A Different Kind of Woman (Mansfield Trilogy Book 3)

by Lona Manning

  It was Portia Owen. Portia’s pale face was like a ghost, like an echo of her own past. The East Room was where she used to sit and read and hide from her Aunt Norris and think about Edmund, especially when he was away at school.

  Miss Owen abruptly withdrew from sight.

  “Fanny?” said Edmund. Fanny reached out and took his hand.

  Fanny told herself that the decision was not a difficult one—Edmund needed her, and so she ought to marry him. Yet, she hesitated. She was not certain. Was he?

  “Edmund, can you be sure of your feelings at this juncture? You are the last person on earth whom I need caution against making a hasty decision as regards matrimony, yet…”

  “Apart from the rashness of my declaration, can you possibly distrust my reasons, Fanny? Or my sentiments? Are you afraid I am grasping out blindly for happiness, and seeking the easy and familiar path to it, the avenue close at hand?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps I am.”

  “But my dear Fanny, we are not newly-acquainted with one another. Surely you have never doubted my sense of your worth, your superiority of understanding, even when I was infatuated with Mary. Nor have I any doubts of our similarities of taste, of temper, no doubts of your excellent principles and disposition.”

  “Dear Edmund,” she said, “it is only natural you would be anxious to bind by the strongest ties all that remains to you. For me, every recollection of the past, as associated with you, is a happy one—exceedingly precious to me.”

  “You speak of the past, Fanny. What of the future?”

  She shook her head. “Indeed, it is too soon for us to speak of these things. Do not think I reproach you. I feel for your situation extremely.”

  “Fanny, please at least assure me that you recognize my regard for you. From the time you arrived amongst us, an innocent and helpless child, I have loved, guided, attempted to protect you.”

  “Edmund! I know it is the established mode for a gentleman to speak of his doubts and fears, of his unworthiness, when making his declaration. But truthfully, have you ever, ever doubted, how important you are to me? You were my first teacher, and I your first pupil. Always I have relied upon you, confided in you. There were many occasions when your kindness was my only comfort.”

  “And? Fanny, have I offended you by speaking today? May I be permitted to make an attempt to persuade you?”

  “Those principles which you praise, were all formed and directed under your care.” said Fanny gently, “Those same principles now tell me we must resume our walk, and put this conversation aside for now.”

  “I must obey you,” said Edmund, but added, “But I cannot be sorry I confided in you in this fashion, Fanny. You are my oldest friend. Do you not recall when you came to visit me at Thornton Lacey? I told you then, as clearly as was in my power at that time, to let you know I regretted my marriage, and wished I had made a different choice, of a different kind of woman.” He took her hand and gently raised it to his lips. “I know you feel esteem for me, and if I could convince you, in time, that your cousinly affection is enough of a foundation to build upon…”

  Fanny smiled and shook her head. Cousinly esteem? She also well recalled that conversation at Thornton Lacey. And she had thought, truly believed, that Edmund had discerned her secret. It seemed she was mistaken. He did not know, had never known, how he had occupied her heart during her girlhood years.

  “What did that shake of the head mean?” said Edmund. “What was it meant to express? Disapprobation, I fear. But of what?”

  It had always been her habit to conceal from Edmund her love of him. And since the time of his marriage, she had conscientiously schooled herself to denominate her romantic inclinations for him as a girl’s love, a youthful infatuation. Had she in fact succeeded in this? Had that early, girlish love subsided into a calmer friendship? And if so, was it wrong for her to listen to him now? Or, would marriage to Edmund bring her comfort, security, peace, respectability and lasting affection?

  “You must give me time, Edmund,” was all she said after a silence of some minutes, marked only by the sound of their footsteps in the gravel path and the pattering of the rain on their umbrellas.

  He was about to ask, “then, when?” when the sound of breaking glass coming from the greenhouse, followed by running feet, caused them to hasten to the sound. Around the corner came John and Henry Clay, one carrying a cricket bat, and both wearing guilty expressions.

  The rest of the evening, and Fanny’s visit, was devoted to the children.

  * * * * * * *

  Huntingdon was a pleasant town, and Mrs. Price’s spirits and activity improved owing to the increased comforts and luxuries which Fanny’s income brought to their joint home.

  The many tasks and decisions around setting up her first household kept Fanny agreeably occupied; for the first time she could exercise her own choices and her own tastes, and though she was by no means extravagant, the result was neat and pleasant and her mother was exceedingly pleased to welcome visitors to her parlour.

  That anyone in Huntingdon might remember and call upon Mrs. Price after an absence of almost 40 years, may require some explanation. She owed her hospitable welcome to her sister Lady Bertram. Ever since she had had the good fortune to captivate Sir Thomas and gone away to Mansfield, she had maintained a correspondence with many of her old friends in Huntingdon. Thanks to those tireless epistolary efforts, the three pretty Ward sisters had not been forgotten. The Huntingdon girls they had gossiped with—now grandmothers—and the young men they had danced with so long ago—now rheumatic old men relying upon walking-canes—were ready to resume a long-interrupted acquaintance, and to declare that Mrs. Price had not altered since her days of triumph when she was Miss Frances, and for her to reply, neither had they!

  Fanny found an apothecary willing to take an apprentice, and she sent Sam the funds for him to bring Betsey and Charles to Northamptonshire.

  Betsey was grown into a fine-looking girl, having her share of the family’s good looks. Her temperament was very different from Fanny’s, and she was indifferent to her studies. This might have caused Fanny more concern but for the fact that Betsey loved reading. A fondness for reading, even for lurid novels, must hold out the hope of future improvement.

  More than that, Betsey’s favourite pastime in her leisure hours was to write her own stories. These compositions were, as can be well imagined, filled with adventures, abductions, escapes, and romance, and more devoted to adventurous ordeals than correct orthography. The tales recalled the perilous adventures of the Princess Tamatina, and the days in Portsmouth, six years gone, when the restrictions and vexations of daily life were sweetened by anticipation of a happy future as Mr. Gibson’s wife.

  Fanny could only hope that Mr. Gibson had forgiven her by now, and bore her no ill-will for deserting him. Certainly she had done him no harm, for he was now both prosperous and famous. If he had still thought her essential to his happiness, he might have spoken at any time these past years. He had not. She could still close her eyes and summon his voice, his smile, the feel of his strong hand holding hers, the warmth of his body when they had embraced. He must, by now, have forgotten.

  Whereas Edmund needed her, and more than that, he valued her. He had been married to someone who could not esteem him as he deserved to be valued, and was now left to raise his little family without a wife and helpmeet.

  After seeing her mother, brother and sister established in Huntingdon in respectable and secure circumstances, Fanny was at liberty to sit over her sewing and conclude that it wanted only the passage of a little more time when it would be proper to write her acceptance.

  Meanwhile, as may be imagined, Edmund wrote to her frequently and affectionately but he did not allude to his wishes, out of consideration for her strong sense of propriety. He informed her, instead, that Mrs. Bellingham had accepted the post of matron with the utmost gratitude.

  That unfortunate lady was amazed, she was humbled, to learn she owed this deliv
erance to Miss Price, whom she had so greatly wronged. She sent a long letter for Fanny, begging her pardon and expressing her remorse for conspiring with Cecilia Butters to have Fanny discharged from the sewing academy. Fanny was surprised at the degree of gratification she felt in achieving this reconciliation.

  Chapter 23: Livorno

  A woman whom he had known very slightly in London and who, it is said, sought him there closely veiled and declared her love for him, now reappeared in Naples and dying soon afterwards, left her infant daughter to his care. Shelley, always fated to be punished for his generous impulses, accepted the charge and placed the child with a respectable Neapolitan family.... Paolo [Foggi] made this incident the subject of blackmail.

  — Shelley and Byron, Isabel C. Clarke 1934

  Livorno, Italy, Autumn, 1819

  Forget the dead, the past ? Oh, yet

  There are ghosts that may take revenge for it!

  Memories that make the heart a tomb,

  Regrets which glide through the Spirit’s gloom,

  And with ghostly whispers tell

  That joy once lost is pain.

  The day was drizzly and cool. It was not a pleasant time to brave the muddy roads, nor was a long journey on horseback a recommended activity for chronic invalids, but Percy Bysshe Shelley nevertheless rode from Pisa to Livorno to call upon Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. Mary, too grief-stricken to stir abroad, had refused to go with Shelley, for she desired no-one’s company and could barely endure her own, so deep was her misery. The Shelleys only remaining child—their lovely little boy William, was dead.

  No-one would look to Shelley to converse with his usual vivacity, not after having lost his favourite child. But nonetheless the three friends were all disposed to sit up and talk politics and the state of the world far into the night.

  After draining his cup several times, Mr. Robinson’s head began to nod—no-one attempted to rouse him—and before long he was snoring gently in his arm-chair.

  Shelley then drew his own chair closer to his hostess and said with an earnest, confiding glance, “My dear Mrs. Robinson, I am staying overnight on account of an important appointment with the lawyer here in Livorno. I find I must bring you into my confidence, for reasons which will be evident to you—I see Signor Del Rossi tomorrow—”

  “Oh yes, we told him to expect you. You intend to confront that rascally servant of yours, is that not so?”

  Shelley waved his hand dismissively. “Foggi is a nuisance, but we know how to deal with him. He was most unwise to think he could slander me, when the authorities in Tuscany want to question him about the stabbing of an English servant. Del Rossi will warn him — if he does not cease threatening me, we will have him returned to Lucca. And I am much obliged to you for your recommendation for the lawyer, by the bye.”

  “You are welcome, Shelley. We believe he is a very competent man and no doubt he can deal expeditiously with Foggi.”

  Shelley coughed awkwardly. “I must confide in you—I have engaged him as my proxy for all matters concerning my little Neapolitan ward.”

  “You have been very mysterious about that business, Percy!” Mrs. Robinson exclaimed. “Your wife told us you had taken an interest in an orphan girl in Naples last winter—wanted to adopt her, in fact. What was it all about?”

  “Yes, I proposed that we adopt an orphan girl, whose situation came to my notice. My idea was that a baby girl might console my wife for the loss of Clara, but she—well, she would not countenance it. She said children could not be replaced as one replaces a saucepan. However, the circumstances—that is— I am committed to supporting this child. But certain considerations—the probability that my malady will soon be fatal, obliges me to make arrangements for the child’s welfare. I am sure you will agree with me that an English child deserves to have an English guardian, and not be left entirely to the supervision of the Italians. This is why I must confide in you, my dear Mrs. Robinson, for should something happen to me, this child will be left friendless in the world.”

  “The child is English, then? I thought she was an Neapolitan foundling. That is what your wife evidently believes, for she told me as much.”

  Shelley stirred uncomfortably in his seat. “That is to say, her mother was English—a well-bred Englishwoman, actually, of good family.”

  “Then, pray, why isn’t the child in the care of this Englishwoman’s family?” Mrs. Robinson asked.

  “The circumstances are such…” Percy began awkwardly, then fell silent.

  Mrs. Robinson frowned and took up the poker to stir the fire. “This is all very curious. Percy, I am your wife’s oldest friend in this world. I held her in my arms while her poor mother lay dying. You are asking me to keep a secret from her, for perhaps the rest of her life and mine. You must give me a reason. Why must she remain in ignorance of your sponsorship of this child?”

  Shelley grimaced. “The most sacred considerations require me to conceal the details of my delicate situation from Mary, but I will confide in you, and no other. The truth is, I knew the infant’s mother, and she is dead.”

  “You knew the mother? Are you the—”

  “It is an unusual tale, Mrs. Robinson, and I must enjoin you to secrecy. Were there no child in the case, no word of this history would pass my lips. Strangely enough, the story begins three years ago, in London. A lady—handsome, rich, but disguising her identity—came to me, and expressed her utmost admiration for my writing, and her complete adoration of me, in consequence.”

  “Really! How extraordinary!”

  “I thanked her, but told her I was pledged to another. This occurred on the eve of our departure for Europe, you understand, so I never expected to see the lady again.” Shelley wrung his hands together, and kept his eyes on the dwindling flames of the fire. “Conceive of my amazement when I encountered her at Bagni di Lucca. She confessed she had left her husband on my account, and had been following me throughout Europe, staying at the places where I stayed, but incognito. At our accidental meeting she again threw herself at my feet, begging to be allowed to love me.”

  “What was this lady’s name?” asked Mrs. Robinson, suspicion plainly written upon her countenance. “Who is her family?”

  “Her name—I must beg you to permit me to conceal it. As to what became of her—I rely entirely upon your goodness and understanding. This lady, as I said, was so devoted to me that wheresoever I went, she followed. She pursued me throughout Italy, after I left Bagni di Lucca. We met again in Naples, and I discovered she was with child. But alas!” Shelley buried his face in his hands. “Alas, in Naples—she died!”

  Through his quiet sobs, Shelley told of a dangerous, protracted labour, the grave expressions of the midwife, the unspeakable relief of the successful delivery, his brief but false conviction of the mother’s safety. The best doctor in Naples had attended her assiduously, she had been bled every day, and given purgatives, but she was exhausted by her travails, and the flame of life struggled, flickered, and died!

  “How very tragic. And the child is yours?”

  Shelley looked away. “Why should you suspect me of such a thing? The birth certificate attests that she was born on the 27th of December, Mrs. Robinson. If you count on your fingers, then you will know she must have been with child when we met at Bagni di Lucca.”

  “Babies are sometimes born before their time. Your wife, for example...”

  Shelley looked down into his empty wine glass. “Yes, our first child was born early—and perished. But little Elena is well enough, or so I am told. She is living with a respectable family of cheese-mongers in Naples.”

  Mrs. Robinson looked at Shelley for a long moment, then said, “I should have thought that either the lady was entirely devoted to you, and you alone, as you describe—or she wasn’t. This mysterious lady—was her name Bertram, by any chance?”

  Shelley looked surprised. “What? How would you—”

  “We went to Bagni di Lucca, you may recall, Mr. Shelley. Mrs. Bertram c
alled at your villa.”

  Shelley started. “When? When was that?”

  “The day after your wife left to join you in Este.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “It may interest you to know,” Mrs. Robinson observed coolly, “that Mrs. Bertram was very discreet. She gave no hint of any special connection betwixt you.”

  Shelley sighed and wrung his hands. “How she suffered, for she declared that all her happiness in this world was in my hands! And I, helpless to return her fond devotion!”

  “What a curious history! I am very grieved for you, Shelley, but equally am I dismayed at the deceit which you have practised upon your wife. This little orphan girl—you presented the child to her as an unfortunate local orphan. Poor Mary has no idea there is a much closer connection.”

  Shelley drew himself up indignantly. “Insofar as I have hidden the anguish of my soul, and have kept up a cheerful countenance, insofar as I have not complained of the pains which wrack my body, insofar as I have kept Mary in ignorance of the torments which, were I not answerable to her as a husband and father, I would have ended with a bullet to my head, I plead guilty—to withholding information in a fashion which, to small-minded men, appears as prevarication. I have always been the apostle of Truth, and the servant of Beauty.”

  “Hush, you’ll awaken Mr. Robinson. How old is the little girl now, Shelley?”

  “Almost... six months, I believe.”

  “A little older than that, surely? If she was born in December?”

  “Ah, yes. That’s right.”

  Mrs. Robinson looked solemn. “I cannot feel sanguine about your request, Mr. Shelley, and I only give you my assent because I agree, the revelation that this baby’s mother was a woman who loved you, would indeed cause distress to your wife. As she is now with child, we want her to be as tranquil as possible. I will do as you ask—Del Rossi may apply to us, if he needs to send word about this little girl’s welfare.”