A Different Kind of Woman (Mansfield Trilogy Book 3)

by Lona Manning

  “Who has sent it? Who are the proprietors?”

  “The letter is from a Mr. John Orme. He says he is writing on behalf of his friends.”

  “Mr. Orme? He is the attorney who helped me look into the matter of government spies among the working classes. Who are his friends?”

  “The enterprise is called...” Prudence read the card: “Meriwether and Duchesne.”

  * * * * * * *

  Mrs. Norris, though by no means relenting in her premonitions of disaster for Edmund’s school, surprised everyone by inviting Portia Owen to tea on the days she came to Mansfield to teach. Miss Owen quickly realized what Mrs. Norris was about; she sought by persistent questions and suppositions to gain an understanding of how matters stood at the great house. Were the students pulling the building down around their ears? Was Edmund in danger of over-exerting himself and ruining his health? Portia did not attempt to argue Mrs. Norris out of her opinions; she understood that the old lady’s misgivings and censures gave animation and purpose to her existence.

  Portia also listened patiently while Mrs. Norris complained of Edmund’s errant wife, who pretty well stood at the head of her list of unsatisfactory persons. Edmund had received almost no communications from his wife in Italy. Yet Portia felt it was not her place to venture her opinion, however heartily Mrs. Norris gave her own.

  Of all the subjects Mrs. Norris canvassed, there was hardly one to which Portia could join in assent, excepting the excellence of Edmund Bertram’s character. Though again, where Mrs. Norris might speak at length with pride of the nephew who had grown up under her loving and watchful eye, a soft brief “yes, indeed,” was Portia’s only contribution to the discourse. There was a great deal more she might say in Edmund Bertram’s praise.

  Portia had thought highly of Mr. Bertram before, but his generosity toward her brother and herself elevated him above all other mortals. Her regard for him was even heightened by her better knowledge of his tragic marital circumstances, by seeing for herself the fortitude and reserve with which he bore his fate, the fact that circumstances had not embittered him completely—for indeed, he was a very good-natured man with a dry wit. She saw his goodness as a father, the erudition and compassion he brought to his role as a clergyman, and his excellence as a school-master. He possessed, in short, qualities which might have turned a weaker head than Portia’s.

  She was also in danger of falling in love with his children—quiet, thoughtful, Thomas, lively little Cyrus and affectionate Anna Imogen. The feeling was mutual: Anna Imogen had begged for piano lessons, even though she was too small to climb up on the piano bench by herself. Even the boys were still young enough to respond to a feminine hand to guide, a feminine voice to give praise; in short, to hunger for the regard of a worthy woman with an affectionate heart.

  Portia was sensible enough to never linger where Edmund was; she never manufactured reasons to speak with him, and she left the school promptly when her duties were concluded. But it happened that she was staying at the great house when Anna Imogen fell ill with the mumps, and the poor child cried piteously for Miss Owen—Edmund went to fetch her, walking back to the Parsonage with her, holding out a lantern to guide her through the gathering darkness. The intimacy of being alone with Edmund Bertram, seeing his handsome face in the lamplight, witnessing his anxiety for his daughter, and knowing that he had turned to her in his need, awoke sensations from which she could not soon recover.

  Portia spent the next week by the child’s bedside, living under the same roof as Edmund, at the parsonage. Edmund would sometimes hear Portia singing in a soft, low voice, or reading to his daughter, but whenever he paid a visit to the sick room, Portia would go to her own room to rest, barely staying long enough to accept his profuse thanks.

  In this way, she protected her heart as well as she might. For if, as has been wisely said, there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them, what then can be said for those women who have never been called beautiful? Not that such considerations applied in the present case, for Edmund Bertram was already married. And so Portia Owen continued to name her feelings for him as nothing more than esteem and gratitude.

  * * * * * * *

  Fanny did not remain in Bristol to long enjoy her new consequence as an heiress. Her mother wanted her assistance in making the removal to Northamptonshire. She stayed only long enough to responsibly turn the affairs of the bazaar over to a new manageress, and to complete whatever had been left undone for Mrs. Butters.

  She remained in Bristol quite long enough to take some lessons on the difference between the treatment accorded to a spinster and a spinster with money. She was transformed, as though by alchemy, from something made of tin or enamel, into silver—or at least, silver plate. Her opinion was more worth having, her acquaintance more highly valued. Were she not in mourning for her beloved mentor, she could have dined out every night of the week, and been introduced to many men in want of a wife.

  Fanny modestly hoped she would not become a different person in consequence of the different way she was treated And yet, she had already begun to change a little as a result of having a modest fortune. Money freed her from the necessity of deferring to the judgement of others against her own. With her own money, she could create and abide by her own consequences.

  She spent many hours in pleasant meditations and schemes for her family: she calculated the income she might expect to receive, and how she might save enough to assist her brother John—and what could be done for Sam? But she was also wise enough to recollect her past experience with Susan, during the summer they spent at Everingham, when she had learned that having the ability to dispense charity awakens the urge to dictate to others.

  Luckily for the preservation of Fanny’s humility, her family members were not in the habit of being compliant, even when she was paying the bills. She wanted Sam to go with her to Portsmouth; he strongly desired to follow Henry Hunt to London, in the hopes of making himself useful in the reform effort. He wanted to be a witness to the great movement for reform, and that meant going wherever “Orator” Hunt went. He would take none of her advice and only half the money she tried to press upon him.

  While Sam did not want to go to Portsmouth, Betsey did not want to quit it, though Fanny spoke cheerfully of boarding-schools and making new friends. Although Betsey was by nature a bold and forward girl, she held back from leaving the only place she had ever known. Appealing to Betsey’s sense of duty to her mother was futile, and none of Fanny’s descriptions of the beauties of the countryside in Northamptonshire could make Betsey think it preferable to the pleasure of running on the Ramparts, with the fresh sea breezes on her face.

  The thought occurred to Fanny, that if Mr. Gibson were still a part of their lives, he would have had no difficulty in persuading Betsey. But he was not.

  Chapter 21: Italy, Winter, 1818

  According to the account which Shelley gave to Byron and Medwin, he re-encountered in Naples the married lady who had proffered her love to him in 1816. She... informed him of the persistent though hopeless affection with which she had tracked his footsteps.

  — A Memoir of Shelley, by William Michael Rossetti, (1886)

  Mary had never cared for living by the sea. She declined to choose any of the fashionable houses built along the Bay of Naples, and instead selected an elegantly appointed and spacious apartment on the hillside above, with an excellent view of the city and the sea beyond.

  By the time she settled in Naples, concealing her condition was no longer possible without recourse to heavy cloaks or shawls. She ventured out very seldom and only after dusk, heavily veiled. She dismissed Roberts and the other servants who had travelled with her from Tuscany, thus cutting off any links to the past. The elderly butler she engaged was instructed to deny all visitors—but one.

  It wanted but a few days before the end of November when Shelley appeared at her door, bursting into her elegant drawing room with the en
ergy of a comet. She had half-forgotten how wild and unearthly was his demeanour, like a spirit that had just descended from the sky.

  “At last! How beautiful you look, Marina!” Shelley exclaimed, advancing upon her with eagerness, then he stopped, utterly confounded, as he beheld her condition.

  “Why... why did not you tell me, my darling?”

  “Surely my reasons are obvious, Shelley. I wished to inform you in person and not in a letter which could be intercepted.”

  Shelley paused, and ran his fingers through his hair, as he struggled to absorb the news. “Of course. Of course.”

  He held out his arms, and since Mary would not come to him, he came to her, and enfolded her gently.

  “How I love your strength, your independence,” he whispered, his head on her neck. “The world is a burden to me, but you— you are infinitely more capable.”

  Mary’s anger and resentment began to melt away, against her will. As usual, Shelley’s presence was so bewitching, his vitality so electrifying. All in all, he was bearing the news with remarkable composure.

  “What do you think? Are we having a boy or girl?” Shelley did not wait for her answer, but fondly traced the curve of her belly. “Shall I have to share you with a little stranger? I have never loved, as I love you,” he continued, kissing her neck and bosom between his murmured endearments. “Day and night, every day, I have been longing for you. How long has it been since I held you in my arms? We must never be separated again.” Mary found herself being gently half-led, half-carried, to her divan.

  “Wait, what are you about, Shelley?”

  “I shall be very gentle,” he whispered. “I love you so, Marina. I adore you.”

  Afterwards, they lay mingled together, and even slept briefly. Mary woke up and looked at the sky through her high windows.

  “What happens now, Shelley?”

  “I must leave you, Marina. I must take a house for my family to live in. I came ahead so I might spend some time with you, but Mary and Claire will arrive in two days.”

  But though he spoke of going, he remained at her side. He gently stroked Mary’s belly and his face lit up with delight when there came an answering kick. “Oh my darling Marina, to think of you carrying my child... this little one will be something extraordinary, will it not? Born from our love, your beauty, your radiance, your wisdom.”

  “The child will be born in the new year. I expect you to have resolved your personal entanglements before that time, Shelley.”

  “Yes, as to that...” Shelley rose, and retrieved his trousers. “May I ask, Marina, have you made your banking arrangements? Have you a banker in Naples? I find myself embarrassed for funds again—all of this travelling has depleted my allowance—I could of course repay you in full at the next quarter, but in the mean time, I would be most grateful for a loan. I need to consult a doctor, and so does Claire, and there is a very good English one here.”

  “Claire again! What an encumbrance this girl is!”

  “Marina... my dearest...” Shelley looked woebegone as he knelt beside her, taking her two hands into his own. “We had hoped Claire would find some employment as a governess or a companion. But, she has been unwell. And there was a difficulty with her past, concerning a gentleman, which I was attempting to mediate.”

  “You mean, Lord Byron?” Mary pushed his hands away.

  “So you know about Allegra? I am sure I never said anything.”

  Mary waved her hand impatiently. “I presume Allegra is Claire’s daughter—unless she is another one of your wives?”

  “Ah. No. Allegra is Claire’s daughter—by Byron. Byron undertook to raise her, and surely that is for the best, as he is rich as Croesus, but it broke Claire’s heart to give her up.”

  “So, at long last, I have my explanation for why you stole off to Venice with your wife’s sister?”

  “It was not my secret to confide,” said Shelley, assuming an air of injured nobility. “In fact, I cannot account for how you came to know of it.”

  Mary shrugged. “My maid in Bagni di Lucca befriended your manservant.”

  Shelley scowled. “That Paolo is an impudent rascal! I fully intend to discharge him. He has been cheating us with every transaction, I am certain. And now, spilling our family secrets everywhere!”

  “How can I ever believe what you tell me? Why should I not suspect you and Claire of having an intrigue?”

  Shelley played with her hand and gently kissed each of her fingers, one after the other. “That is nothing more or less than what the world says of me, my love, ever since Claire ran away with us.” He sighed. “Ah, I have lived a hundred years since then!” He looked at her earnestly. “But, as you have learned by this that I guarded her secrets, can you not repose the same trust in me, and believe I will never betray you?”

  “I do not understand why you undertook to support her and give her a home in the first place.”

  “Well, whatever has occurred in the past, the fact is, Claire does not have the means to live independently, and surely you see we must restore her to health, before she can find work.”

  “If there is any prospect of ridding yourself of her, draw on me for the doctor’s funds,” Mary sighed.

  Shelley added with some evident hesitation, “And, also, there is a villa on the Riviera di Chiaia I wish to let for the winter, but the landlord insists upon payment in advance.”

  “Why have you chosen a house on the most expensive street in town?” Mary cried in exasperation.

  Shelley looked surprised. “The view, of course. Why would you stay in Naples without a view of the entire bay, and the gardens?”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “But surely now is the time to establish a separate household. The beautiful view will console your wife. Now is the time to announce your intentions.”

  Shelley’s eyes again filled with tears. “I long to, oh... how I long to be with you. You have no idea. But I cannot, Marina, I cannot.”

  “Why? Why, in heaven’s name, why not?” Mary gestured to her growing belly. “Haven’t you waited long enough?”

  He rubbed his face in his hands. “Mary. Mary is—I cannot leave her now, my love. Her entire family is prone to melancholy. Her mother—well, you know. Her older sister killed herself. If I broke with her now, Mary would just... walk into the sea.”

  “Does she reproach herself for the death of your daughter?”

  “Yes,” answered Shelley shortly. “But mostly, she blames me.”

  “If she blames you, then perhaps it were better for you to separate,” said Mary coolly.

  Shelley began to pace up and down the room. “Who is to say—had you not threatened exposure, had I not, in consequence, urged her to leave Bagni di Lucca so precipitously—which forced her to travel in the heat of summer—”

  “Oh, now you seek to blame me?”

  Shelley shook his head. “Marina, for pity’s sake, consider my unfortunate history. My first wife drowned herself. Sometimes I close my eyes and I can see—as clearly as though I had been there—Harriet’s pretty face with her hair flowing about her like Ophelia and her blue eyes, staring up through the water. And it was I—” he pounded his narrow chest— “I was the last family member to talk to Mary’s sister—before she poisoned herself. I knew her heart was breaking. I could hear it in her voice as we parted. No, no, I cannot endure another suicide! I cannot!”

  He sat down, hiding his face in his hands, and wept softly.

  A wave of the most intense vexation washed over Mary, and she sprang to her feet. “You are telling me, that if I insist upon you leaving your wife, she will kill herself. You hold this over my head to ensure my silence? How long can you expect—”

  “Two weeks—three weeks,” Shelley exclaimed, clutching at her hand. “Grant me that much time. In the new year, I swear to you, I will resolve our quandary. I vow it, my love.”

  Mary struggled with herself for a long moment. “It is indeed my misfortune that the first time you decide to behave nobl
y, it is at my expense.”

  Shelley promised he would come and visit her frequently, and he was kissing her hand to bid her adieu, when he suddenly gave a sharp cry of pain—he grimaced—he fell to the floor, clutching his side, his face contorted with agony.

  “What is it? Shelley, what can I do?” asked Mary, in the greatest alarm. She feared he was dying before her eyes. “Shall I ring for the servant? Shall we send for a doctor?”

  “Pray—my love—do not be alarmed,” Shelley gasped, “This occurs from time to time—and I must bear it. There is a bottle in my jacket pocket—pray, tell the servant to fetch a glass of wine.”

  The writhing man’s pleas were answered with alacrity. The vial in his pocket proved to be laudanum which Mary promptly administered to him, mixed in a glass of wine, but some moments of anxious suspense passed before she could perceive that the drug must be taking its effect. After a quarter of an hour, Shelley exhaled, a long slow trembling breath, and he lay exhausted, limp and unmoving, his eyes closed and a sheen of perspiration on his face.

  “It has been worse lately. I have been sleep-walking again, too. I trust I will feel better soon,” he murmured. “I know I shall, now that I am reunited with you.”

  “Hadn’t you better return to England, for proper medical care?” asked Mary anxiously.

  Shelley laughed weakly. “The doctors in England sent me here! Please, Marina. Do not distress yourself. I know I am destined to die young—sometimes I even welcome it.” He rolled over and propped himself up on his forearms, smiling. “Think of Thomas Chatterton. Dying was the best thing he did for his poetical career.”

  “Must you jest about such a thing?” cried Mary. “At least spare a thought for me. What is to become of me?”

  “I am sorry, my love. You are not accustomed to this, as I am. I have suffered these torments for years.”

  “Isn’t there a Greek legend,” Mary asked, “about a man who was chained to a rock, and eagles pecked at his liver every day?”

  “Yes, dearest, the tale of Prometheus.” Shelley pulled himself across the floor and laid his head on her lap.