A Different Kind of Woman (Mansfield Trilogy Book 3)

by Lona Manning

  “Have you not read Steam & Sagacity, sir?” Dr. Ritchie asked him. “I would be happy to lend you my copy. The novel is set one hundred years in the future, and makes a number of bold predictions concerning the advancement of the sciences, to say nothing of changes in the modes of social intercourse. Such speculations, and the discussions they might engender, are not at all out of keeping with the aims of our Society.”

  “I have heard something of this book. It predicts that steam-machines will liberate the working class from toil, and mankind will be free to pursue knowledge and the arts? Look at the numbers of idle men in existence today—I speak of men of our own class, doctor, and look how they occupy themselves. You will not find one man in twenty who passes his time in rational or benevolent pursuits.”

  “This seems a queer argument for leaving the rest of mankind to labour like brutes,” Dr. Ritchie replied, but mildly enough. “Adam was condemned to dig the earth and Eve to spin, but we are not at the same level as the beasts of the field. Every day brings news of some ingenious new contrivance, some fresh scientific revelation, and it behooves us, as men of learning, to consider the possible repercussions for society.”

  “Yes, but a novel is mere speculation. I am informed Mr. Gibson predicts that in the future, there will be a tunnel excavated beneath the English channel,” said Mr. Malcolm, “and people will travel by steam locomotive from England to France.”

  “Who is to say this will not occur in the distant future?”

  “Science says not,” said Mr. Malcolm with finality. “Persons in a carriage pulled by a locomotive engine travelling at, say, a speed of more than fifteen miles per hour, would be unable to breathe, obviously. And going into a tunnel under the sea is out of the question.”

  The men continued to canvass Mr. Gibson’s novel, while Edmund became aware of feeling uncomfortable, as he always did when Mr. Gibson was mentioned in his presence. He had met the man, three years ago, and thought him to be in love with his cousin Fanny. Later came the news of Mr. Gibson’s arrest, and a letter from his father congratulating himself on having successfully dissuaded Fanny from marrying the writer. He had hailed the news at the time with satisfaction.

  Now he wondered if he had been unfair. He had clearly underestimated both Mr. Gibson’s talents and his capacity for acquiring sufficient funds to support a wife. He wondered how Fanny felt about it, now that several years had gone by.

  Edmund was lost in thought and Mr. Malcolm was still asserting that novels had a pernicious influence, when the tapping of a fork upon a crystal glass drew everyone’s attention to the head table. The waiters removed the last covers in preparation for the president’s after-dinner address. Everyone shuffled their feet and refilled their glasses, readying themselves for an interval of speech-making by half-a-dozen gentlemen who did not subscribe to the axiom that brevity is the soul of wit. Indeed, it was an oratorical contest, with all the speakers vying for eminence with their well-chosen historical and literary allusions, their apt quotes, their snippets of Greek and Latin and their encomiums on the contributions of the Society for Promoting Knowledge to the cultural and intellectual life of Belfast.

  “But no novels,” muttered Mr. Malcolm under his breath.

  At the close of the last speech, the president rose again and added he thought it “not inappropriate to conclude the evening with an humble tribute of praise and thanksgiving for the recent magnificent victory at Waterloo, and to send up a prayer of thanksgiving for the gallantry of Commander Wellington, whose name and reputation must rouse in the hearts of the assembly every sentiment of manly honour and patriotic devotion. However feeble the hand that strikes the chord of tribute, these notes of loyal harmony will vibrate.”

  Every reference to “our fallen soldiers” and “our gallant heroes” called for the draining and refilling of glasses, with especially generous libations poured out to replenish the cups of such of those in attendance who had seen service in the army and navy.

  There were eight long tables in the hall, and each table fell to making individual toasts: “to the Inniskilling Dragoons” and “to the fallen” and “to the militia” and “to the ladies,” and no sooner had Edmund said to himself, “a few of these fellows have had rather too much to drink,” than he realised a belligerent mood was arising at the next table.

  “You were best to leave well enough alone, Templeton,” someone said, and Edmund, with a feeling of foreboding, heard the captain reply, “And who are you, hey, to tell me my business? Damn you.”

  “You go too far, sir, and you will find that the lady you allude to—”

  “The lady! what a fine lady she is! I give you the name of Mrs. Bertram, coupled with—coupled with—”

  The captain’s dinner companions growled at him, and one said, “for shame, sir!”

  “Shame?” answered the captain. “What have I to be ashamed of?” He snatched up his glass, and, red-faced and staggering, crossed to Edmund’s table.

  “Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies—ain’t it, Bertram?”

  Edmund pushed back his chair and stood up, and so did everyone else at his table. Captain Templeton drained his glass and set it down, as he continued: “Her candle goeth out not at night. No indeed, it does not! She openeth her mouth with... oh, what is it now, ah yes, with wisdom; and in her tongue, ah, her tongue, hey Bertram?”

  “I will thank you,” said Edmund with a calmness which belied his inner contempt, “to refrain from speaking of my wife, now and in the future.”

  By now every man in the hall was watching the encounter and Dr. Ritchie was beckoning two of the waiters to come over.

  “Oh! Oh! Beg your pardon, my good fellow,” cried Captain Templeton, but he continued advancing toward Edward, clutching onto the backs of the dining chairs as he went, weaving crookedly. “I am most, most dreadfully, most... awfully sorry, if I besmirched the spotless name of your lady. Lady Beautiful. Lady Bountiful. As more than one knows, eh Bertram? I hear tell there is a certain Earl, back in England, who—

  Cries of “Shame! Shame!” drowned out the rest of the slur.

  “Templeton, you are a disgrace!” exclaimed Dr. Ritchie. “Remove yourself sir, this instant.”

  “What did I say? What did I say?” said Templeton, rounding on the doctor, then weaving back to Edmund. “Did I speak falsely? Tell me, Bertram, am I maligning the lady? Am I lying when I say that Lord Elsham knows your wife, knows her, knows her well, knows her biblically, I should say.”

  Templeton’s voice echoed to the rafters. The other men stood with expressions ranging from consternation and scorn, to apprehension, and even amusement. Edmund’s face, however, was unreadable.

  At last the two waiters, with every evidence of unwillingness, advanced upon the choleric captain, and each attempted to grab an arm. He was a strong burly man, and he threw them off easily, but the violence of the struggle caused him to flounder backward, then forward—he fell to the ground, sprawled out at Edmund’s feet.

  “Well?” Captain Templeton hiccoughed, twisting his head about, looking confused. He could see only feet and chair legs. He addressed the nearest ankle, which must belong to Edmund. “Well? Hey? You cuckold, you pander, you bible-walloper!”

  “Templeton, I am a clergyman and you are a drunkard,” Edmund bit out the words. “There is, I think, nothing more to say.”

  “Nothing more to say! Really? Nothing more, indeed.” Templeton clumsily pulled himself up using the chairs. Edmund wanted to turn his back and walk away, but he was hemmed in all around by tables, chairs and curious fellow diners. Templeton suddenly lunged out, attempting to strike Edmund across the face. Edmund stepped aside easily, the captain overbalanced and fell to the floor again.

  “There will be no duel,” said Edmund, more loudly than before. “You are not yourself sir, or rather, if you are, I disdain to know you.”

  The waiters, now aided by some dinner guests, managed to seize each of the Captain’s four limbs, and
they dragged him out of the hall, the captain shouting incoherently all the while.

  There was a brief, unpleasant silence, followed by some awkward coughing. One elderly man clapped Edmund on the shoulder. “I congratulate you, young man, on your Christian forbearance! Turn the other cheek, eh?” but as Edmund glanced around, he observed that no-one would meet his gaze. “Good heavens, is that the time? I must be getting home,” someone said. Others murmured their good-nights.

  The hall emptied rapidly, save for a few young men determined not to let the unfinished wine go to waste; they moved swiftly from table to table, gathering up the bottles. The waiters began clearing away, and soon the only sound in the hall was the quiet clinking of dishes and cutlery, and still Edmund stood, lost in thought.

  * * * * * * *

  The lights were all blazing on the main floor of his home when Edmund finally returned, later that night. Mary was waiting for him in his study.

  Edmund had seen his wife angry before, but this was new, different. Mary’s face was colourless, even her lips were pale, but she appeared to be lit from within, with an incandescent anger.

  “Edmund, I understand that Captain Templeton insulted me, repeatedly, by name, in front of all of Belfast tonight. Is it so?

  “Yes, it is, Mary. I cannot recall the exact words, but, yes.”

  “And why did not you—but no, wait, I may have been misinformed. I will hear you first. Tell me, what did you say? What did you do?”

  “I told him he was drunk. Which he was. He was abominably drunk and had to be carried out.”

  Mary took a step forward, and her voice was like the lash of a whip.

  “Did you challenge him? Did you challenge him?”

  “No, Mary, I did not. The man is a drunken lout, and a fool, and no gentleman. By tomorrow he will not even recall what he said. And I should be very much surprised if he does not take himself away tomorrow—I should think Dr. Ritchie will see to that.”

  Edmund gestured to a chair, inviting her to seat herself, but she remained standing, looking at him with an expression which mingled disdain with disbelief.

  “Captain Templeton insulted me, in public—and you refused to fight him? You refused?”

  “Mary, by now everyone in Belfast knows Templeton for what he is—a pathetic drunk, who most likely was cashiered out of the army. He is beneath your notice and mine.”

  “I see,” said his wife, speaking slowly and with a dreadful calmness which did not disguise the rage boiling within her, “so... you would fight a duel for your cousin Fanny—but you refuse to do the same for me? For your wife?”

  The truth of the accusation briefly silenced Edmund. Until that moment, he had not thought of that other incident years ago, when he challenged Mary’s brother Henry, in the mistaken conviction Henry had deceived and seduced his cousin Fanny.

  On that occasion, he had not hesitated to challenge Henry, and it had led to catastrophe. And yet—how were the two incidents to be compared?

  “Mary, there is a difference, which I think you must acknowledge. I believed Fanny to be ruined by your brother—which, thankfully, was not the case. But, when I was operating under that misapprehension, honour required me to call him to account. In the present instance, to challenge Templeton would, I think, be rather to give credence to his insults, to invest them with a—”

  “The difference—and I suppose I have always known it—the difference is you love Fanny more than you could ever love me. That is the difference.”

  “Mary! We have had this quarrel too many times before. I married you. It is not Fanny who poses a danger to our marriage, it is not I who—truly, I wonder how can you continue to upbraid me with your jealousy of a blameless girl when—” Edmund broke off, unable to give voice to the rest.

  “Your heart never belonged to me. Never!” Mary shouted, then, collecting herself, hissed out her question: “Tell me, Edmund, tell me, my dearest, faithful husband—if Captain Templeton insulted your precious Fanny in public, if he said something against her virtue, against her character, as he has insulted me, what would you do? Would you wave him off and tell him to go home?”

  Almost imperceptibly, Edmund startled at the thought, and Mary saw it, and her expression changed from contempt to something like triumph. She pointed to his right hand. Edmund looked down, and saw that his hand was clenched into a tight fist.

  “There! There is my answer. You betray yourself. The mere suggestion that someone would insult your sweet little Fanny, and the anger rises within you! You would have challenged him—for her! You would have fought him—for her! You would not have permitted him to walk away.”

  Edmund shook his head. “Mary, pray consider what you are saying. What purpose can it serve?”

  Mary turned from him and walked to the window. He could hear her voice breaking as she answered, “What purpose can the truth serve? What purpose indeed, Edmund? If I tell you I can no longer endure being last in your affections, what purpose does it serve, if you refuse to acknowledge the truth? Looking back, I see now that she poisoned our marriage, even from the start.”

  “Whatever you may say of me, Mary, you must acknowledge that Fanny has done nothing to merit this animosity from you.”

  “Always so quick to defend her! Always so swift to condemn me! And now you make that sound, that exasperated sigh I know so well. As though I was not in my right mind, and you are the martyr to my whims and caprices.”

  “In the catalogue of your whims and caprices, do you include, taking Lord Elsham as your lover?”

  This unexpected, bitter, reproof from her husband—who normally could not bring himself to mention Lord Elsham—goaded Mary to new heights of rage.

  “You drove me away, Edmund. I left Thornton Lacey in absolute agony.”

  Edmund buried his face in his hands. Of course his wife viewed the history of their marriage in this way. It was futile to argue with her, as he had reminded himself so many times before.

  “But do you not understand, when you refused to fight Captain Templeton, you ruined me, ruined all of us?” she said after a moment’s silence. “By now, all of Belfast knows of my humiliation. How can I ever show myself in public again?”

  Edmund shook his head. “I intended, by ignoring his insults, to refuse to lend credence to them, to treat him with the contempt he deserved. If I had called Captain Templeton out, what then would have been the result?” He rose and joined Mary at the window, placing a conciliating hand on her shoulder. “I should have been instantly dismissed from my post at the school in disgrace. Can you not—”

  Mary flung off his hand, and turned and slapped him hard across the face.

  “Were you this calm and philosophical when you attacked my brother in the park? Were you calculating the consequences then? Oh yes! There is no need to throw it in my face—again! You are unwilling to make any sacrifices for me,” she screamed. “I am not Fanny, am I?”

  Edmund left the room, collected his jacket and hat from the hall, and slammed the front door behind him. Walking away like a man possessed, he was inevitably reminded of that day when, blind with rage, he had stalked through the streets of London to find Henry Crawford. On that day in London, had not some bystanders prevented it, he might have beaten Henry Crawford to death.

  It was not too late to send a challenge to Captain Templeton; however, Edmund was certain it would mean the end of his employment. School masters did not fight duels.

  For Captain Templeton, a wretched drunk, he had only contempt. Templeton would drink himself to death, sooner rather than later.

  But what of Mary? Was she correct that the incident could not be overborne?

  He found himself back at Fort William, beside the remains of the bonfire, a huge pile of ashes and charred wood, which to a person of a poetical disposition, could provide a metaphor for a failed marriage.

  But Edmund almost sneered at the thought. His aversion to melodrama was strong. He and Mary were as different as chalk and cheese in that resp
ect.

  He turned away from the site of the bonfire and looked at the bay and the grey waters beyond, and his imagination reached over the horizon, to his home in England. It would be exceedingly difficult to return to Mansfield, with Mary at his side. The people there, and the people of Thornton Lacey, would treat her with utter contempt. There was no prospect of their forgetting how she had abandoned their marriage within a year of contracting it; his Aunt Norris, he was sure, was diligent in keeping the memory alive. He winced to think of the gossip about Lord Elsham reaching her, as well.

  The parish of Thornton Lacey had been left in the capable hands of his old school-fellow, Richard Owen, and Dr. Grant had a life interest in the larger living at Mansfield. The day would likely come, however, when Edmund would have to choose between his clerical calling or his marriage.

  This of course was not the first time his wife had accused him of caring more for his cousin Fanny than for her. He had always pushed the idea away, whenever it suggested itself, for his own sake and for Fanny’s.

  Yet, how different his life would have been, if he had married a different kind of woman. If he had married Fanny.

  His domestic life, now filled with quarrels and tension, and borne by him with silent resignation, would be peaceful and harmonious. He would have a wife who respected him, supported him. The children were afraid of their mother’s rages—there would be no such difficulty with a gentle, loving, even-tempered wife like Fanny.

  He did not know what Mary might do, in consequence of this latest, serious quarrel. Perhaps she would leave him again as she had done before. But the path of duty was clear for him—he must take care of his children. Captain Templeton had brought the rumours about Mary’s conduct to Ireland, which they had thought were safely left behind in England. The consequences for little Anna Imogen might be especially dire, as it was generally believed that daughters inherited the weak character of a wanton mother. He would need to devote the utmost care and attention to the upbringing of his children so their own characters and reputations remained spotless.