by Lona Manning
Madame smiled, and patted Fanny’s arm. “I think so.”
* * * * * * *
The day chosen for her next excursion with Madame Orly was sunny but not too hot, and at Fanny’s urging, the ladies walked to the prison, instead of riding in the carriage. Madame Orly was much preoccupied with the news from the continent. Everyone was in confident expectation that the war with France would soon be successfully concluded, which of course would mean the French prisoners of war would be sent home.
When Fanny and Madame Orly reached the prison, they were much astonished to find the gate closed firmly against them. The little Frenchwoman reached up and grabbed the bell pull hanging outside the gate and tugged on it with vigour. At length, a little shutter opened, and the turnkey’s face appeared at a small grated window. He looked down at Fanny and her companion.
“Go away ladies. There ain’t going to be no more markets.”
“What? What is the matter?” exclaimed Madame Orly.
“Has illness broken out within the prison?” enquired Fanny anxiously.
“Naw, naw, no more than usual, that is. Naw, it’s that do-gooding flat-headed bastard—oh, begging your pardon, that gentleman by the name of Mr. Birtle, wot is with the Society for the— I can’t quite think on the name of it.”
“The Society for the Suppression of Vice?” asked Fanny, for the members of the Society were frequent guests at Mrs. Butters’ house and she had met Mr. Birtle, the secretary of the Bristol chapter.
“Aye, that’s the one. So this Mr. Birtle came here last week, and bought himself some merchandise of a particular kind, shall we say, and straightaway takes them to the Lord Mayor, and says how the prisoners is making filthy objects that is polluting the morals of the young folks hereabouts.”
“Oh, phagh!” Madame Orly said. “The foolish old busy-body! So the poor prisoners make some carvings and some pictures, what business is it of Mr. Birtle?”
“Well, the Lord Mayor calls on Captain Crawley—he is the gov’nor of this ‘ere prison—and shows him what Mr. Birtle bought at the market, and Captain Crawley says he was astonished, and he ‘ad no idea whatsoever that such filthy items were being sold ‘ere, under ‘is very nose—” the turnkey rolled his eyes expressively— “and he vowed to put a stop to it, so some of the prisoners were hauled out of ‘ere in chains, and sent to a prison hulk—”
“Who? Who?” demanded Madame Orly in a fright. “Not the Captain Duchesne!”
“Bless you ma’am, no. Why, the froggy captain, he was just as surprised as my Captain Crawley” — the turnkey turned his head and coughed elaborately into his hand— “and sacre bleu, he ‘ad not the least idea in the world that his men was carving obscene articles for sale to the public.”
“So, will there be no more market?” enquired Fanny. “Will no-one be permitted to speak with the prisoners?”
“Not ‘til Mr. Birtle finds somewhere else to poke his scabby nose in, begging your pardon,” the turnkey said, “and the prisoners is all very distressed on account of it, for they have lost their means of making a few coins here and there, but there is nothing to be done for it, at least not rightaways. You had best be off, ladies, for no-one is getting into the prison today.”
“Will you be so good,” said Madame Orly faintly, “as to inform Captain Duchesne we called upon—”
“Oh, most certainly ma’am,” said the turnkey, but in an indifferent tone of voice which did not inspire confidence in Fanny. She felt for her reticule, extracted a coin and held it up to him.
“Please, sir,” she said, “We would be most obliged.”
The turnkey reached his hand through the bars and took the coin in his grimy fingers.
“I said I would, didn’t I? I will give him your best compliments.”
The walk back was enlivened by a constant flow of animated French from Madame Orly, giving her unflattering opinion of the stupidity and probable personal attributes of Mr. Birtle, or lack of them. Fanny said little; she was truly sorry to think her friend should be separated from a man who appeared to be genuinely attached to her.
As they approached their home, tired and footsore, Fanny hoped Mr. Birtle was not at that moment taking tea with Mrs. Butters, for she could not answer for what Madame Orly might do or say.
Fortunately for the peace of the household, Mr. Birtle was not there—he was perhaps savouring his triumph at the home of the Lord Mayor—but there were half-a-dozen assorted visitors in Mrs. Butter’s parlour, enjoying their tea and pleasurably sharing their indignation over the latest scandal in Bristol politics.
Fanny looked in briefly, to assure herself that Mrs. Butters did not need her. She recognised Mr. Thompson, an elderly, whiskered old gentleman, clad all in black, and she went in to greet him.
“Well now, Miss Price,” he answered, “and what has thee been doing?”
“Oh, sir, I’m sure Mrs. Butters has told you of the committee for distressed gentlewomen which we are getting up,” replied Fanny, “and I have been practising my pianoforte.”
“Will thee be favouring our gathering today?” asked Mr. Thompson, nodding his head toward the pianoforte in the corner, but Fanny surmised his request was merely one of form. Talk, and not music, formed the basis of Mrs. Butters’ morning gatherings, especially for a Quaker like Mr. Thompson.
“I am not a proficient, sir,” said Fanny. “I only took up the instrument a few years ago, and have not been able to apply myself to it regularly.”
“I wonder that thee did not study the piano as a child. Did not thy uncle engage music teachers?”
“Indeed he did. But I refused to share in the lessons,” Fanny confessed, “because I understood the ultimate aim of acquiring accomplishments was for display, and that my cousins and I should be called upon to perform—not only before the family but in company, and the prospect was dreadful to me.”
“I see. I do seem to recall thee once favoured a small dinner party with a recital from Shakespeare, and a very pretty performance it was, too.”
Fanny blushed. “If Mrs. Butters requested something of me, I would never refuse her, but I would rather not do anything of that sort.”
“Most young ladies at a social gathering would be affronted if they were not at least applied to,” returned Mr. Thompson.
“Oh, sir,” said Fanny, “pray do not suppose I would disparage the motives of any lady who does perform for her friends, or to suggest that it has its origin in nothing but vanity. I myself enjoy listening to music extremely.”
“The young always enjoy music more than the old,” Mr. Thompson nodded, and he looked about the parlour, where Mrs. Butters was conversing animatedly with several friends. “Alas, we are all growing old.”
Another person might have said the same with the hope of being contradicted, but Fanny knew Mr. Thompson spoke as he found. His gnarled hands clutching the top of his walking stick confirmed the truth of it; and while her dear friend Mrs. Butters still commanded the room with her customary self-assurance, there was a faint but decided loss of vigour, which she grieved to observe.
* * * * * * *
The morning after the thwarted visit to Stapleton Prison, Fanny determined to pluck up her courage and speak to Mrs. Butters about an idea she had been seriously revolving in her mind. Whilst they were sitting together at the breakfast table, Fanny began by remarking, “I cannot stop thinking of the unfortunate Frenchmen.”
“Neither can Madame Orly,” replied Mrs. Butters, stirring some honey into her tea (for sugar produced by slaves was forbidden in her household.) “She looked exceedingly woebegone this morning, poor creature! I gather she is quite attached to this Captain Duchesne.”
“I would by no means defend the sale of indecent items,” said Fanny, “But many of the prisoners, perhaps most of them, were selling ships in bottles and cribbage boards and so forth. It seems a pity they cannot continue. They sorely need the little income the market provides.”
“I fancy,” Mrs. Butters remarked, “when
Mr. Birtle finds some other place upon which to turn his improving gaze, the prison market might resume.”
“Then, ma’am,” said Fanny, “we must wish for some shocking outbreak of vice to occur in some other part of town!”
“No doubt the good people of Bristol will not disappoint Mr. Birtle in that regard. Someone will open their tavern on a Sunday, or go sea-bathing in a state of nature. But you know, Fanny, that many of my friends are members of the Society for the Suppression of Vice. In fact you may not be aware that our friend Mr. Wilberforce founded it.”
“Indeed?” William Wilberforce was only known to Fanny as an eminent campaigner against the slave trade.
Mrs. Butters gave a little smile as Fanny refilled her tea cup for her. “I fancy Mr. Wilberforce did not grow up around sailors and sailing ships. We learnt to look the other way, as far as certain male predilections were concerned. I am a great admirer of Mr. Wilberforce. But he and the Clapham Saints have an odd compulsion to go about bothering fortune-tellers and people who sell French pictures.”
“Ma’am...” said Fanny with some hesitation.
“Well, what is it, Fanny?”
“I believe I have an idea which might assist the prisoners, as well as—that is, I wonder if our own Committee for the Relief of Distressed Gentlewomen might experiment with establishing a bazaar, here in Bristol.”
“A bazaar? What is a bazaar?”
“It is perhaps nothing more than a new word for a market, taken from the Persian, but it is a new thing in London—a converted store-room in the West End, filled with many stalls, which are rented out on very easy terms to respectable women.”
Mrs. Butters understood instantly. “So, the bazaar is a place for women to sell the kind of items our gentlewomen have been making—needle cases and bonnet trims and the like?”
“Yes. And given that the bazaar is operated with no expectation of profit,” said Fanny, “the ladies receive more money, for as we were saying at the last committee meeting, when we place these items with merchants, the ladies’ share gives them such a poor return for so many hours of labour.”
“Go on,” said Mrs. Butters, reaching for a second muffin.
“I do not know, but I surmise the premises for the bazaar in London were rented at a very low cost, as the building stood vacant.”
“Yes, in these times every city has vacant buildings of this sort,” Mrs. Butters nodded her head.
Fanny drew a deep breath. “So... if we were to undertake a similar scheme here, perhaps we might also make provisions to sell any unobjectionable items, made by the French prisoners.”
“What an interesting notion, Fanny!” Mrs. Butters said, and Fanny felt a little thrill of excitement.
“Thank you, ma’am. Do you think—might you wish to raise the idea at the next committee meeting?”
“I, Fanny? It is your suggestion, not mine. You may speak to the committee. I will help you draw up a projected estimate of the expenses, but you must explain what a ‘bazaar’ is and win their support.”
Fanny went from happiness to distress in an instant, and was on the point of pleading her unfitness, when Mrs. Butters spoke to her firmly.
“Do you wish to help your fellow creatures, or no?”
“Yes, of course, ma’am.”
“Then screw your courage to the sticking place—well, that bit of Shakespeare is not apropos, I suppose. I am not urging you to murder anyone, you have merely to engage and persuade half-a-dozen very opinionated ladies who are much older than you.
“On second thoughts,” Mrs. Butters added, “perhaps it would be easier to murder someone.”
* * * * * * *
Thanks to the intervention of Mrs. Butters, Fanny and Madame Orly were again permitted to enter Stapleton prison to visit their friend. It was a matter of no small urgency for Madame Orly. Napoleon had abdicated, and she fancied that soon all the prisoners would be sent back to France.
A slight rain was falling and few prisoners left their cells to take their midday exercise, save for Captain Duchesne. He begged to be assured that the ladies had come by carriage on such an inclement day, and added, with feeling, “You cannot know how important your visits are to me—how they gladden my soul—it is as though the sun has come out from behind the clouds.”
Fanny was not above a little prevarication in the manner of informing Captain Duchesne of the bazaar scheme. Instead of telling him herself, though it was of course her own notion, she asked Madame Orly to explain it to him. All she had to do was enjoy watching the look on Captain Duchesne’s face as Madame Orly explained she would take out a stall at the bazaar and sell the items manufactured by the prisoners. He took the little Frenchwoman’s hand, and kissed it, and said in a voice of deep feeling, “Would you please convey to Madame Butters our most profound thanks and service. It is my wish to be able to thank her in person, one day.”
Madame Orly blushed and appeared for a moment to be too overcome to speak.
“The loss of your market is to be regretted, Captain,” said Fanny, after a moment’s delicious pause as the Captain and Madame Orly gazed at one another. “Mr. Birtle said the prisoners were so offended by the obscene items that they attacked the men responsible for making them.”
“Well... in a fashion, Miss Price,” the captain replied with a slight shrug. “Yes, they were set upon and beaten insensible, but it was for their imprudence, you understand. For not perceiving that this Mr. Birtle was not a typical customer. Perhaps I have said too much to the mademoiselle. But this was a heavy blow for the men. First, the prisoners were forbidden to sell plaited straw, because it hurt the trade of the hat-makers, and now, they can sell nothing at all. But it will not be long, if it pleases God, when they may return to France.”
“When they go home, Captain?” Fanny asked immediately.
The captain smiled. “How quick are your ears, mademoiselle! Yes, I shall make no secret of it to you—there is nothing for me to return to in France. My poor mother may have my pension, if there is to be one. I will seek some honourable employment here in England, if England will accept me.” The captain made a graceful bow. “I am not made for a dancing-master, but there is scarcely any occupation which would be contemptible to me if I could earn my bread honestly.”
Here of course was a warm smile for Madame Orly, who said not a word.
“Oh, I am certain...” Fanny said. “Do you know anything of wine, Captain Duchesne?”
A knowing smile hovered on the captain’s lips. “A little. My family once owned extensive vineyards in Bordeaux. You have perhaps heard of Bordeaux.”
“Perhaps—” Fanny started, and then stopped, and the captain bowed again.
“Mademoiselle is thinking, and thinking kind thoughts on my behalf. I shall not pry into her counsels.”
Fanny blushed, and nodded. The thought she had, was of applying to Mrs. Butters’ friend, Mr. Meriwether, a retired wine merchant. She resolved to speak to Mrs. Butters about the matter, so soon as they returned home.
Madame Orly, in the meantime, had been gazing earnestly at the captain.
Fanny decided there was something amiss with her bonnet-strings which could not be ignored, and which naturally required her to turn away and focus all her attention on tying and untying and tying them again, and then she discovered a loose button at the wrist of her glove, and was busy removing the glove and teasing out some thread so she could tie a knot and make it secure, and to her very great gratification, by the time she had finished all these necessary adjustments, it appeared that Captain Duchesne and Madame Orly were engaged to be married!
Chapter 8: Belfast, Spring 1815
Edmund Bertram was often in the habit of observing his wife—studying her, in an abstract fashion, for this was surely to be preferred to examining his own feelings.
Of one thing he was convinced; his wife Mary needed more admiration and attention than only one man could provide—without it, she could not survive. To blame her for this susceptibility woul
d be like blaming a fish for needing water.
He himself had once loved and admired her—extravagantly, passionately—but his love alone was not adequate. He could only offer her a quiet existence on a modest income in a small country village.
In retrospect, he should have known better than to try the experiment. She had suffered and writhed when taken out of her natural environment. She had suffocated. He should not have been surprised when she ran back to London without him.
Now, several years later, Mary was a leading light of Belfast society, her beauty undimmed, her wit and conversation as charming and lively as ever, and he beheld her as happy and content as it was possible for a person like Mary to be.
That was the public Mary Bertram—the charming hostess, the valued dinner guest, the admirable patroness of the Harp Seminary for the Blind. She adroitly manoeuvred around Belfast society, divided as it was between Scots-Irish and English, Protestant and Catholic, Anglican and Presbyterian. Dr. Ritchie and his wife might invite Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm to dinner, they might all attend a meeting of the Society for Promoting Knowledge, but on Sunday the Ritchies went to their Catholic church, the Malcolms to their Presbyterian church, and Edmund Bertram led the Anglican service at St. George’s Academy.
Edmund did not know if the ladies of Belfast, the ones who called his wife “dear Mary,” and greeted her with a kiss, really liked her as much as they professed to, but he had no doubt that she was admired by the gentlemen of their acquaintance. They laughed at her sallies; their eyes followed her as she moved elegantly from parlour to dining room; they vied to be the one chosen to turn the pages of her music book.
Edmund was not consumed with jealousy because Mary—to do her justice—accepted these tributes in a manner to which no reasonable man could object, and Edmund was a reasonable man. Yes, she had briefly been another man’s lover, during the period of their estrangement, but in Belfast, her mild flirting was all well within the bounds of polite society.
“You’re a lucky fella, Bertram!” one or another of the gentlemen of his acquaintance would exclaim in that interval after dinner, when the ladies had retired. “A lucky fella, indeed, to have such an enchanting creature for your wife!”