt some apprehension for his wife’s health and spirits. He feared she might think herself an exile from the familiar surroundings of Mansfield Park. His anxieties proved unfounded. Because Lady Bertram had few acquaintance and seldom stirred abroad, she could pursue her usual occupations of writing letters, indulging her pug dog and making carpet-fringe wherever she happened to be. She could recline on her sofa in tolerable comfort, whether in Northamptonshire or Norfolk. He was the greater sufferer. A feeling that he had failed to uphold the dignity of his house and family was never to be entirely done away.
A timely investment in sugar plantations in Antigua, as well as loyal service to the Crown, had elevated his grandfather to the baronetcy. His own father had built the great house called Mansfield Park. Rationally, he knew it was no fault of his, the third Sir Thomas of that name, that the monies which once flowed from Antigua were gone. Further he could not wish to return to the days of relying upon the labour of slaves to fund his family’s comfortable existence.
The family investments had been restored through frugality and good management. But even the ingenuity of Sir Thomas could not turn a good income into a grand one. He considered it best, therefore, for he and his lady to stay on at their daughter’s estate.
His occasional excursions to Mansfield, to consult with his tenants and with his excellent manager, always sufficed to remind him of the secondary blessing obtained by the move to Everingham. When he went to Mansfield, he must also visit his wife’s sister. Enduring Mrs. Norris’s company and conversation was no longer his daily portion, as it had been when he lived at Mansfield Park, and bidding her farewell always brought unalloyed sensations of relief and felicity.
Even more than this, was the satisfaction derived from knowing the undoubted good he had brought to Everingham. His daughter’s estate had been sadly neglected under its previous owner, Maria’s late husband, who had left all of his affairs in the hands of a corrupt agent. Sir Thomas discharged Mr. Maddison, but the mischief which had been done both to the memory of his late employer and to the comforts of the poor, was considerable, and Sir Thomas devoted much care and attention to amending them. The loyalty and gratitude of his new tenants were circumstances which gradually brought their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost, and in part reconciling him to himself.
In addition, Sir Thomas devoted much interest to the progress of his family. Communication with his son Tom was further interrupted by the war between England and the United States. Edmund lived in Belfast and since her marriage, Julia had stayed with her husband aboard his ship. Maria now spent the season in London. Of all his grown children, Edmund was the most faithful correspondent, and a fortnight never passed without a letter from Fanny. He could not, however, open a letter from his niece without being conscious of a slight sense of unease, knowing she had stayed unmarried as a result of his counsel, and the man she rejected was now both prosperous and well-regarded by his countrymen.
His advice to refuse Mr. Gibson, he believed, had been tolerably sound at the time he gave it, and certainly he had acted out of genuine affection for his niece and laudable regard for the family reputation. And yet, he feared he had not, in the end, done right by Fanny.
Such were the private concerns and cares to occupy the mind of Sir Thomas. And yet this was not all, for he was also much engrossed in following public matters, and most especially in that year of 1815, the year of Napoleon’s escape and return to power.
This final act of the long-standing drama, the clash of the assembled princes of Europe against the French tyrant, was borne by the armies, rather than the navy. The great sea-battles of the war were long past, which meant a change in the situation of Julia and her husband Commander William Price.
Despite the confident assertions of his mother back in Portsmouth, the Navy found it could do without Commander Price, though he was well respected, still young, enterprising and vigorous. He and many other officers were turned ashore in the year ‘15. Such virtue and merit could not be long neglected, however, and Commander Price was offered the captaincy of a convoy making regular journeys between Newcastle and London. Coal, the transport of coal, was to be his new occupation. He was to supervise its loading, shipping and unloading.
Commander Price’s means did not permit him to establish a home in London for his growing family, so he concluded that he and his wife Julia must settle at the other end of the route—in remote Newcastle. Julia could not like the prospect of removing to such an inhospitable place, but she was devoted to her husband and their child—and she had the further consolation of being welcome to visit her parents at Everingham whenever she chose.
* * * * * * *
“Are [the Miss Owens] musical?” [asked Mary Crawford]
“I do not at all know. I never heard.” [said Fanny]
“That is the first question, you know,” said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and unconcerned, “which every woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies—about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for not being taught; or something like it.”
“I know nothing of the Miss Owens,” said Fanny calmly.
—Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, Chapter XXIX
Richard Owen, the resident curate of Thornton Lacey, owed his good fortune to the benevolence of his friend Edmund Bertram. The handsome dwelling and generous income attached to the living enabled him to support his sisters, who depended upon him since the death of their parents.
Shortly before their removal from Lessingby to Thornton Lacey, Miss Sarah, generally held to be the beauty of the family, was wed to a respectable surgeon in Huntingdon, and so Mr. Owen brought Miss Owen and Miss Helen to his new home.
His sisters were excellent companions, but he felt some anxiety for their prospects. To live in so secluded a place! With no-one in the immediate neighbourhood who could even be called a gentleman, how should they ever find husbands? Who in Thornton Lacey could justly appreciate their accomplishments—Portia’s skill at the pianoforte and Helen’s charming watercolours?
The two sisters were by no means without stratagems and resources of their own. They took it in turn to pay visits to their friends and relations. When Miss Helen was at home to keep house for Richard, Miss Owen was free to bestow her time on their married sister. When Miss Owen returned to her family, then Miss Helen was off to see her friends in Peterborough.
A few years of this sensible regimen saw Helen become the wife of a captain of the __ militia, but left Miss Owen contemplati
ng the more-than-possibility of spinsterhood, a fate she preferred to marrying merely for situation.
She began to feel the necessity of making her own way in the world, to lay up something to provide for her future. Her brother always urged her to delay taking this fatal step, for he enjoyed her company and he valued the comfort and domestic regularity she brought to his household, and so the matter was continually deferred.
Miss Owen did not fail to think, and think often, upon the fate of unmarried women of limited income. She felt all the deficiencies of her education—for all her accomplishments, she required a better acquaintance with geography, mathematics and natural history to be a governess. Fortunately, the Reverend Bertram had left most of his library behind in Thornton Lacey. The collection took up three full walls in his little study, and this library served as the chief source of information and entertainment for both brother and sister. In the absence of other distractions in their isolated neighbourhood, Portia applied herself to improving her mind.
“Edmund is such a philistine,” remarked Richard one evening, as the pair sat comfortably before the fire with a pot of tea between them. “He has a terrible habit of marking up books — this volume of Gibbon is covered with his jottings.”
“I understand your feelings, Richard, as books were far too expensive for our family, that we should ever think of writing in them!” agreed Portia. “But your friend’s comments are invaluable to me, in pointing out what I should be attending to.”
“Do you recall, after he and I finished at Eton, and he came home with me for a visit, and he picked up a book to look into it, and was bending the spine backward most unmercifully, and our father called to him and said, ‘for pity’s sake, young man, what has that book ever done to you!’?”
