A Different Kind of Woman (Mansfield Trilogy Book 3)

by Lona Manning

  The thought of the pure and boundless love he felt for his children consoled him on his long walk homeward. Come what may, he would protect them from the sneers of the world.

  He faced a cold wind on the walk home, but he welcomed its bracing bite.

  Mary, he supposed, must be over the worst of her passion by now. The children and the servants must have heard her loud flights of temper—he hoped the neighbours had not.

  * * * * * * *

  Edmund Bertram’s philosophy had always been that good actions should and would arise where people of good sense were involved. On one occasion, his cousin Fanny was threatened with leaving his father’s house to live with Aunt Norris, and he had declared it would be a very good thing for both of them. As it happened, Aunt Norris protested that she, a broken-hearted widow, could not provide a home for Fanny, so Edmund never saw his cousin made miserable, nor learned how unfounded his cheerful prognostications were.

  This tendency to assume the best of his fellow creatures led Edmund to predict that the incident at the Linen Hall dinner would soon be consigned to oblivion. He was correct in one respect: Captain Templeton disappeared from Belfast. His departure was so swift, so surreptitious, that no-one could say which coach had borne him away, or whether he had taken ship for England. The general esteem in which the Ritchies were held spared them from any impertinent enquiries masquerading as concern. Captain Templeton was never mentioned before them.

  But wherever the Ritchies were not in company, Templeton’s character was held up and denounced. It was agreed that he had never been handsome, and no-one could believe he had ever distinguished himself upon any battlefield.

  Moreover, all of Belfast united in agreement over Edmund Bertram’s many virtues. And most agreed he should not have condescended to answer the challenge of a drunken reprobate.

  But the aspersions against the virtue of Mrs. Bertram could not be dismissed as inconsequential. There had been whispers before, talk of a previous estrangement between Mr. and Mrs. Bertram, and some matrons disclosed, that their servants had learnt from Mrs. Bertram’s servants, how Mrs. Bertram was not always so amiable when she was at home. What had been said and heard, could not be unsaid, nor forgotten.

  Edmund sensed a change, a too-complete silence, when he climbed into his pulpit for evening vespers in the school chapel on the Sunday following the incident. The older boys nudged each other and grinned, the masters looked uncomfortable, and the governors looked grave.

  Mary went out in her carriage to call on Mrs. Malcolm and Mrs. Ritchie, but neither were at home. No-one called or sent invitations and the only note she received that week was to inform her that the regular meeting at the Harp Academy was cancelled.

  Mary stayed at home, or went out riding by herself, while Edmund buried himself in his work. Edmund persevered in hoping the entire matter would be forgotten. Mary declared it would not, and she was correct.

  A fortnight after Captain Templeton insulted Mary at the White Linen Hall, the board of governors of St. George’s Academy asked for Rev. Bertram’s resignation: “with infinite regret, the board has concluded that the future well-being of the school would be best ensured under a new headmaster.”

  Mary blamed Edmund for the debacle, and provoked and upbraided him until he was goaded to remind her that, had she not sinned against him with Lord Elsham, there would have been no slander to relate. In her ingenuity she found a way to turn the argument back against him. If only Edmund possessed the ambition to rise to distinction, he would be a powerful man, and they would both be immune to the hypocrisy of the world. If he were a leader in the government or the army, who would dare to turn their backs on her, who would dare to murmur under their breath as she passed by? His reputation would have protected hers, and together they would have attained the highest circles of influence.

  Look at the Pagets, and the Wellingtons, with their divorces and their adultery, she told him. Look at the royal princes, with their score of bastard children. Look at the Marquess of Donegall, an inveterate gambler who married his moneylender’s daughter to get out of debtor’s prison! And yet, wherever he went, everyone bowed and scraped to His Lordship and Her Ladyship!

  But no, her husband was without ambition, pride or resource. He even owed the headmaster position to her influence, not his own.

  And then Edmund took Thomas and Cyrus out for a walk, and the servants began to pack up the library and prepare for the family’s removal from Belfast.

  Chapter 11: Bristol, Summer 1815

  “And so,” Mrs. Butters recalled with mirth, “there she stood, her hands shaking—like this— and I believe I could hear her teeth chattering. She was so frightened, poor little soul, that I almost—almost, mind, told her to sit down and I would speak for her. But, she did it, Mr. Thompson. She did it. She spoke to the committee, and she answered all their questions. She had some memorandums written out, with the expenses and the estimates, she had calculated how much ought to be paid to rent a stall, and so forth.”

  Mr. Thompson, leaning on his cane, stood next to Mrs. Butters as they surveyed the newly-opened Bristol Ladies’ Bazaar. Ten stalls lined each side of the warehouse and the brick walls and broad wooden planks on the floor were freshly scrubbed, and everything looked clean and orderly.

  “It all looks very well laid out,” he said approvingly. “Did thy servants help thee?”

  “Oh, I made the mistake of asking Mrs. McIntosh,” answered Mrs. Butters, “and she was quite indignant. She declared that she and her maids were never going to muck out a filthy warehouse. So I hired some Irishwomen, and some men to build the stalls.”

  Behind each stall stood a vendor, offering seat cushions, playing cards, eyeglass cases, and trims for bonnets—all items they had made at home, into which they had poured many hours of effort.

  In between the sellers and the buyers, Fanny Price moved swiftly and quietly, looking, Mr. Thompson thought, like a little sparrow flying hither and yon, taking a half-guinea to be exchanged for shillings, answering questions, and greeting customers.

  “This all looks very well,” said Mr. Thompson. “The stalls are very handsome.”

  “But I have not finished telling you about what Fanny did,” said Mrs. Butters.

  “Certainly, my dear Mrs. Butters, but I must find a seat somewhere. Let us go to the tea tables.” At the farthest end of the room, away from the double doors of the entry, were arranged half-a-dozen small tables where aproned ladies served tea and baked goods. Mrs. Butters selected a table next to a stall over which Madame Orly presided, shifting from one foot to the other (for her boots were rather too small).

  “And what has thou made for this occasion, Madame Orly? Bonnet trim? Embroidered collars?” Mr. Thompson asked genially.

  “Don’t you recall my telling you, my dear Mr. Thompson,” Mrs. Butters replied, “we have got up a scheme to assist the French prisoners.”

  “I know better than to offer you a cribbage board, Monsieur Thompson,” said Madame Orly,” but perhaps you would care to examine the clever carvings on these cane handles.”

  “I think not, just the same, Madame Orly,” said Mr. Thompson. “Although I’ve no objection if someone else wishes to, and if it is the only way by which the prisoners may earn some income. But then, we had thought the French would be gone from amongst our midst by now, did we not?” He shook his head. “Mr. Bonaparte had other ideas, and the war resumes.”

  “So then, about Fanny,” Mrs. Butters went on, for she feared Mr. Thompson was about to inveigh against the folly of all wars and this war in particular, a talk she had heard many a time before, “as I was telling you, after Fanny gave her presentation, the Committee for Impoverished Gentlewomen told her she must find a warehouse to hold the bazaar, to know for a certainty what the expenses might be. So I brought her down here to Corn Street, where we had seen some warehouses for let, and told her she must speak to the agents herself, and negotiate the rent.”

  Mr. Thompson was successfully di
verted from the escape of Napoleon, for he answered, “Did thee now? She must have needed thy smelling salts after that!”

  “She declared it was impossible, she begged me to help her, but I answered, ‘all right then, Fanny, I suppose that Mrs. Pendle will freeze to death this winter because she cannot afford coal, and Mrs. Tucker will send her children to school with no shoes.’ That did the business,” said Mrs. Butters, nodding her head wisely. “She squared her little shoulders, got out of the carriage, and marched into the agent’s office and wouldn’t leave until he gave us four months’ free rent in exchange for a two years’ lease.”

  “Good for her! And, good for thee, Mrs. Butters. Well, if this bazaar continues on so well as it has begun, I imagine three will want to hire some capable fellow to operate it,” Mr. Thompson said.

  Mrs. Butters lifted an eyebrow. “A man? That is to say, an enterprise conceived, funded, organized and gotten up by ladies must inevitably be supervised by a man?”

  “I meant only to suggest that Miss Price is, as you say, of a retiring nature. Moreover she is surely too young and inexperienced to be placed at the head of such an enterprise.”

  Here Madame Orly could not refrain herself from speaking in her friend’s defence. “Ah!” she exclaimed. “Miss Price is not as young as she looks, you know.”

  Fanny had by now observed the three speakers deep in conversation, and being tolerably certain that they were speaking of her, came over to greet Mr. Thompson and introduce some other topic.

  “Mr. Thompson was just congratulating us, Fanny,” said Mrs. Butters, looking at her old friend with emphasis, “on how very well everything has been arranged here.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Thompson. He raised his walking stick and gestured to the middle of the spacious hall. “Dost thou not think, Miss Price, that the room is sufficiently broad enough to admit another double row of stalls, right down the middle?”

  Fanny nodded. “Yes, sir, but first I think we might experiment with opening our doors four days a week, instead of only two, to test the degree of public support, before we undertake additional expenditures.”

  Mrs. Butters gave Mr. Thompson a very significant look.

  “A sensible notion, I will allow,” Mr. Thompson said, nodding his head.

  “We shall not cease,” said Mrs. Butters, “until every last citizen of Bristol is in possession of one of our pin cushions or needle cases. So I rely on you, Fanny, to keep everything in order, for really, it is more than I wish to undertake at my time of life.”

  “Thee can certainly be very pleased with thyself, young lady,” said Mr. Thompson.

  “For me,” Fanny replied, “the greatest satisfaction is to be derived from the knowledge that we are putting impoverished women in the way of providing for themselves. There is a sense of degradation which accompanies charity, no matter how kindly intended, which can never be as agreeable as the conviction that one is doing everything in one’s power to help oneself. And now these women have the satisfaction of knowing they possess talents which have some pecuniary value, however slight.”

  Mr. Thompson looked at Mrs. Butters.

  Mrs. Butters said, “When Fanny’s feelings run high, this is the way she talks.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Thompson. “And tell me Fanny, will thee take no wages for thine own efforts? Does thy toil have no pecuniary value?”

  Fanny shook her head. “Taking a salary would only add to the expense, and the ladies would be compelled to pay higher rents for their stall space.”

  “Sit down, at any rate, Fanny,” urged Mrs. Butters, “and we will treat you to a cup of tea.”

  * * * * * * *

  As the sailors rowed Sam Price through the harbour in the jolly-boat, he thought to himself, “this boat is perhaps the last vessel I shall ever sit in. These are my last moments upon the sea.”

  Rain fell steadily all about Sam and his ship mates, the sky was entirely grey and clouds hung low over Bristol. His final farewell was a subdued one. They could not meet his eye, nor could he look at them, for fear of losing his composure. His few possessions were slung in a bag tied around his neck. He had sold all of his navigational apparatus, having no more need of it. His midshipman’s hat with its broad brim was pulled low over his eyes. The wind tugged and teased at his oilskin cape.

  Sam clumsily climbed up the slippery ladder to the wharf, almost losing his balance for a moment, and he felt a stab of despair. Reaching the dock, he strode quickly away and plunged into the crowded streets of Bristol, viewing with dismay the clear signs of poverty and distress everywhere—the idle men loitering about, the pinched faces of the women, the hungry eyes of the children.

  As he made his way to the high street, a beggar, leaning heavily on a cane, hobbled alongside him and tugged at the skirts of his cape.

  “A penny for a crippled old sailor, sir, wot has been wounded in the service of King and country?”

  Sam swung around, and with his left arm he flung his cape over his right shoulder so the beggar could see the empty sleeve pinned up against his jacket. “You still have both your arms, have you not? Can you not work with them?”

  “Oh! I beg your pardon, sir.”

  Sam had not intended to speak so harshly but the sight of the lame sailor greatly perturbed his mind. Would he be reduced to such straits? What occupation was there for a man with no right arm? He was no Admiral Nelson, entrusted with command of a British fleet, he was plain Samuel Price, three-and-twenty years of age, and still a midshipman, with no patronage and no prospects and now discharged from the Navy, which no longer required his services.

  There was no novelty in his situation—many sailors and soldiers came home with missing limbs, or eyes. There was not even enough pity to go around for the likes of him.

  Nor did he have the consolation of reflecting on some glorious battle, some dauntless act of courage, to account for the loss of his limb. Yes, he had fought and served with distinction in the late war, but his loss had been occasioned by an encounter with the native prickly pear on the Bermuda coast. He remembered the moment and how unimportant it was at the time—some of the officers had all gone for a final swim before setting sail for England. They had laughed and rolled about in the surf, he had returned to the shore to dress himself, and stumbled and scratched his arm.

  A few days out to sea, and his arm began to itch and then to ache. He awoke one morning to see the alarming symptoms of a corruption in the blood. The surgeon lanced him, but the wound grew putrid and nearly killed him. Over his screams of protest, the surgeon cut his arm off and flung it overboard and at times he wished he had gone over with it.

  The news had not reached his family. But his ship had put in at Bristol, where Fanny lived.

  Sam had only seen Fanny once since she had left the family to live with their uncle and aunt, and that very briefly. He knew from her correspondence to him over the years, that she was exceedingly kind-hearted and solicitous of his welfare, and that she was a companion to a rich lady. He shrank from the thought of her pity while at the same time longing for some feminine solace from an older sister.

  As well, he doubted the propriety of knocking upon Mrs. Butters’ door, for he did not know the lady, and a wide gulf separated them in terms of rank in society. He was relieved, upon finding the house, to spy some stairs leading down to a servant’s entrance. Down he went and knocked on the door, which was soon opened by an older woman wearing a long apron and a suspicious expression. The delightful smells of roasting meat wafted out from behind her.

  “And who might you be?” She demanded in a strong Scottish brogue.

  “Ma’am, if you please, I am brother to Miss Fanny Price.”

  This announcement had an immediate effect. The frown disappeared, replaced with surprise. She closely scrutinised the handsome young sailor’s face and announced, as though informing him, “Why, yes you are! I do believe you have a bit of the look of your sister. You have the same sort of light blue eyes. Come in, come in,�
� she urged, “but stop—you must take off that cape, for I’ll not have ye dripping water all over my kitchen floors.”

  Sam complied, awkwardly tugging at the string which held the cape around his neck. With one hand, he pulled it off and shook the cape out on the pavement, studiously looking down, rather than meet the eyes of the cook as she took in the fact of his injury.

  “Well there, you poor bairn,” she said quietly. “You’ve been to the wars, have ye not. Give us the cape, I will hang it by the fire. Let’s have your hat, as well. Come in, come in, and I’ll send for Fanny. Will you have some soup?”

  Mrs. McIntosh sent a maid to find Miss Price, then she urged and re-urged him to take a seat at the kitchen table. He sat down, but sprang up again so soon as a housemaid entered or re-entered the room, until they began to laugh at him. A bowl of delicious-smelling beef stew was placed in front of him, followed swiftly by a basket of warm bread, with butter to spread on it, and a tankard of cider. Sam had never received such a demonstration of maternal solicitude from a stranger. He knew not how to respond to the kindness of Mrs. McIntosh and he feared he must cut a very awkward figure.

  He soon heard the rapid patter of female feet, and an elegant, slender young lady came bursting through the door, exclaiming, “Sam! My brother!”

  Even an observer less shrewd than Mrs. McIntosh could perceive that here were brother and sister. Sam stood more than a head taller, but his brown hair curled around his forehead, his eyes were the same soft shade of blue, and his countenance, when he smiled, was as sweet as his sister’s. The only other difference was that he was dressed in rough and worn clothing, while Fanny was neatly attired in a pretty but simple gown.

  Fanny’s reunion with her brother comprehended all that was tender, loving and sorrowful. Sam had been a favourite with her in his infancy and seeing him in his present straits wracked at her heart. Her eye went to the empty jacket sleeve, then returned resolutely to his face. She bid him resume his seat and eat his meal.