by Lona Manning
Susan received the rocking chair to use in her nursery-room, and what little else amongst Mrs. Price’s household furnishings that was worth retaining was packed off to John in London. As Mrs. Price told all her neighbours, her new home in Huntingdon was to be all new furnished.
Certainly Fanny’s expenditures, since coming to live again with her mother, had exceeded her usual restraint. The funds for travelling post, at least, had not come from Fanny’s purse, and she secretly congratulated herself on how she had contrived it all, for when her mother continually spoke of first going into Norfolk, to visit with Sir Thomas and her dear sister Bertram, Fanny wrote to her uncle, to apprise him of the plan, and swiftly came his letter suggesting that Mrs. Price visit Mansfield instead, and he, Sir Thomas, would supply the funds for the journey.
The gratification of travelling by post, rather than being crammed into a mail coach, put all thoughts of seeing Lady Bertram out of Mrs. Price’s head, even though by accepting Sir Thomas’s largesse, she should pay the heavy tax of enduring a fortnight with her sister Norris.
The two days’ journey was accomplished in comfort and Fanny and her mother entered Mansfield on the afternoon of the second day.
Fanny was eager to take a tour of Edmund’s school immediately, but there was not enough time before dinner. For the present, to be alone with her own thoughts, after two days in the carriage with her mother, was enough of a blessing; so she attended to unpacking and arranging her mother’s trunk in the spare bedroom while her mother joined their hostess in the parlour. With two ladies so well-qualified to offer their opinions, and so persistent in giving them, Fanny was not needed to contribute to the conversation, and she did not join them until dinner-time.
At that dinner, the subject of the Grants’ dining-room table was not spared, and the folly and vanity of eating late dinners, then the extravagant doings of young people generally, then the ladies moved on to the danger and nonsense of sea-bathing, and the recklessness of travelling abroad when no foreign country could offer anything worth doing or seeing that was not better done or seen in England.
In the parlour, after their dinner, Mrs. Price settled in very comfortably, picking up both her knitting and her favourite topic, the badness of the Portsmouth servants, and Fanny hoped Edmund might join them for tea.
They had been together only twice in the past seven years, although Edmund had resumed writing to her from Italy, long letters describing his travels, and telling of his children, and how they grew and the clever or funny things they said. She hoped, she expected, to see him every moment, and soon was very little able to attend to her mother or aunt, in her agitation and pleasure. She even found herself stealing a glance into the mirror above the mantel-piece and smoothing her hair. She hoped he would not think her much altered.
He came at last, and drank tea with them all, and Fanny thought he looked very well, especially when he was smiling at her as the older ladies conversed. Their own conversation consisted merely of Edmund promising to Fanny that he would call again on the morrow and take her to the great house to meet his pupils and the Rev. Owen and his sister.
“I should rather you first see my little school in the morning, when the classes are in operation, Fanny,” he said, “although of course my children are anxious to be introduced to you. But I had rather you come in the morning, rather than this evening. And at any rate, it is too wet for you to be abroad.”
“Ha! What is it that you are saying?” cried Mrs. Norris. “Too wet for a walk to the great house? Why, it is not much above a quarter of a mile; I used to pace it three times a day, morning and evening, and in all weathers too. But if Fanny had been more regular in her exercise, she would not shirk from it.”
Edmund was about to speak in Fanny’s defence and protest that it was he who wished to defer their walk until the following morning, but Fanny placed a hand on his arm and spoke for herself. “Indeed ma’am,” she said calmly, “I can assure you that you shall see very little of me this fortnight. I shall go out every day.” She said this in such a mild tone that Mrs. Norris was unsuspicious, and returned to her conversation with her sister.
Fanny and Edmund were again left to smile at each other, and drink their tea in peace, and say very little.
The next morning, Edmund called again just as the ladies were rising from the breakfast table and very shortly they were away, and able to take a proper survey of each other, and share their mutual delight at their reunion.
Fanny’s spirits were higher than they had been in weeks. Both of them had been exiled from Mansfield, and both had returned, and both had sympathetic tempers and spirits—equally ready to exclaim on the beauty of the day, the pleasures of Mansfield, and equally inclined to share some tender or funny recollection of childhood conjured up by the familiar scenes around them. Fanny could not be sorry that Edmund’s wife was far, far, away—now, she and Edmund might speak together, walk together, be together with the perfect unreserve of their youth.
Once, only once, did Edmund mention his wife as they reached the great house, and that was to say, with calm generosity, “If I had not gone to Ireland with Mary, I might never have learned how much I enjoy being a schoolmaster. I was raised for the church, but few things have given me as much satisfaction as teaching. For that, at least, I am very much in her debt.”
It being June, the boys were permitted plenty of time for outdoor pursuits, but the morning was devoted to lessons; Miss Owen was in the parlour with Cyrus sitting beside her at the pianoforte, his legs dangling far above the pedals, while John Clay made excruciating sounds with a violin. She looked up and smiled at Fanny and Edmund when they looked in. Mr. Owen was drilling the older boys in their Latin upstairs, for the East Room was a classroom once again. There were rows of beds fitted into what been Lady Bertram’s chamber, and Christopher Jackson was fitting Sir Thomas’s chamber with additional beds.
Fanny looked, and approved, and encouraged everything. “It was a pleasure to observe how attentive Dick Jackson is to his father,” she remarked to Edmund as they concluded the tour and began to walk back down the hill to the parsonage for refreshments. “He is always at hand, handing him whichever tool he requires, or a bit of board, just as his father appears to want it, and sparing him any additional exertions, without the necessity of exchanging a word. How well they work together!”
“Yes, Dick is an excellent fellow,” Edmund agreed, “and the boys are all very fond of him, as well. He joins us on our trout-fishing excursions.”
“It is good to have such an able young man in your employ, but I believe you had better engage a Matron for your school before you take on any more pupils.”
“Quite so,” said Edmund, “I did intend to of course, but everything happened so rapidly I have not given any attention to it, and the boys are being supervised by the housekeeper, poor woman! What do you think? Should I advertise? Or make some enquiries of some of my fellow clergyman for a recommendation?”
“No doubt you would prefer a personal recommendation. I know you will want to engage a kind, motherly, sort of woman. What a pity that Mrs. Grant has left Mansfield! But then, Dr. Grant would not have spared her from the parsonage—and you would not be in the parsonage now.”
“Mrs. Grant had just those qualities which would have suited very well,” agreed Edmund. “Even though she had no children of her own. We must look elsewhere. I recall once reading about a poor widow who obtained a position as a Matron in a school, in exchange for an education for her children. I recall thinking it was such a clever solution, and a commendable benevolence on the part of the school-master.”
Fanny expressed her warmest approbation of the idea.
“Yes,” Edmund went on, encouraged by Fanny’s enthusiasm, “if the lady came from the right sort of background, I should be pleased to make the same offer to a widow in similar circumstances.”
A thought struck Fanny, as though by a thunderclap, and she stopped in the middle of the path. “Cousin, you can tell me if I have lost my
senses. But I do know of exactly such a lady as you describe—intelligent, capable, hard-working, and a widow. And she has three boys.”
Fanny started walking again, rapidly, as the idea took possession of her. “The thing is, Edmund, if ever there were three boys in need of the special consideration which your school provides, it is these three. A scandal lies upon their family name, a scandal which will make life exceedingly difficult for them. And the widow is blameless in the matter and she has suffered much for it.”
“What was the nature of the scandal?”
“Her husband murdered the prime minister.”
Edmund stared at her. “Wait a minute. Are you speaking of the assassin of Mr. Perceval? His widow? His children?”
“Yes. Sarah Bellingham. She has three boys—”
“Fanny, if I recall correctly, this same woman betrayed you to the manager of the sewing academy, to get you discharged so she could take your job. Are we speaking of the same person?”
Fanny slowed down and looked down at her shoes. “Yes.”
“Fanny, I always said you had the most charitable heart of any woman in England, but now you are taking your disinterestedness too far. Mrs. Bellingham is your enemy, and furthermore, she has shown herself to be untrustworthy—disloyal. Why should I invite such a woman here?”
“Well,” answered Fanny, “because I imagine she truly regrets what she did. I know she has had a difficult time of it. She used to have her own shop, but no-one will patronise her now. And when I think of her unenviable situation, I cannot help pitying her, very much. What she did to me, was done out of desperation.”
“It was still wrong. You befriended her, you hired her, and she betrayed you.”
Fanny smiled and resumed walking. “I do appreciate your indignation on my behalf.”
“Do you wish me to think seriously of this proposal?”
“I am thinking of her children,” said Fanny. “You say you want your school to be a sanctuary for children who are likely to be insulted and abused. What could be more destructive for a boy than to go to public school and be taunted that your father was a mad man who was executed for murder? The sins of the father, indeed, will fall on these innocent children.”
“Fanny, you would not find it awkward, to have this lady here at Mansfield?”
“I think not. True, I was made miserable, very miserable, but only contemplate what she has suffered, both before and after her husband was executed! I did admire her fortitude, and her resolution in providing for her children, come what may. And you should know, cousin, that her manner with the students at our sewing academy was excellent, the exact medium between firmness and indulgence, as I recall.
“Perhaps, too,” she confessed, “I am curious to know what has become of her.”
“You make a very affecting argument,” Edmund returned. “I shall think upon it.” But his tone did not convey conviction on his part.
* * * * * * *
"And what do you think of Miss Price, Portia?" Mr. Owen asked his sister as they walked to tea at the Parsonage a week later.
"You have mentioned how highly Edmund speaks of her—but at the White House, I should let you know, I had received a different impression from Mrs. Norris.”
Mr. Owen laughed. “You astonish me. Tell me, then. What does Mrs. Norris say?”
“Mrs. Norris described her niece as being a sly, encroaching sort of a woman."
"I believe I place more confidence in your judgement. What do you think?"
"She seems a sensible, intelligent, good-natured lady—rather reserved in her manners, to be sure, and formal in her speech, but her voice is pleasant and her countenance is sweet."
The good opinion that Miss Owen had been forming of Miss Price was equally reciprocated. Only a few meetings were sufficient to persuade Fanny that Miss Owen possessed those qualities which Fanny valued highly—a disposition to be helpful and kind, a quiet, modest manner, and a sensible, matter-of-fact nature.
The four young people met frequently during Fanny’s visit. The first Sunday found Portia and Fanny companionably sewing together in the parsonage parlour, and talking over the sermon Edmund had delivered that morning.
“I may of course be considered partial,” said Fanny, “but my cousin’s manner of delivering a speech is exactly what I like. I have seen some speakers, such as Mr. Henry Hunt, who strive too much for effect, who are too intent on drawing attention to themselves, and not to the purport of their speech.”
“I believe I understand what you mean,” said Miss Owen. “Yes, too self-conscious a style, too much enthusiasm, going from a bellow to a whisper, that sort of thing. These tricks can become tiresome.”
“I think I could never grow tired of listening to my cousin. He has been a clergyman these ten years and this is only the third time I’ve had the opportunity to hear him.”
Portia looked up in surprise. “Indeed!”
Fanny nodded, and after a moment’s pause, added, “I very much wanted to, of course. There are reasons. I am only able to visit here now because Mary Bertram is not here. For the sake of family peace, I can only visit my cousin when Mary is not with him. Her aversion to me is such that she would make life unendurable for him.”
Portia was consumed with feelings of curiousity—why did Edmund’s wife resent this amiable, mild-mannered cousin so much? Could it be jealousy? She confined herself to saying only, “What a pity there exists such an atmosphere of estrangement within your family. I will venture to suppose that this is none of your choosing.”
For her part, Fanny was surprised at herself for having confided so much on such a short acquaintance. “You must forgive me, Miss Owen, for speaking so frankly. But perhaps it is best, since you live amongst us, to understand something of our family history.”
“I think, too,” said Miss Owen gently, “you have as much right to speak of your affairs, as others have to speak about you when you are not present.”
Fanny’s needle paused in mid-air, and she gazed at Miss Owen in surprise. Her new friend looked up with an innocent air, then a sly smile crept across her face and Fanny realised she was alluding to Aunt Norris. Fanny was pleased at this evidence of Miss Owen's perfectly understanding how matters stood with Aunt Norris, and her droll way of referring to it. She and Fanny dissolved into laughter.
“When you go to Huntingdon, Miss Price, I shall give you a letter of introduction to my sister and I shall ask her to take your portrait, and you can give it to your aunt for a present.” This brought fresh peals of laughter.
"There is nothing my aunt would rather have," cried Fanny, wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes. "Or perhaps, I will sit for a sketch to give to my brother William. I trust your sister knows the art of flattering the sitter, and can produce a likeness which is better than the reality."
"Oh, you are over-modest, Miss Price. My sister can do you justice. For my part," Portia shrugged, "I was never accounted as the beauty in the family, but I do not mind it so much as I used to, when I was younger. When a girl is cried up for her beauty, only her beauty, she is in danger of being sorrier when that beauty fades, than if she had never been a beauty at all. That is my opinion, at least."
"I once overheard a lady of my acquaintance describe me as "pretty enough," and although I was mortified at the time, I am not sorry for it, now, and for the same reason," Fanny agreed.
The ladies were interrupted by the entrance of Anna Imogen with her nursemaid. Anna Imogen ran directly to Miss Owen. Fanny smiled and watched, but she felt a little stab of jealousy at her heart. Here was Edmund’s child, being fondly caressed by a stranger. The genuine affection on both sides was apparent. And it was she, Fanny, who was really the stranger.
* * * * * * *
One day, as Fanny’s visit to Mansfield was drawing to a close, Miss Owen returned from an errand in the village to find the Clay boys sliding down the banister on the grand staircase, and the other boys endeavouring to make the circuit of the drawing room by jumping f
rom chair to table to sofa, without touching the floor.
“What are you about?” She exclaimed sternly. “Henry—Cyrus—come here. Everyone! She herded them into the old billiard room, now a classroom, and ordered them to sit. She opened the connecting door to the study, expecting to find Edmund there. But the room was empty and he was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is the Reverend Bertram?” She asked the boys.
Thomas answered, “I saw father walk into the shrubbery, Miss Owen.”
“Everyone wait here!” she replied. “Open your books, everyone. Read something. Stay there, and do not move.”
Portia hurried outside and hastened through the shrubbery, highly alarmed, for she could not conceive of anything which would cause Edmund Bertram to neglect his duties.
She found him, sitting alone on a cold stone bench, with his head in one hand. He did not appear to be aware of anything around him. She approached him cautiously, although her footsteps in the gravel sounded as loud as kettle-drums to her ears. She saw that he held a letter in his hand
At last he became aware of her and looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed. Her heart squeezed in her chest at the sight of his misery.
“Good heavens, Mr. Bertram, what can the matter be? I fear you have received bad news.”
He said nothing, but handed her the letter. It was very brief.
12th February, 1819
The Office of the English Consul, Naples
To the Reverend Edmund Bertram, Esq.
Dear Sir:
It is my most unhappy duty to inform you that a gentlewoman, whom we believe to be your wife, expired in the city of Naples on the 10th inst. Enclosed you will find the certificate of Dr. John Roskilly, an eminent physician of this city, attesting to death as a result of typhoid fever.
Dr. Roskilly has provided a description of the deceased which corresponds with Mrs. Bertram’s passport, which is also enclosed. Dr. Roskilly has asked me to state he is willing to answer any enquiry concerning Mrs. Bertram which you may wish to put to him.
May I convey my profound sympathies to you and I have the honour to be, sir,
