Mrs. Butters broke off from her animated conversation with the others and consented, so long as Fanny was ready in time to return home before dinner, and her new companion bowed, and offered his arm to the little governess. Fanny observed that his cuffs were frayed and his jacket was old and worn, though clean and well mended. He started eagerly for the street, without pausing to put on a greatcoat—Fanny thought it quite likely that he did not own such an article—then he realized he had to check his gait, as Fanny came barely up to his shoulder and could not keep pace with him without a struggle. They were soon talking volubly of books, favourite authors, favourite works, histories, novels and poems, and Fanny delighted in meeting someone whose love of reading equaled hers and whose knowledge of literature far surpassed her own. They had just reached the door of the booksellers, when Mr. Gibson gave her to understand that he himself was a writer, one of the editors of the Abolitionist’s Gazette, and also had seen several of his poems published in the Gentlemen’s Magazine. Fanny had never conversed with an actual published author before, and her look of unfeigned awe caused Mr. Gibson to feel that today was a propitious day indeed.
The sight and even the smell of a roomful of books was welcome, more than welcome, to Fanny, and her attention was diverted between her interesting new friend and the offerings for sale, both new and second-hand.
“I believe you said Cowper was your favourite poet, Miss Price. Here is an amusing satire on Woodsworth—The Simpliciad. I think you would enjoy it. Ah, here is something new in the Gothic line!” And, holding up a volume, he pronounced in exaggerated horror, “The Ruins of Rigonda: or, the Homicidal Father!”
Fanny smiled and shook her head. “These novels are too expensive for the passing entertainment they provide, I fear. A governess cannot afford them.”
“Never fear. I shall write a three volume novel featuring a ruined castle and an evil Prior and publish under it a woman’s name and make prodigious sums of money. And you shall receive a presentation copy, of course.”
“As you like, sir,” laughed Fanny, “but I should prefer to read some of your own productions.”
Instead of a three-volume novel, Fanny selected a well-worn book entitled Stories for the Young, as a welcome addition in the nursery. Mr. Gibson deftly plucked the book from her hand and examined it. Fanny found herself admiring his long fingers as they turned the pages, which were slender but gave the impression of much strength and dexterity. “Well, here is a happy coincidence, Miss Price,” he smiled. “The gentlewoman who was conversing with us as you entered the tavern is—the authoress of this book! Are you acquainted with the works of Hannah More?”
Fanny was speechless. That she should have stood in the same room with not one, but two, writers, and one of them a lady, was a circumstance so wonderful that she could scarcely comprehend it. She recollected herself only when she observed Mr. Gibson attempting to purchase her selection for her, but he yielded to her gentle remonstrance and permitted her to lay out her own monies, as she thought only proper, but her gratitude at his kindness, artlessly but fervently expressed, caused him to laugh at her, and Fanny blushed and laughed in return, until their friendly confederacy was brought to a close by the sound of Mrs. Butter’s approaching carriage. Fanny was compelled to bid a hasty farewell to Mr. Gibson and climb in beside a slumbering Madame Orly, feeling that her trip to Bristol had been memorable indeed!
Chapter Nine
The sight of Mary Crawford standing by the large and welcoming fireplace in the dining-room of the Royal George Inn, after a fruitless day of visiting various hostelries around Oxford, was a blissful tonic to Edmund’s spirits and caused him to acknowledge that despite his current distress, she was never far from his thoughts—her eyes, her smile, her countenance, frequently appeared before him, and her materialization in the flesh seemed almost to be in response to his unspoken wishes.
Edmund thought Tom seemed rather more eager than otherwise to let the Crawfords continue the search for Fanny unaided, so that he could return to his usual habits and haunts. Edmund warmly offered to accompany the Crawfords anywhere in their pursuit of Miss Price. But although Miss Crawford’s lovely dark eyes eloquently told him how welcome his company would be, her brother argued that by taking separate routes, they might cover more ground. “You say you have learned the name of the lady—a Mrs. Renfro—who was in the coach with your cousin, and that she is a native of St. Albans. Should not one party pursue her, to enquire if Miss Price confided in her, while another traces your cousin’s supposed path to Portsmouth?”
“By Jove, that’s sensible, Crawford,” offered Tom. “You and I can go to St Albans—my particular friend, Hedgerow, lives just outside the city. Edmund, you have heard me speak of Hedgerow. Why don’t you go to Portsmouth on the morrow and placate our Aunt Price. We’ve never met her, you know, Crawford. Do you suppose she is as much of a Tartar as Aunt Norris?”
Upon this, Miss Crawford protested that she and her brother should accompany Mr. Edmund Bertram to Portsmouth. But, objected Tom Bertram, it had already been established that Fanny was not in Portsmouth, and he had no doubt that the Crawfords, with their skills of address, would obtain a more sympathetic audience with Mrs. Renfro. Edmund could not gainsay the observation, and moreover it was his duty to pay his respects to his aunt, who, he had no doubt, was beside herself with anxiety over the fate
