by Lona Manning
“Oh, yes,” smiled Portia, “and then father was sorry, I think, to have spoken as he did, for Edmund looked so abashed. And his manners in general, you know, were so excellent, so unassuming. No doubt he had never lived in so confined a home, with so few servants to wait upon him, but he never made us feel awkward or uneasy about having the son of a baronet as our guest.”
“I remember, rather,” said her brother with a smile, “how mama would insist that he take the best arm-chair, and she banished father to one end of the sofa, so that Edmund might have the best view of the pianoforte, the better to see you girls perform after dinner!”
Portia looked down at her book and a slight blush rose to her cheeks, which she hoped went unobserved by her brother.
“I cannot blame mama for hoping for... for wishing .. it is what any mother would do. And Mr. Bertram was, I think, perfectly easy about it all and very fond of our mother. He took no offense, I hope?”
“Oh, certainly not,” Richard agreed. “And what is more, he genuinely admires your playing.”
Portia was not certain if her brother, by saying “your” was referring to her alone, or to all his sisters, and she could not ask him. She ventured, “he was always perfectly affable. Although during his final visit, that time before you and he went to Peterborough for your ordination, we observed he was rather melancholy and quite distracted. If you will recall, mother wondered whether he had doubts about becoming a clergyman.”
Richard nodded. “I asked him about it, privately, and he said enough to me at the time, to make me understand he was struggling with an affair of the heart. So much for mother and the pianoforte, I thought to myself! I did not say anything to mother, or to you girls, of course. I did not wish him to detect any change, however slight, in our conduct toward him.”
Portia sat up, alarmed. “I hope, Richard, you are not hinting that I was—that we were—too forward or designing in our manner toward Mr. Bertram?”
“No, no, of course not. In fact, more than once he said to me, ‘Owen, your sisters are such pleasant girls, so unaffected in their manners.’”
“He did?”
And Portia hoped her brother might say more, but Richard went on, “So then of course, Edmund went back to town and married Miss Crawford. And what he has suffered since then, has almost confirmed me in the advantages of single blessedness.”
“It is a very great pity,” Portia said with real feeling, “that such an excellent, amiable man should have been so unfortunate in married life.”
“I wonder if we shall ever meet with the notorious Mary Bertram ourselves, Portia? At first, his letters to me were full of her praises, and he looked forward to the time when he might invite me to meet her. No longer! I confess to some curiousity. However, I doubt she will ever come to Thornton Lacey.”
“And if she will not return, perhaps neither will he,” said Portia. There seemed to be nothing more to be said on the sad subject, and her brother returned to his book. She looked down at her own volume, a history of Ireland, tracing with her finger one of the marginal comments written in Edmund Bertram’s clear, elegant hand.
Perhaps he had sat in this very armchair, lingering over this same page, as she now did. She knew from the housekeeper that when his wife left him and he lived here alone, he read in the evenings. He must have been lonely.
Chapter 10: Belfast, Summer 1815
In the latter part of June, whispers reached Belfast of a tremendous battle on the continent, involving all the great powers of Europe against the French. Rumours and hopes became confirmation with the arrival of ships from England bringing tidings of the final victory over the Corsican monster.
Waterloo, a place no-one had ever heard of before, became the most famous patch of ground upon the earth and Wellington was acclaimed as the saviour of Europe. The English citizens of Belfast, notwithstanding the more complicated feelings of their Irish neighbours, resolved to celebrate as dozens of other towns and villages throughout the kingdom were doing, with a giant bonfire.
Half-a-dozen youths set about gathering the brushwood and building the pyre in a field before the ruins of an old fort left from the time of King William, and Saturday evening was fixed for the celebration.
As the sun set on Saturday, it was evident that the citizens of Belfast, no matter what their religious or political persuasions, did not intend to deny themselves a sight of the spectacle. Duncairn Street was thronged with people riding and walking to the bonfire-field, many of them prepared, if necessary, to dispute the difference between watching a bonfire and participating in the celebration of an English military victory.
Edmund and Mary debated, between themselves, whether to bring young Thomas to the entertainment; Edmund was in favour; Mary feared the crowds, and disease, and sparks, and the lateness of the hour. Thomas pleaded with his mother and tears threatened. Edmund quietly spoke for the boy but Mary did not wish to be seen to waver, so they left without Thomas, much to Edmund’s regret.
Once they arrived, Edmund surveyed the scene; the bonfire was surrounded by a pleasant, grassy verge, with plenty of room to accommodate everyone, with a special place set aside for gentlewomen. Edmund announced, “Mary, I trust you are reassured that this event has been well arranged. I think we have nothing to fear from the crowds. I believe I will return to the house and bring Thomas. It is not every day one can witness such a sight.”
“Oh, very well, Edmund, if your object is to teach him that all he need do is weep and wail and his parents will give in, you may as well go. I shall wait here.” Edmund turned and ran down the hill to fetch his oldest son, while Mary entered the ladies’ enclosure and spotted the tall, formidable form of Mrs. Malcolm.
“A goodly turnout, Mrs. Bertram,” Mrs. Malcolm observed, “and I see many of our Catholic friends here. Surely some of them, or their fathers, were praying for the French to invade this country and overthrow the English, and much happiness it would have brought them, I’m sure. But that is all behind us now and who can resist a good bonfire? And there is your Captain Templeton, I perceive, looking quite martial, indeed.”
Mary wanted to protest that Captain Templeton was not “her” captain, but feared she would merely sound coy. An encounter could not be avoided this evening; all the officers made a point of visiting the ladies’ enclosure to pay their respects and show themselves off in their uniforms.
“Captain Templeton!” said Mrs. Malcolm. “We ladies are dazzled by the fine uniforms we see tonight.” The captain placed one gloved hand on his sword-pommel and made a bow, while Mary looked off into the distance, to attest to her entire indifference to gold braid, cockades and epaulets.
“You sir, have good reason to rejoice that Napoleon is defeated at least,” added another lady, “for it is our fighting men of England who have borne the burden.”
Templeton assumed a noble expression and said, “We must console ourselves with the thought that the tremendous sacrifices made in the field have spared our nation yet greater effusions of blood.”
“Oh, yes! So true, so very true, captain!” cried another admirer.
Mary, having read the exact same passage in the newspaper that morning, said nothing, but a smile of contempt curled her lip.
“And yet,” Templeton continued, “there are a great many people in Ireland, who were admirers of Napoleon, once upon a time, who opposed the war and every measure supporting it.”
“And in England as well,” said Mrs. Malcolm.
“Or, they may have called themselves patriots but they stayed safely at home,” said Templeton. “By the bye, Mrs. Bertram, where is your husband?”
“We are all obliged to the brave gentlemen of the army and the navy,” said Mary stiffly.
“And none but the brave deserve the fair, or so I have been told,” Templeton replied. “Excuse me ladies, but I have my small part to play in tonight’s entertainment. With your permission, I will take my leave.” He bowed and strolled away, whistling “Rule Britannia.”
There had been some debate, amongst the organisers of the evening, concerning who should have the honour of lighting the bonfire. The Marquess of Donegall and his lady were not in residence. The mayor had declined, for he did not wish to offend the sensibilities of the Presbyterians who saw the bonfire as a relic of paganism. Finally someone proposed the name of Captain Templeton, and although many members of the local militia were privately disappointed at being passed over, they did not wish to be seen to press their own, more modest, claims against an officer who had marched with Wellington.
The crowds were ranged in a ring all around the great pyre, and most of them, save for excitable boys, were standing at a sensible distance. A few members of the militia sounded a tattoo on their drums and Captain Templeton stepped up to a little platform built for the occasion. He favoured the crowd with a short address, but even at his highest volume, which was not inconsiderable, his eloquence was caught by only those nearest to him and was difficult to distinguish from the general hubbub. He brayed a few words about “the late splendid and decisive victory (cheers) which has been achieved by the valour of our soldiers (cheers) animated and directed by the consummate skill of Field Marshal the Duke of Wellington (ecstatic cheers).”
Then came the moment—how the boys pranced and yelled—the Captain called for the torch, and then advanced, holding it proudly aloft with one arm while with the other he waved in the direction of the ladies’ section. There was a collective intake of breath as the gallant Captain thrust his torch into the pyre—there was seen a flicker here and there—the Captain retired, and rejoined his fellow officers in the militia.
The flames, contrasted against the falling darkness as they climbed and clawed upwards, were indeed mesmerising, but Mary’s gaze followed Captain Templeton as he walked away. She suddenly realised that chance had offered her an opportunity to speak to him privately. His latest display of insolent familiarity had to be addressed.
She offered an awkward excuse to the other ladies—something about looking for Mrs. Ritchie—and left the ladies’ enclosure, darting swiftly this way and that through the crowd, moving from one group of spectators to another. No-one remarked her; all eyes were drawn to the growing pillar of flame. She passed two young men parading about with a straw effigy of Bonaparte, and a rabble of little children dancing after them, in happy anticipation of his immolation.
Mary continued to circle around the fire, searching for the captain. A tremendous ovation arose when the flames reached the top of the brush-pile, but Mary scarcely noticed. Some minutes elapsed before she finally saw him at some distance from the crowd, in company with a dozen officers of the local militia. They were laughing and talking together, and passing a bottle back and forth. She drew closer to them, and caught his eye.
He smiled and raised his hand in salute. She pretended not to notice, but walked on, away from the throng, beyond the circle of light cast by the fire, into the nearby shadows. She knew he would follow, and he did.
“Mrs. Bertram—Mary. What a delight. I knew you were a daring little piece. Here we are, alone at last.” His eyes gleamed and his voice was slurred and thick, and Mary realised that he was already drunk.
“Captain Templeton, my only motive for seeking you out tonight, was to inform you directly that your attentions to me are unwelcome.” She could not make out the Captain’s countenance very well in the shadows, but she could see that he stopped reeling about, and his shoulders stiffened.
“Oh, Mary!” There was no mistaking the resentment in his voice. “What are you about? What game are you playing, damn you?”
“There is no game, sir. As my earlier hints have been in vain, I wish to make it clear to you, that you have been presumptuous. Your supposed gallantries must cease. I know that they will, after this explanation.”
He took a step closer and spoke down to her with quiet menace.
“Why, you little tease. Have you found someone else you’d rather let between your legs? Believe me, madam, I would never have looked twice at a scrawny little thing like you, if you hadn’t been a-teasing and a-flirting and batting those long lashes at me, Mrs. Bertram. The oh-so-respectable Mrs. Bertram, that you are.”
He looked almost demonic, half in shadow, half lit by the flames of the bonfire. How could she ever have thought him well-looking? He was a common, coarse, lewd drunkard. She glared back at him, determined not be intimidated.
“Sir, I no longer know you. Kindly do not address me again.”
She turned away—he grabbed her arm, and pulled her back to face him. His other hand clamped down on her breast and gave it a painful squeeze.
“You little strumpet, now you’re going to play the great lady and pretend you haven’t been begging for it?” His whiskey-soaked breath made her stomach recoil. “I will show you what happens to lying little trollops like you.”
As he pulled her closer, Mary swiftly snatched her hat pin from her bonnet with her free hand and plunged it deep into his cheek. He jumped back, howling: “What the devil! Damn you for a whore!”
Mary picked up her skirts and ran—ran back toward the bonfire, where a shower of sparks and a crescendo of whoops and cries signalled the end of Napoleon. She hurried through the stamping, cheering, dancing throng, until she rejoined the safety of the ladies enclosure. Mrs. Malcolm greeted her with a raised eyebrow and she attempted to smile.
“You appear agitated, my dear Mrs. Bertram,” said Mrs. Malcolm. “I trust this unruly crowd does not alarm you?”
“I am quite well, I thank you, Mrs. Malcolm.” And Mary willed her racing heart to stop throbbing. She watched anxiously in all directions for the Captain’s form in the dark coming after her, but she did not see him.
“There is something rather primitive and wild about this ceremony, isn’t there, Mrs. Bertram,” Mrs. Malcolm said. “I fancy we stand in the spot where, for many centuries before us, other folk gathered under the moon to commemorate victory in battle, or the deaths of chieftains, in just this fashion.”
“We are not savages,” said Mary.
“Oh, I fear that we are,” answered Mrs. Malcolm. “Under the thin veneer of civilisation, we are all savages.”
Mary looked at her, then looked away and spotted the tall form of Edmund approaching on foot, with Thomas trotting beside him. She had seldom been so pleased to see her husband.
“Mr. Bertram! You did well to return to us so quickly,” exclaimed Mrs. Malcolm. “Alas, you missed the most interesting part of the drama.”
“We are in time for bonfire at its height, I think,” said Edmund. “And we could see it, indeed, from the base of the hill, couldn’t we, Thomas.”
“I meant the end of Napoleon,” said Mrs. Malcolm. “Napoleon has been immolated. For good and all and at last, one can only hope.”
Edmund looked at Mary and smiled.
“Are you warm enough, Mary?” he gestured at the blanket he held over his arm.
“Thank you, Edmund,” and she allowed him to drape the blanket around her. “No, put it around both Thomas and me.” She pulled her little boy tight to her, so tightly that he squirmed and wiggled away, never taking his eyes from the flames.
* * * * * * *
Captain Templeton did not appear in church on Sunday morning, but neither did many other of the men who had attended the great bonfire the previous night. Mary remained in a ferment of anxiety, fearing some dreadful retaliation.
Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday passed, and Mary did not pay any visits, nor was she at home to any callers, giving as her excuse some indisposition on the part of her youngest son.
Fortunately the next great event, the annual dinner at the White Linen Hall, was an all-male affair. She, along with Mrs. Ritchie and Mrs. Malcolm, had been consulted as to the menu, the hiring of waiters and the supply of sufficient plate and silver. The ladies attended at the hall beforehand, to ensure everything was in readiness. The results of their efforts looked very well in the morning sun which streamed through the tall windows o
f the vast meeting room. “Everything looks grand,” said Mrs. Ritchie, surveying the neatly-laid tables draped in white linen, the china plates, the crystal and the silver, with pride. Then she laughed. “Fancy how it will look in about six hours. A complete gallimaufrey, with wine and gravy spilt all over the good linen, and tobacco ash everywhere. A room full of men left to their own devices for an evening! We might as well arrange for a convocation of dancing bears!”
Mary longed to ask Mrs. Ritchie “if Captain Templeton would be attending the dinner, though he is not a member of the Society?” but she dare not speak his name in front of Mrs. Malcolm. She feared she detected a change in Mrs. Malcolm’s manner toward her, a new coldness.
The Ritchies intended to depart for Dublin soon after the Linen Hall dinner, and Mary congratulated herself on successfully evading the captain, with the precious assurance he would be gone within the week.
The annual meeting of the Society for Promoting Knowledge—for this was the august body which had convened the event—preceded the annual dinner. During the election of the officers, the report of the treasurer and the librarian, et cetera, Captain Templeton had little to do besides motion to the waiter to refill his wine glass. He was seated at the table next to Edmund Bertram’s, but they had barely acknowledged each other upon taking their seats, and ignored each other subsequently.
The waiters strode out carrying the dishes for the first course as soon as the president’s gavel hit the table. The talk at Edmund’s table during dinner turned into something of a dispute, as to whether the Society’s library ought to be reserved for works of morality, science, philosophy and so forth, or if novels should be admitted to the collection. Mr. Malcolm was strongly opposed, and Edmund agreed that while most of the novels published to-day had little to recommend them, certain works contained much that was edifying.
“I could not say,” said Mr. Malcolm dismissively, “for I never read novels,” and he looked around the table as though to say, he did not expect any of his friends to admit to such a weakness.
