A Different Kind of Woman (Mansfield Trilogy Book 3)

by Lona Manning

  Tears streamed down Fanny’s face, and Mr. Gibson reached out, and folded her to his chest, shielding her from the curious stares of other travellers.

  Charles leapt to his feet, but stood irresolutely, not knowing where to go. “It’s not fair,” he muttered angrily. “It’s not fair.”

  Life had been so unfair to Sam, Fanny thought, her sobs muffled in Mr. Gibson’s jacket. He was clever and capable, but had never won promotion at sea. The last years of his life were marked only by regret and anger, by disappointed prospects and forlorn hopes. She preferred to recall the lively, boisterous child he had been, curly-haired, impudent and brash. After giving herself up completely to grief for a few moments, she endeavoured to control herself, for the sake of Mr. Gibson and Charles. She took Mr. Gibson’s pocket handkerchief, and looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.

  “Do you know what happened?” she asked faintly.

  “The girl told me Sam saved her life,” Mr. Gibson answered. “I have written down her name and her direction, if you wish to write to her for more particulars. I observed that he—can you bear to hear it? He sustained a deep cut to his neck, which must have severed a crucial artery. And there was a cut to his forearm as well, as though he had held it up to shield himself from the blow.”

  Fanny shuddered and the tears flowed again.

  “Why?” she sobbed. “Why?”

  “The Yeomanry,” said Charles. “They were going for the banners. Then—” he stopped.

  “Charles?” said Mr. Gibson, looking at him intently. “Did you hear anyone give an order to attack the people?”

  “No, sir,” said Charles.

  “I swear to you, Fanny,” said Mr. Gibson quietly but firmly, “If this was ordered by the magistrates I will blazon their names to the world. If redress can be obtained in court, we will do it.”

  Fanny wiped the tears from her eyes. “Justice is very hard to come by in this world,” she said. “But I love you for seeking for it.”

  “I will take you home tomorrow,” Mr. Gibson said softly.

  Fanny shook her head. “You must go to London. The magistrates will tell their version of events—you must tell what you have seen.”

  “Truth is even more difficult to come by than justice,” said Mr. Gibson. “I can recount what I have seen, but I cannot explain why—why did this happen? Why did the Yeomanry turn on the people so viciously?”

  Charles buried his face with his hands for a moment, struggling with himself. Then he looked up.

  “There was a man,” he said. And he told them about his false friend Benjamin.

  * * * * * * *

  The following day, Fanny waited at Stockport, while Mr. Gibson and Charles returned to Manchester to claim poor Sam’s body from the Infirmary and see to his burial.

  “Hundreds of angry men are roaming the roads, Fanny,” Mr. Gibson warned, “and the militia are everywhere. There are rumours of riots and uprisings all about—I beg of you, do not go abroad until our return.”

  The inn-keeper’s wife continued to be very anxious about her husband, and he did not return until the end of the second day, looking exceedingly tired and solemn. He had been assigned to patrol the streets all night, for fear of riots, but nothing materialised from the rumours.

  Fanny thought he would be filled with praises for the militia, and their heroic efforts in suppressing a riot, and the thought of listening to him say as much was odious to her, but she was surprised to hear him say that he greatly regretted what had occurred. His wife and the loungers in the common room plied him with questions. No, his unit had not arrived at St. Peter’s field until the melee was nearly over. Someone had brought word that an armed escort was needed to escort Constable Nagin to the platform to arrest Mr. Hunt, but by the time his unit arrived at St. Peter’s field the melee was nearly over.

  He had only seen the aftermath. He had seen the dusty field, with bonnets, baskets and shoes strewn about, had seen the broken bodies lying there, and he declared it “was all a very badly-managed business, when innocent women and children were trampled down in the street. It had better have been left to the professional soldiers, not the Yeomanry.”

  How many had died? He was asked. He could not say, he had heard of six, then of twelve, but, all things considered, when there were so many people on the field, it was a mercy that more had not perished.

  Meanwhile in Manchester, Charles searched for any sign of Benjamin and Jemmy and the other men who had defied the authorities, but could not find them. His description of Benjamin, however, was sufficient to convince Mr. Gibson that this was the same Benjamin Walker who had betrayed his Luddite comrades. Did his actions at St. Peter’s field arise out of his resentment for not receiving a reward before? Did he intend to lay a complaint against Jemmy and Charles? This last was an exceedingly unpleasant consideration for Charles, for he could not expect Benjamin to represent the real events with any degree of veracity. And he was a runaway apprentice, already a fugitive—who would believe him innocent of any mischief?

  But fortunately, Benjamin Walker, perhaps shocked by the bloody outcome at St. Peter’s field that day, never came forward to entrap anyone with false testimony, and in fact was never heard of again.

  * * * * * * *

  A good night’s sleep found Fanny anxious to return to Huntingdon, to take the tragic news to her mother, and return Charles to his indentures. She and Mr. Gibson met in the common room for an early breakfast, still feeling exceedingly downcast. But Fanny drew inestimable comfort just from having Mr. Gibson sitting opposite to her at their little table, feeling his closeness. She dreaded the moment of their parting, and was for a moment very sorely tempted when Mr. Gibson again urged that he ought to accompany her.

  “I am sorry to think of you having to bear the news alone, Fanny,” he said, reaching out to cover her little hand with his large one. “Will you not permit me to help you share this burden?”

  “You are very kind,” said Fanny, “but it is my office and my duty, while your duty must take you elsewhere—for now.”

  “For now?” asked Mr. Gibson, looking at her intently. “Will you permit me to call upon you and your mother so soon as I am able?”

  “I wish you would, Mr. Gibson,” was the answer, given in a fervent tone.

  It was enough—his eyes, his countenance told of his deep satisfaction, while Fanny’s blushes and downcast eyes signalled that he must wait until they were not in the middle of a crowded inn, to hear her confide to him that she loved him.

  Unaware of what was passing between his sister and Mr. Gibson, Charles abruptly joined them, collapsing into his chair with a sigh of misery. The loss of a brother he admired cut him grievously and more than that, his prospects for the future were miserable indeed—four more years yoked to a profession he disliked, with a master he detested. “If it were not for losing Sam,” he grumbled, “I should not go back to Huntingdon, but I do not want to make matter worse for our mother.”

  “Charles,” said Mr. Gibson, “I shall send you and Fanny home by post-chaise, if it can be arranged. Will you please go speak to the inn-keeper about it?”

  With another sigh, Charles slowly rose and trailed off to speak to Mr. Lomax.

  “Fanny, must Charles return to his indentures?” asked Mr. Gibson, once they were alone again.

  “Poor fellow! I hope he can be reasoned into a better frame of mind,” Fanny answered, “for what else can we do?

  “I can promise nothing, but won’t you allow me to look about in town for something else for him—let us not be precipitate, perhaps there is another answer.”

  Fanny was still inclined to object, but she decided to trust his judgement. And at any rate, she was exceedingly distracted by the feel of his leg brushing up against hers under the table, and the warmth of his hand holding hers.

  “I missed you,” she whispered. “I missed you very much.”

  “My dear,” he responded, very low. “When you return to Huntingdon, I believe you will find
a letter from me. I sent it to you yesterday. I asked to be allowed to come and see you. I wrote—"

  “Mr. Gibson! Sir!” exclaimed a voice behind them, and Fanny jumped, startled. There was Mr. Lomax the inn-keeper, bearing down on them in an excited manner.

  “The lad just informed who you were—why, I had no notion that you are THE Mr. Gibson, the famous writer. This is an honour sir, and we’d be happy to arrange for post-riders for you and your lady!”

  Mr. Gibson tilted his head at Fanny and smiled. The fates conspired to separate him from her. By heaven, he wanted to take her into his arms and not let her go. Yet thanks to the eagerness of Mr. Lomax, it appeared that their time together this morning would be foreshortened. And she had to go to her mother.

  Within an hour, Mr. Lomax announced that the coach and postillions were ready. Mr. Gibson helped Fanny up, he kissed her hand, he shook hands with Charles, he stood back as the carriage rolled away, and Fanny looked back after him until tears dimmed her sight.

  Chapter 25: Conclusion

  The sorrowful homecoming of Fanny and her brother Charles need not be long dwelt upon. Mrs. Price was briefly much afflicted, but Fanny, Charles and Betsey paid her every considerate attention.

  The full account of Sam’s gallantry, given to the Prices through a letter from Annabel Wheeler, brought comfort to the family. They could speak of their late brother with smiles of pride mingled with their tears. He was buried in Manchester, and very often, flowers were laid upon his grave by an unobserved hand.

  Even in the midst of the duties and cares which she assumed on behalf of her family, Fanny was swift to inform Edmund by letter that her affections were engaged elsewhere. She might have suffered more than she did in the apprehension of causing additional pain to a heart that was already wounded, had she not been tolerably certain he would find consolation near at hand.

  It was Edmund’s part to wish her happy and to do it handsomely, and so he did. His letter was one which Fanny always treasured—though she might not choose to show it to Mr. Gibson. It was tied up with ribbon and kept in her travelling-trunk along with other precious relics of her past—a past which, though it had its associations and pleasures, she would not care to revert to.

  Mr. Gibson wrote her from London daily during the brief but necessary period when he was occupied with writing and publishing his narrative of the tragedy in Manchester. He sent for Charles to join him and took him to meet Mr. Orme, who was delighted to be of service to a cousin of his wife. Thanks to Mr. Orme, Charles secured employment as a porter at the Middle Temple. Serving attorneys and hearing their conversation greatly improved his manners and enlarged his mind, and the bustle and variety of the position suited him better than his old trade.

  Mr. Gibson’s accounts of the tragedy at St. Peter’s field were avidly followed throughout the kingdom, and although he was willing to return to prison rather than restrain himself from expressing what he felt and believed, his fame and popularity with the public shielded him from being harassed by Lord Sidmouth. He returned to Huntingdon so soon as he could, where he was welcomed by Mrs. Price as a long-lost son, by Betsey as a brother, and by Fanny as her acknowledged lover.

  Certain now of her own mind and inclinations, and being of an age to act upon them, Fanny needed no urging to fix an early day for her marriage to Mr. Gibson. Of his constancy and affection she could have no doubt, long-tested as it had been. Their separation had served to make their natures more compatible, rather than less, to bind them together, rather than estrange them one from the other. She was firmer in knowing her own mind, he had grown more conciliatory, more apt to reflect before acting. She thought she was, indeed, a very different sort of woman than the shy and timid girl Mr. Gibson had met in Bristol so long ago, but, as he often assured her, so far as her inward and outward loveliness was concerned, she had not changed at all.

  * * * * * * *

  In Mansfield, Edmund had confided to no-one about his intentions toward his cousin Fanny. He therefore had no-one in whom to confide his disappointment when he received her letter. She loved another, and he was tolerably certain he knew who that person was (for Fanny, with her usual delicacy, did not name him.)

  That first letter, however, was soon followed by others—to him, to his sisters Maria and Julia, and to all of the numerous Price tribe, when Fanny announced the fact of her engagement—indeed, of her eminent marriage.

  Mrs. Norris was in receipt of one such letter, and so Portia Owen first heard the news when she walked down to the White House for tea after concluding her music lessons for the day.

  “Miss Owen, do you know anything of the writer, William Gibson?” Mrs. Norris asked her.

  “Certainly, ma’am,” replied Miss Owen. “Gibson’s novels are very popular.”

  “Well, I shall trust to your assurance on that matter, to that I can say nothing, having scarcely ever picked up a novel in my life, but I do recall seeing his name in the newspapers from time to time. It seems that my niece Fanny is going to be married to him.”

  “Oh! Married to Mr. Gibson! I am happy for her,” Miss Owen said, though attempting to conceal with what heart-felt satisfaction she did hear the news. “I wish them very well. I suppose you must have had some hint of it, ma’am, but I had no notion, when Miss Price visited us last July, that she was on the point of marriage.”

  Mrs. Norris shook her head. “Fanny always had a little spirit of secrecy about her. She likes to go her own way.” She folded up the letter decisively. “I did meet this Mr. Gibson, now that I think on it, many years ago, and formed a poor opinion of him, as I recall. It was when dear Julia was getting married. I suspected him of courting Fanny back then. I would advise any young person to look about them before they go to get married—but, to hold off for seven years! This Mr. Gibson has taken his time to come to the point. I wonder if the circumstance of Fanny coming in to a bit of money from her late friend has made the difference. I think she has at least five thousand pounds.”

  Miss Owen smiled at the thought of the eminent Mr. Gibson wanting to marry a girl for the sake of five thousand pounds. “I trust they are both sincerely attached to one another, ma’am,” she began, but Mrs. Norris broke in with:

  “I hope she will be respectable, and conduct herself so as to be a credit to the people who raised her. She ought to be, after all the care and trouble Sir Thomas and I took to bring her up properly. No doubt, this Mr. Gibson would never have looked twice at her, if she had been left to grow up any which-way in Portsmouth. It was I, you know, who first proposed bringing her to Mansfield, where she received a proper education and grew up with her dear cousins. It is because of me, when you come to think of it, that Fanny was able to find a husband of any sort.”

  Having talked herself into being the sponsor of the match, the thought suddenly occurred that if everyone came to view the matter in the same light, then an expectation might arise that she come down with some funds for Fanny. She hurried on with— “and I recall, when I first spoke to Sir Thomas about taking her in hand, he was apprehensive that he might be obliged to make some provision for her to live upon. ‘Oh, my dear Sir Thomas,” I told him, “only give her a good education, and introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one she has the means of settling well, without further expense to anybody.’ That is just what I advised, and everything has come out in the end just as I said. Of course, you may be sure that Sir Thomas will send something very handsome by way of a wedding present, on behalf of the family, but something suitable, you understand, as she is not one of his daughters, and there is no need for anything out of the way.”

  During the above speech, Miss Owen had set down her tea cup, and walked toward the parlour window overlooking the street, so that she might have a few moments to regulate her thoughts. Truly, I am happy for Miss Price. But I cannot deceive myself—my happiness for her is not the reason why I am so overjoyed I cannot even keep my seat! But why should I rejoice? I am an utter fool! Nothing has changed, not for me.
He is free, he is unattached, but what has that to do with me?

  She could not resist turning back to her hostess and asking, “Do you know if Mr. Bertram has heard the news?”

  “Oh, I should imagine he has got a letter today as well. I expect Fanny has written to her uncle and to all her cousins—dear Maria and Julia and Edmund’s older brother in America. That is another prediction I made to Sir Thomas, by the by, when Fanny came to live with us—he thought there might be some danger of Tom or Edmund falling in love with her—but, as I declared, that was quite impossible, for if they were raised up together, she would never be more to them than a sister. I was proven correct there as well. All in all,” Mrs. Norris concluded, “and considering, especially, she was such an unpromising child, everything has turned out for the best. Certainly she could not expect to do better, and I feared she would do very much worse.”

  Miss Owen excused herself soon thereafter, and decided to return to the great house to pass the night there with Mrs. Bellingham. She had much to think upon. Sometimes she allowed her hopes to escape so that she might examine them, then she beat them back and scolded herself. And, being a tender-hearted woman, she found time to think about what poor Miss Price’s childhood must have been, with such an aunt to guide her!

  As she canvassed the news with Mrs. Bellingham, she amused herself with thinking of the contrast between Fanny Price’s character as conceived by Mrs. Norris, and as described by Mrs. Bellingham. The latter evidently considered Fanny Price to be something of a saint on earth.

  If Portia Owen could have been privy to Fanny’s thoughts at that time, she might have inclined to Mrs. Bellingham’s view, because Fanny was so happy she was in charity with all the world, including her Aunt Norris! Almost saint-like, indeed! Fanny might even have agreed that her present happiness was thanks to Aunt Norris—first, for bringing her to Mansfield and secondly, for driving her away again, for it was then she met Mr. Gibson.