A Different Kind of Woman (Mansfield Trilogy Book 3)

by Lona Manning

  “Betrayed! I do not understand you. Betrayed me how?”

  “You used to meet with Henry Crawford in secret. I told—I told your brother of it. It was I who told him.”

  Instantly Maria understood her. Yes, years ago, when she was under the spell of Henry Crawford’s fatal charm, she had met with him in his hotel room. Edmund somehow learned of their liaisons. She had always supposed it was some prying servant who had done it. “It was you, Margaret!” she exclaimed.

  Margaret nodded. “I was so jealous of you. You are so beautiful, so graceful, so elegant, everything that I am not. And Henry used to like me, but then after he met you, he would never even look at me. I was so absurd and miserable.” She began to weep softly.

  Maria was indeed taken aback, and sat silently for some moments, examining her feelings. Had this knowledge been revealed to her at the time, she might have pulled Margaret’s hair out. But now she was happy, now she was respectable, and secure. She could afford to forgive. The struggle was brief, but generosity triumphed.

  “Margaret,” Maria answered at last. “I see things very differently now, than I did then. I am with child, and I may have a daughter. And the first thing I must tell you, should a daughter of mine ever behave as rashly as I did, I would fall on my knees and thank the person who discovered her folly and reported it to me.”

  Smiles mingled with tears on Margaret’s countenance. “Oh, you are kind—too kind!”

  “I am sorry, indeed, if this secret has been weighing on your conscience all this time,” Maria added, but Margaret was not done with unburdening herself, and her old schoolgirl stammer returned as she blurted out: “P-perhaps if I had never interfered, perhaps Henry would have m-married you sooner, perhaps he might never have d-d-died, perhaps I ruined everything!”

  The supposition was such a grave one that in fact, Maria had to think about it for a few moments, before she could reply with tolerable composure. She had, in fact, struggled with lingering resentment toward her cousin Fanny, who had also played an unwitting part in the tragedy. But in the end, Maria knew, the chief actor in the whole business was Henry Crawford. He had employed all his arts to seduce her, he had then deceived her, claimed he was married, and finally, his reckless actions resulted in his death in a carriage accident.

  “I loved Henry,” Maria finally said, “I was entirely besotted with him. But he did not want to marry me—or anyone.”

  Margaret wiped her eyes. “B-b-but you will never know what might have happened if I hadn’t been so jealous.”

  “Margaret, I know what jealousy is. It was jealousy that drove me to forget all safety, all decorum, all self-respect, and I paid a terrible price for it. Henry played with many girls’ hearts, and in all probability, I am not the only girl whose virtue he stole.”

  Margaret looked down at her hands, her cheeks crimson.

  Maria spoke with rather more candour than she truly felt, as she added, “There is nothing to forgive, Margaret. I hope you can be content, and we can dismiss from our recollection those actions in our past which we regret today.”

  Margaret looked up hopefully. “Because—you are happy now, are you not?”

  “Very happy,” Maria agreed. “Mr. Orme is the best of husbands, although I might not have appreciated him so well when I was one-and-twenty and Henry Crawford turned my head.” Maria fell silent again, considering whether she ought to confess in return about her past transgressions, her cruel mockery of Margaret. But, she decided, what purpose would it serve? She smiled at her friend. “And I should be very happy if you could pull that bell-cord and tell someone to bring us a pot of tea.”

  * * * * * * *

  “How pleased your mother will be to have your company, now that Maria spends most of her time in town!” said William Price. He said it by way of solacing himself, of thinking well of himself for the sacrifice he was making in leaving his wife at Everingham. He would miss his little family intensely when he returned home to their little cottage in Newcastle.

  Julia was bending over her husband’s trunk, carefully folding his clothes for his journey, but she paused and stepped over to him, and encircled him with her arms. She looked up at him with a mischievous expression. “So Maria and I have always supposed. My father has always wanted one of us be in attendance on mother, and prescribed it as a duty. But I have come to realize…”

  “Realize what, my dear?”

  Julia smiled. “When I was young, I really had not considered how fond father was of us all, how important it was to him to have us gathered all around him. I had never understood the depth of his feelings, for his manner, as you know, is so reserved.”

  “Oh yes, I do know!” William smiled. Sir Thomas was a formidable father-in-law.

  “Well, I have come to realize that it is father who misses us the most. He says he wants us here for the sake of mother, but it is really for himself! He was so happy when Edmund came back from Ireland. You have seen how pleased he is to have you and Edmund to talk with every evening.”

  “So, are you telling me I must resign myself to leaving you here at Everingham more frequently? Not that it isn’t excellent for the children,” he added, not wishing to sound ungenerous. At Everingham there was sweet clean air that smelled of new-mown hay, and a beautiful garden to play in. And for his wife, there was the ceremony of dressing for dinner, of having servants to attend on her for everything, of ease and comfort.

  William took his wife’s hand and kissed it, noticing the little burn mark on her palm that still lingered from when she had picked up the kettle a few weeks ago. They had servants, of course, but his wife’s life in Newcastle was nothing compared to what she might have expected growing up as the daughter of Sir Thomas Bertram, the baronet.

  William looked around their elegant bedchamber, and thought of the small and dingy room they slept in back at home. “So, you are prepared to make this tremendous sacrifice and stay here at Everingham a while longer! Truly, you are a saintly daughter.”

  Julia gave him a playful push. “You know I would not remain behind if you did not agree to it. And you know how very, very much I shall miss you. But you shall be sailing in your convoy and I may as well wait for you here as at home. Still, I fancy I shall be wanted here more often.”

  William nodded. Maria now had a new life in London, and last night at dinner, Edmund had surprised everyone by announcing that he was taking his family to Italy in the autumn. He refused to move to London and Mary refused to live anywhere else, so a long trip abroad was reckoned the best solution to the impasse.

  “I hope that Mary’s disposition will improve as a result,” said Julia, in a tone which said she hoped to be contradicted.

  “She is a very lively person, and I daresay the stimulation and novelty of travelling must have its good effect upon her,” William answered.

  When Julia first fell in love with her husband, she had admired his kind-hearted nature, and contrasted it favourably with Henry Crawford’s sarcastic jests. But after several years of marriage, William’s unfailing cheerfulness and candour could be very provoking sometimes.

  “Tell me, William,” she said pettishly. “Why don’t we go to Italy, too? We can live there very frugally, you know. What do I need to do to persuade you? Shall I do as Mary did, and be generally dreadful?”

  William cupped his wife’s face gently between his hands, and kissed her. “Please don’t.”

  “I hope she shall be happy—for the sake of the poor children, and Edmund as well,” Julia allowed.

  “I promise you, my love,” said William, “we shall go sailing again together, as we first did after our marriage. This is not our time, but one day I will show you the seven seas and Rome and the antipodes and whatever you wish. I promise.”

  She thanked him with a kiss, and he thanked her by closing their bedchamber door and interrupting the rest of her packing.

  * * * * * * *

  William Price returned to Newcastle without his family, and thence sailed to Lo
ndon with his convoy of coal ships, where he was fortunate to arrive just as William Gibson was released from prison.

  He discovered that his friend was very much affected by the contrast, the sudden change from the isolation of his confinement, and the bustle and noise of the outside world. Moreover, his celebrity drew so much attention upon him that he was oppressed by it.

  A hasty exit from London to the peace of the countryside appeared to be the best remedy, and Commander Price was happy to offer his friend passage to the north of England. He had intended, at the conclusion of the voyage, to retrieve his wife and children from Everingham, but out of compassion for Mr. Gibson, he proposed instead that the two of them make a walking tour, contriving to avoid all human habitation, so that Mr. Gibson might reacquaint himself by degrees with life outside of the walls of his prison. Hadrian’s Wall from Newcastle to Solway was the route decided upon, and Julia kindly consented.

  In their long hours of walking together through the low, undulating landscape, it was impossible that Fanny should not be mentioned between the two Williams. Mr. Gibson spoke of her with respect and affection. He wished Fanny well; he was pleased to be assured she was very well.

  William Price wanted to enquire most particularly into his friend’s private reflections—whether he was on the whole resigned and content, or whether regret gnawed at him. The right moment appeared to arrive one day when the late afternoon sun was slanting across the moors, illuminating the scene with a peculiarly enchanting and other-worldly light. “Did you ever regret penning that pamphlet, Gibson? You must have thought on it a great deal while you were in prison.”

  “I must correct you on one point. I was not ‘in prison.’ I was ‘languishing in prison’ We prisoners always languish, and you will see it written so in all the newspapers,” answered Gibson in a cheerful tone. Then, more seriously, he added, “I had just beheld several dozen men executed by our government, men driven to desperation by oppression and want. I was seized with an ungovernable rage and under its influence, I spoke the truth as I saw it. I told myself I could brave the consequences. The satisfaction I derived from publishing the pamphlet cost me a great deal more than mere confinement. I knew your sister’s opinion and her fears, but I did not restrain myself on her account.”

  Gibson paused here; he was attempting to sound detached, as though he had long been beyond the reach of sorrow or regret or resentment. He needed a moment to compose himself, before he continued, “But as for—as for your sister, I have taught myself to feel, as she must feel, that it is for the best. I always said I would not marry. Then I met Fanny, and I forgot my resolution for a while. I did have a strong inclination, a longing, to protect her. She had been wounded and ill-used from an early age—and yet she was so… so… decent and good and upright. I wanted to see her safe, to see her treated with respect. And in the end, I was the one who showed her no respect, no consideration. So you see, as her husband—I could not have made her happy as she deserves to be happy. In short, I am not suited for the state.”

  “I did wonder, for you never asked about Fanny, nor mentioned her, when you wrote from prison.”

  Gibson smiled grimly. “Because Lord Sidmouth’s agents in the post office were in the habit of opening and reading all my letters—the thought of some repulsive government lackey seeing her name, reading of her, peering into my sentiments—I could not endure the thought of it.”

  Price nodded in sympathy. He was still of an age to be all for love and he had himself been lucky in love. He esteemed his sister and his friend in almost equal measure, and was therefore unable to blame either. His friend Gibson seemed quite decided that he was not made for matrimony.

  Gibson slowed his pace, as they were coming to the crest of a hill. They were alone, in a vast stretch of rugged scenery, save of course for William Gibson’s manservant, riding ahead of them with a cart which held their provisions, tents and equipment. They were in no danger of being overheard, except by the ghosts of Roman centurions.

  “At the time, I believed myself to be acting rationally and with justification. There was something wrong and strange about the business. The day before their execution, I spoke with the men convicted of the murder of the mill-owner. They were all so young—scarcely more than lads! George Mellor told me the chief witness against them was notorious for being the most radical Luddite in the district—older, as well, than the others, yet he put himself forward as being under their direction and sway, then repented of it, and turned King’s evidence. Benjamin Walker is his name. I saw him giving his evidence at the trial. Walker testified that Mellor was the instigator of the crime, while Mellor said it was Walker.”

  “So they blamed each other.”

  “Yes, and the younger man swung from a rope and the older, so I am told, received two thousand pounds. I am convinced that some of the testimony against Mellor was a put-up job. According to witnesses against him, George Mellor went to the shearing shop and told everyone, including the owner, of his plan to shoot William Horsfall. He discussed Horsfall’s murder over drinks at the tavern, as you might discuss the weather. ‘May I borrow your pistol? I intend to shoot Mr. Horsfall with it.’ ‘Who will come with me to shoot Mr. Horsfall?’ ‘Here, hide these guns that we shot Mr. Horsfall with.’ Is this to be believed? And I wrote as much, and you know how Sidmouth dealt with me.”

  “So what became of this Benjamin Walker?”

  “I’m told he left Yorkshire for his own safety. The night before he died, Mellor said to me, he would rather be where he is now—that is, facing his own execution—than be in Walker’s shoes.”

  “Yes, certainly, he would need to make himself scarce after breaking the Luddite oath and betraying his comrades!”

  The two walked in silence for a time. Finally William Price said, “I dare say Lord Sidmouth believes that offering bribes for testimony is the prudent thing to do. Yet there is something mean and contemptible about it.”

  “It is even worse than that—there were government spies and agents among the Luddites, minions of Lord Sidmouth. Sidmouth expects to find radicals; he firmly believes the labouring classes are on the verge of rising up. His spies, his paid hirelings, tell him what he wants to hear. And if they cannot find the evidence, they manufacture it.”

  “Do you think he is wrong? About the danger of rebellion, I mean.”

  “Of course some men are bent on revolution. Take any large body of men, and you will find all shades of opinion. There are those who take no interest in politics, there are poor men who only want bread for their families, and yes, there are radicals who are convinced they are about to usher in a new Jerusalem. This latter category are few, but they are always the loudest, they will always try to run to the head of the procession, so to speak. But they are fanatics, by and large, and I believe the average working man wants nothing to do with revolution.”

  William Price shaded his eyes with his hand and pointed ahead at the crest of a low hill before them, where they could see the derelict remains of an old Roman fort.

  “Perhaps some Roman sentries were on patrol exactly where we walk today, and congratulating themselves that there appeared to be no danger of an uprising.”

  Mr. Gibson laughed, but as they looked to the north, it was very easy to imagine hordes of frenzied tribesmen springing up out of the tall grass with their spears and shields.

  “So, Gibson, will you continue to write and publish about politics?”

  “Yes, no doubt I will, for better or worse. And I have some more novels I want to write. But I shall do it from Europe. I intend to go abroad for a time.”

  William Price nodded. “Of course. I daresay you would have gone before now, but for—”

  Mr. Gibson smiled. “Yes, but for languishing in prison.”

  In fact, before his impetuosity overturned all his plans for the future, he had intended to publish his novel, marry Fanny, and take her abroad. Now, his protracted journey, rather than being a honeymoon, was intended to furnish new ma
terial for his future novels; and console him for what he must leave behind.

  After completing his walking tour, Mr. Gibson left England from Plymouth, with no fixed idea as to his itinerary on the continent, or the time of his return.

  PART TWO

  Prologue, Norfolk, Spring 1818

  Thornton Lacey was, of course, the lesser of the two livings which Sir Thomas had intended for his son Edmund; but before Edmund attained his majority, Sir Thomas was compelled to sell the living of Mansfield to settle the debts run up by his oldest son and heir Tom.

  Dr. Grant had held the living since that time, and his coming to Mansfield altered the lives of the Bertrams to a not inconsiderable degree—for Mary and Henry Crawford were his wife’s half-sister and brother.

  In the spring of 1818 Dr. Grant, through an interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes, succeeded to a stall in Westminster. While the Grants—particularly Mrs. Grant—were well-respected in Mansfield, the fact of their removal was highly acceptable to both the Grants and the Bertrams.

  This important intelligence was some time in finding Edmund in Italy, and his reply was longer in returning, but he affirmed he would come home to take up the living in Mansfield.

  Once this news got about, Edmund’s aunt Mrs. Norris received many calls from the ladies of the parish, curious to know what she would have to say.

  The ladies, of course, prefaced their enquiries with hearty congratulations, but they swiftly discovered their error. For before rejoicing in Mr. Bertram’s return, it was necessary to acknowledge the possibility, the more-than-likelihood, of some terrible mishap befalling Edmund and his family during their perilous journey across land and sea. However, should they return safely home, which was a doubtful matter, Mrs. Norris was in a position to enlighten them on a central point—dear Edmund did not intend to live in the great house, which was sitting vacant since Lord and Lady Delingpole had quitted it. He intended to live at the parsonage.