A Different Kind of Woman (Mansfield Trilogy Book 3)

by Lona Manning

  “I should save my breath to cool my porridge, as the saying goes.” Fanny’s arm was drawn more securely to his side. “Fanny, I truly regret having to leave you so soon. Will you give me some assurance that upon my return, you will permit me to propose marriage to you?”

  Despite the cold, Fanny felt a warm flush sweep up her body. She was very conscious of his nearness to her. “How—when will you return?”

  “By the end of January, or early in February, I fancy. Fanny, am I correct in thinking that you do not require an elaborate society wedding? When I return from York, I shall publish my novel, and then, if everything goes well, we will have enough to marry upon!”

  As he spoke his warm breath came out in frozen puffs of cloud, which dissolved into nothing. Fanny could not help thinking that, although Mr. Gibson sincerely believed what he was saying, his expectations could be just as insubstantial.

  “You are silent, Fanny! And you look troubled, my love.” Mr. Gibson lowered his voice. “What is the matter? My dearest, do you have some reservations? Please share them with me.”

  “I am only a little worried for you, that is all. However, if you feel you must go to York—"

  “Yes, I feel I must—in the sense that water feels it must go over a waterfall. I cannot do otherwise. I must meet these accused men, and hear their stories, for myself.”

  “And you must write about it,” said Fanny quietly.

  “Fanny—tell me truthfully—does this cause you distress? I fear it does.”

  Fanny hesitated, and Mr. Gibson gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. Finally, she spoke, in a steady, level voice: “Mr. Gibson, you live by your convictions. You fought against slavery, even when it set the authorities in Bristol against you. You speak out against the powerful, on behalf of the weak. You do not live for selfish, shallow pleasures, as so many do. It is no wonder I admire and esteem you. But I have come to understand what this may mean for—for any persons who care about you, whose happiness is bound up with your safety and credit in the world. When you believe something to be a matter of principle, you will place it above everything else.”

  They walked in silence for a few moments, then Mr. Gibson said, in a chastened manner, “You must have been contemplating this point for some time, Fanny. Have you been worrying about what might occur, should you bind yourself to me? Am I too engrossed in public affairs to be a considerate husband? I used to think so myself—used to say so, in fact, rather boastfully. I thought I was ill-suited for marriage for the very reason you describe in such flattering terms. Until I met you. Then I realised I had never before met a woman whom I wanted to marry. And are you afraid you face a lifetime of listening to me quarrel with stiff-necked old John Bulls, like our friend Mr. Miller?”

  Fanny shook her head. “You have a fondness for disputation, which I certainly do not share, but that is nothing. No, I am anxious, I must own, very anxious, that perhaps your account of the York trials will be too critical of the authorities. You must be exceedingly careful of what you say, and how you say it, or you will be charged with libel.”

  Mr. Gibson scowled. “Libel. You know about Leigh Hunt, do you? Mr. Hunt wrote that the Prince Regent was a selfish, lazy glutton, a companion of gamblers and demireps, a man completely devoid of any redeeming qualities. In other words, Mr. Hunt was sent to prison for printing the exact truth, and they call it libel.”

  “Do not think I am defending the law,” Fanny rejoined. “But it is the law, and what are we to do?”

  “Being imprisoned would make me more famous,” her companion jested, “and I should sell more books.” But he saw Fanny was in no mood for levity on such a subject. The thought of you being sent to prison is quite unbearable to me. Could you—could you promise me to be very careful in what you write?”

  Mr. Gibson’s expression was grave. “I have no intention, Fanny, of breaking the unjust laws which fetter the press at this time, but I shall not cease protesting against them.”

  “But you are so passionate about the causes you believe in, you may provoke the government to retaliate, should you go too far. Lord Sidmouth has already prosecuted several journalists.”

  “I hope I will never speak, or act, or write, blindly, foolishly and in the heat of passion. If I do a thing, it will be after considering all the consequences. More than that I hope you will not require of me.”

  Fanny nodded, but was not reassured.

  “I am afraid, my dear Fanny, that your spirits have suffered this past winter. Think on the future—think on us—do not anticipate the worst. I am sure you would see matters differently if you were not so oppressed at home. I wish I left you in stronger health.”

  “You are suggesting my low spirits have affected my judgement. Do you believe that only you can judge candidly? Am I prejudiced, partial, blinded by my womanly feelings?” Fanny said with an asperity which surprised both of them.

  The pair had by now almost reached her modest home and Charles was standing on the doorstep, calling for everyone to hurry so they might sit down to dinner, and from within, Mrs. Price could be heard bidding Charles close the door before they all froze to death.

  For the rest of the evening, Mr. Gibson was kind, conciliatory and attentive, and then he took his farewells. Fanny could only hope he would take her warnings to heart.

  Chapter 2: London, January 1813

  “Miss Bertram! Miss Bertram! Stop! Wait! Oh! No, I mean— Mrs. Crawford! Mrs. Crawford!”

  The driver pulled on the reins, the carriage stopped, and an excited young woman leaned halfway out of the door, calling after a fashionably dressed lady on the street.

  “Mrs. Crawford! Is it you?”

  Maria Bertram Crawford paused on the pavement and turned back at the sound of her name. She saw a plump, dark-haired young lady leaning out of a handsome carriage, smiling and waving at her. The face was familiar and yet... she could not think of the name.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, it is you! Indeed, I was not mistaken! How are you, Mrs. Crawford?”

  Just in time, Maria managed to summon up a name.

  “Is it... Miss Fraser?”

  “Yes!” came the delighted answer. “That is,” the young woman added, “Mrs. Meriwether now.” And she bestowed a fond glance on the gentleman at her side. “Pray, pray step in and allow me to present my husband to you. Why are you walking? Where are you going?”

  A footman, his nose frostbitten with the cold, hopped stiffly down from the back of the carriage, and opened the door for her. Maria took a seat opposite Margaret Fraser and her husband, who were comfortably swaddled under fur throws. While Margaret made her introduction, Maria marvelled at the warmth of Margaret’s reception of her, and secondly, she wondered at the elegance of her dress. Shy, awkward, Margaret Fraser, as she had known her four years ago, was vastly different from the laughing, talking, exclaiming Mrs. Meriwether sitting opposite to her now. Maria had to swiftly adjust her thoughts and mask her surprise, and to return Margaret’s friendly smiles and nods, and declare her pleasure in making the acquaintance of Mr. Meriwether—who, she suddenly recollected, with sensations of great awkwardness and dismay—was briefly betrothed to her younger sister Julia.

  All the while Margaret chattered, happily.

  “What a delight it is to see you, Mrs. Crawford!”

  “Please,” interposed Maria. “Do call me Maria.”

  There had not been that degree of acquaintance between the two, four years ago, to authorize such an intimacy, but it mortified Maria to hear the name “Crawford” fall from Margaret’s lips. Margaret, she knew, was once in love with her late husband, and the consciousness of this fact, as well as her husband’s connection to her sister Julia, threatened to overcome Maria’s composure.

  “Of course! Is it not amazingly cold, Maria!” Margaret exclaimed. “We are for home. Where can we take you?”

  “If it is not too much trouble, Margaret,” Maria answered. “I should be greatly obliged to you if you might convey me to Bedf
ord Square. I am staying with my cousins there.”

  “Oh, we can take you to Bedford Square—will not we, dear,” Margaret turned to her husband, then resumed her questions before he could even draw breath to indicate his happiness to oblige, “How long will you be in London? When did you arrive? Could you not find a hackney coach? How provoking! How is your little boy? Is he in Norfolk? Are your parents well? And all your family?”

  Maria answered, all the while racking the recesses of her memory for the names of Maria’s relations so that she might make one polite enquiry about Margaret’s relations in return for the dozen placed to her.

  Margaret, her step-mother and her aunt were but minor acquaintances when she was last in London before her marriage; they had hardly exchanged half-a-dozen words, and Maria’s chief recollection of Margaret was of the laughter she had provoked over her awkward dancing and her gaucherie. And her pathetic infatuation with Henry Crawford! Maria had never considered silly little Margaret Fraser as a rival for Henry’s affections; she had watched Margaret’s sighings and simperings over Henry with amused contempt rather than resentment.

  Yet, here was Margaret—Mrs. Meriwether now—attired in velvet and lace and fur, and with diamond ear-bobs swinging from her ears, smiling at her, as though they had never both loved the same man, as though Mr. Meriwether had not once proposed marriage to her sister Julia. Every moment in the company of Mr. and Mrs. Meriwether brought fresh recollections, fresh considerations to Maria’s mind! It was exceedingly awkward! She could think of nothing to say, or to enquire.

  “And what brings you to London, Mrs. Crawford?” said Mr. Meriwether once his wife temporarily exhausted her store of solicitude for Maria. “May I be of service to you in any matter of business? Do you have an agent in town?”

  “Oh! You are kindness itself, Mr. Meriwether. Indeed, I am looking to set up my own residence. But I am sure my cousins will assist me, there. Still, should you know of any likely property—”

  “How wonderful! Are you here for the season?” interjected Margaret. “You must dine with us! Say you will dine with us tomorrow!”

  Maria was surprised—exceedingly surprised, by Margaret’s warmth and her hospitable overtures. Her first inclination was to draw back, to declare herself engaged, or plead some other excuse, but the fact was that Maria was very much unsure about her attempt to make a social entrée in London. She knew she would not be welcome everywhere—some degree of notoriety clung to her name, for she had married a man on his deathbed and given birth to his heir two months later. Therefore she decided to accept the invitation, and she parted cordially with them at Bedford Square. Her intention was to acknowledge the Meriwethers in future no more than the barest civility required. Their shared history was exceedingly awkward, but more than that, there was the objection that Mr. Meriwether’s wealth came from trade, and Margaret, while lively, cheerful, and obliging, was often tedious. These were indisputable faults, and the aversion arising from them was quite natural.

  But the dinner party was elegant, the Meriwethers’ acquaintance were numerous and none could be objected to on the score of rank or breeding. After several dinners and outings in their company, Maria had to allow that the Meriwethers possessed qualities which, in justice, she must acknowledge. Margaret’s sunny temperament, her solicitude, her avowed admiration of Maria, never varied or failed. Mr. Meriwether was a man of sense and there was nothing to blush for in his manners.

  In the following weeks, Maria found herself to be continually obliged to Margaret Meriwether for many flattering little attentions and useful introductions. The patronage, for so it must be called, of Mrs. Meriwether was of inestimable value in Maria’s efforts to establish herself in London society.

  Maria had never lacked courage or resolution—she would have attempted to gain a foothold in London had she known nobody at all—but she could not deny that the Meriwethers smoothed her path. In addition, Mr. Meriwether insisted on helping her negotiate a five years’ lease for a town house. The dwelling was not so grand, nor so well situated as her taste and ambition might dictate, but was one which her income might support and which she need not be ashamed of. Thus she was able to take her leave of Bedford Square, and the chilly hospitality of her cousins, within a month of her arrival in London.

  Margaret entered warmly into all the pleasure and bustle of helping Maria furnish and decorate her new abode and helped her find a good cook. Indeed Margaret’s absorbed interest in all of Maria’s doings was almost oppressive at times, but against this, Maria placed the consideration that she had no carriage, while Margaret owned an elegant vehicle which was always available to convey her friend Mrs. Crawford anywhere she might need or wish to go.

  When the time came that Maria was ready to receive guests in her home, the Meriwethers were her first and most frequent visitors.

  Maria next resolved to confront her most daunting challenge—to gain the favour of her late husband’s uncle, Admiral Crawford. The possibility of healing the breach between her family and the admiral was exceedingly remote, for the old man despised the entire tribe of Bertrams and blamed them collectively for his nephew’s death, yet Maria felt she must make the attempt for the sake of her son.

  Her little son Henry had but two living relatives on his father’s side; Edmund’s wife, Mary, and Mary’s uncle Admiral Crawford. Maria and Mary had once been on friendly terms, but the tragic events around Henry’s death, and Maria’s resentment of Mary for her unkind treatment of Edmund, had created an estrangement. They maintained a very brief, very correct correspondence, remembering birthdays and holidays and trading compliments about Maria’s little Henry and Mary’s little Thomas, but there was no confidence or intimacy between the two.

  Because of the probability of failure, Maria did not intend to confide her plans to any of her new acquaintance in town. She did not allow for the pertinacity of Margaret Meriwether, who was always asking how she did, where she went and where she might like to go. Such direct, frank and solicitous enquiries could hardly be ignored, not without sounding aloof. Once she understood, Margaret immediately put her carriage, and herself at Maria’s disposal. Such a daunting visit should not be conducted without a friend to support her, Margaret declared. “I do not know the Admiral, but I recall Mary Crawford—that is, Mary Crawford as was, for she is now your brother’s wife—I recall Mary Crawford speaking of the Admiral. I declare he must be a most frightening old gentleman! For Miss Crawford—Mrs. Bertram that is—she is not someone to be easily put down.”

  “I know of the Admiral’s reputation, and for that reason, I would not dream of forcing his acquaintance upon you, Margaret,” Maria assured her, “We shall not attempt a visit. We shall only leave my card.”

  “Oh! But depend upon it,” said Margaret stoutly, “I should go with you to pay the call, if you desire it.”

  “I should not ask it of you, and Mr. Meriwether would not like it, either, for you see, the Admiral keeps a mistress.”

  “In his very home? My gracious! Oh, indeed, we cannot—I would never—you would not. So, you will wait for him to call upon you?”

  The plan was carried into action, the carriage rolled up Hill Street, and Margaret eagerly scanned the windows of the residence for a glimpse of the abandoned woman while her footman delivered Maria’s card to the door. Alas, the mistress was not to be seen and the ladies continued on their way.

  “Now,” said Margaret brightly. “It is done! You must send me a message, my dear Maria, so soon as the Admiral returns your call. I must know what happens. I think I shan’t sleep a wink until I know.”

  * * * * * * *

  Maria stayed at home every morning for the next week in hopes of a visit from the admiral, and in reply to Margaret’s frequent messages, replied, No—not yet—no—he has not come. These long mornings grew exceedingly irksome for Maria, and she sometimes despaired of her success.

  But the Admiral did come at last, for no other reason than to gratify his curiosity and to have t
he pleasure of traducing to her face a woman whose reputation he had abused since his nephew’s death.

  The Admiral was fully prepared to despise Maria. He entered her modest drawing room with his decks cleared for battle and his cannon loaded, ready to rake the Bertram chit with the withering grapeshot of his scorn. But his plan was confounded, for Maria bore down on him like Nelson at Trafalgar—or as Nelson would have done, if Nelson had a three-year-boy in his flagship.

  At the first sight of little Henry, the Admiral inwardly conceded that the child was (despite every insult the Admiral had implied before this meeting) indubitably sired by Henry Crawford. This lively little boy accomplished more than the most adroit diplomat could ever have done, and did so by pushing away his nurse, climbing all over the sofa, knocking down the fire screen, and demanding some cake.

  “Now here’s a proper rascal!” cried the Admiral approvingly. “Submit to no petticoat government, little Henry!”

  And to crown the whole, the little boy did take notice of the elderly visitor, and far from being repulsed by the crooked wig or the ill-fitting false teeth, suffered himself to be lifted up on the Admiral’s bony knee, so that the admiral might observe the resemblance to his lost nephew in every lineament and feature. The wiggling, animated, bold little boy awakened in the Admiral’s breast the most tender recollections of the beloved Henry that was gone. Maria thought she could observe a tear glistening in the admiral’s eye!

  “Well, then,” said he at last, after clearing his throat, “you are a Crawford, and the master of Everingham, my young rascal. But you are on notice—mark me well, Henry—that there is more than one branch of your family with the keenest interest in the contents of my last will and testament. And I doubt that you, or anyone, can equal the determination of your aunt Mary. She has named her new-born son Cyrus, in my honour. A woman willing to inflict the name ‘Cyrus’ on an innocent child, is not to be trifled with.” And there was more along the same line which Maria affected to not quite understand.