by Lona Manning
Maria invited the Admiral to call again, and often, and he replied with a “humph!” which augured well for the future.
Another note of enquiry from Margaret arrived within an hour of the Admiral’s departure. Considering how far Maria was in Margaret’s debt for all the favours rendered and the kind solicitude given, Maria felt compelled to respond immediately. She bade Mrs. Meriwether’s footman wait while she composed a cheerful reply, giving the particulars.
Back came the reply to her reply. Maria’s happiness was of course Margaret’s rapture. Margaret declared that she must have Maria to herself all the next day, to celebrate her triumph. The ladies went shopping all morning, and even Maria was tired of the topic of Admiral Crawford’s visit before Margaret was done asking about it.
* * * * * * *
The ladies were resting in the Meriwether’s parlour when Margaret’s husband joined them, having returned from a long walk. He greeted them with his usual cordiality, but Maria could discern in his air that he intended to leave his wife and her friend to their own amusements, while he relaxed with some newspapers and pamphlets he had picked up during his excursion. Margaret, to Maria’s private amusement, continued to prattle happily at him about the gloves she had bought and the bonnet she had seen.
Her husband smiled, nodded, and returned to his pamphlet, in which he was clearly engrossed.
“What are you reading, dear?” Margaret finally asked. “What is it about? Is there some interesting news?
Mr. Meriwether showed them the pamphlet which had drawn his interest—An Account of the Late Executions of Luddites at York, was the title.
The pamphlet described, in vivid language, the executions of thirty men, hung by the neck before the grim battlements of York Castle. It gave the last moments of the condemned, who walked solemnly to the gallows while singing hymns; it told of the silence of the large crowd assembled; and the ghastly conclusion, the final writhings and struggles of the poor wretches as they swung from the gibbet.
“Gracious! The poor souls!” exclaimed Margaret.
The gallows were built high upon a hillside and surrounded by armed and mounted militia, and the whole was designed to impress upon the multitude, the awful and inexorable fate of those who broke machines and assaulted mill owners. Mr. Meriwether then read the next passages aloud:
Even those who believe that the introduction of machinery is not only inevitable, but will in time, conduce to the general prosperity of the nation, should acknowledge the need to ameliorate the severe hardships which at present are visited upon the labouring classes. The families who have for generations prepared the wool upon which the wealth of our nation was built, are either without work entirely or are compelled through extremity to accept a great diminution in wages.
Suppose that the benches of Parliament—the so-called House of Commons—were filled with unemployed weavers, knitters and croppers, then could anyone entertain any doubt of what our government’s policy would be? The government would uphold the price of their labour, as readily as it now upholds the price of wheat and corn. It would be a matter of national policy, it would be held to be unanswerable, that the well-being of the nation depends upon the well-being of those who create its prosperity.
“What does it mean, my dear?” asked Margaret.
“It means,” said her husband, “that while Parliament will fix the price of wheat, to protect the interest of its members who own vast estates, it declines to protect the wage of the labourer. And the high price of wheat means a high price for bread, which has caused extreme suffering amongst the poorest classes. And of course the working man has no vote. The writer is arguing that if the ordinary working man had some power, or influence, they would not be driven to these extremities.”
“Still, it is very shocking to break machinery,” said Margaret.
Mr. Meriwether resumed:
The men of Yorkshire petitioned Parliament for relief; they were rebuffed. They joined together, as free-born Englishman, to discuss their miseries and propose measures for redress; their associations were declared illegal and criminal. They resorted then to secret societies and secret oaths; these oath-takings were declared to be a capital crime. They asked for bread, they have been met with swords; harried in their homes and places of work by the militia. The Vagrancy Act prohibits them from leaving their own parishes to seek for work or alms elsewhere. Their gatherings have been dispersed with military force and their leaders arrested.
“Oh! That is very sad, I think,” said Margaret. “But the militia officers are all gentlemen, so I cannot think they would harm anyone who was English.”
Her husband resumed: “We are accustomed to expect nothing better than indifference from Lord Sidmouth and Lord Liverpool. . Only for the rich and powerful shall there be equal laws. Those alone who are not in want of protection shall enjoy it! What care they for the fate of the four score children made fatherless by the hangings at York; their hearts do not bleed for the widows turned penniless upon the world. If only indifference were the worst of their crimes against their fellow citizens! The evidence suggests that Sidmouth’s spies were amongst the poor, spreading devilish snares to entrap them. Ho!” said Mr. Meriwether, interrupting himself. “This is a very bold accusation, indeed.”
“What does it say?” asked Margaret.
“The suggestion is,” said Maria, kindly taking up her share of explaining things to Margaret, “that the government has hired men to pretend to be ordinary weavers, who actually put the idea of wrecking the machinery into people’s heads—and then, betray them to the authorities when they do it.”
“Here is an example,” said Mr. Meriwether, “in this pamphlet: James Starkey, an inoffensive carpet weaver, was approached one day by two men, holding themselves out to be weavers, who, by dint of careful questioning and pretended sympathy, asked him how, in his opinion, the local mill might best be destroyed, to which the unsuspecting Mr. Starkey replied, perhaps in jest, ‘with a great quantity of gunpowder.’ The two men then promptly reported him and Mr. Starkey now lies in prison. His family is left in a desperate situation. No-one ever called Mr. Starkey a Luddite, still less a radical or rebel, and he would be at his loom today had he not been interfered with in this manner.
“If this is so, it is an unseemly proceeding, indeed,” remarked Maria. “Who is the author of this information?”
Mr. Meriwether turned the pamphlet over. “It says, ‘published in London by William Gibson.’“
“William Gibson!” exclaimed Maria. “I wonder, there is a William Gibson who wrote that book—there was a book, a few years ago, about stopping the African slave trade.”
“Ah yes, Amongst the Slavers,” said Mr. Meriwether. “In fact, I recall now, Margaret, I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Gibson at a dinner-party at your step-mother’s house. Do you recollect? The ladies were all speaking of Byron. Well, Amongst the Slavers is an excellent book.”
“In fact,” Maria added, “The book includes the adventures of a relative of mine. Julia’s husband, Commander Price—” She stopped awkwardly, recollecting that her sister Julia had broken her engagement to Mr. Meriwether to marry William Price. But Mr. Meriwether, like his wife, behaved with perfect charity and betrayed no consciousness of regret or resentment.
He said only, “Well, if this indeed is the same William Gibson who is the friend of Commander Price, I must unfortunately predict that Mr. Gibson shall find himself under arrest—very soon.”
Chapter 3: Portsmouth,
January 1813
“It is a mistake, sir,” said Fanny; “it must be a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other person.”
She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair.
Her neighbour, who had brought over his copy of the newspaper, was too kind-hearted to insist that it was true. He left her, so that she could read for herself the dreadful intelligence that William Gibson had been arrested and charged w
ith seditious libel.
The anticipation of such an event, and all Fanny’s forebodings on the subject, scarcely prepared her. She stood by the fire, anxiously scanning the article over and over again. It did not inform her what, exactly, Mr. Gibson had written, only that he had published a pamphlet which in the eyes of the authorities was likely to cause contempt of the government.
She became aware that her mother was addressing her. “What is it, Fanny? What is the matter?” Upon Fanny stumbling out her reply, Mrs. Price answered complacently: “Oh well, I make no doubt that Mr. Gibson is clever enough to get himself out of this scrape. He shall apologize, or say he was mistaken, and no harm done.” And she returned to her knitting. But Fanny could not likewise console herself, nor could she dismiss the entire business from her mind as her mother evidently did, for Mrs. Price was back to complaining about Eliza and how she ought to engage a better servant, while Fanny was still blinking back her tears.
Susan better understood the gravity of the matter, and like Fanny, was grave and silent throughout dinner. Betsey and Charles regarded the whole thing as a lark; Mr. Gibson, so esteemed by them both, now acquired an additional fascination, as though he had been a highwayman or a pirate. The prospect of visiting him in his cell, perhaps with a file or a dagger secreted about their persons, formed the chief topic of their conversation that evening.
Fanny passed the night bereft of sleep while she examined her own feelings. The images which arose irresistibly in her imagination filled her with both horror and shame. Mr. Gibson, the accused in a court of law, made to stand at the bar, with a bewigged judge staring down at him, curious and vulgar spectators in the galleries who would probably hold him in even greater contempt for his not being a Yorkshire man like themselves. Perhaps he would be wearing leg shackles or manacles!
The following morning, a letter arrived by express from Mr. Gibson; he had wanted to be the first to break the news to her, but not only was his message too late to soften the blow, his eloquence failed him. He could not, would not, concede that he ought to have tempered his language and his condemnation of the government. He could not, would not, retract a word he had published.
The trial was to be held in March, at the next quarter sessions in York.
Fanny did not flatter herself with hopeful prognostications of the outcome. He would be found guilty—because as the law stood, he was guilty—heavily fined, and sentenced to prison.
Her own reflections confused and dismayed her. But for her father’s sudden demise last summer, she and Mr. Gibson would in all probability be married by now. For better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, Fanny murmured to herself. Was she prepared to follow William Gibson wherever he might choose to go? Was this the life she wanted—a life of uncertainty, surprises, alarms and fears?
And if she were his wife, would Mr. Gibson have refrained, at her request, from going to York in the first place? She doubted it. Mr. Gibson must have something to fight for; he must have a calling, a cause, as his first object. He himself often acknowledged as much, sometimes playfully, sometimes in earnest. His pursuits might come ahead of domestic tranquillity and the wishes of his wife. This was the price of marrying a public man, an extraordinary man. Was she prepared to pay it?
After several days of the acutest anxiety and misery, a letter came to her from Norfolk, bearing the handwriting of her uncle, Sir Thomas. It had been many years since she had ceased to be afraid of her uncle, of desiring his good opinion but being too timid to make herself better known to him. More recently, they had become very good friends but now—oh! how she dreaded the contents of that letter!
Fanny waited until everyone else in the household had retired to bed, and she took to her mother’s rocking chair by the fire to open and read it:
My dear Fanny,
The subject of this communication can come as no surprise to you. The nearness of our connection, the fears I have for your happiness and credit in the world authorizes me to say, I hope and expect to receive your assurance that you have renounced your ties to Mr. Gibson.
I lay it down as a maxim that a man who flouts the laws of his own country, on whatever pretext, upon whatever supposed principle of natural justice, will not scruple to abandon any other undertaking, as it suits him. If he holds himself above being bound to observe the law, if he elects to substitute his own judgement for that of the persons appointed by God to rule over him, and if he will not subordinate his inclinations to the established customs and usages of his country, what reliance can his wife place upon his assurances of fidelity and support? What other vows will he not ignore as his passion or his fancy dictate?
Thus I appeal, my dear Fanny, to your sense of what you owe to yourself. But more than this, I must ask you to remember your duty to your family. Consider that your own mother disobliged her family by marrying your late father. Consider what the consequences were—what her life has been, compared to what it might have been.
Think of your aunt, Lady Bertram—will you ask her to acknowledge a criminal as a near relation? Think of the welfare of your brothers and sisters—their reputations will surely be injured by such a connection. Preferment for your brothers, respectable marriages for your sisters—
Fanny gasped in pain. She had considered the possibility that her family might suffer as a result of an association with Mr. Gibson but here it was, confirmed by her uncle’s better knowledge of the world.
He could have chosen no more effectual argument with her, no surer way of appealing to her conscience. Her tears flowed freely—she could scarcely make out the conclusion of the letter...
You were guilty of a great and harmful imprudence when you allowed Henry Crawford to masquerade as your husband. Your affection for your brother William and your desire to assist his career overpowered your principles. I appeal to those same strong domestic affections, my dear Fanny, to guide you now, however painful the sacrifice may be. Do not draw further opprobrium upon your family name.
I trust that these strong objections, nay, these insuperable obstacles, are as evident to you as they are to all your friends.
“Heaven support me!” Fanny exclaimed to herself. “How justly am I punished for my deceit with Henry Crawford and everything that arose out of it! But, to be called to follow the path of duty when every feeling of affection and friendship rises in rebellion against it!”
Her thoughts turned, as they always did in moments of distress, to the comforter and supporter of her childhood—her cousin Edmund. Alas, there was no comfort to be found there, no palliating excuse, no encouraging recollection. Rather, she remembered his instant dislike of Mr. Gibson, when they met on the occasion of the wedding of his sister Julia to her brother William. His disapprobation was surprising to her and difficult to comprehend. No doubt, once the word of Mr. Gibson’s arrest reached Edmund in Belfast, he would echo the counsels of his father.
She thought of all her brothers and sisters. Her brother John lived in London where he worked as a clerk at the Marine Police office. He was a good friend of William Gibson, but he was also very strict in maintaining that the laws of the land must be obeyed. Would John’s prospects be blighted if his brother-in-law was a convicted criminal? Would he be condemned to remain a clerk, scribbling lists of ship manifests for the rest of his days? And what of her brother William’s future career? And what of her brother Sam, still a midshipman and hoping to earn promotion before the war ended?
And Susan—was Susan’s silence and mournful countenance occasioned solely by her concern for Fanny, or was there a nearer, more intimate, source of grief? When they had retired to bed these past two nights, Susan had not said a word to her, but had turned her face toward the wall and pulled the covers up past her chin.
And Jacob Miller had not called on them recently, either.
Fanny sat by the embers of the fire for hours, weeping and struggling with herself.
* * * * * * *
Fanny was still wearing black for her father, more out of a conv
iction of what was fitting to be done, than actual loss. Indeed, she grieved that she could not grieve for him. Now, she was sorrowful in good earnest, mourning the end of all her plans for her future. If she did not marry William Gibson, she saw no alternative to remaining in Portsmouth with her mother. She might find some employment—but the experience of being driven out of her position at the sewing academy made her reluctant to apply anywhere else.
Yet, she did not hesitate the following morning. After pushing aside an untouched breakfast, she walked out alone. She would fix, commit, condemn herself. She would put an end to the anguish arising out of indecision, and choose the numb misery of a resolution which broke her heart.
She arrived at the Miller’s establishment, she turned the door-handle and stepped in, the cheerful tinkle of the bell sounded like a mocking laugh. She waited whilst some other people, who wanted nothing more than bread, were served. When she reached the front of the counter, Jacob Miller could not conceal his surprise and curiousity.
She gave him a wavering little smile, which perplexed him the more.
“Miss Price?” he said. “What… do you…”
“Will you take me to see your father, please—if he is at liberty to speak to me? I shall not take very much of his time.” She heard herself speak and thought she sounded tolerably composed, though her heart was racing.
“Oh. Oh certainly, Miss Price.” Jacob collected himself and motioned her to step around the counter. He escorted her down a long hallway filled with barrels and bags to a cramped back office, whose severe gloom was relieved by one small window. Mr Miller sat there, working at a desk piled high with ledgers. The older man looked up and glowered as Jacob announced her, and only half-rose from his seat in acknowledgement, before resuming his work.
Fanny stood, irresolute, until Jacob offered her a chair. She looked up at him, and her expression conveyed that she wished to be alone with his father. She listened for the sound of Jacob’s footsteps retreating down the hall, then quietly took her seat.