Fanny tried to answer firmly, but the old habits of submission were difficult to overcome. “Aunt, Mr. Edifice is—he was not—Julia was speaking only in jest. She did not really intend for you to think Mr. Edifice was paying his addresses to me.”
As Fanny spoke, her courage rose, and she added a gentle reproach: “And indeed, I am sorry to know such a false report has got abroad.”
“I told everyone in Mansfield it was a matter not to be talked of, for the time being. If people cannot hold their tongues, it is no fault of mine!”
Fanny smiled, and turned away to go into the parlour, but her aunt’s voice pursued her.
“Stay, Fanny, you cannot suppose your family will approve of this Mr. Gibson, if they knew Mr. Gibson as I have seen him. You cannot suppose that I can ever come to approve of it. Mr. Gibson is evidently not devout, and I fear he may be a radical! He is unacceptable. You should consider what you owe to me, to your family. Your uncle (thanks to me) took you in and raised you to be a proper gentlewoman—is this how you requite us?”
Upon hearing, once again, the old demand for gratitude and thanks, Fanny turned and looked closely at her aunt. Here was the woman who had frightened and subdued her, throughout all the years of her childhood. Here was the woman who told her she was always to be ‘the lowest and the last.’ But Fanny was no longer a shrinking child, she was now as tall as her aunt—a little taller, in fact, for in the past few years, Aunt Norris had seemed to shrink a little, and had withdrawn into her clothing, her large neckerchiefs, her starched white caps. She was no longer the vigorous, intimidating Aunt Norris of old. She was smaller, frailer. Long years of scowling had etched deep lines into her forehead and her face, the skin on her hands and neck was wrinkled and papery, her voice had dwindled to a querulous bleat.
“You speak of the church, Aunt Norris, and of course you and I both hold clergyman in the highest esteem. But you do not know Mr. Gibson as I do—and I do assure you, he is a virtuous man, and bears a better character, than even some clergymen or some people professedly Christian. I do not need to denigrate anyone to defend my friend Mr. Gibson, although I might.”
Mrs. Norris threw up her hands in dismay. “If you were only harming yourself, I might have done with it, but you may injure everyone connected with you, and cause us to lose what respectability we have left. But if you are determined to be foolish, Fanny, and obstinate, and to go your own way without any regard for those who have the right to advise and guide you, you can only reap the consequences. Do not be surprised if you completely estrange yourself from those to whom you are so much indebted.”
“It seems to me that there are also consequences for the argument—no, the threats—that you are making, Aunt Norris,” Fanny countered, to her aunt’s astonishment. “I should be sorry for you, truly sorry, if your scruples have the result of estranging you from every member of your family. I have been a witness to the manner in which you speak to my mother, and she is now barely speaking to you. Julia tells me you have received no invitations to Norfolk—it seems my uncle and aunt and Maria can all endure the loss of your company. You were good enough to escort Julia to Portsmouth, but you scolded her, every day, for breaking with Mr. Meriwether and you have been excessively unpleasant to my brother William. Can you imagine that you will be a welcome guest in their future home? If they have a daughter, do you suppose they will name the child after you?
“I have often thought of you—more often than you might suppose—thought of you living in the White House, all alone and growing older, and thought, as well, of the probability that you will one day need someone to nurse you and care for you. Who do you imagine might come to your side? Your sisters? Maria or Julia? Who shall comfort and support you in your old age?”
Fanny saw that her aunt absorbed the full force of her meaning—and the young woman’s resentment instantly gave way to pity. She took her aunt’s hand and held it gently while she continued:
“Let me assure you, Aunt, that I shall come to you, if you need me, or I will take you in to live with me. And I will deal with you kindly and take good care of you, for I have my own convictions about respectability and dishonour. And I choose to forgive you, and to forget the past.”
Mrs. Norris’s lips quivered, she mouthed the word, ‘forgive?’ but said nothing more. Fanny swiftly withdrew upstairs, to calm her own beating heart, and shortly thereafter she heard the front door open and close.
There seldom can be a perfect understanding, let alone a reconciliation, when two persons are so divided in their thinking as my Aunt and I, Fanny consoled herself. I could not have expected anything more by way of answer. It was perhaps futile to speak what I felt, perhaps even ill-advised. But it was not wrong. I was entitled to speak plainly, just this once. I cannot regret it.
* * * * * * *
Edmund could not leave Portsmouth, without first having a quiet word with his cousin Fanny, but it must be at a time when Mr. Gibson was not hanging about, as he—a man supposedly hard at work on a novel—so often tended to be.
On the day of his departure, Edmund called upon
