A Different Kind of Woman (Mansfield Trilogy Book 3)

by Lona Manning

  Mrs. Price shook her head at the thought of her favourite son’s wife. “Oh, and how will Julia manage a household on half-pay! She, who has known only servants, and ease and luxury, all her life!”

  “Fanny was raised with Julia, and Fanny is very frugal, Mama,” Susan said loyally, for Mrs. Price was still more inclined to deplore, rather than boast, of the exceptional match her son had made in marrying his elegant cousin Julia.

  “Whatever you may decide, madam, please call on me to assist you in making any necessary arrangements—settling with your landlord, looking out for a new home, and anything else you need,” said Mr. Gibson. “And in the meantime, with so many idle men upon the town, I trust you will not allow the girls to walk out abroad, not without myself or Charles to escort them.”

  “Oh! Indeed not,” came the answer. “My girls were always brought up properly, and not suffered to run wild. And I hope you will call on us on Sunday morning to escort me, Mr. Gibson.”

  “Unfortunately, madam, I—”

  “The new chaplain is not someone I can like. He speaks too soft. We were much better off before we got the new chaplain, for I cannot make out one word in ten of what he says, but then, I always go to the service for the sake of the singing. I used to sing very well, when I was a girl, and played the pianoforte.” With a sigh and a shake of her head, “I haven’t sat down to a pianoforte these twenty years and more. We had no room for one, you know, Mr. Gibson, not with so many children.”

  “Could I supply you with—

  “Perhaps I shall not go to chapel this Sunday after all,” said Mrs. Price. “The weather has been so very cold. It would be as much as my life is worth to climb up on the Ramparts and be exposed to the north winds. This winter has been very trying, Mr. Gibson, and I am so happy that Fanny came to stay with us, for she has been paying me five pounds a month for her room and board, and I do not know how we should have managed without it.”

  “Her friends in London miss her a great deal,” said Mr. Gibson, looking over to where Fanny sat and tapping his jacket pocket to let her know he was carrying letters for her.

  “And with the price of beef, it is quite impossible to come by any meat nowadays,” went on Mrs. Price, “except for a bone or two which Susan contrives to turn into stew. Fish and cabbage, Mr. Gibson, is all we see for weeks on end.”

  “If you would allow me, Mrs. Price—”

  “But you are welcome to join us for dinner tonight.” And to show her goodwill to her son William’s friend, Mrs. Price actually rose from her seat and went to the kitchen to speak to Eliza about the meal. Susan followed, for if anything were to be reliably done, she would need to do or supervise it herself.

  “What were you saying, Mr. Gibson—must you leave us again so soon?” Fanny asked as soon as the swinging door closed behind her mother and sister.

  “Yes, I go north immediately—I must go to York. I think you can guess why.” Her friend looked grim, and Fanny knew he was speaking of the upcoming assizes in Yorkshire, at which several score of Luddites would be tried, many of them for capital crimes. “I must be a witness to the trials and must write about them. A pamphlet perhaps, if I cannot place it in the Gentlemen’s Magazine.”

  Fanny nodded in reluctant assent.

  “The public must be kept informed,” Mr. Gibson added gently.

  “Of course. But—” Fanny hoped, by an anxious look, to convey all her fears without speaking of them before Betsey and Charles. Mr. Gibson bent closer, but they were once again interrupted.

  “Mr. Gibson!” Betsey demanded, tugging at his sleeve. “You began telling me a new story before Christmas and you never finished it.”

  “Will the present time suit you?” said William with mock gravity, followed by warm smile for Fanny which promised they would have a confidential talk, so soon as they might steal a moment away from the others.

  Betsey sat down on her three-legged stool by the fire, and Mr. Gibson resumed his seat on the bench, stretching his long legs under the table.

  “Betsey, pick up your mending,” said Fanny. “We can continue our work while Mr. Gibson tell us the story.”

  “It is not fair, Fan. Why can Charles just sit and listen while I have to sew?” complained Betsey.

  “That is because women, unlike men, can do several things at once,” explained Mr. Gibson. “Your sister can listen, and reflect, and answer, whilst she works, but a man must either listen, or speak, or work. He cannot do everything at once.”

  Mr. Gibson’s pronouncement interested Betsey, and she obviously intended to test it, for she began to place a few ragged stitches while gesturing that he might begin.

  “Very well, remind me, Betsey, where did I leave off?

  “Reginald De Mortimer and his beauteous daughter lived alone in a watch-tower on the Cornish coast,” Betsey prompted, “and she was asking him—”

  “‘Beseeching,’ I think,” said Mr. Gibson. “Not asking.”

  “She was beseeching him to tell—I mean—relate his history, for she knew nothing of their past and how they came to be there.”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Gibson cleared his throat, a signal that he was about to declaim, and Betsey’s sewing project was forgotten. “The father said: ‘You are now on the brink of lovely womanhood, my sweet Clarintha, and it is only fitting that you understand something of my eventful history, nay, you deserve to hear it from no other lips than mine. Ah, cruel necessity! I see the long-vanished forms of the past appear before me, and my heart overflows with the most tender recollections!’

  “Upon observing her ancient father’s distress, Clarintha was overcome with filial devotion; falling to her knees by his chair, and taking his hands in hers, she kissed and wept over them. At length she said, ‘Indeed, my revered father, I should deserve utter condemnation, were I, by my importunings, to bring sorrow upon your grey hairs! But, forgive me—forgive your daughter, when I confide how ardently, how earnestly I have longed for you to speak to me of my mother—ah! ever has the name of ‘mother’ been a sacred word to me, yet I know aught of her!’

  “‘Ah, my darling child!” cried her afflicted parent, ‘that blessed name has ne’er passed my lips since thou wert an infant! But your mother’s image is ever before my eye, for thou art her very likeness—thy ebony curls, thy fair skin, thy rosy cheeks, thy extremely large feet—’”

  Here the reciter was kicked in the shin by Betsey.

  “And just say ‘your’ and not ‘thy’, please, William.”

  “As you wish, Betsey, but it is most improper. Ahem: ‘Know then, my Clarintha, that I was the fifteenth son of a noble but impoverished family, and at an early age, resolved to seek my fortune by going to sea. I found employment with a merchant ship, bound for India, but, a month into our voyage, a violent hurricane drove us out of our course, and we were shipwrecked on a remote and exotic island. My servant and I, being strong swimmers, were alone cast upon the shore, more dead than alive!”

  Charles then interrupted the narrative, to call out the folly of the captain for not reefing the sails in good time, and to speculate which could have been the island in question given the probable course and position of the vessel, until Betsey clamoured for him to be quiet.

  “After sending up our fervent thanks to Providence for our delivery,” Fanny said with a gentle smile from her corner.

  “‘After thanking Providence for our delivery,” repeated William, “and not presuming to ask why no other of the crew were worthy of being likewise saved from a watery grave, we looked about us and found that we were in a veritable Paradise. Abundant streams ran with fresh, cold water which, to our parched lips, was more tantalizing than the most refined elixir, and the luxuriant growth along the shoreline provided an abundance of wild fruits and cocoa-nuts, upon which I made a hearty repast before resting my tired limbs within the welcome shelter of a spacious hut of palm leaves which Ajax, my ingenious servant, had constructed.

  “‘On our second day, we resolved to explore th
e shoreline of this strange island in the expectation of encountering some habitation—we walked all day, but saw no villages or other signs of human industry, until, in the late afternoon, we met with two dusky natives of the isle, bare-limbed and clad only in loincloths, most strikingly graceful and noble in bearing. These young men greeted us with every sign of friendliness and unsuspicion.

  “‘We had no language in common, but through gestures and expressions, I managed to convey our plight and something of my birth, background and expectations. They in return gave us to understand that they were royal princes, returning to their city from a hunting expedition. Their father had intended for them to go to university and study moral philosophy, but Tankiko and Tomkoko (for these were their names) had resisted the plan, preferring instead to apprentice themselves to two local wheelwrights.

  “‘They then commenced to unfold more intelligence to me concerning their royal family, and in particular, of their younger sister, whose name was—’” Gibson paused, folded his arms across his chest, and looked up at the smoke-stained ceiling. “Let’s see, all heroines must have a name which ends with the letter ‘a.’ Very well... ‘named Tamatina.’”

  “Princess Tamatina!”

  “‘As the brothers, with eloquent gestures, described Tamatina’s beauty, her gentleness of spirit, the nobility of her character, and the unrivalled purity and innocence of her soul, I straightaway discovered in my breast an unquenchable adoration for the fair unknown, and I vowed upon all the shells that bestrew the shore, to love her eternally, if she would consent to be my wife!

  “‘This proposal was met with the utmost approbation by my new companions, and we all instantly resolved to travel to the capital city of the island, which was located on a mountain-side, halfway between an active volcano and—”

  Eliza the servant then entered with the knife box and boldly complained about all the papers and clutter and nonsense on the table, and the folks sitting around it, all of which prevented her—she who had been on her feet since before sunrise—from laying the cloth for dinner. The young people arose with one accord and there being no-where else in the house spacious enough to accommodate five persons together, Mr. Gibson proposed that they walk outside for a time, despite the bitter cold.

  Susan was for staying behind, she declared herself unfit to be seen, etc., as she had passed a good part of the day in the grimy confines of the kitchen—but Fanny offered her own warm wool cloak, in which Susan could wrap herself well from neck to ankle and no-one would be the wiser. Susan still resisted, then yielded upon hearing that Mr. Gibson’s intended destination was Miller’s bakery.

  Susan hastily tucked her unkempt hair into her bonnet, and well-swaddled in the cloak, she was prepared to join the expedition.

  Once outside, Mr. Gibson intended to take Fanny’s arm, but Betsey hung about him tenaciously, and there was not sufficient room in the lane to walk three abreast. Fanny and Susan followed behind, while Charles, whose interest in Mr. Gibson’s story had capsized along with the ship, ran ahead, looking in the shop windows as he passed.

  “Though the island on which we found ourselves was not large in extant, the journey to the palace of King Tompopo lasted the better part of three days, for the brothers paused along the way to hunt wild boar and other animals, and as I was tolerably skilled at archery, they invited me to join them in their sport, and in this fashion we obtained so much fresh meat, my faithful Ajax could scarcely manage to bear up under the weight of it all, as we traversed through the narrow mountain trails and steep inclines which formed the interior of the island...”

  As the family neared their destination, Fanny noticed Susan was clutching her cloak tightly about her, so no sliver of the offending dress might be seen.

  “Your cheeks are so pink and rosy,” whispered Fanny. “You look very well today, indeed.”

  “...The king’s subjects rejoiced to see the return of the two princes, and as their sworn friend, I was accorded a hearty welcome. The king ordered his servitors to prepare a magnificent banquet for that evening, and I was conveyed to a comfortable apartment within the palace to wash and refresh myself, following which, I walked about the town to observe the manners and modes of living of Tompopo’s subjects.

  “Their dwellings, while simply constructed of wood and straw, were commodious and airy, and decorated with fantastical carvings and embellishments of shell and —”

  “Never mind all that. What about the princess?”

  But the princess had to wait, as the party reached the bakery and everyone hurried inside out of the cold.

  By great good fortune, young Jacob Miller was in attendance behind the counter when the Prices and Mr. Gibson entered, and his expression upon spying Susan attested to his devotion and his indifference to the finer points of feminine attire.

  Mr. Gibson urged Betsey and Charles to select whatever they wished, but young Mr. Miller was remarkably inattentive to their clamoring for buns and bread, giving all his attention to Susan.

  Jacob’s father, a shorter, broader version of his son, emerged from the back of the shop to greet the party thusly:

  “Mr. Gibson! You are back in Portsmouth again! Welcome, sir! Are you come to stay?” This with a friendly smile and a wink at Fanny.

  “I am afraid not, Mr. Miller. I am to go almost immediately to the assizes in York and report on the trials there.”

  A scowl crossed the burly baker’s face. “And to see every man hanged, I trust! Murderers, vandals and thieves!”

  “Desperate men, sir, will take desperate measures.”

  This was met with a vigorous shake of the head and an emphatic fist on the counter. “Oh, you’ll have a job to do, afore you convince me that men who smash machinery and rob innocent folks in their own homes, only want a bit of bread for their children. It is all a plot, sir, to excite the people, and overthrow the King! The mob must be put down, sir, sharply and surely, or what is to become of the country?”

  “There will be a trial first,” said Mr. Gibson in his usual calm and quiet manner.

  “Did that mill owner, that Mr. Horsfall, did he receive a trial, before he was murdered in cold blood—shot down and left to die on the highway?” Mr. Miller demanded, and Fanny was sorry to see that the baker was much discomposed.

  “Very well, sir, as you say,” said Mr. Gibson, and Fanny hoped the younger man might yield to the older, out of courtesy if not conviction. But her friend Mr. Gibson, as she knew, was seldom able to leave a point undisputed where he felt a matter of principle was at stake, and he continued, although he spoke in the same mild and conciliatory tone: “The measures taken by the Luddites are against the law—and ill-advised as well—but I put it to you, sir, what are they to do when entire villages are faced with idleness and starvation?”

  “And so shall the mill-owners say, ‘pray, help yourselves, my good man, smash anything that you please,’ while their blood flows in the streets, and Napoleon laughs?,” Mr. Miller exclaimed with an impatient air. He looked down at Fanny as though to say, “and this is your friend?” and then over to Susan, talking to his son. “I should be sorry, very sorry indeed, if any friends of mine should join the wrong side.”

  “The government has successfully persuaded the greater part of the public that the mildest opposition to its measures is giving comfort to our enemies. But merely because a person seeks reform, he does not necessarily want to see the king’s head on a pike,” Mr. Gibson rejoined, but Fanny looked up at him earnestly and he relented, beginning again with: “Sir, believe me, I had no intention of coming to your establishment for the purpose of quarrelling with you, on any subject whatsoever. And you know Miss Price too well to suppose her guilty of either sedition or discourtesy. We came, in fact, in quest of some of your excellent bread.”

  “Well then, well then,” Mr. Miller, who had begun to turn alarmingly red, “every man to his own opinion, and every man is welcome to buy my bread, and as it is the close of business for today, and in consideration of y
our good mother, Miss Price, pray allow me to put some extra loaves in your basket. And you will give her my compliments and best regards, will you not?”

  “I will indeed, thank you, Mr. Miller,” said Fanny with true gratitude and relief that the quarrel had not grown more dangerous.

  “Have you any gingerbread, Mr. Miller?” demanded Betsey.

  Mr. Gibson then politely, and with a manner entirely proper and unobjectionable, enquired “whether Mrs. Price carried an account for her bread, and should there be a balance owing, could he now attend to it?” A sum was mentioned and promptly paid, and Mr. Miller and Mr. Gibson parted with every mark of cordiality.

  Jacob Miller offered to deliver their purchases himself, and took both the basket of bread and Susan’s arm, and the enlarged party set out—at first together, but Betsey and Charles scampered ahead, with their pieces of gingerbread, and Susan and her escort dawdled behind, and finally, Fanny and Mr. Gibson were able to speak together in confidence.

  “Now that you have me alone, Fanny, you may scold me at your leisure.”

  “Mr. Gibson, no loyal friend could have objected to what you said to Mr. Miller. You were defending a principle, as ever. But you see how it is with Jacob and my sister,” said Fanny, glancing over her shoulder.

  “What? Oh, yes!,” said Mr. Gibson, following her gaze. “There goes a man in love, if ever I saw one. Impervious to cold, and all other passers-by. Fortunately, your mother condescends to approve the match, though young Jacob Miller is guilty of having a father who became wealthy in trade.”

  Fanny sighed, then laughed. “Oh dear! I wish my mother would not insist upon our gentility! Should any of her talking reach Mr. Miller’s ears! I only hope Jacob’s father will not object to his son marrying a girl with no dowry.”

  “And speaking of unfortunate topics, you would prefer that I not contend with Mr. Miller about the Luddites, or politics, or anything else?”

  “Mr. Miller is not accustomed to hearing opposition to his views, and I generally find it is best to let people of that stamp have their own way, especially if they are older. You will not alter their opinions, and you will only vex them.”