Miss Price's Decision

by Eliza Shearer

  As for Mrs Allen, she discovered that Sir Thomas’ polite refusals were as formidable as her determined attempts to see the invalid, and after a while, she ceased in her attempts to interrupt Lady Bertram’s rest.

  Just as Doctor Miller had predicted, Lady Bertram gained strength in the following weeks. Whether it was because of the sea sponge tincture or the energy of the growing puppy, the fact was that she progressively increased her short walks until she was out of the house half an hour at the time. She was in such good spirits that she even began to look at the fabric samples Mrs Allen had chosen for her, asking my opinion as to which one of them would turn out best if she were to use it for new gowns in the patterns she had spotted in La Belle Assemblée.

  To my delight, I also discovered that her goitre had begun to shrink. Her favourite necklace, which at Mansfield Park was little more than a choker, was now loose around her neck by almost half an inch. My observation brought much joy to the patient, who immediately mentioned to Sir Thomas, who communicated it to Doctor Miller, who in turn wrote about it to Monsieur Levain. The merry development was much celebrated at Camden Place.

  The Allens and their charge, who were due to return to London in late April, came for one last visit. Mrs Allen was less talkative than usual, perhaps due to my uncle’s presence, but Harriet looked delighted. After three months in Bath, I could tell that she was looking forward to a change of scenery, one where the old and frail would be confined to their homes instead of being on display everywhere. I felt a stab of jealousy when Harriet expressed her hope at seeing Mr Gartner in town, but I kept my composure throughout the visit, and when we parted, we did so cordially, and with the promise to maintain a regular correspondence.

  Now that I had my sketching materials, I threw myself at resuming my practise. I would sit in the small parlour for hours at a time, sketching leaves, petals and stems, while my uncle read the paper and my aunt contentedly played with her new dog. With some satisfaction, I began to see an improvement of my work, enthusiastically confirmed by Lady Bertram.

  On the day of my birthday, Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram presented me with a set of watercolour paints and brushes and an exquisitely stamped leather sketch book.

  “Lady Bertram and I thought that you would enjoy to have all your work in a single place rather than scattered around in old scraps of paper. She was also keen for you to try to paint with watercolours.”

  “Those flowers you draw would look so pretty painted in bright colours, with a nice golden frame around them,” intervened Lady Bertram.

  That same afternoon in the parlour, when my aunt was resting in the sofa and my uncle was reading his newspaper from his favourite chair, I sat down by the little side table with the sketch book in front of me. I took one of my old pencils and began to draw the largest peony in the bouquet resting on the console table nearest the window. The blooms were a delicate shade of pink and the dark green foliage only added to their beauty, just like the delicate porcelain vase where they were placed, which was adorned with a pastoral scene.

  When I was content with the result of my efforts, I took out the watercolour box with some reverence. I was eager to use it, but at the same time afraid of the harm I might do to what now was a good drawing of a dazzling flower. Carefully, I dipped my brand new squirrel hair brush in the water, then the pink paint. It wasn’t the exact shade I wanted, but I had to start somewhere. The brush touched the paper and the pink wetness quickly covered its every surface, until the delicate pencil strokes that had so effectively rendered the beauty of my chosen bloom drowned in a sea of tinted water. My drawing was ruined. I sighed, and my gesture drew the attention of my aunt.

  “I see you are using your new watercolours, Susan. What is it that you are painting?”

  “Not much. I am afraid I have much to learn.”

  “Please show it to me.”

  I lifted the sketchbook to Lady Bertram’s eyes.

  “Oh, dear. That will not do for my wall. We should perhaps find you a tutor, like we did for the girls.”

  Lady Bertram’s voice faltered, just like it did every time Maria was implicit in the conversation. Sir Thomas was silent for a few moments, and I held my breath.

  “As you know, my dear, tutors tend to become engaged to ensure the polish of young ladies, and one might argue that Susan, at nineteen, is past that designation,” declared Sir Thomas. “She has only begun to use watercolours. With time and patience, she will master them, just as she has learnt to capture the delicacy of flowers with her pencil, in spite of having no formal training.”

  I would lie if I said that I did not feel disappointed. Returning to the table, I bit my lip, found a blank page, and started again from scratch.

  One morning, Sir Thomas addressed me at the breakfast table.

  “I wish to buy a print as present for an old friend. He has an interest in sea travel and, on my way back from town the other day, I saw a remarkably accurate picture of a vessel almost identical to one that he owns, and of which he is inordinately proud of. I was wondering if you would like to accompany me to the shop, and to assist me in choosing a suitable frame for it.”

  I was flattered, for Sir Thomas was a man that rarely requested assistance, and readily acquiesced. I cared little for pictures of ships, but after so many days of forced exile, I was looking forward to going to town.

  We set off when it was still relatively early and the bustle in the streets was much less than what it would be hours later. Even Pulteny Bridge, always heaving with crowds, was relatively easy to cross. Once we arrived at the shop, I immediately saw the print Sir Thomas had been speaking about. The drawing was very fine. It depicted a large merchant ship of proud full sails at sea, and it was so realistic that the foamy waves, although necessarily frozen on paper, gave every impression of movement.

  We went inside. The shopkeeper, a man with thin limbs and a protruding round belly who gave the impression of a snake that has been feeding on a fat mouse, immediately approached us, and he and my uncle were soon in conversation about the print. Meanwhile, I looked around at the exposed merchandise. Every inch of wall was covered by framed prints showing a wide array of subject matters, from battle scenes to trays loaded with ripe fruits to rugged Scottish landscapes, but I was immediately drawn to one picture in particular. It was a botanic print of a plant I had never seen before in my life, with bright green leaves of a substantial size and a single, absolutely exquisite bloom of a deep yet bright pink. On top of the biggest leaf sat a caterpillar, the waxy surface of its fat shell perfectly captured by the artist. I sighed. The picture was a far cry from my sad efforts with watercolour paint.

  My uncle asked for my assistance in selecting a frame, and I reluctantly abandoned my observation. The transaction was satisfactorily concluded and we were about to leave when I cast a longing last glance at the print that had so attracted my attention. My admiration was noticed by the shopkeeper.

  “Ah, madam, I see that you are rather taken with Mrs Merian’s artwork,” he cried in my direction.

  “Mrs Merian?”

  It had never occurred to me that such a wonderful piece could be the work of a female.

  “Indeed. She lived over a century ago, and her prints are famous worldwide. You are observing one from her standard collection, but similar ones, decorated with gold leaf and silver thread, adorn the walls of many royal palaces in Europe.”

  “Does she always depict plants?”

  “Mostly plants and insects, yes. She travelled as far as Surinam to observe her subjects in their natural habitat.”

  Geography was not a subject that particularly interested me. However, I knew where Surinam was, because it featured in the corner of the map in my uncle’s study at Mansfield Park. That a woman so many years ago should have travelled to a faraway post in South America to paint was extraordinary. I longed to know more, but my uncle intervened.

  “My niece has a talent for depicting natural life,” said Sir Thomas. “Her subjects are mu
ch more modest in size and spectacularity, for they are the kind of plants one might find in any English garden, but I believe they have some merit.”

  I could hear a tinge of pride in my uncle’s voice. If so, it was rare, and for that same reason, particularly precious. I felt my cheeks burn.

  “If I may say so, there is a burgeoning interest in nature-related subject matters and I am always on the lookout for new artists. It would be a pleasure to see some of your niece’s work. If you approve, that is. Who is her master, may I ask?”

  “My niece’s abilities with the brush are entirely self-taught,” replied Sir Thomas curtly.

  The shopkeeper shook his head.

  “Natural talent is wonderful, but it needs direction and discipline to deliver, especially in the case of young ladies. I am yet to meet the artist who does not benefit from the guidance of someone more experienced.”

  For once, Sir Thomas looked flustered. He bowed and we swiftly let the shop.

  A few days later, during one of our morning walks, Lady Bertram announced that Sir Thomas had decided that I might benefit from a few lessons with a drawing master. I almost dropped puppy’s leash.

  “How generous of him,” I replied, tightening my grip. The puppy was growing bigger every day, and it had more strength that its petite size suggested.

  “After making some enquiries, he has settled on a Prussian, or a German, I cannot for the life of me remember which. He is coming over for a short visit tomorrow, and if Sir Thomas approves, he is to begin on Thursday.”

  I could not hide my delight and my pleasure at such a gesture on my uncle’s part.

  Herr Schäffer was a little man with luxurious black whiskers and the energy of a man half his age. A Dresden native who had trained at the distinguished Prussian Academy of Arts, he had lived in England for the best part of the last decade, although he had lost none of his German accent. From the first of our meetings, in my uncle’s presence, I was quick to realise my luck.

  “I realise that my niece is probably older than most of your charges,” began Sir Thomas, “but I believe she has some talent, and it has only been the remoteness of our situation that has prevented us from engaging a tutor in the past.”

  Herr Schäffer rocked his head in a curious fashion, almost from side to side.

  “The starting age is never a problem for proficiency, Sir Thomas, perseverance is. May I see any samples of Miss Price’s work?”

  I stood up and, clasping my hands so that nobody would notice they were shaking, I handed Herr Schäffer my portfolio, where I had arranged what I considered to be my best work. The master took a pince-nez from his coat pocket and observed them in silence. His face was inscrutable and my heart began to weigh like lead. At one point he made a strange gesture with his small, woman-like fingers, and observed my drawings through the gap left by his index and thumb. Finally, he nodded to himself and addressed my uncle.

  “I believe I can help Miss Price, sir. Her technique is crude to the point of being almost non-existent, and she is using the wrong type of materials to achieve the finish she most likely has in mind, but I can teach her a great deal.”

  I winced. I did not expect from an experienced master the same kind of undivided praise I was used to receiving from my uncle and aunt, but his words were harsh.

  “I could take offence at your words, Herr Schäffer,” said my uncle in a warning voice.

  “You could, but I am telling the truth. Talent is overrated, hard work is underrated. Your niece has a modicum of natural ability, or she would have never created what she has with no prior guidance, but it is evident that she has had no guidance. So, I can help her, but the question is if she will allow me to. I find that these days too many young women and their families expect me to praise their accomplishments as if they were truly gifted, but they never have enough time to work on their technique. If Miss Price wants to improve, she most of all requires humility and industriousness.”

  The master left shortly afterwards, and as soon as he was out of the room, my uncle addressed me.

  “So, Susan, what did you make of Herr Schäffer? I dare say that the idea of engaging him as your tutor does not appeal to you much.”

  “On the contrary, sir, I think he would make an excellent master.”

  “Do you?” Sir Thomas’ voice could not hide his surprise.

  “Indeed. He is no flatterer, and I think I can learn much from him.”

  “I believe you are right,” said my uncle with a sigh. “Herr Schäffer’s manner can’t have helped his career as tutor to young ladies, but to truly progress and advance, one must accept one’s mistakes first. I shall engage his services immediately.”

  The following day I began taking lessons with Herr Schäffer from the drawing room, with Lady Bertram and her pup present.

  Chapter 12

  Herr Schäffer appeared to instinctively understand where my technical difficulties lay, and proceeded to correct my faults. He also encouraged me to expand my repertoire to include portraits, landscapes and street scenes, and approved of artistic experimentation in a way that I found most satisfying. Now I spent every moment I had with my paints, pencils and paper, roughly sketching flowers and leaves and bringing them to life with the subtle nuances of watercolours. I produced dozens of such pieces a week, and Lady Bertram took a particular delight in asking me to show them to her every Sunday afternoon. Just as she wished, a few of her favourites were framed and put up in the drawing room, replacing the collection of war illustrations that originally hung on the wall. Whether her gesture was due to a genuine appreciation of my artistic prowess or because she found the military prints ghastly, it was a gesture that gave me enormous satisfaction.

  Our limited social interactions allowed for ample self-reflection, and I thought a lot about Jamie and our shared past. A memory in particular, one that I had long kept hidden in the depths of my heart, became particularly recurrent. On the day before his departure, my mother sent me to fetch my brothers, and I found them by the Square Tower on Broad Street, where local boys often congregated to fly homemade kites. It was getting dark and the wind was as cold as an icy knife. Huddled by the wall of the old medieval fortress, my younger brothers, under Richard’s supervision, were untangling the lines of several kites that the wind had bundled together. Jamie was standing nearby, and the minute he saw me, signaled me to follow him to the steps at the back of the building, where the mighty walls of the Tower hid us from the sight of anyone but the fishermen in their boats that appeared on the horizon. I had ever seen him look so serious.

  “Susie, do you know why I am leaving?”

  “Of course I do. You want a better life,” I mumbled.

  “And if I remain in Portsmouth, I will forever be poor orphaned Jamie.”

  I nodded and lowered my head. Clumsily, he took my hand in his.

  “We will hear of each other through Richard. I will make sure he writes home like no other sailor has done before.”

  “I’m not sure you will remember,” I mumbled. “The world is a big place.”

  “Perhaps, but I could not forget you, even if I tried.”

  I blushed, and he gave me a sweet, sad smile. In the distance, I heard Richard shout my name. The boys must be ready to go back to the house, but I was rooted to the spot.

  “I will be back, Susie. I will bring you a Chinese cabinet, just like the one in Mrs Maxwell’s front room, and then I will ask you to marry me. I promise.”

  He gazed lovingly into my eyes. My brother’s voice was growing insistent, but not even the sound of a fire bell would have made me look away. Slowly, as if pulled by an invisible force, our heads became closer. I closed my eyes and our lips met for the first time. His lips were soft and his chin prickly, for he had just begun to shave on Sundays, and he smelt of sea bream and musk. It lasted an instant, but my whole being tingled at his kiss and I was changed forever. I began to shake.

  “You are trembling. Let us get you home,” he whispered.


  We returned to the front of the building, where my brothers were waiting. Thankfully, only Richard seemed to understand what might have happened, and other than winking at Jamie, he did not give me grief.

  The following night, after waving him goodbye from the pier, I cried myself to sleep. Jamie, my best friend since Mary’s death, with whom I had shared time, dreams, secrets and fears, was to be no longer by my side, and I did not think I could ever love another.

  It was around mid-May when Julia wrote announcing that she intended to visit Bath with a friend of hers. Lady Bertram was overjoyed.

  “How delightful that Julia can come and stay with us,” exclaimed my aunt upon finding the letter waiting for her on the console table. She had just returned from walking the dog with Sir Thomas and her rosy cheeks gave her a pleasing air of good health.

  “I am not sure they can, my dearest,” said Sir Thomas over his newspaper. “There is only a spare bedroom available, and unless they are prepared to share it, I do not see how we can fit them both in the house.”

  “You forget the small attic room upstairs. One of them can sleep there.”

  Sir Thomas lifted his eyebrows.

  “I could be wrong, but I do not expect Julia or her friend to consider it a suitable arrangement.”

  “What if Susan moved up there from the back bedroom?”

  “It is a not insensible proposition, but I dare say, dearest, that the decision is for Susan to make.”

  “You would gladly move upstairs to make room for Julia and her friend, would you not, Susan? It is not inconvenient for you, is it?”

  My aunt’s question took me by surprise.

  “Of course not, dear Aunt,” I muttered, feeling my ears and cheeks burn. I could not believe my aunt’s lack of sensitivity.