by Lona Manning
The clocks were striking two in the morning as she dimly realized she was tempted to accept Henry Crawford’s offer—perhaps this is how the gamester feels when he is convinced that he will win back his lost fortune, she surmised. Perhaps everyone who stoops to some wrongdoing thinks they have very good reasons for doing it! She saw herself living in comfort and seclusion, able to save up more monies in a year than she could in a dozen years as a governess. She saw herself attaining some measure of independence, the independence she dreamt of. But then she contemplated herself looking Edmund in the face and telling him that she was Mrs. Crawford, and she was again wide-awake and pacing the floor in her dressing gown.
The sun appeared on the horizon and she thought she had faced the temptation and faced it down, and resigned herself to staying with the Smallridges, with only a tranquil conscience to console her, when another thought occurred to her—if she could, by this sacrifice, benefit Maria Bertram and her family, could she not benefit another, infinitely dearer to her heart?
Mr. Crawford had supposed that the offer of being mistress of Everingham, even if in name only, was enough inducement for Fanny to quit her post as governess. But, as he sought to benefit from this arrangement, could she not do likewise? Could she not benefit her own brother, William?
The household was beginning to stir when Fanny gasped at a new thought—could she meet the Crawfords in audacity, as regarded taking care of her own best interests and of those she loved? In a wild flight of bravado, she yielded—she resolved—she told herself, that the prize she would obtain, was worth whatever she might have to pay.
Henry Crawford returned, true to his time, and sought another private conference with Fanny. He noted that although her eyes were a little red, she was pale and composed.
“Well, madam, what have you to say to me this morning?”
“Mr. Crawford, among our acquaintance, who would know that we are not really husband and wife?”
“My sister only. You will be introduced to everyone else, my friends and my servants, as Mrs. Crawford, and I need hardly add, treated by me with all the respect due to you.”
Now came the time! Fanny steeled herself to look into his eyes, and mildly but firmly recited the short speech she had just been practising before the mirror. “I have a condition, Mr. Crawford. You have met my brother William. You are acquainted with his excellent qualities. He has no interest to help him further his career. Sir Thomas has been very kind to him, but my uncle has no influence at the Admiralty. Please introduce William to your uncle and ask him to use his influence to get William made lieutenant. If William sends me a satisfactory account of his meeting with your uncle, I will enter into this false marriage with you for so long as you require.”
She shivered, and blushed, then saw with gratification that Crawford was regarding her with surprise and, she thought, a degree of respect. It was as though he was looking at her for the first time.
“I say again, is this Miss Price? By heaven, I think running away from home has done a great deal for you. I agree to your terms. But, as soon as my errand is accomplished, you must be ready to leave Keynsham Hill. I cannot have my wife working as a governess. With your permission, my sister and I will take our leave and I will set about immediately to fulfill my part of the bargain. And, my dear Miss Price, please,” he added with a faint smile, “consider yourself an engaged woman and do not enter into any other entanglements in my absence. Also, it were best that you continue to communicate nothing to the Bertrams at this time. Rely on me for making the necessary communications.”
Fanny nodded her agreement and after taking her hand and examining the delicate little fingers as though to judge the size of wedding ring he must purchase, Crawford bowed and withdrew, leaving Fanny to exult in the hope that, while she was a monstrous sinner for lying to the world, she might be the means of helping a beloved brother to that long deserved, long delayed, promotion.
The stamina of youth, and the agitation produced by the recent turn of events, enabled Fanny to attend to her duties, despite her sleepless night, to a degree that surprised even herself. The possibility that she might soon be leaving Caroline and Edward inclined her heart to them even more tenderly. At last, after the children were put to bed, and despite her lack of sleep, Fanny wrapped herself up in her cloak and paced upon the terrace for an hour. To think of herself as someone who could act, persuade, and command others, was entirely novel and not a little intoxicating. Anna the nursery maid observed her and wondered if the elegant gentleman who had visited her was only, as he claimed, a distant relation. Ah, poor Mr. Gibson! What chance did he have now?
* * * * * *
William Gibson, for reasons he could not explain, had decided to attend a public sermon by that well-known nonconformist divine, Dr. Lant Carpenter, concerning Unitarianism, even though his own views as regarding religion had been pretty firmly fixed since his youth. But, since the authorities were opposed to the growth in popularity of Unitarianism and Methodism, he decided he must be in favour of both, and could profit by learning more. He had a long walk home, after dark, to his lodgings, which was not at all unusual for him at any time of the year, and it was no hardship to enjoy the freshness of the night air after a warm day in which the head was assailed by the usual Bristol smells and sounds.
He was deep in thought, wondering if the Unitarians, like the Quakers, were inclined to champion the cause of abolition, when he suddenly found himself accosted by what he assumed to be a gang of footpads—a half-a-dozen big burly men, wearing the sailors’ attire of short jackets and wide-legged pants, some of them swinging formidable-looking cudgels with a practised air. He turned to run away, and found himself surrounded on all sides.
“Gentlemen,” he greeted them calmly, “to expend your labours on me would be, in the words of the Bard, much ado about nothing. You may have the few coins I possess, and then we both may go in peace, I trust, without any undue exertion on your part or suffering on mine.”
“Do we have the honour of addressing Mr. William Gibson, the noted abolitionist?” said one of the thugs, with an exaggerated bow.
“Who enquires?”
“Stay, brothers, let’s give him three guesses.” The circle of men tightened around him, and he was grabbed and then casually pushed, back and forth across the circle, as in a child’s game. It was humiliating but he could neither break free nor regain his balance.
“It’s the Hotwells Cotillion Society,” cried one. Another shove across the circle.
“It’s the League for Teaching Jumped-up Whoresons a Lesson,” followed by a shove.
“Still can’t guess, Mr. Gibson? It’s the North Bristol Press, of course. By special request, sent to apprehend one William Gibson, of no known occupation, and no income, and moreover, of known seditious tendencies, an enemy to our established religion, and a danger to the peace and good order of the City of Bristol, and therefore, the same William Gibson is hereby to be pressed into the service of His Majesty, King George the Third—”
“God bless him!” interjected a confederate of the speaker.
“And send him long to reign over us,” added another.
“Because better a lunatic than that fat pig, the Prince,” opined a third.
“– as I was saying, to wit, William Gibson is to be pressed into the service of His Majesty’s Navy forthwith, as provided by the laws of Great Britain, and the argument of this cudgel –”
A cudgel was expertly smashed into the back of Gibson’s right leg, just below his knee, and he fell helplessly to the pavement.
“One moment, good fellows—here is some error! I am not a sailor!” Gibson managed to gasp, before two beefy pairs of hands firmly seized him by both arms and yanked him to his feet again.
“You were sought out particularly, Mr. Gibson, on account of your tender solicitude for our dusky heathen brothers.”
Though taller than any of his captors, Gibson was fairly pinioned by two and surrounded by the other four and the en
tire gang was moving with practised efficiency down the street, hauling him along in their midst away from the main thoroughfare and down unlit alleys, elbowing aside the street prostitutes, and stepping on sleeping beggars, but no one they passed raised a cry of protest on his behalf.
Escape seemed entirely unlikely. He could shout for help, but who would come to his aid? Sailors and merchants often intervened to help their own friends and free them from the press gang, but the streets seemed peculiarly free of impecunious poets at that hour, nor were they, as a tribe, able to match the press gang in terms of strength.
Gibson could only hope that he could appeal to a magistrate before he was deposited on board one of the Navy’s ships and taken out to sea. He looked up at the narrow vault of the night sky through the looming buildings on either side and thought, I will write about this one day… only a scribbler would think about writing at such a time….
“Nothing to say, Mr. Gibson? I was told you could talk the legs off a pianoforte. Well, let’s have a song then, mates. Mr. Blunt, you’ll give us the pitch, please, and the time.”
“Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer,” came a strong baritone voice from the darkness, soon joined by the others, as the group arrived at a courtyard unknown to Gibson.
To add something more to this wonderful year;
To honour we call you, as freemen not slaves,
—Gibson’s arms were released, and he staggered, trying to regain his balance—
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?
—a mighty kick to his groin sent him flying backward to land on the slimy pavement, followed by laughter as he doubled up in agony. But just as swiftly, a man seized each of his limbs—
Hearts of Oak are our ships,
Jolly Tars are our men –
As his head dangled upside down, and stars danced across his vision, he could just make out a driver pulling up before them with a pony cart, with a large, lidded box placed in the back.
We always are ready:
He was rocked back and forth, to the cadence of—
Steady…… boys…… Steady!......
He was released and flew through the air, to land in the box with a jarring thud, cracking his head against the side.
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again!
The hinged lids of the box were flipped closed, and he was in utter darkness.
“Bon voyage, Mr. Gibson!”
And he knew himself to be headed for the dockyard and a cell called the ‘rondy,’ or ‘rendezvous,’ where impressed men were kept under guard until they could be loaded aboard one of His Majesty’s ships and taken to sea.
Chapter Eighteen
Fanny had to wait ten days—the longest ten days of her life—before a letter, postmarked from London, arrived from her brother William, confirming that Mr. Henry Crawford, who must be ranked amongst the best of mortals, had abstracted him from Portsmouth and sped him to Hill Street, where he had dined several times with the Admiral, and in his modest opinion, he had acquitted himself well.
She was so overjoyed and filled with fine naval fervor, that she decided the weather was warm enough for little Edward to take his new toy ship out to the duck pond. As he ran about on the shore, shouting: “Hands make sail! Away aloft and loose the royals and topgallant sails! Layout and loose the flying-jib! Board your fore and main tacks!”, in her own imagination Fanny could hear and see William, resplendent in his lieutenant’s uniform and his bicorne hat, issuing the same orders from the quarter deck, and the entire crew leaping to obey him.
A following letter from Crawford himself confirmed that his uncle was much taken with the midshipman and promised to act swiftly on his behalf. Then came the exaction of the promise Fanny had made—Crawford would follow the letter in three days’ time, accompanied, for propriety’s sake, by a lady’s maid, to escort Miss Price to Everingham where she would pretend to be his wife.
Now it was for Fanny to fulfill her part of the bargain. She had fled Mansfield Park in the grey light before dawn, unable to tell anyone of what she felt; now she must look her employer in the face and tell an utter falsehood, and only her devotion to William enabled her to persevere through the guilt of it.
With all the fortitude that she could muster, Fanny unfolded the news of her matrimonial good fortune to her mistress, who, fortunately for Fanny, was of a romantic disposition and attributed Fanny’s scarlet cheeks and averted eyes to a different cause than shame. At any rate, there could be no doubt that any governess, even one so fortunately situated as Fanny, would resign her post immediately upon being solicited to become Mrs. Henry Crawford, so Mrs. Smallridge could not bring herself to feel resentment on that score.
Fanny’s gentle demeanour had recommended her to all the servants of the Smallridge household, and though they were sorry to part with her, she was regarded by the housemaids as the heroine of a fairy tale and they helped her pack her portmanteau with much giggling and some sly comments. She bestowed what little she had to give away—a spare petticoat and some collars—to Anna the nursery maid.
Fanny’s greatest regret would be in leaving little Caroline and Edward. Far from selfishly hoping that they would not love their next governess as much as herself, she hoped that whomever took her place would be as tenderly inclined toward her charges as she was. Fanny wept, indeed, during her final farewell to the children, who, when learning that she was leaving, clung to her legs and begged her not to go, but when told she was to be married, immediately clamoured to be sent a piece of the wedding cake.
She was sorry, and not a little surprised, that she received no letter from her new correspondent Mr. Gibson, in the two weeks since his visit. She had expected him to be more prompt in beginning their correspondence, but did not feel herself equal to writing the first note to him instead. She did, with some trepidation, write to Mrs. Butters, to announce the change in her circumstances. She hardly knew what to say in reference to her new husband, as she could not bring herself to write that she was the happiest woman in the world, or to enumerate his good qualities, but on the other hand, if she were only to state his income and possessions, she would undoubtedly be set down as a mercenary bride. She could only give her new address in Norfolk and express the humble hope that her benefactress might be so kind as to write her there in future. Mrs. Butters’ lively imagination, assisted perhaps by Madame Orly, could fill in the rest as they wished.
A beaming Crawford arrived as promised, in excellent spirits, as befitted a happy bridegroom. His good humour arose not only from the capital joke he was about to play on Maria and all his acquaintance but he had, quite accidentally, discovered that it was a pleasant thing to help his fellow creatures, to recognize and reward energy, activity and merit, and to change the destiny of a deserving young person, and all it had cost him was several swift trips across the country and several dinners at his uncle’s well-kept table, activities he thoroughly enjoyed for their own sakes. He was therefore in a full glow of self-congratulation when he saluted Fanny with the news: “He is made.”
She took the letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to inform his nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the object he had undertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more, one from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had set to work in the business, the other from that friend to himself, by which it appeared that his lordship had the very great happiness of attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir Charles was much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his regard for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price's commission as Second Lieutenant of HMS Solebay being made out was spreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.
Henry Crawford knew that Miss Price was always on her guard when in his presence, but her habitual reserve fell away as she read the letters and to his pleasure, he beheld a vivacious, happy, girl. She never looked prettier than she did at that
moment and she even thanked him, profusely, for what he had done. Such a girl, lively, intelligent, with colour rising to her delicate complexion, might be plausibly presented as the wife of Henry Crawford, whereas the drab, disapproving governess would certainly perplex all his acquaintance. His own vanity required that Fanny Price be kept content, if she were to be introduced to any of his friends in future.
Fanny’s raptures also helped her through the farce that was to follow—indeed, if it were not for her pleasure and pride over William’s promotion, it is doubtful whether she could have sustained the deception long enough to bid farewell to the Smallridges and walk from the front hall to a post chaise, where the coachman, two postillions, a manservant and a lady’s maid, all waited to serve her.
Mr. Crawford charmingly apologized to the Smallridges for depriving them of their governess, and he had so ingratiated himself with the mistress of the house, that Mrs. Smallridge was impulsively moved to propose that the wedding be held there, in Keynsham Hill, with a special license. Fanny had time for only one thrill of horror, before Mr. Crawford gracefully declined the offer, explaining that his relatives were anxious to witness the sacred ceremony in their dear old village church, of which he spoke so tenderly and with such veneration that Fanny could hardly contain her indignation.
Fanny’s little portmanteau was placed in the carriage, and Mr. Crawford kissed Mrs. Smallridge’s hand, and fixed her with a look she would long remember, particularly when alone in her bath, then shook hands with Mr. Smallridge, and escorted Fanny to the carriage, placing his bride-to-be inside as carefully as though she were made of cut glass. Fanny’s eyes were indeed streaming when she left.
(This was the first, but not the last occasion, when the Smallridges had difficulties retaining a governess. Something remarkably similar would happen again in five years’ time, and their friends remarked that if a poor girl sought a rich husband, she need only engage herself to the Smallridges!)