“Ah yes of course, and how is dear Sir Thomas and—I do not recall ever having the pleasure of meeting your mother—but I trust she is well? And content, residing so far from her native home? I believe she was not inclined to travel so far as London before.”
“They are both tolerably well, I thank you ma’am, and tolerably content, especially since Maria gave them a grandson.”
“Yes-yes,” interjected his lordship. “And your estate stands empty, does it?”
“Yes, sir. Mansfield Park is nothing like the size of Castle Ashby, of course, but I fancy your Lordship is not looking for anything so grand by way of a hunting-lodge.”
“Are the roads at Mansfield any better than those hereabouts, Bertram?”
“Somewhat superior, sir, for the coaching inn is there. The neighbourhood is a pleasant one. The vicar is a learned man, he takes all the papers, and his very agreeable wife is half-sister to—to my wife.”
A number of questions swiftly followed—from his Lordship, concerning the land, the deputation, the stables and the kennels, and from her Ladyship, wanting a description of the offices, the drawing-rooms, and the surrounding society, and Edmund’s answers awakened in both husband and wife a strong inclination to examine Mansfield Park with a view to taking it for their country retreat.
The war against Napoleon, the public debt in consequence of that war, and the rumoured insanity of the King formed the balance of the dinner conversation until Lady Delingpole retired, leaving the gentlemen to themselves.
Baddeley was also given leave to depart, and that worthy man bore away the platters with a silent dignity which gave no hint of the ideas now teeming in his imagination—Mansfield Park alive and alight once again, quietly humming from garret to cellar with servants, the housemaids chasing away every speck of dust, the blindingly white table linens fluttering in the sun where the laundry maids toiled, the gardeners pouncing upon every weed, the kitchen filled with steam and good smells, and himself presiding over it all, serving an Earl and his lady.
* * * * * *
Same Day
Stoke Newington to Camden Town
Fanny Price could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had been given the best seat in the carriage, facing forward, in the direction of travel. When she lived at Mansfield Park, she always sat with her back to the horses because her cousins took precedence, or, as her Aunt Norris would say, she was “the lowest and the last.”
Her cousin Edmund once said of her, that she was of all human creatures the one upon whom habit had most power and novelty least. She wondered if only being able to see what she had left behind—not what she was moving toward—had left its mark on her character.
She was feeling extremely anxious about her future on this particular day, but then, hadn’t that been true of all the important journeys of her life?
The first time she rode in a carriage was the day she left her family to go live with her wealthy cousins. Her father had picked her up like a rag doll and stuffed her into the crowded mail coach, calling: “well, goodbye then, Fan my girl, and be a good girl and obey your aunt and uncle, for if they send you back to us I shall give you a proper hiding! Do not move and do not make a sound—not a sound, mind you—and don’t get out ‘til you reach Northampton.” Years later, she learned that her uncle, Sir Thomas, had supplied sufficient funds for a companion to escort her, but her father had pocketed the difference and sent her on the journey by herself.
She had watched silently while Portsmouth and everything she knew disappeared from view. Her father’s warnings kept her frozen in her seat, but the trip was lengthy and her bladder was nearly bursting well before they reached Newbury. A kindly merchant’s wife, also making the journey, observed her distress, guessed its cause and came to her aid at the next stop of the coach.
The parents who sent her away, and the aunt who met her at the end of her journey, admonished Fanny to be always good, and always grateful. If she failed to show sufficient goodness and gratitude, she would be a very wicked girl indeed, and would be packed back home to Portsmouth in disgrace. These warnings, working on a sensitive, docile temperament, left so indelible an impression upon Fanny’s character, that she was still, at the age of one-and-twenty, afraid of disobliging anyone and anxious of giving offence.
And today she and Mrs. Butters’ lady’s maid were both in their usual places, travelling backwards as the carriage jolted and bumped along the muddy lane for the four mile journey from Stoke Newington to Camden Town. Another phase of her life was ending and she could not see, could not fully imagine, what awaited. For, after months of discussion, preparation and delay, the long-awaited sewing academy, the project so dear to Mrs. Butters’ heart, would finally open.
“Oh! Fanny! Did we remember to bring the application papers?”
“Indeed, ma’am, they are here in my portmanteau. And quills and ink bottles.”
“And the instructions for the parents? Not that half of them will be able to read it.”
“Yes ma’am. We collected everything from the printer’s yesterday.”
Mrs. Butters leaned back and sighed. “Of course you did, my dear. How silly of me. It must come of spending so much time with Laetitia—she is such a worrier.”
Fanny smiled in response, but out of politeness, she refrained from heartily agreeing with the assessment of Laetitia Blodgett, Mrs. Butters’ sister-in-law. Laetitia Blodgett was of an age with Mrs. Butters, and both were outspoken, active, managing sorts of women, but there, Fanny reflected, the similarity ended. Mrs. Blodgett was indeed a worrier, who never put off
