by Lona Manning
Even the most appropriate name for the enterprise had been debated at length. One lady had proposed “The Academy for the Needle Arts,” others protested that “Academy” was too... well, verging on being pretentious, and another suggested the “Camden Town Needlework School and Emporium operated by the Society for Bettering the Condition and Increasing the Comforts of the Poor.”
A polite silence followed, and eventually Laetitia Blodgett observed that, of the half-a-dozen names put forward, none of them included the name of “Blodgett,” that is, the name of the family sponsoring the scheme, and perhaps it was not too presumptuous to expect, etc., so in the end it was agreed, or rather, some ladies resigned themselves to the fact, that the school would be called “Blodgett’s Charitable Academy. “
Thereafter everyone called it, simply “the Academy,” including the Blodgetts.
Today was the day appointed for interviewing the young applicants, and Fanny had passed a restless night in anticipation.
Fanny wholeheartedly supported the benevolence of the scheme; her strong sense of gratitude to Mrs. Butters alone assured her participation. The brusque but kindly widow had been a constant friend and advisor ever since Fanny had escaped her unhappy home situation at Mansfield Park. Mrs. Butters had introduced Fanny to a large circle of intelligent, benevolent people who fought slavery abroad and the miseries of the poor at home. More significantly for Fanny, Mrs. Butters had lovingly teased and scolded her into overcoming her timidity.
Thanks in large measure to Mrs. Butters, Fanny believed she acquired confidence and wisdom. She could recall the past, and her difficult childhood, with forbearance. Her stern uncle, Sir Thomas Bertram used to frighten her, and her cousins Tom, Maria and Julia alternately bullied or neglected her as they grew up together. Her aunt, Lady Bertram, was too indolent to take an interest in raising her children. Fanny remembered them all, and Mansfield Park, with fondness. She could even feel pity for her Aunt Norris when she imagined that lady living by herself in Mansfield, no longer able to direct and advise, to scold and warn, to bustle about the great house engaged in the important little nothings which had given purpose to her existence.
As for the fourth cousin, Edmund....
Her wish to avoid thinking about Edmund helped, just a little, in quelling the doubts that assailed her, for she knew that plunging her mind, heart and hands into this new enterprise was the best way to put the past behind her.
“So, here we are at last, ladies,” exclaimed Mrs. Butters as the coachman drew up to the three-storied brick warehouse which was to be Fanny’s new place of employment. A scaffolding was erected across the front of the building, and a man was perched up high, painting “Blodgett’s Charitable Academy” and “Blodgett & Son, Linen-Drapers” in large gold letters above the door. “What a busy day is in front of us! And we breakfasted so early—I am already feeling famished. I hope Matron has got some tea ready.”
“I shall examine the shop, Madame, if you please,” announced her lady’s maid Madame Orly.
The ground floor shop was presided over by Mr. Blodgett and his son Horace, who were brother and nephew to Mrs. Butters. They would display and sell the fabrics which the students would learn to ornament with embroidery in the upstairs classroom, and on the top floor, the dressmakers would assemble the finished garments. Madame Orly was to assist in the shop, while Laetitia Blodgett supervised the dressmakers. The excitement and bustle of the day was calculated to draw forth Mrs. Blodgett’s most querulous reactions and anxious imaginings. Fanny was arguably too young, gentle and yielding to make a creditable instructress; the asperity of Mrs. Blodgett more than made up the balance.
As Fanny descended from the carriage, she saw a long line of fidgeting, hopeful girls standing in the lane, waiting to be called in and interviewed, some with their mothers or grandmothers, others with a sister or dear friend to hold their hand and whisper encouragement. Some clutched small pieces of cloth which Fanny knew to be samples of their skill with a needle. Some had walked from nearby Somers Town, some were the poor daughters of Camden Town farmers and labourers.
Fanny gave the applicants a brief, self-conscious smile before she hurried inside, passing through the shop and climbing the wooden steps to the classroom. The upstairs room was cold, bare and musty-smelling. Fanny walked to one of the tall windows which overlooked the street, the broad wooden planks of the floor creaking beneath her feet, and counted the waiting girls below. At least sixty girls waited to apply for four and twenty vacancies in the school.
Looking down the street to her right, Fanny saw the veterinary hospital—not a very likely source for customers—and beyond, thankfully out of sight, sat the large and formidable St. Pancras workhouse, where the destitute of the parish were consigned, where young and old toiled at picking oakum and breaking up rocks, in exchange for a vermin-ridden bed and a hot meal.
To the north, Fanny could see a street of newly-built townhomes, looking strangely out of place in the midst of the surrounding fields and pastures. There were but a few gentlemen’s families living here. She wondered who would patronize the new shop. Would fashionable gentlewomen journey to the farthest outskirts of London to buy fabric and gowns?
The matter had been much debated by the charitable committee, who chose the Camden Town location because they had obtained the lease on highly advantageous terms.
“It is no farther to go to Camden Town than to go to Cheapside,” Mrs. Wakefield had argued.
“That is so,” Mrs. Blodgett had agreed. “And we will be offering our garments at an advantageous price, so the ladies will come flocking to our door.”
“I often travel to town to shop or visit,” said Mrs. Butters, “but in my experience, when I ask someone from London to come out to Stoke Newington for dinner, they react as though I had invited them to Botany Bay. Any place beyond Moorfields is a howling wilderness to a Londoner.”
“Harriet, I come from London every day,” argued Mrs. Blodgett. “The journey is a trifle—I should even call it a pleasant one.”
“Very true, Laetitia. I do not dispute the point. I am speaking of habit and custom, not of logic and reason, and you may be assured of it—we would draw more business if we were in Cheapside or near Covent Garden. However, this is not to say for certain that Camden Town will fail to draw adequate trade...”
Time would tell, Fanny thought. She had never operated a store, but she did question whether there were too few fashionable people living in the vicinity to support the academy.
Mrs. Renfrew, the school’s new matron, appeared at her elbow. “Miss Price, when should we call in the applicants?”
Fanny was startled at being applied to for her opinion. “Yes - or, no - I think, ma’am, we should wait for word from Mrs. Blodgett. And there is Mr. Edifice coming up the street.” Fanny pointed to a tall, slender man, dressed all in black, walking in their direction. The broad brim of his round black hat shielded his face from view, but she and Matron recognized him as Mr. Frederick Edifice, the local curate.
Fanny turned from the window and began setting out papers, ink and quills on one of the large, broad tables. She was to interview each of the applicants for the academy, assisted by Mrs. Renfrew and Mr. Edifice. Fanny was to concentrate on their sewing skills, Matron was to evaluate them for deportment, cleanliness and neatness and Mr. Edifice was to question them upon their knowledge of the catechism.
Fanny had feared that Mr. Edifice, Mrs. Renfrew, and even the young applicants would sense she was at least as nervous as they. But as soon as all was in readiness, and the first slender little urchin came in and executed her awkward curtsey, Fanny’s own innate kindness and sympathy came to her aid, and she soon forgot herself when enquiring into the backgrounds and needs of the girls before her.
The prospective students were between nine and twelve years of age. Only a few of the girls were lucky enough to have an active, healthy, employed father at home; some fathers were disabled for employment, others so long away in the arm
y that it was not known if they were alive or dead, some families were one misfortune away from being sent to debtors’ prison or disappearing into the workhouse.
These girls knew they lived near “Lunnon,” and that there was a King and a Queen, but beyond that, they knew almost nothing that could be learnt from books. In vain did Mr. Edifice ask each applicant, “what then is your duty toward God?” or “how shall we overcome temptation and sin?” The poor girls would goggle at him, eyes wide and mouths hanging open helplessly, and a few burst into tears. By the time the last two dozen girls were ushered upstairs, one at a time, they had obviously profited from some hints from the ones who had gone before, so they could tell Miss Price they knew how to do cross-stitch and chain stitch, they could show their clean hands and their smallpox inoculation scar to Matron, and they could loudly declaim a mangled version of the Lord’s Prayer, whenever Mr. Edifice asked them anything.
If Fanny had been free to follow her own inclinations, she would have engaged everyone. In fact, she had timidly suggested to Mrs. Blodgett: “Should we not enlist two or three superfluous students, ma’am? I should fancy that on any given day, some students will be absent, owing to illness, or family responsibilities, and we could—”
“Miss Price, there are four and twenty places in the school.”
“Yes ma’am, but we should expect some degree of—”
“The committee assigned us to select four and twenty students, Miss Price.”
And Fanny had to turn away more than half of the applicants, to her regret.
* * * * * *
“No prospect, then, of a reconciliation?’
Edmund looked down at his wine glass, slowly turning it in his hands. He was acquainted with Lord Delingpole’s directness of manner, and in fact, welcomed an opportunity to speak candidly on a subject that he could not, out of discretion, discuss with most of his acquaintance.
“She is still my wife, my Lord. And will be until death us do part. I have made no enquiries about Mary’s doings because I do not wish to know—I believe I may call myself very reluctant to know—what I may be required to forgive. Were she genuinely desirous of returning to me, it would be my duty to try to forgive her. But my parishioners, the good people of Thornton Lacey—they would tie her to a cart’s tail and flog her through the village. She could never return here.”
“Humph. No doubt their disapproval of her is in proportion to their affection and esteem for you.”
A silence followed, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the grate and the distant sound of servants washing up in the kitchen. At length, Edmund sighed and continued.
“The situation is a complicated one. To effect a reconciliation, I would have to give up this living—the one thing I told her I would never do. Furthermore, I provide a home for my sister Julia. My father feels that the notorious circumstances surrounding Maria’s marriage preclude the possibility of Julia residing with her in Norfolk. Our family name has been injured by Maria’s indiscretion, and my father thinks it best for Julia to stay apart from her sister.”
“What about leaving England entirely? Your wife would welcome a sojourn abroad, no doubt. And you could leave the past behind you.”
“Yes, should the war on the continent ever be successfully concluded, Mary and I might go to live in Italy or Switzerland. The idea is not unattractive to me, either. But were I to do so, I would abandon every duty and family tie that keeps me here. My parents are growing older, my oldest brother has left England, never to return—what am I to do?
“Does Mary know you would not put an absolute negative on a reconciliation? Do I understand you correctly?”
“Yes, but as for her—I have not received one word from Mary since she left me. Her actions conveyed the message that the separation was to be a permanent one. I do not say this to lessen her in your opinion, only to explain—she emptied this house of its contents, as well as my stables. I was left with my own clothes and the horse I was riding on when I came back from visiting my parents. The furnishings you see with me today are all from Mansfield Park. This table used to sit in the breakfast-room there.”
“And I was informed you gave Mary very generous marriage articles—she retained entire control of her fortune. I knew Mary had a mercurial temper, but I did not imagine she could be so ungenerous.”
“One suspects the influence of her uncle, there. He holds me in utter detestation. At any rate, knowing of your long-standing kindness to my wife, I do not ask you to render judgement on Mary or me. Nor have I resorted to the courts, for that matter. I have not asked for a legal separation nor brought suit against anyone for criminal conversation with her—”
Edmund coughed awkwardly, at the acknowledgement that his wife was rumoured to be the lover of Lord Elsham. Lord Delingpole picked up the decanter and refilled his own glass, then Edmund’s, and waited for the young man to continue.
“While I do not hold myself blameless for the rift in our marriage, I think in the eyes of the world, sir, I am the injured party. Yet, if I reunite with her and leave my position here, she gains everything she desired, while I lose everything I built my life upon. She didn’t want to be a clergyman’s wife and she didn’t want to live in the country. Everything and everyone else would have to give way to her inclinations. Would my forgiveness be truly answered by her repentance, in such a case?
“Mary knows she is still my wife, and I am still her husband. I remain frozen in place, sir. I cannot move backward or forward. She knows I am here. Of her whereabouts and her current sentiments, I know nothing.”
And perhaps, I never knew her , he added to himself.
Lord Delingpole leaned back in his chair, and sighed. “Well sir, my wife may be able to shed some light on this question. She has a letter for you from your wife, but it was given to Imogen on the condition you not even be told of its existence unless you demonstrated yourself to be amenable to talk of a reconciliation. I fancy Mary rather expected you to be implacably opposed. She must acknowledge that she abandoned you in the most unfeeling manner.”
“Lady Delingpole has a letter for me—?”
“I believe she has retired early, though. As should I. Good night, Bertram.”
About Lona Manning
Lona Manning loves reading, choral singing, gardening and travel. She has worked as an administrator for several charities. She and her husband divide their time between British Columbia, Canada and China, where she teaches English as a Second Language. She has written true crime articles for www.CrimeMagazine.com. A Contrary Wind is her first novel.
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