Fanny watched from a distance as Mr. Gibson, without raising his voice or indeed, with a posture and air the most mild and unassuming, captivated one fair admirer after another. She and Mrs. Butters had been used to thinking and speaking of him as their own particular friend, but as Fanny saw, Mr. Gibson possessed the happy knack of looking at the person with whom he was conversing as though she was the only one in the room, and this gave her some uncomfortable sensations.
He was, as far as Fanny could judge in all candour, not flirtatious. His address was not insinuating, not flattering, not to be compared to the late Henry Crawford, but his manners were such as must please.
What was this dismay, this unwelcome feeling, which took possession of her and made her want to drop through the floor into oblivion? As she watched, another young lady fearlessly approached and joined in the conversation. Fanny could not conceive of having the audacity to do the same in this glittering company.
Inevitably, her inner voice—that familiar and dolorous companion from her childhood—awoke and plunged her into self-reproach. Who was she to resent? What right had she to be jealous of any of the ethereal creatures now swarming around her friend? Who was she to begrudge the flattering attentions he received? Of course Mr. Gibson, once penniless and unknown, now prosperous and famous, should move in more exalted spheres. She was merely an ex-governess, insignificant and awkward. She felt herself to be an impostor in borrowed clothes, as she beheld the easy way the other young women wore their beauty and their privilege.
One of the ladies attending on Gibson, who stood with her back to Fanny, now turned slightly, affording a view of her profile. Her form was slender and elegant. She wore a turban, out of which a few dark curls escaped to adorn her forehead, and her gown was a bold shade of cerise. She was the image of self-possession, beauty and fashion.
Fanny startled, she gasped. The lovely vision was none other than Mary Crawford—that is, Mary Bertram, the estranged wife of her cousin Edmund.
Quickly Fanny snapped open her fan to cover her face, as she squeezed through the crowd to hide herself behind one of the lobby’s marble pillars, thickly wrapped with artificial ivy. She stood on tiptoe, craning to peer through as the crowds between them moved and separated, but there could be no mistaking—it was Mary. Her face was perhaps a little thinner, her nose and chin a little more pointed, but it was the same confident and witty beauty who won Edmund’s heart three years ago and, having won it, had broken it.
At the same moment that Fanny found a hiding place, William Gibson turned all his attention to Mary, laughing and nodding in response to one of her witty remarks, and Mary—how did she possess such skill?—managed somehow to separate him from the other women clustered round him, to claim and secure him for her own, to pull his arm within hers, and to walk away. Fanny watched as Mary leaned confidingly toward him, the feathers dancing above her head; she saw Mary tap him playfully with her fan, and Gibson did not appear in the least anxious to escape her company.
“Fanny! What on earth are you doing—why are you tangled up in the ivy? This is an absurd beginning. Come with me, you silly girl.”
“Oh, dear Mrs. Butters,” Fanny whispered in stricken tones. “Pray, allow me to wait for you in your carriage. Please, I cannot go in there. I cannot.”
Mrs. Butters frowned. “Fanny, this will not do. You must get the better of yourself. You must show more confidence.”
“Dear Mrs. Butters,” Fanny repeated, “I will explain later, but there is a person in there whom I cannot encounter—I could not endure it—”
“What? Cannot endure a social meeting?”
“Please, ma’am. I am very sorry, but I cannot, I cannot.”
“Oh, very well. I am no less sorry than you, and we are giving a grave insult to our hosts as well. What shall it be—a headache? A sudden indisposition?”
“Ma’am, please do not say anything to Lord and Lady Delingpole. Nobody will miss me, or know that I am gone.”
“Ah, so now the truth will out. You are feeling most particularly creep mouse and insignificant. Well, we will discuss this later, Fanny Price. I shall send word to McIntosh to bring the carriage round.”
Terrified that Mary Bertram might appear in the lobby, Fanny brushed past the persons entering at the front door, and watched anxiously from the portico for Donald McIntosh and the carriage. She urged Mrs. Butters not to sacrifice her own pleasure for her sake, and begged to be allowed to wait in the carriage until her benefactress was ready to leave the reception.
“I will tell McIntosh to drive you around the park and then come back for me in an hour. I hope you shall be warm enough. Up you go, Fanny—I begin to fear that perhaps you are falling ill. You are quite pale.”
The horses slowly made several circuits of Hyde Park. No doubt anyone seeing the carriage would assume that it sheltered a loving couple enjoying a romantic tête-à-tête,
