by Lona Manning
a DIFFERENT KIND
of WOMAN
by Lona Manning
© 2020 Lona Manning
ISBN:
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www.dissectdesigns.com
Also by Lona Manning
The Mansfield Trilogy
A Contrary Wind
A Marriage of Attachment
A Different Kind of Woman
Quill Ink Short Story Anthologies
Available in e-book, paperback and audio
Edited by Christina Boyd
“The Address of a Frenchwoman”
A short story about Tom Bertram of Mansfield Park, in
Dangerous to Know: Jane Austen’s Rakes & Gentlemen Rogues
“The Art of Pleasing”
A short story about Mrs. Clay from Persuasion, in
Rational Creatures
“By a Lady”
A short story about Anne de Bourgh from Pride & Prejudice in
Yuletide: Austen-inspired short stories
E-book and paperback proceeds of Yuletide to Chawton House
and the Centre for Women’s Early Writing
“Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford…before it began to strike him whether a very different kind of woman might not do just as well, or a great deal better…”
Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, Chapter XLVIII
Table of Contents
PART 1
Chapter 1: Portsmouth, December 1812
Chapter 2: London, January 1813
Chapter 3: Portsmouth, January 1813
Chapter 4: London, February 1813
Chapter 5: London, January 1814
Chapter 6: London, Spring 1814
Chapter 7: Bristol, Spring 1814
Chapter 8: Belfast, Spring 1815
Chapter 9: Northumberland, Summer 1815
Chapter 10: Belfast, Summer 1815
Chapter 11: Bristol, Summer 1815
Chapter 12: England, Autumn 1815
PART 2
Chapter 13: Italy, Spring 1818
Chapter 14: England, Summer 1818
Chapter 15: Italy, Summer 1818
Chapter 16: London, Summer 1818
Chapter 17: Italy, Summer 1818
Chapter 18: England, August 1818
Chapter 19: Italy, August 1818
Chapter 20: England, Autumn 1818
Chapter 21: Italy, Winter, 1818
Chapter 22: England, Spring 1819
Chapter 23: Livorno
Chapter 24: Manchester, Summer 1819
Chapter 25: Conclusion
END MATERIAL
Dramatis Personae
PART 1
Chapter 1: Portsmouth,
December 1812
The late Mr. Price, a well-known figure at the Naval dockyards and the Crown & Anchor, left behind nine living progeny, one grieving widow, and few possessions, save for a large arm-chair in whose faded cushions one might easily trace the outline of its former owner.
It was of course Susan who first summoned the fortitude to hint that the chair might be dispensed with without disrespecting their father’s memory; it blocked the swinging door to the kitchen, and no-one, not even Mrs. Price, ever sat in it. Mrs. Price agreed—or at the very least, she voiced no objections—and so the chair was wrestled out of the parlour by two stout men and into the dealer’s cart, and in its place now reposed a neat little rocking chair.
It was in this very chair that Mrs. Price sat on a bitterly cold December morning, awaiting her breakfast.
“Susan, tell Eliza to come build up the fire!” she called, in the general direction of the kitchen. “I vow, I am frozen to my bones!”
“Mother, I will do it,” said Fanny, laying her work aside. “Susan and Eliza have enough to get through in the morning.”
Mrs. Price raised her voice to countermand the order, as Fanny’s gentle tones would never carry so far, then bethought herself of another request—a hot water bottle for her feet.
An answering halloo came from the offices, “Kettle’s on, ma’am, you shall have it when it’s ready! I’ve but one pair of hands, you know!”
“There!” sighed Mrs. Price, pulling her lap robe around her. “Did you hear the way she spoke to me, Fanny? A more impudent servant than Eliza I never could imagine. Did you not hear her?”
“I think, mother, she did not intend to sound so disrespectful as she did, but no-one can sound perfectly civil when they must raise their voice from another room—”
“And yet, were I to give Eliza her notice, and believe me, I am sorely tempted,” went on Mrs. Price—for she had no interest in Fanny’s opinion on the matter, despite having phrased her complaint in the form of a question— “I don’t doubt the next one would be just as bad, or worse. I declare, no-one has ever had as much trouble and vexation with their servants as I have done!”
Fanny finished building up the fire while her mother continued to expostulate, then resumed her seat in the straight-backed chair which sat under the only window in the dingy parlour. She took up her work again—a new petticoat for Susan’s nineteenth birthday. Her two younger sisters disliked the tedium of sewing but Fanny was an excellent seamstress and since returning to live with her family, she had devoted herself to mending shirts, darning socks, patching bedsheets and re-trimming gowns. She was glad to feel herself useful in this respect at least. Bred up as she had been, at her uncle’s grand house in Northamptonshire, she had never studied cookery, and was, as Susan remarked, as helpless as a baby in the kitchen.
The fine Irish linen she worked with had been sent by her cousin Edmund, and it pleased Fanny to think that the fabric which slid softly beneath her fingers had first passed through his hands. It was his own selection, his choice—she knew that his wife Mary would never have consented to choose gifts for anyone by the name of Price!
Edmund now lived far away in Belfast, but in the six months since Fanny had returned to Portsmouth, hardly a fortnight had gone by without the delivery of a parcel from Ireland. He had remembered Betsey’s birthday in September. Books and journals appeared regularly. The first week of Advent was marked by a handsome gift of candles. December brought more gifts to the family passing their first Christmas without their husband and father.
The kind, cheerful, interesting letters which accompanied these parcels were always addressed to Fanny’s mother and closed with a desire to be remembered “to Fanny, Susan, Betsey and young Charles.” He wrote no letters directly to Fanny. She knew the reason—his wife Mary’s jealousy and lingering resentment.
Fanny accepted that Edmund would do whatever he thought necessary to maintain peace in his own household. But she knew the gifts he selected were with her tastes and interests in mind, and the candles were a useful gift as the winter nights grew longer. Even the linen was a testament to his pride in her skill with a needle. Fanny understood all these things, without being told.
Edmund’s restraint in the matter of letter-writing put it out of Fanny’s power to answer him. This, while regrettable in itself, at least spared her from writing falsehoods, for she would have sent a cheerful account of herself, and in truth, she was not in good health or spirits that winter.
The smoky chimney, the scuffed and dirty walls, the low, cramped ceilings of her Portsmouth home made a miserable contrast to the elegance of Mansfield Park. Even her little room in the attic at her uncle’s grand house was warmer than the drafty chamber she shared with Susan.
But all this might have been borne without a murmur, had Fanny not sorely felt the loss of congenial companionship, the lack of anyone to share her literary interes
ts, whose conversation might rise above the mundane and tedious remarks about the price of beef, the indifferent weather, and the insolence of Eliza. She had been used to the stimulating talk of Mrs. Butters, with whom she had lived for several years—Mrs. Butters, though a widow like her mother, was entirely engaged with the world, supported numerous philanthropic causes, and had a large and interesting acquaintance.
Her friend Mr. Gibson—for so Fanny referred to William Gibson, despite her little sister Betsey’s broad grins and gleeful taunts—her friend had expressed some concern about her health, before his writing assignments for the Gentlemen’s Magazine and other publications drew him back to London; he was expected to return to Portsmouth that very day.
The fast-approaching new year would mark six months since the death of Mr. Price. Mr. Gibson had agreed, with some reluctance, when Fanny put a negative on any talk of marriage, until at least six months were gone by. Fanny could not allow herself to speak of marriage out of her adherence to propriety. But her rectitude was not so strict as to prohibit thoughts of what would happen after she laid her mourning clothes aside. And there was much to think about—she and Mr. Gibson, while sharing many common interests, such as a love of books, were also very different. Fanny was timid and self-effacing, he was confident, even brash. She was cautious, he was impulsive. His temperament was sunny. Fanny, while benevolent, patient and kind, had a habit of magnifying difficulties, and a disposition fearful of giving displeasure.
Thus, while he saw no obstacles to their marriage worthy of the name, she sometimes did. And this, despite the promise that marriage meant an escape from her current confinement to a small parlour on a narrow street, where one day blended into the next, a tame and dull life where she marked the days by the progress of her needle.
* * * * * * *
Breakfast, with its attendant delay, clatter and confusion, came and went, and the morning was far advanced when a rap on the door announced the arrival of Mr. Gibson. The usual clamour ensued, as always occurred after a knock at the door—Mrs. Price loudly called for Eliza to admit their visitor, Eliza shouted back that she was occupied in the kitchen, Betsey and Charles pushed and shoved one another aside in their race to be first to push open the latch and welcome a man who was a favourite with the family. Even Susan came through the swinging door, which always banged loudly against the mantelpiece, wiping her hands on her apron and exclaiming “Mother, we need not stand on ceremony with Mr. Gibson, of all people! He is almost one of us—we do not need a servant to announce him!”
Fanny kept her seat in the corner, well out of the fray, and only someone acquainted with her character might have perceived that of all the household, she was the most pleased to see William Gibson enter the room, ducking his head under the low doorway, with Charles pounding him affectionately on the back, and Betsey hanging off his arm; Fanny was the most anxious to speak with him, and the last to be able to do so.
Several more minutes passed before the tumult subsided, and Susan scolded the children to leave Mr. Gibson alone, and then the visitor made his enquiry into Mrs. Price’s health and listened to her reply, which spared few details. Finally he could turn his attention to Fanny and take her hand.
“And Fanny, how have you been—are you quite well? I have been thinking of you—I fear this cold weather we have been having must have prevented you from taking much exercise.”
“I am very well, thank you, Mr. Gibson,” was of course her reply, but to him she looked a little thinner, and paler, though her mild blue eyes shone with pleasure at the sight of him. He held on to her hand, and his eyes spoke his pleasure in seeing her, being in the same room with her, touching her.
Dropping his voice still further, he added, “I have some news for you, Fanny, but I am afraid you will not much like it.”
“What? Is anything wrong in London? Is Mrs. Butters well?”
“Oh no,” came the smiling reply, “Mrs. Butters was very well when I last saw her. I meant only some news concerning myself.”
But he was called away again by Fanny’s mother, who urged him to take a seat and make himself perfectly comfortable. Mr. Gibson looked around him. Fanny had her little chair, Betsey had her footstool, Mrs. Price was in her rocking chair, and there remained two rough benches at the dining table. Mr. Gibson took one of them, opposite from young Charles, who was opening a well-worn copy of The Midshipman’s Companion. “Do you still have your heart set on going to sea, Charles?” he asked.
Charles nodded. “I shall ship out on the Protector as soon as my brother returns to Portsmouth.”
“Excellent! And when do you expect—”
“Now, Charles, that is foolish talk, and you know it,” his mother admonished him.
“A lot of use you would be to William!” Susan laughed. “A pretty cabin boy you would make! I have never known you to obey a single command of mother’s or mine. What will you do, Charles, when a midshipman knocks you about the head and orders you to black his boots. I fancy you would pitch him over the side—”
“And that would reflect very poorly on your brother, you know,” finished Mrs. Price.
“Since William is the commander, no-one would ill-treat me,” protested Charles.
“That is all you know,” said his mother wisely. “Cabin boys are made to be ill-treated, and to follow orders all day long. You had better stay with me for now, and we will find you an apprenticeship. Perhaps our friend Mr. Miller will take you on,” she added, with a significant look at Susan, who screwed up her face and turned away.
“I hope we shall see Commander Price in Portsmouth before long,” said Mr. Gibson affably, for William Price, the oldest of Mrs. Price’s numerous progeny, was a close friend of his.
“We do not expect him until later this spring,” Mrs. Price explained, picking up her knitting from the basket beside her. “His convoy is in Ireland at present. And you, Mr. Gibson, how long will you be staying amongst us this time?”
“Unfortunately, madam—” Mr. Gibson began, but Mrs. Price carried on without waiting for a reply—
“For my part, you know, Mr. Gibson, I have been thinking on it, and I believe I might not remain here in Portsmouth for the rest of my days, now that my dear husband is gone. I could return to Huntingdon, I fancy. I left a great many friends behind when I married Mr. Price. If I returned, perhaps Sir Thomas might assist me in finding a little cottage. I should be vastly content!”
Betsey dropped her sewing and ran to her mother’s side.
“Oh mama, how I hate to hear you say so! Leave Portsmouth and all my friends! Go away from the harbour to horrid old Northamptonshire! Please, say we will stay here always.”
“And, should I remove back to my girlhood home, it would be in my power to visit my sister Bertram, and show my respects to Sir Thomas now and again,” Mrs. Price continued, “and I am sure that is the least I can do, after all he has done for me and mine.”
Fanny said nothing, but was inwardly persuaded that her uncle could well dispense with his share of the honour of a such a visit.
“Our Susan should be off my hands before the year is out,” Mrs. Price added complacently, “for she is being courted by Mr. Miller’s son—and a very pretty match she has made.”
Susan looked chagrined, and sighed.
“Indeed, ma’am,” said Mr. Gibson, winking at Susan.
“Yes, and I am sure there is nothing to look down upon there, for all some would say they are not truly gentlefolk. I will own that baking bread is not a proper profession. My uncle, you know, was an attorney, and of course my late husband was an officer of Marines. More than that, Susan is niece to a baronet, we must remember. I hope Sir Thomas does not—in short—if I have no objections, then I trust Sir Thomas will not. The Millers are a very good sort of people, and prosperous as well.”
And so Mrs. Price give her sanction for her portionless daughter to marry into a family who were a byword in Portsmouth for their industry and respectability.
“Indeed, ma
’am, so I imagine—”
“So, as I was saying, after Susan is married and Charles is apprenticed, there will be only Betsey and I—”
There arose the usual cacophony that constituted a discussion in the Price household, where nobody could command attention when they spoke and nobody stopped to listen to the others.
“Mother, I did ask you not to speak so freely about Jacob—there is no saying—”
“I shall not be apprenticed, Mother. I am going to sea—”
“I shan’t leave Portsmouth! I shan’t, I shan’t!”
Mr. Gibson waited for a pause in the conversation.
“I do not wonder at your thinking of leaving Portsmouth, ma’am,” he said. “The city will suffer grievously once the war is finally over. A great many sailors are already thrown upon shore, more are coming, and many men who have made supplies and victuals for the Navy will be out of employment.”
“Yes, that’s so,” Susan agreed. “Mr. Miller says he expects to lose his contract for ship’s biscuit and he will be forced to discharge three score of his workers.”
“My William will be wanted, even if the others are not,” said Mrs. Price in a tone that admitted of no doubt. “He will not be cast off. The Navy will require his services, even after the war.”
“But then, ma’am, if you are far away in Northamptonshire, it may not always be in William’s power to visit you when he calls to port,” said Fanny, for it was no secret that William, her first-born, was Mrs. Price’s favourite child.
“Oh, gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Price. “Yes, indeed. Well, we shall wait and see how William fares when the war is over. When I learn where he is stationed, then I shall make my own plans accordingly.”
“Or should William be discharged,” put in Fanny, “as may be possible, he and Julia must settle somewhere, and no doubt you will want to be close to them.”