Fanny shrank down into one corner of the carriage as Donald McIntosh returned from the park to retrieve Mrs. Butters. She greatly feared being noticed by anyone. But to her chagrin, Mr. Gibson himself opened the carriage door and exclaimed, “There you are, Miss Price! I had been watching for you! Mrs. Butters informs me you are feeling unwell. I am sorry to hear it.”
“I am—-I am not—-I am quite recovered, thank you, Mr. Gibson,” she managed, and then turned her head to look out of the opposite window. She still lacked the self-command to greet him with her usual warmth, and the realization that she must have sounded unfriendly, threw her into even greater confusion and embarrassment.
Mr. Gibson stepped back to assist Mrs. Butters into her coach (a manoeuvre which called for both muscular strength and discretion), and Fanny was preparing to bid him ‘good-bye,’ when she became aware that he was climbing in himself!
“We are going to first take Mr. Gibson to his lodgings,” Mrs. Butters explained. “I trust this will not inconvenience you, Fanny?”
“Oh! Oh! Madam....by no means,” Fanny stammered, huddling into her shawl so that it covered her bosom, acutely aware of Mr. Gibson’s presence beside her on the seat. Her mind was a blank—she could think of no innocent topic to bring forward. If she asked if he had enjoyed the reception, she might receive information she would rather not hear.
An awkward silence, punctuated by the clip-clop of the horses’ hoofs, continued for what seemed to Fanny to be an eternity as she continued to resolutely stare out of the window. Finally, Mr. Gibson asked Mrs. Butters “if she had passed a pleasant time?”
“Oh yes! And dear Mrs. Wakefield introduced me to some new acquaintance. You remember Mrs. Wakefield, Mr. Gibson. A very good woman, I wish I had her industry and zeal. Or, her industry at any rate—I should just as soon not have her piety! I would not want to disapprove of half of the things she disapproves of! It is too tiring altogether! But the crush of people was, perhaps, excessive. So many in attendance! It is a fine thing for you, is it not, Mr. Gibson? I made sure of telling everyone they had better purchase your book.”
Mr. Gibson laughed. “You are my fiercest advocate, ma’am.”
Fanny listened as the two chatted amicably, until the carriage reached Covent Garden, and Mr. Gibson asked to be let out at the corner, so that he might find some supper before returning to his lodgings.
“Good bye, then, Mrs. Butters. Thank you. Good-bye... Miss Price.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Gibson.”
And he was gone.
Mrs. Butters frowned. “I may as well tell you Fanny, that Mrs. Wakefield was particularly disappointed when I told her you were not attending after all, because she intended for her acquaintance to see your new gown, so that we might find more customers for the academy.”
Fanny gasped, conscience-stricken. “Oh, no! I had not thought of that. I am so very sorry, so....”
“‘Sorry’ butters no parsnips, Fanny. What afflicted you so suddenly? You were in excellent spirits before we arrived.”
And Fanny explained about Mary Bertram, and to her great consolation, Mrs. Butters immediately softened her severe expression, and took her hand, and exclaimed: “Ah! Of course! I had forgotten Mary Crawford’s mother was Lady Delingpole’s first and dearest friend, when she came from Ireland. For the sake of Elena Crawford’s memory, she will never throw off the daughter.”
“At any rate, the sudden surprise of seeing her, seeing her there” —Fanny was about to say, “with Mr. Gibson,” but checked herself, while blushing furiously— “I was quite unprepared, I did not have the presence of mind to encounter her. And I should add, I know she bears the greatest resentment toward me, for the death of her brother.”
Mrs. Butters sniffed. “Mr. Crawford drove like a reckless fool and overturned his carriage. How are you to be blamed for his folly?”
“Ah, ma’am, you know the dreadful misunderstanding which occurred! I can never stop reproaching myself on that account. And it is no wonder that Mary seeks to excuse her brother, and throw the blame elsewhere. How partial we can all be, and ill-judging, when it comes to defending the persons we love. Mary Bertram and I will never be friends, I fear.”
“Well, child, I am sorry I was so vexed with you. I do understand how awkward it would have been. Let us forget the entire business.”
Fanny thanked her profusely, they reached Stoke Newington, and the beautiful gown was packed away for another, and hopefully more successful, trial of its powers to enchant admiring gentlemen. Fanny requested a hot bath in her room, and then went to bed without supper.
Images of Mary Bertram, gazing up at Mr. Gibson, haunted her dreams. And what was even more disturbing, the sight of the sister stirred up long-buried images of Henry Crawford.
Fanny dreamt she was back at Everingham in Norfolk, and she and Henry were sitting by the fireplace. That much had occurred in real life, but in her dream, unlike in reality, Henry was sitting next to her, looking at her in a most insinuating fashion, with his familiar insolent smile. He was not handsome—she had never thought him handsome—but he was graceful and well made and the intensity of his gaze was unsettling. He reached out and traced the outline of her jaw, then slid his hand around the back of her neck. Fanny tried to move away, but her limbs were as lead—she was unable to
