‘We must hold it soon, for Wil iam has to be at Portsmouth on the twenty-fourth, so we have not much time left. But I believe we can col ect enough young people to form ten or twelve couples next week, despite the shortness of the notice.’
As soon as I had a chance to speak to my father alone, I said, ‘I am very happy at the idea of a bal , for it has been troubling me recently that Fanny has not yet come out.’
My father was surprised to learn of it.
‘Mama felt that her health made it wise to wait until she was older.’
‘Just so,’ he said. ‘Wel , this shal be her come-out bal then.’
The invitations were sent out this afternoon, and as I happened to be going past the Parsonage, I took the Crawfords’ and the Grants’ invitation in person. I was pleased to see Mary’s eyes sparkle, but learned it was not with thoughts of the bal . She had just then received a letter from her friends in London, and they had invited her to stay.
‘I thought you were fixed here,’ I said, my spirits sinking.
‘And so I am, but you would not begrudge me a visit to my friends, I am sure,’ she returned.
‘Henry has kindly agreed to remain at Mansfield until January, so that he might convey me to them.’
And so, before January I must offer her my hand, for if I do not, I may miss my chance for many months, or, if she decides to stay in London, forever.
Wednesday 21 December
Wil iam and I went into Northamptonshire this morning and I col ected Fanny’s chain, which Tom had sent on for me. Wil iam was pleased to see it.
‘It is exactly the sort of thing I wanted to buy for Fanny, to go with the amber cross I bought her, but as a midshipman my pay would not stretch so far.’
‘Your time wil come,’ I reassured him. ‘When you are a captain, you wil be able to buy Fanny as many chains as you wish.’
Our business concluded, Wil iam and I rode back to the Park and I took the chain upstairs, thinking to find Fanny in her sitting-room, but she was out. No sooner did I sit down to write her a note, explaining that the chain was hers, and what it was for, than she entered the room. Hardly had I handed it to her when she told me that Mary had already given her a chain for that very purpose. I was heartened to hear of it, and then thought, a moment later, that I should have expected it, because Mary has always been thoughtful, particularly where Fanny is concerned. Fanny said she would return Mary’s gift, but I would not al ow it, for it would be mortifying to Mary.
‘But it was given to her by her brother,’ said Fanny. ‘I tried not to take it when I knew, but she insisted, saying he gave her so many things, one more or less did not signify. But I was not comfortable with it then, and I am not comfortable with it now, the more so because it is no longer needed.’
‘Miss Crawford must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least,’ I said. ‘I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise between the two dearest objects I have on earth. Wear hers for the bal , and keep mine for commoner occasions.’
And so it was settled, and I was heartened as I returned to my room, to know that Mary had so much generosity in her.
Thursday 22 December
It is not only Mary who has generosity in her, it is also her brother, for he has done a very kind thing. He has offered to convey Wil iam to London, whither he is bound himself, and has invited him to spend the evening at Admiral Crawford’s. This is just the kind of notice that wil help Wil iam in his career. To be brought to the attention of an admiral can do him nothing but good. I went down to the Parsonage shortly afterwards, intending to thank Crawford for his kindness, and to engage his sister for the first two dances at the bal . Crawford was from home, but Mary took my thanks very prettily and invited me to sit down.
‘I am here on another errand as wel ,’ I said. ‘I have come to ask if you would stand up with me for the first two dances.’
‘Certainly,’ she said, adding, ‘For it wil be the last time I wil ever dance with you.’
‘But why? What is this? You are to return from London, surely? I thought you were only going to pay a visit to your friends.’
‘And so I am, but when I return, you and I wil never again be partners.’
I was astonished. ‘How so?’
‘I have never danced with a clergyman, and I never wil .’
I could not make her out. Was she joking? If so, it was in very poor taste. If not . . . At that moment Mrs. Grant came in and I could not say any more about it, but as soon as I returned to the Park I sought out Fanny.
‘I come from Dr Grant’s,’ I said to her. ‘You may guess my errand there, Fanny. I wished to engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances.’
‘And did you succeed?’
‘Yes, she is engaged to me; but . . .’ I forced a smile. ‘. . . she says it is to be the last time that she ever wil dance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she is not serious; but I would rather not hear it. For my own sake, I could wish there had been no bal just at — I mean not this very week, this very day; tomorrow I leave home.’
‘I am very sorry that anything has occurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle meant it so.’
‘Oh yes, yes! and it wil be a day of pleasure,’ I said, recol ecting myself, for the bal was intended for Fanny, and I did not want to spoil her enjoyment. ‘It wil al end right. I am only vexed for a moment. I have been pained by her manner this morning, and cannot get the better of it.’
I shook my head as I thought that Mary’s former companions had encouraged her in such shal ow opinions and poor taste.
Fanny thought as I did, that Mary’s words were the effect of a poor education.
‘Yes, education! Her uncle and aunt have much to answer for!’
Fanny hesitated.
‘Excuse the liberty; but take care how you talk to me,’ she said gently. ‘Do not tel me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. The time may come—’
‘The time wil never come, I have almost given up every serious idea of her,’ I said, shaking my head, for the more I remembered her words and expression, the more I began to feel that I had been a fool to believe I could ever win her. ‘But I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever befel me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the sincerest gratitude,’ I said to Fanny with a smile.
We were disturbed by the housemaid and, though I would have liked to say more, this prevented further conversation.
I returned to my room to dress for the bal , and my head was ful of Mary. I recal ed every nuance of her voice and her expression, and by and by I began to think that I had lost heart too easily, and that things were not so very bad. It was playfulness, surely, and not rejection, for even in London there were clergymen, and she could not refuse to dance with them if they asked her. With these happier thoughts in my head I went down to dinner. My humor was so far improved that I was ful y able to appreciate Fanny’s beauty and elegance of dress, and to compliment her on it.
‘But what is this?’ I said, seeing her cross hanging from my chain.
‘Miss Crawford’s chain was too big. It would not fit through the hole,’ she said. ‘Yours was just the right fit. I thought it only proper to wear Miss Crawford’s chain also, as she had been kind enough to give it to me, and so I wore it on its own.’
I saw Mary’s chain hanging beside mine.
‘An excel ent solution. The amber becomes you, Fanny. You are in looks tonight. You must keep two dances for me; any two that you like, except the first,’ I said to her. No sooner had the ladies withdrawn after dinner than the carriages began to arrive. Mary looked more lovely than ever, her hair arranged in the most becoming style and her dress as faultless as ever. To my delight, Crawford sought out Fanny. They made a handsome couple, and admiring eyes were turned on them. My father looked pleased, and Mama, too, smiled, as Fanny walked on to the floor.
And then I had eyes only for Mary. When she smiled upon me, I banished the last
of my fears and gave myself over to an enjoyment of the evening.
‘It was very kind of you to supply Fanny with a chain for her cross. It shows to advantage against her delicate neck,’ she said, as I led her out on to the floor.
‘No kinder than it was of you. I know she wanted to wear your chain with the cross, and was prevented only by its being the wrong size.’
The music started. I bowed, she curtsied, and the dance began.
‘But she is wearing it anyway. I believe a better girl does not exist. She seems to be enjoying herself,’ she said, glancing towards the top of the set, where Fanny and Henry were dancing, adding, ‘though she seems to be looking at Wil iam as often as she looks at Henry.’
‘She has seen so little of him these last eight years, I believe she feels she must keep her eyes on him in case he disappears!’
‘Which he wil do al too soon, alas.’
‘Yes. It is good of your brother to interest himself in Wil iam. My father has done al he can to help, but he has little influence in the Navy and can do no more. If your uncle would take up Wil iam’s cause and help him to a commission as lieutenant, it would mean a great deal to him. We would al like to see him do wel .’
‘He is ambitious,’ said Mary approvingly. ‘He tel s me that, if only he can be made a lieutenant, he means to rise through the ranks and not stop until he makes Admiral. It wil be a lucky young woman who wins his heart. A handsome young man with a fortune, to say nothing of a uniform, wil always be popular with the gentler sex.’
‘He has many years of bachelorhood ahead of him yet. He is only nineteen, hardly more than a boy!’
‘He has achieved a great deal for someone who is hardly more than a boy,’ she returned. ‘He has had adventures many an older man might envy.’
My heart sank, as I suspected where her conversation was tending. Sure enough she began, gently at first but then with more passion, to tel me what a fine career the Navy was, and how a man might take a pride in his achievements, whereas there was no glory in being a country parson, and I was left to realize that her remarks to me this morning were not in jest, after al .
‘Would you have me do something for which I am unsuited, and in which I have no interest?’ I asked her, as the steps of the dance parted us.
‘I would have you use your talents and abilities instead of wasting them,’ she said, as we came together. ‘You have it in you to make your mark on the world. There is a need for men like you in public life. Great orators—’
‘I am hardly that.’
‘You underestimate yourself. I have heard you reading from books with Fanny, and you have a power that other men would envy,’ she said coaxingly. ‘Your words could sway others and bring you renown. London would be at your feet.’
‘I prefer the country,’ I returned.
‘But could do so much more in the town. It would give you more scope, and a greater stage for your endeavors.’
‘I thank you, but I have had enough of stages. I have no taste for acting,’ I returned.
‘Indeed,’ she said, and there was something vulnerable in her voice. ‘I rather thought you liked it.’
I was reminded of the scenes we had performed together, and softened.
‘As Amelia you did not seem so set against the clergy,’ I said more gently.
‘As Amelia I was not.’
The dance parted us, but when we came together again I tried to make her understand.
‘If I could only make you see that the life you want for me would not bring me happiness,’ I said.
‘The noise you speak of, the bustle and importance, are only necessary because they hide an emptiness at their heart.’
‘Wil iam Price does not appear to think so.’
‘Wil iam’s case is dif erent. He is in the Navy, and we depend on the Navy for our freedom.’
‘And do we not depend on our politicians for our freedom, too?’
‘But I have no taste for politics,’ I said, ‘and if I did, it would have no taste for me. A younger son belongs nowhere in such an arena. This is where I belong, in the neighborhood where my family have always lived. I am a part of it, and it is a part of me. In the parish I have a chance of making a dif erence; in London I can do nothing except make myself miserable.’
‘You are determined to squander your talents,’ she said, annoyed. ‘I thought that you, of al people, would pay attention to the parables.’
I shook my head at her notion that I was hiding my light under a bushel.
‘My light would soon be extinguished in London,’ I said. ‘And so would yours. Think again about going there.’
‘So now you want me to forgo my own pleasures because they do not match your own?’ she demanded.
‘I would by no means rob you of any pleasure,’ I said stif ly. ‘But there is a price to be paid for everything, and I hope you may not find that the price you pay for the life you desire is too high.’
We relapsed into silence, whilst al around us my father’s guests danced. We continued down the set, but my thoughts were not on the steps, they were on Mary and her unquenchable desire for wealth and renown.
The dance ended, and we parted with vexation on both sides. Mixed in with my anger was the dismal knowledge that she would never consent to marry a country parson; and that I could never be happy being anything else.
I wandered here and there amongst the dancers, offering my hand to the ladies who were sitting out, talking to the chaperons and making everyone feel welcome, for I could not let my personal feelings interfere with my duty. But al the time I was thinking of Mary, and feeling the loss of her like a physical pain.
At last it was time for me to claim Fanny, and I found her with relief.
‘I am worn out with civility,’ I confessed, as I led her on to the floor. ‘I have been talking incessantly al night, and with nothing to say. But with you, Fanny, there may be peace. You wil not want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence.’
She smiled in silent sympathy, and I found it a great solace to be able to dance with her. How different was our silence to the one that had fal en between Miss Crawford and myself, for that had been angry and not at al comfortable. But then, Fanny is one of my oldest friends, and it would be a strange day, indeed, if I should ever find myself at outs with her. Friday 23 December
I arose in bad spirits, and glad to be going away. No good could come of my seeing Miss Crawford again, for al hope of a marriage between us had gone, and my absence, fol owed by her own, was the best thing for both of us.
I went down to breakfast and found Crawford just arriving. He ate with us, for his sister was fagged after the bal and had not wanted to get up so soon. Crawford and Wil iam were cheerful, but I could think of nothing to say, and so I sat silently. Fanny, too was silent. She watched Wil iam avidly as he ate his pork chop and mustard, refusing to take her eyes from him even for a minute, so unwil ing was she to lose one precious moment of his company. At last Wil iam pushed back his chair, and Crawford did likewise, then Wil iam embraced his sister robustly. But although he was sorry to leave her, it was clear he was equal y eager to be gone, for he knew that on the next forty-eight hours his whole future depended. There was al the usual bustle of departure and then the carriage pul ed away. Fanny would not relinquish her post at the door until it had turned the corner and gone from sight.
‘Come in Fanny, before you catch cold,’ I said to her.
She al owed me to take her inside, and I plied her with eggs and tea, which she cried over very prettily. But she ate al the same, for much as she missed Wil iam, she was hungry, and besides, she wanted to please me.
After she had eaten, I suggested we go out for a walk, and the beauty of the morning revived her.
Once indoors again, I made her join me for a second breakfast, where I persuaded her to eat a little seedcake, and then I bade her and the rest of my family goodbye for a week, mounted my horse and set off for Peterborough.
Once on my
way, I was free, at last, to think of my own business. The day was fine, though cold. Frost coated the bare branches, and covered the last blooms of summer that remained in sheltered hol ows or in the lee of wal s. I wanted Fanny with me when I saw a red rose stil blooming, one hardy flower keeping its place amongst the thorns, for I was persuaded she would have liked to see the
Hoary-headed frosts
Fal in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
I reached Lessingby and was glad to find myself going up the road to Owen’s house before darkness fel , though the daylight was already fading, dwindling into a soft twilight brightened by the translucent frost.
A light shone in the window. Then the curtain was pul ed back, and the candlelight flooded out in al its splendor, staining the drive gold with its bril iance. The curtain fel ; I was at the door; my horse was taken, and then I was being welcomed into the house by Owen and his family. It was bright inside, so bright that I had to blink, and the heat flowed over me and wrapped itself round me like a blanket.
‘Welcome,’ said Owen’s mother, looking every bit as elegant as she did when I first met her eight years ago. ‘You must be cold. Here, sit by the fire. Beddows, a glass of wine.’
And before long, I found myself seated by the fire with a wineglass in my hand, surrounded by Owen’s family.
His sisters were elegant and pretty and were much grown since my last visit. They were sitting over their needlework; which, however, they neglected so as to listen to the conversation. After the details of my journey had been thoroughly dealt with, and enquiries had been made as to my family’s health, Owen and I began to talk of our forthcoming ordination. It was a relief to be able to talk about it in sympathetic company, knowing the subject would not prompt ridicule or frustration; for with Owen’s father being a clergyman himself, and Owen to be ordained with me, it was a house of clergymen.
We continued our conversation over dinner, and the three Miss Owens added their thoughts. Everyone was very pleasant, and the meal was excel ent, and I found myself looking forward to the coming week.
Edmund Bertram's Diary Page 14