A Different Kind of Woman (Mansfield Trilogy Book 3)

by Lona Manning

  “So dramatic, Shelley! Tell me the worst—now, I insist upon on it.”

  “It is my health—my nephritic complaint,” answered Shelley, and his hand went protectively to his side. “For some time, I have been convinced that my life was closing—but what did that matter? What had I to live for? Now, I want to live, and live for you, Marina. A correspondent has told me of an excellent physician in Venice. I intend to go and put myself under his care—perhaps my case is not fatal, after all. But I must leave you for the time being.”

  “But Shelley!” Mary protested, “Quite obviously, I can accompany you! We can be together at last, and your wife will remain here! Let us go at once!”

  Shelley’s face briefly lit up, then he shook his head slowly, looking troubled. “Believe me, the notoriety attached to my name will cling to yours, if you are my travelling companion. For your sake, we must be more circumspect, at least for now.”

  Mary was irked at this reminder, but she, no less than Shelley, feared the consequences should news of their alliance reach England. If Edmund knew she was the mistress of a radical poet, he would undoubtedly forbid her to make contact with their children.

  Mary rose, and began pacing back and forth in agitation. “You are leaving me here? And how are you going to pay for the services of this eminent physician?”

  Shelley looked awkward. “Indeed, my pecuniary condition is a very difficult one.” Mary fetched her wallet, and extracted a handful of bank notes. As she handed them to him, she added, “And when you return, I insist that you inform your wife of the change in your affections.”

  “Of course! But I must beg you to withhold from making any approach to her whilst I am away. She has published two books, she has admirers and supporters in London, and who knows, one of them might seek to misrepresent matters and turn our friends against me. I must untangle my affairs. And, in fact, unless you are able to advance me some more funds, I will be leaving my family with insufficient monies. Might I borrow another ten pounds—for my children?”

  Thus fortified for the journey, Shelley took an ardent leave of her. Tears trembled in his eyes as he kissed and caressed her again and again. He went to Mary’s writing desk, snatched up a piece of paper and a quill and scrawled a few lines.

  “For you, my beloved. You are all I live and breathe for. Do not lose hope, nor faith in me.”

  And he was gone.

  Mary read and re-read the effusion that had just poured from Shelley’s hand and heart. They confirmed her judgement in allying herself with his genius.

  Is it that in some brighter sphere

  We part from friends we meet with here?

  Or do we see the Future pass

  Over the Present’s dusky glass?

  Or what is that that makes us seem

  To patch up fragments of a dream,

  Part of which comes true, and part

  Beats and trembles in the heart?

  Chapter 18: England, August 1818

  Mrs. Butters returned from her brief visit to London, much wearied by the demands of travel. Fanny observed her state with alarm. Impatient with all medics and medicine, she quarrelled with her doctor, and asked only for more pillows for her bed, more strong tea and Mrs. McIntosh’s good baking. Fanny needed no doctor to perceive that Mrs. Butters was badly afflicted with dropsy, and the tendency of her condition was grave.

  Her cousins the Blodgetts, and her niece Honoria Smallridge were frequent visitors to her bedside. Madame Orly—now Madame Duchesne—returned from London immediately upon receipt of Fanny’s letter. She, Fanny and Mrs. McIntosh together did all that human agency could accomplish in making Mrs. Butters comfortable, Having arranged her affairs in London to her satisfaction, she appeared to relax her hold upon life and her illness became a rapid sinking into death.

  And what of her son and daughter-in-law? Attendance at such a time could not be expected of them—Cecilia Butters pleaded her many obligations, her children, her horses, her dogs, which kept her tethered to Stoke Newington. But upon her mother-in-law’s demise, she and her husband travelled to Bristol as if on wings to take inventory of everything in the house. While Mr. Butters followed his mother’s coffin to the churchyard, his wife was counting the teaspoons and measuring the curtains.

  Fanny, Madame Duchesne, and Mrs. McIntosh together formed a trio of bland complaisance and courtesy toward a woman whose conduct they all privately deplored. Fanny kept herself busy with superintending the bazaar, though her eyes were sometimes red-rimmed with furtively shed tears. Fanny had always been exceedingly uncomfortable at the thought of anyone’s disapproval—the stern tones of her uncle, the censure of her Aunt Norris—but she found to her surprise that she was able to endure Cecilia Butter’s dislike of her, tolerably well.

  After the funeral, and the reception at the house, George Butters revealed the contents of his mother’s last will and testament to his wife. The purpose of that final visit to London was then revealed. Mrs. Butters had deputized Mr. Orme to meet with her son, and directly enquire into his financial affairs. They were, as Mrs. Butters suspected, in a bad state. Debts threatened to engulf him.

  Mrs. Butters had authorized Mr. Orme to proffer immediate relief from these debts, in lieu of waiting for an inheritance. As it happened, only two months separated his acceptance of the offer, from the death of his mother. Accordingly, when the will came to be read, there was nothing reserved for George and Cecilia Butters save for the silver, the plate and the household furnishings.

  The old lady’s chief beneficiaries were her three granddaughters, who would acquire five thousand pounds apiece upon attaining the age of twenty-five. To Captain Duchesne and his wife, she left her share of her investment in the wine enterprise. Her faithful servants, the McIntoshes, were not forgotten, nor her other servants.

  And for Fanny, Mrs. Butters left four thousand pounds. With the careful superintendence of Mr. Orme, Mrs. Butters had arranged matters so that her daughter-in-law would have no legal grounds for contesting her last will. But no power on earth could have prevented Cecilia Butters from feeling and declaring herself to be very ill-used. The machinations of Miss Price, in stealing her mother-in-law’s money, was a theme warmly expatiated upon by Cecilia Butters for the rest of her life.

  This testament of the old lady’s affection gratified and consoled Fanny. As welcome as this gift was to her—for she immediately began to think upon how she might best assist her mother, her brothers, her sisters—the greatest, the most valuable legacy from her benefactress was not four thousand pounds, but what Mrs. Butters had done in the way of fortifying Fanny’s character.

  At this time, Fanny often fondly recalled the circumstances of their first meeting—their conference in a dining room at an inn at Oxford—and she wondered how it was that Mrs. Butters had discerned something more, something of merit, in the timid, shrinking, submissive girl she had once been.

  She knew herself to be loved and valued by Mrs. Butters, loved like a daughter, and she knew Mrs. Butters trusted her to handle her money wisely, and for the good of more than herself.

  * * * * * * *

  The news that Edmund Bertram was returning to Mansfield—had returned—was at last in residence in Mansfield Parish—was greeted with the most intense interest by his neighbours and parishioners. The farmer who was the first to spy his carriage, the villager who was the first to see him alight from it, the servant who was the first to greet him, were eagerly applied to for their impressions.

  Aunt Norris was of course the first person he called upon in Mansfield, and he brought his children with him. There was little about that lady’s appearance or manner which could endear her to young children, but Thomas, Cyrus, and little Anna Imogen hoped to find in her, a kindly old aunt. They were too young to understand they were to be disappointed in that regard, for now the old lady fussed over them a great deal, and fed them gooseberry tarts, and exclaimed over their beauty and cleverness.

  She made no enquiry—or perhaps she drop
ped the merest hint—concerning Edmund’s absent wife. But the toil and difficulties of setting up his new household, and the unlikelihood that his servants could manage any of it without her guidance, made it a self-evident proposition to Mrs. Norris that she would act as a sort of chatelaine for the parsonage. “My own trouble, you know, I never regard,” she said, “when I can be of service to you and your dear children, and on that head, it seems only right I should give you a hint, Edmund, against engaging Christopher Jackson’s son for your manservant, for I think he is a most encroaching young man, and too clever by half.”

  Edmund was both swift and firm in urging her to spare herself all such exertion. “This is the only way, aunt, in which I could not wish to see you at the parsonage. I have no idea of burdening you in such a fashion. Though I refuse you as a housekeeper, please come to me as an honoured guest.”

  Thwarted as regarded the parsonage, Mrs. Norris’s thoughts ventured further afield. “And I suppose you will no longer require Mr. Owen’s services in Thornton Lacey?” she enquired.

  “On the contrary, aunt,” answered Edmund. “I intend to assign him a life-interest in Thornton Lacey.”

  “What!” Mrs. Norris exclaimed, “Generosity run mad!”

  “I am very surprised to hear you say so, aunt,” came the reply. “For I meant only to emulate the example of my father, when he gave the living here to your husband. My father was happy to be able to bestow a living upon his friend, and Mr. Norris had, as I understand, very little income besides—rather like my friend Richard.”

  Edmund went on, as his aunt endeavoured to recover from her mortification: “It would be blameable, perhaps, if prejudice on behalf of my friend was to the disadvantage of the parish, but such is not the case. Mr. Owen is an excellent minister.”

  Here was a happy escape, for Mrs. Norris could take up the subject of how her late husband was also an excellent clergyman, in every way superior to his successor Dr. Grant, and as for Mrs. Grant’s management of the parsonage compared to her own—heavens!

  Indeed, Mrs. Norris wanted to examine the parsonage as it stood today. She had of course been there as a guest of the Grants, but she longed to open and inspect every cupboard and lament every extravagant alteration, with a freedom she could not have done when Mrs. Grant was in residence.

  “Dear Edmund, I suppose you have observed that the Grants left their enormous great wide dining-room table behind,” she said. “My housekeeper, who is sister to your upper house-maid, told me of it.”

  This table had long been a grievance with Mrs. Norris. “Dr. Grant and his wife always lived in a most presuming and vaunting style, always wanting to appear above themselves,” she went on, “and while no-one, I am sure, would presume to say the table is too good for a Bertram—no-one would think it too fine for my nephew—it is still too large by half for that dining room. If only Dr. Grant had been content to buy my dining-table from me when I came away from the parsonage, as anyone in their senses would have done! But he would always have things his own way!”

  When his aunt had exhausted everything she had to say about the table, Edmund pronounced himself convinced and greatly obliged for her good advice. The first wish of his heart was to select a less offensive piece of furniture to dine upon. With that he arose, certain that his children had reached the limit of their ability to sit quietly in his aunt’s parlour, and took his farewell.

  He had, in fact, a new use in mind for the dining-room table. But this was not confided to Mrs. Norris on that first visit.

  * * * * * * *

  Mrs. Price frequently spoke of moving to her girlhood home of Huntingdon, but she had said the same for many years. Her neighbours concluded her conjectures were merely a topic to vary the usual remarks on the badness of the Portsmouth servants, and so everything might have gone on in the same train, but for an alarming event which befell the Millers.

  After the end of the long European war, the high price of bread was a cause of much misery and resentment amongst the poor people of England who came to regard all bakers as their enemies, for the price of their loaves was grown beyond their means. Some of them could read the newspapers, and understood that the Corn Laws held up the price of wheat, which in turn kept the price of bread high, but even though Mr. Miller had nothing to do with the passing of the Corn Law, or any law, he was nonetheless the man who charged dearly for his bread, as did all the other bakers in town.

  A small group of angry men, determined to obtain relief and likewise resolved to punish their oppressors, chose the bakers as their enemy. They succeeded in gathering a mob together and leading them through the streets, chanting loudly their demand for bread and justice. The mob swelled rapidly—even some females boldly joined the vanguard—and by the time the ranting crowd rushed down Farthing street, its force and vehemence was unstoppable.

  The Millers were unable to defend their property against a howling mob hurling stones and bricks. Mr. Miller and his son were compelled to fly for their own safety whilst the rabble smashed their shop windows and carried away all the bread and flour, and everything else that was movable, from the premises.

  The Millers fortunately escaped harm to their persons, but the shock—the outrage—the incident excited in Mr. Miller’s breast was severe. For years, he had been warning of the radicals stirring up the mob, predicting riot and disorder as the inevitable result. The satisfaction of being proven correct, though it raised him in the estimation of his neighbours, could not console him.

  He was incensed at being so misused and so wrongfully blamed, and his anger could find no proper release. The crowd had moved so quickly, that no-one had been apprehended and punished. Mr. Miller suffered an apoplectic attack shortly after the riot.

  Although Mrs. Price survived the dreadful incident, she was a sufferer, for she was exceedingly alarmed by the riot. The mob had passed right by her door—she might have been murdered, or her house burnt down above her head.

  Her resolution taken, she sent a letter to Sir Thomas, entreating him to assist her in taking a suitable dwelling in Huntingdon in Northamptonshire.

  Chapter 19: Italy, August 1818

  Five days passed without Shelley’s company, five days of surpassing dullness. Mary felt languid and unwell. She practised a little on her harp, she went to the baths, yet all she felt inclined to do was gaze out the window at the road which led down the hill out of town.

  Mary had passed all of July and half of August in Bagni di Lucca, and she was now compelled to remain—she knew not how long—until she heard from Shelley. If she departed for another city, leaving directions for her letters to be forwarded, she feared the messages would miscarry, and she would have no way of communicating with him upon whom all her future ambitions depended.

  Her maid Lucenza was also moping and sighing and languishing about—sharing all those same varied emotions of love, resentment, and ennui. “Shall we not go for a walk, madam?” was her constant refrain. Mary almost boxed her ears for a stupid slut; Lucenza wanted to seek out her various admirers. Mary knew at least of three—the English valet, a waiter at the restaurant on the plaza, and Shelley’s popinjay of a servant.

  The August heat made Mary feel tired and cross, and she had no appetite. Nevertheless she took her seat at the al fresco café, morning and evening, hoping to encounter Miss Clairmont, so that she might learn from her how her step-sister was bearing with the separation from Shelley, and whether she was suspicious or apprehensive of any change in their circumstances. But Claire was not to be found. She had never supposed the girl was an early riser; but she did not appear in the evening either. She no longer made her regular outings for the chicken and ham and sausage that was unobtainable at home. Perhaps, thought Mary, the family abandoned up their all-vegetable diet when the master went away and Claire was eating sausage al fresco in her own back garden. It was most probable, in fact. But without Claire, Mary lost her window into the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Shelley.

  About four days after Shelley
’s departure, Mary and Lucenza set out for a walk to the post office. This was an unnecessary errand; Madam Ciampi sent her man-servant every day to fetch the letters, but Mary preferred to have an object for her excursions.

  Lucenza spied Shelley’s servant before her mistress did—Paolo Foggi was walking slowly up the street from the lower village. Shelley’s manservant was covered with the dust of travel, and carrying a small pack. Lucenza’s face lit up with joy and relief.

  Foggi looked up, saw her and smiled, his white teeth glistening beneath his black moustache. “My little Lombard!” he called. “How are you, my dear little one?”

  After looking anxiously at her mistress, Lucenza ran ahead and began an animated conversation with Foggi, while Mary advanced with more dignity, although she was just as eager to interrogate him.

  “Why did you not tell me you were going away?” Lucenza cried, “I didn’t know what happened to you! Where have you been? Why did not you say goodbye to me?”

  “Sweetheart, I am back now—and look at me, how quickly I have been hurrying back to you, I have not washed or eaten. I have been thinking of my sweet brown-eyed girl all this while.”

  “But I was afraid you were gone forever!”

  “My sweet, what was I to do? Signor Shelley was in such a great hurry to be gone, I had not an extra moment of time, and he needed me to make all the arrangements for the journey, and so much bother over what to pack and not to pack, and what books to take and what to leave behind, and all of Signora Claire’s baggage as well...”

  This last fell distinctly on Mary’s ears as she reached the couple. “Signora Claire? What is this about Miss Clairmont?” she demanded, too shocked to be discreet about questioning a servant in the middle of the street. At least they conversed in Italian, which many of the passing English tourists could not understand.

  Paolo pulled off his hat and gave her a graceful bow. “Good afternoon, Signora. Yes, the young lady, Miss Clairmont, she went to Venice with Mr. Shelley. They will be in Venice by tomorrow.”