Julia stopped her pacing and stared at her brother with wild surmise and dawning hope.
“You would not object to being absent on a Sunday?”
“I daresay my parishioners would not. A little variety would be interesting for them. I will ask my friend Richard Owen to fill the pulpit for me.”
“Indeed, I’m sure Mr. Owen would enjoy some time in the countryside exceedingly!”
“I only hope he will consent to let me pay him a fee for his services—he is very much in need of it, but he may feel some awkwardness in taking monies from a friend.”
“You can pay his travelling expenses, at least, and see that Mrs. Peckover feeds him well. And why do you not invite his sisters as well? They can use my room while I am away. As I recall, you said the Miss Owens are excellent singers—very accomplished.” And Julia continued to enumerate all the reasons why it was desirable that the Owens should enjoy a brief sojourn in the countryside—fishing—long walks—horse-riding—country air—until it appeared that she and Edmund were removing themselves to Portsmouth for their friends’ benefit.
“We are agreed, I think,” Edmund concluded. “I will speak to Mrs. Peckover about it. So, would you like to go to Portsmouth with me?”
Julia knelt at Edmund’s side, and laid her head in his lap.
“Dear, dear Edmund. My excellent brother! In spite of everything that has happened to you, you are still a friend of forlorn hopes. Take me to Portsmouth, please.”
* * * * * * *
Autumn had never been a favourite time of year with Fanny Price. Of course the changing colours of the season were delightful, especially at Mansfield Park. In Camden Town it was a different matter. September brought mud, and dark clouds; rain, and more rain. But her dislike of autumn was not owing to the weather, or the lack of sunshine. It was rather that, during her childhood, the end of summer signalled the departure of her cousin Edmund for school, and she would be without his company, often until the Christmas holidays. She associated the shortening days and the lengthening nights with loss and loneliness and had to struggle against a tendency to lowness of spirits.
Her friend William Gibson did not call upon them at Mrs. Butters’ house so frequently as they could wish, for he was almost entirely taken up with reporting and writing for the political periodicals, and spent most of his days in the gallery at the Parliament and his evenings penning long articles in his modest lodgings. He had sent several friendly notes, but she had not seen him, in fact, since the disastrous encounter at Lady Delingpole’s reception. She wished that Mrs. Butters might think of taking a trip into London, especially to meet with their friends, but she was too timid to propose it, and the older lady was disinclined to go anywhere in the pelting rain, preferring to nurse her aching joints by the fire at home.
Fanny was not the only one whose prospects were blighted by the inclement weather. Inexperienced as she was in mercantile affairs, she could not help but observe that matters were not faring well on the first floor. Fashionable ladies were putting aside their summer muslins in favour of silk and velvet, but few of them chose to make the journey from London to Camden Town. The decline in revenue was a source of anxiety for everyone, as the continued existence of the academy depended upon the success of the dressmakers’ shop.
Fanny, thinking of how she had made doll’s clothes out of small pieces of discarded fabric in Bristol, asked Mrs. Blodgett for the trimmings of silk, lace, and ribbon from the third floor, for her pupils.
“And why should we do that, Miss Price? We sell them to the rag-man, and we need every shilling.”
“If I had the scraps of silk and bombazine, I could give them to the girls to practise upon before we entrust them with an entire skirt panel. And, we could make doll’s clothing with the thinner fabrics. A piece of fabric, sold to the rag man, is worth only a penny to the pound, but if we were to make doll’s clothing—”
“No one has requested any doll’s clothing.”
“I meant to suggest, ma’am, the doll’s clothing be put up for sale, as a —”
“Who buys doll’s clothing? I am sure I never did.”
“But I believe, ma’am, that you had no daughters?”
Mrs. Blodgett frowned. “We have not enough students to be setting them to additional work. Usually two or three girls are missing every day, complaining of illness, or their mothers are lying-in and they are needed at home, and so forth.”
Fanny was silenced, and went off to meditate on the inconvenience and vexation of working with someone who always said ‘no’ to any new proposal—until it suddenly struck her that, she herself had also been described by her cousins, as just such a person! The thought surprised and humbled her, and she resolved to be more patient with Mrs. Blodgett, and firmer with herself.
* * * * * * *
When Mary Crawford Bertram visited her friends in London, she was under the necessity of satisfying those vulgarly curious persons who enquired about her long separation from her husband. This she did by hinting at the tragic reasons she had fled from Northamptonshire—reasons which delicacy forbade her to broach. Her wistful countenance, her tremulous voice, her averted gaze, her insinuation that there was more to be told, could she bear to tell it—all served to leave the intended impression. Many persons—particularly those who had never met Edmund Bertram—concluded she must be the injured party, and pitied the beautiful young wife, who was able to effect her independence because she had kept control of her own fortune upon marriage.
