by Lona Manning
* * * * * *
Mrs. Smallridge was churched in the New Year; the infant daughters were christened Amelia Mary and Sophia Anne, and Mrs. Butters announced her intention, now that matters were in so smooth a train, to return to her own establishment in London. Fanny was very sorrowful upon hearing the news, as she privately considered the older lady to be her best friend and guide in her new life.
However, an unexpected pleasure awaited her, for the Smallridges declared their intention of visiting with their friends the Sucklings for a few days, leaving Mrs. Butters in command of the household, and authorizing her to invite and entertain any of her Bristol friends as she pleased, not excepting her abolitionist set. Mrs. Butters invited Fanny to make a fourth at the table with Mr. Thompson and Mr. Gibson—Miss More having returned to her own quiet country village—and the young governess was in a happy flutter all week, anticipating the dinner party and the evening to follow. She wore her new periwinkle blue muslin, which made her light blue eyes appear rather darker. Madame Orly offered to dress her hair, and allowed that it was a pleasure to wind the ribbons and arrange the braids just so, for the dear old Madame always wore her widow’s cap and entre nous, a wig under that, and what could be done with that, hélas?
Fanny looked at herself in the mirror and saw a stranger. At first she worried that her hairstyle was too outré, but after examining herself in the glass for a longer period, decided that the elaborate topknot Madame Orly had bestowed on her gave her some added height, and some judicious pinching of the cheeks and lips completed her toilette. Mr. Gibson, of course, was the sort of man who was oblivious to fashion, and she had never set herself up as a beauty and much preferred, in fact, the compliment of being thought a worthwhile companion, than a creature to be admired. But—but, she was glad to know that she was in good looks that evening. Feeling very happy but conscious, she joined Mrs. Butters in the drawing-room to welcome their guests.
Mr. Gibson handed her in to dinner, resplendent in a red velvet jacket, such as was worn by a previous generation of English gentlemen, much faded and worn, but the fact that he was not wearing his customary patched dull brown jacket was clearly intended as a compliment to his hostess and to the evening. Mrs. Butters had ordered enough dishes for twice as many as sat down at table, because she knew Mr. Gibson—poor man! —lived on bread and stale cheese, and could acquit himself very well at such a banquet as the Smallridge’s cook was proud to provide.
Fanny perceived that Mr. Thompson, a lawyer of about five-and-fifty, was one of those philanthropists who love mankind in general, but are not overly fond of its individual specimens, being easily irritated by the faults of others. His Quaker garb and his white whiskers, together with his zealous expression, put Fanny in mind of an energetic Scots terrier. Mr. Gibson, with his mild yet witty manners and friendly countenance, formed an agreeable contrast to his sterner companion. However, the erudition of both of the gentlemen, and the respect and affection with which they treated their hostess, made the dinner that followed more than answer Fanny’s longing for stimulating discourse. The talk between the three friends provided a striking contrast to the usual insipidities at her employer’s dinner table, or worse, the studied coldness of the wife and the cutting sallies of the husband. Fanny ventured few remarks herself, but listened eagerly. She had expected the slave trade to comprise the whole of the conversation from the first course to the fruit and cheese, but in fact Mrs. Butters and her guests touched on many topics—the health of the King, the incompetence of Parliament, the state of the roads, the doings of their mutual friends, the latest publications, the education of the poor, and the army’s reverses in Spain, and whether the new commander, Wellesley, could turn the tide against the Corsican. Here Fanny was able to speak of the activities of the Navy, adding information supplied to her by her brother, and his cheerful prognostications of complete victory in the New Year.
The talk reminded Fanny of the act of skipping stones over a broad lake, as the speakers moved swiftly from one topic or allusion to another, but leaving the listener in no doubt of the foundations of learning supporting the discourse, or, as she fancied, the depths of the water beneath the sparkling surface. And as plentiful as were the courses laid before them, the richness of the talk amazed Fanny even more—she felt herself to be at a banquet where she could sample only the smallest portion of the knowledge on offer. And through it all, the delicious, the novel, consciousness that Mr. Gibson was at no small pains to please and entertain her, that he was as aware of her presence at the table as she was of his.
The last dish being tasted, the ladies then withdrew but were swiftly re-joined by the gentlemen who, being neither smokers nor heavy imbibers, had no other business at hand but to continue to pay their respects to their hostess and patroness of their cause.
“And now, my dear lady,” Mr. Thompson bowed to Mrs. Butters, “allow me to present to thee the first volume of the newly-published history by Mr. Clarkson.” Fanny caught the reverent tone with which Mr. Thompson pronounced the name of Clarkson, and Mr. Gibson explained, “This is a history of the successful abolition of the slave trade, written by a chief instigator of our movement.”
“Do not say successful, Mr. Gibson,” cried Mr. Thompson, “for thee knows that the trade continues, with the Portuguese, the Spanish, the French, aye, and with our own people as well—for laws alone will not make men obey, without power to enforce the law.”
Mrs. Butters exclaimed with pleasure and asked Mr. Gibson to please read aloud to them all. He took the volume in his hands, and he proved to be an excellent reader. His affecting descriptions of the Africans torn from their homes, of families separated, of slaughter and raiding parties, brought tears to Fanny’s eyes and she could not help wondering again, if it were possible that all of this could be known to her uncle? She heartily wished that Edmund was there, to help her in her perplexity.
After Mr. Gibson had read for three quarters of an hour, and then begged a brief respite, Mrs. Butters challenged everyone in the party to recite from memory a favourite speech from Shakespeare.
Mr. Thompson assumed the role of Richard the Third before Fanny’s eyes and gave out with Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York… Fanny was quite transfixed and when he exclaimed ‘dive thoughts, down to my soul…. here Clarence comes!’ she looked anxiously toward the door, expecting Clarence, and everyone laughed at her but so merrily and fondly that though she blushed, she also laughed, at herself.
Mr. Gibson then stood, and with twinkling eyes and a confiding smile, declaimed:
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night….
And when her own turn came, she could not meet the eyes of her auditors, but looking into the flames on the hearth, softly recited the only Shakespeare speech she had read often enough to know by heart:
Then, I confess,
Here on my knee, before high heaven and you
That before you, and next unto high heaven,
I love your son.
My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love:
Be not offended, for it hurts not him
That he is lov'd of me…
and so on through the rest, until she fell silent.
There was a moment’s silence… then— “Oh well done, Miss Price!” from Mr. Thompson. “We shall have a poetry-reciting contest between thee and Mr. Gibson one day, to learn who has the most prodigious memory!”
Fanny was starting to exclaim, “Oh no, you must excuse me, I cannot—” when she caught Mrs. Butters looking at her significantly, a look that clearly said, ‘don’t apologize for yourself, Miss Fanny Price.’ Instead, Fanny coughed, and blushed, and nodded, and said, “thank you, sir,” and coughed again, and Mrs. Butters smiled and Mr. Gibson ro
se and fetched her a glass of wine with water.
Finally, Mrs. Butters and Mr. Thompson fell into an involved conversation about the regulation of a colony for freed slaves, how it would be financed, how governed, how defended, whereupon it appeared that Mr. Thompson was so intense on every detail, from the crops that should be grown, the clothing and tools that should be issued, the modes of religious instruction provided, the recreations that would be permitted or forbidden, that to Fanny he appeared to be building his own perfect kingdom in which the inhabitants, while nominally free, would be so surrounded by well-meaning strictures that they could decide nothing for themselves. From this discussion the two young people in silent accord withdrew, and found themselves drifting away from the circle of light by the fireside and moving toward the tall windows which overlooked the broad lawn.
“The night is too cold to take a turn upon the terrace, Miss Price,” Mr. Gibson offered. “But I believe we can watch the moon rise if we stand by the window. You will not be too cold? Allow me to place your shawl for you.” Thus half shielded by the drawing-room curtains, the young people alternately admired the gathering night and each other. Mr. Gibson talked of himself, as a young man with a pair of sympathetic eyes fixed upon him is wont to do.
“I was intended for the law, Miss Price, and I do not deny that had I persevered in that profession, it might have been of some service to our cause, but, for better or worse, I found that I could not endure it. If you know what it is to be impelled by an irresistible force, then you will understand me. I cannot do other than what I am doing—although I know perfectly well it means”—and here was a significant glance at his fair companion— “I cannot afford to settle or marry, not with the life I now lead. I am indifferent as to worldly ambition, in the sense of becoming a foremost parliamentarian or leader of society; money I value only as it may assist our cause—but,” he laughed, “I will confess that fame has its appeal.”
“But I think sir, you are not eager to win the approbation of others, if to do so you were compelled to conform to society against your conscience?”
“How well you know me—or rather, how well you have discerned my particular form of vanity! I do not know how to temper my convictions to suit society, nor how to view with complaisance what ought to be condemned with horror and detestation by every man who calls himself a civilized gentleman. There are many, I know, who follow the path of duty and in so doing, must turn away from following their heart’s desire, but I am a selfish fellow—I cannot do other than what I feel I must do, and cannot be silent when I must speak, cost what it may.”
“To dedicate your life in such a manner can only bring you the respect and admiration of those who deserve the name of friend,” Fanny declared loyally. “It is only to be regretted that there are not more persons like yourself and Mr. Thompson, those who give their lives to an important cause, rather than living merely for pleasure, or merely for themselves. Those who are aware of a higher calling, who put their hand to the plough and do not look back, have surely been called by Providence to do some great thing!”
Mr. Gibson looked at her and smiled his gentle smile which made her feel, delightfully, that he must enjoy conversing with her, even if they differed on some points. “Providence, you call it? Do you believe ‘there’s a divinity that shapes our ends’? That somewhere there sits an eternal auditor who watches over all, and graciously stoops to alter this man’s path or change that woman’s destiny in response to their humble petitions?”
“Of course—can anyone doubt it?”
“I can think of many millions who could doubt it, starting with the men and women kidnapped from their homes, shackled and beaten, who beg aloud for the intercession of a—but I shock you, I perceive. My dear Miss Price, I would never wish to give you pain. If you were to promise to remember me in your prayers, I would deem it an honour. ‘Nymph, in thy orisons, be all my sins remembered.’” He gazed at her earnestly, and could see, even in the dim light, that a deep blush suffused her cheeks, nor could she speak; to spare her embarrassment, he turned away to the window again.
“And as we observe the beauties of the universe on an evening like this, my heart cannot deny a yearning for the consolations of faith, even as my head cannot admit the inconsistencies, the illogic, even the barbarity of our scriptures. Have you read, actually read, the entirety of the Old Testament, Miss Price? Have you ever read Thomas Paine on the subject? No? —well, never mind, I think Paine would be too abrasive for one who has never encountered such writings before.”
“If I understand you correctly, Mr. Gibson, you are in doubt as to the first Author of our morality, yet you are such a very moral man yourself. In the portion of Mr. Clarkson’s book that you gave to us, we heard a beautiful exposition of the moral laws of charity, which explains why the loudest opposition to slavery is to be found among Christians. If there is no divine law, why are you so perturbed by cruelty? From whence arises the strength of your convictions?”
“I do not attempt to deny, or even discount as inconsequential, the fact that most of the leaders of this movement are people of strong religious conviction. Between you and me and the moon, it is sometimes wearisome to hear the confident pronouncements of Wilberforce and his Clapham Saints on exactly what God does or does not approve of. I can only say that it appears self-evident to me that injustice on this earth can be clearly seen and felt, and, being seen, must be opposed, without reference to any supernatural being who cannot be clearly seen or felt, at least not by me. But again, do not let me distress you. If it is any consolation, our mutual friend Miss More has been trying to help me see the error of my ways for some time, and—who knows—she may succeed. By the bye, how did you like her book?”
“Oh! Very well, I suppose, but it is mostly allegorical, just like Pilgrim’s Progress, so it is not the diversion I was hoping for.”
“Then I will not be able to resist the temptation to send some Thomas Paine to you.”
“You will give me Paine after all?”
Gibson laughed aloud, and Fanny realized she had made a pun, and laughed along with him, even though she was a little disappointed and confused to learn that he was not an adherent of that faith she had known and imbibed from childhood. And yet, his eyes were so gentle and merry, and his smile so warm, and his intentions so undoubtedly good, that she would not turn away from his friendship on that account.
Not long after this pleasant evening, Mrs. Butters returned to her home in Stoke Newington, north of London, and she took an affectionate farewell of her niece’s family and left more than a kind word and a thought for the governess, for she invited Fanny to correspond with her. Fanny would gladly have done so for the pleasure of communicating with the blunt old widow for her own sake, but knew, also, that every letter from Mrs. Butters might also bring her news of Mr. Gibson’s doings, and that he in turn would receive news of Miss Price, and she could almost suspect that this was Mrs. Butters’ intention.
Chapter Eleven
Miss Crawford heard nothing from her brother Henry all through December and the New Year, apart from a brief note at Christmas. He was supposed to be scouring the countryside, looking for Fanny Price. Her correspondents, and she had many, told her that Henry was here, there and everywhere during the holidays. Had she been able to send a letter to him, she would have told him that his design to weaken Maria Bertram’s affection for him by staying away was in vain; Maria regarded herself as a woman engaged, and looked forward to their reunion in London.
Mary continued to feed her hopes, reasoning, as always, that close ties between the Crawfords and the Bertrams augured well for her own eventual marriage to Edmund, and she heedlessly flattered Maria with pictures of her coming triumph in the great metropolis, and the jealousy it would engender among the fashionable ladies of London.
“My dear Maria, you cannot have an idea of the sensation that you will be occasioning, of the curiosity there will be to see you, of the endless questions I shall have to answer! Po
or Margaret Fraser—the stepdaughter of my good friend—will be at me forever about your eyes and your teeth, and how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. Ah! poor girl, she never had a chance of succeeding with him.”
“I am not surprised that many young ladies should have esteemed Mr. Crawford, but what of his affections?” Miss Bertram could not resist asking her companion. “Did he ever show any particular regard for anyone?”
“Henry is generally agreeable, as you well know, but I can honestly state that he cared for no one more than he cares for you,” Mary answered stoutly and truthfully. “He was never tempted into contemplating matrimony, I do assure you. I have three very particular friends who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains which they, their mothers (very clever women), have taken to reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is inconceivable!”
The effect of these conversations was not entirely as Mary intended; instead of gratifying Maria’s vanity, the thought of Henry’s many admirers awoke alarming sensations within her breast, and she resolved to watch her beloved carefully when they were together in London for symptoms of particular regard for any young lady who had made his acquaintance before he came to Northamptonshire.
The New Year came, and the long-awaited day arrived, and the Bertram sisters, with their aunt and brother, took possession of their home for the next six months, in London.
Mrs. Norris’ triumph in being the acknowledged chatelaine of a townhome in a fashionable part of London could be readily imagined by anyone acquainted with the lady, and she was no less eager than her young charges in commencing her residence there, in getting her cards printed and even laying out some of her own money in ordering new dresses and bonnets. The dining-room in Wimpole Street was smaller, indeed, than the corresponding room in her old home, the parsonage, but she nevertheless saw herself as she would be in a few weeks’ time—a sought-after hostess, presiding over a table as elegant, and bountifully laid, as Sir Thomas’ money and her own ingenuity could supply.