“Thank you, but I do believe, thanks to Julia, that I could specify to the last detail, the veil and the trimming,” answered her cousin. “But I think you will concur with me that oftentimes—and I by no means include our recently-married friends here—I speak in general terms—oftentimes, too much solicitude is expended on the wedding, and not enough thought given to the marriage. To marry, to be married—it is a serious business altogether.”
“‘And therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly; but reverently, discreetly...’” said Fanny, “and what else?
“...advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God,” finished Edmund. “Fanny, are you contemplating matrimony?”
“Many young ladies contemplate matrimony, Edmund, whether they will admit it or not! But in the sense that you mean—you know that I am in mourning for my father—it will not do to be spoken of, not at present.”
Edmund ventured to hint that he still thought her too young, with too little experience of the world, to commit herself in marriage.
Fanny thanked him for his concern. But she could not satisfy his anxious solicitude, his curiousity, as to what she might do after the year was out. Fanny wanted to “wait and see” after her six months with her mother were completed. She might stay longer in Portsmouth, or she might find a new home elsewhere.
Edmund was eloquent in urging caution—great caution—and reflection, before she took any momentous step. “And you know, Fanny, you can always talk things over with me, and I hope you do.”
“Of course, cousin!”
A short pause, and then: “Fanny, I understand.... that Mr. Gibson intends to make a visit of some duration in Portsmouth.”
“Yes, he is busy finishing his novel.”
“The life and income of an author must always be precarious, I suppose. He may invest a better part of a year on some production and see only a poor return for all his efforts, if it does not meet with interest from the public.”
“But on the other hand, there is much to admire in a person who can rise to distinction, without patronage, without family, without connections to assist him, with the power of his eloquence alone. He has written one very successful book, so I cannot imagine why he should not write many more.”
“It is natural that you should be well-disposed towards him,” Edmund conceded, “because of the service he rendered. It is no wonder you feel gratitude.”
“Oh?” Fanny stopped and said anxiously, “who told you of it? I did not want you to know about Mr. Bellingham, because I did not wish to cause you any anxiety. In fact, my own family does not know anything about the episode—apart from John, of course.”
“Mr. Bellingham? Episode? I was referring to Amongst the Slavers, which portrayed your brother in such a good light, and helped obtain his promotion.”
“Oh! Yes, of course. Yes, we are all very grateful to Mr. Gibson. Yes.” Fanny resumed walking, at a brisker pace.
“What was that you just said about Mr. Bellingham? Do you refer to the assassin of the prime minister? What episode?”
“It was nothing, nothing.”
“Fanny!” Edmund was truly wounded. “Fanny, have we ever kept secrets from one another?”
Fanny smiled and shook her head and Edmund saw that she was unmoveable. “It is best forgotten.”
* * * * * * *
Perplexed and not a little dissatisfied, Edmund caught his coach to London, which gave him some time for reflection.
The feelings of dismay which swept over him when Julia told him of Mr. Gibson—what did they mean? Edmund realized that he was being selfish; and he was ashamed at his selfishness. He should not wish for Fanny to remain single for his sake—because he resented being supplanted in her affections.
The day might come, most probably would come, when Fanny would say, “Edmund, I should like you to meet my husband.” He would have to shake the hand of his new brother, and say ‘congratulations’ and speak of his happiness for Fanny, but Edmund knew his true feelings; he recalled how he had felt, when he first became aware of Mr. Gibson. And it was not only Mr. Gibson; he doubted the world could produce any suitor for his cousin whom he would accept with complacency.
Gazing out the window, occasionally rubbing his forehead with a distracted air, Edmund wondered if his affection for his cousin had a dangerous tendency. Could it threaten his peace, and could it threaten hers, if she were ever to realize the depth of his feelings for her, feelings he was only beginning to understand himself?
Perhaps it was better to keep his distance. He was a married man. He had a wife. He had no future to offer anyone. And he was now on his way to London to meet Mary, whom he had not seen for two years.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Edmund Bertram called upon the Frasers at Upper Seymour Street and was shown into the parlour—the very room where he had proposed to Mary, three years ago.
Here, by this chair, right here, was where he had discovered she was lying to him about Maria and Henry, and he had turned to walk away; here she had stopped him, and he had been overcome by his passionate longing. Here they had embraced and kissed for the first time. Here he had asked her to be his wife, and she had accepted him.
And today—a
