And Fanny thought it best to turn the subject to the weather.
The carriage returned as the ladies were finishing their tea, and they resumed their seats within. Fanny, looking eagerly at everything around her, timidly expressed a hope that they might see something more of the dockyards and the sea while in Bristol; Mrs. Butters didn’t reply but instead directed the coachman to stop at St. Thomas Lane in front of an old, low ceilinged, gabled building that appeared to be a tavern.
“I will stop here a little while, you may accompany me or wait in the carriage, as you please,” she said. Fanny, surprised, elected to follow her benefactress, while Madame Orly declared her intention to rest in the carriage. Mrs. Butters boldly entered, and, looking around the large, empty room, maneuvered through a tangle of tables and chairs to a heavy table, piled high with broadsheets and books, where several earnest men and a lady were deep in conversation.
“The point is, that we should not be drawn into defending a proposition we have never made—no one ever claimed that the Negroes are a species of angel. They have faults and human failings like the rest of us,” exclaimed an older gentleman, quaintly garbed all in black, vigorously tapping the table for emphasis as he spoke, and leaning forward so that his glasses were in danger of slipping from his nose.
“But, the moods and caprices of this woman are being used, and not ineffectually, to discredit her testimony about the cruelties of the plantation system,” replied the gentlewoman he was addressing, a respectable-looking, dignified older lady whose simplicity of attire did not diminish her air of quiet authority. “I do not deny that if I had suffered one-hundredth of what she has suffered, and continues to suffer—repeated floggings, half-starved, forced to toil from before sunrise to after sundown, her health broken, separated from her family—I too would be of an uneven temperament. By what right the public expects a former slave to be cheerful, humble, and perpetually grateful, I know not. But Mary will not conform to this expected pattern, and it damages our cause.”
“If she could be provided with regular employment that did not overtax her strength, I feel certain—” a tall, slender young man was beginning to suggest, when his gaze fell on Mrs. Butters and Fanny. His face lit up in a most engaging fashion. “My dear Mrs. Butters! How good to see you at last! We wish you joy, by the by—what happy news! Twins!”
“Thank you, Mr. Gibson. We had our alarms, of course, but the little ones are thriving, and Mrs. Smallridge is doing as well as can be expected. She is following my advice and refraining from all bathing for the winter. My dear Miss More, allow me to present Miss Price, recently engaged as governess at my niece’s home. Miss Price, these are my friends Mr. Thompson and Mr. Gibson.”
After Fanny quietly greeted her new acquaintance, she looked down bashfully, as was her habit, and became transfixed by the engravings on one of the broadsheets, which showed an African, bound hand and foot to a large carriage wheel, over whom stood a man with a whip. The youngest man, following her gaze, explained in an undertone, “This is one of the methods of punishment in the West Indies for slaves, Miss Price. Our Society is endeavouring to educate the British public about the cruelties of slavery.”
“Ah, you are Abolitionists, Mr. Gibson. I have read a little about your movement.”
“Mrs. Butters is one of our chief patronesses, were you aware?” Drawing her a little aside from the others, who continued their conversation, he added in a low tone, “Her late husband built the ships, the very ships, which were used to transport these unfortunate souls from Africa to the Indies. But she, bless her, has renounced her past and put no small part of her husband’s fortune in the service of ending this abominable trade.”
Fanny looked concerned, and doubtful. Her respect and awe for her uncle, Sir Thomas, prevented her from even thinking critically of him—whatever he deemed to be correct and just, must be so; yet, the bald fact of humans in bondage, taken by force from their own country to toil in another, could hardly be considered by her with anything approaching equanimity. “I understand that the trade in slaves itself has been, or is to be, abolished. But how shall industries established on this system be reformed, Mr. Gibson? Shall the owners be compensated, if they are compelled to release those persons that they have paid sums to transport thither? Shall workers be found to replace the slaves? I do not ask this in defense of the sugar plantations, but merely ask for information.”
“Permit me to give you some of our literature, Miss Price. But,” he added doubtfully, eyeing the slight figure before him, “it is of a truly distressing nature, and as such, perhaps not advisable for persons of a delicate constitution.”
“I shall take care that the children do not see it. But I have long wished to learn more about this question on my own account.” She looked up again, and beheld a young man, with a most arresting countenance; a long, slender, handsome face, framed by dark curls around his high, broad forehead. His smile was gentle and peculiarly pleasing, but it was the vitality and intelligence of his expressive deep blue eyes, which twinkled behind small round glasses, which held her attention. “At any rate, I shall be pleased to have something new to read, because Bunyan and Addison have been my only diversions for a fortnight or more.”
Mr. Gibson laughed, “Indeed, you deserve to have some sweetmeats in this diet of wholesome gruel! Have you
