“Good fortune to this house, and all who dwell here,” answered Mr. Gibson cheerfully, not at all inclined to cavil at Scottish superstition on such a fine winter morning. “Although I must disappoint you on the score of gifts. I am a hapless bachelor after all. I was rather hoping you had some of your good baking reserved for me, Mrs. McIntosh. I should think bringing bread to you is like bringing coals to Newcastle.
“Oh, that’s right,” he added, smacking his forehead. “I was supposed to bring you some coal, as well. At any rate, ma’am, no-one can bake a better scone than your good self.”
“Flatterer!”
Just then Fanny, wreathed in smiles, came tripping through the parlour door to greet him, and he withdrew from under his arm a small roll of paper, tied up with a ribbon.
“But instead of the traditional gift of coal, I do bring for you, Miss Price, a printer’s proof of my report on Mrs. Perceval’s visit to the academy, which you may consign to the flames after you’ve read it. Or before, if you like.”
The pure pleasure of the visit, alas, was clouded by Mr. Gibson’s announcement that he must leave almost immediately for Portsmouth, to investigate and report on the tragic loss of several of the Navy’s ships in severe winter storms in the Baltic. He was to attend the courts-martial and interview the few survivors for the Gentlemen’s Magazine.
“No doubt you wrote your family before Christmas, Miss Price, but I should be happy to convey any message or parcel to them on your behalf. I am sure my little nursemaid Betsey has grown a foot since I last saw her.”
“Betsey and all the family will be so delighted to see you, Mr. Gibson. I am only sorry to tell you, they have moved to a smaller household, for otherwise, they could have spared you a bedroom for your stay in Portsmouth.”
Mr. Gibson had been very ill when he was an unwelcome boarder in the Price household several years ago, and his recollections of the food and accommodation were not very charitable, although he had formed an unlikely alliance with young Betsey, who had served as his nurse-maid. He had spent his days lying on his back in the Price’s attic, watching the slow orbit of the sun from east to west across the dormer windows, and listening to the voices which echoed through the house—Mrs. Price, talking to herself in querulous tones—Susan, halloo-ing a command to the servant in the kitchen—boisterous Sam and Charles, and the deep bass rumble of Mr. Price.
The Prices were a rambunctious, harum-scarum sort of family, and Betsey’s upbringing, for example, was as different as possible from the cold, austere, silent childhood that he had known, living with his clergyman uncle in Cambridgeshire. In his uncle’s home, there was no toleration for noise or disorder or unpunctual meals.
Aloud, he said only: “Oh, I should not think of imposing myself on your good mother, Miss Price.”
Mrs. Butters, for motives which will be intelligible to the discerning reader, did not immediately greet her guest, for she found herself to be unavoidably delayed by some household matters, leaving the two young people alone in the parlour. When she did make her appearance, the rest of Mr. Gibson’s visit was given over to the topics of the day. The Prince Regent, his selfish extravagance and his lechery was vigorously dwelt on by their hostess, who denounced His Royal Highness as a libertine and a blockhead.
And of course, there was the outcome of the Ratcliffe Highway murders to be canvassed, lamented, and wondered at. The Irish sailor who had been the chief suspect hanged himself in his prison cell before he was formally charged with the crime. His suicide was taken to be a confession, and his body was paraded through the streets on a hurdle on New Year’s Eve, with thousands gathered to watch, and he had been buried at a crossroad in unconsecrated soil--a proceeding, Mr. Gibson observed, which ought to make any rational Englishman blush for shame. “The authorities actually drove a stake through the wretch’s heart. In front of thousands of ravening spectators! What barbarous superstition!”
Fanny and Mr. Gibson shook hands upon parting, she smiled, their eyes met, and he wondered if she, too, was thinking of that brief moment on Christmas Eve, when they had found each other in the darkness and he had embraced her fervently. He wished he could hold her again.
The too-brief visit was over, and Mrs. McIntosh saw to it that their visitor departed with some scones, wrapped up carefully with a pat of butter, while she sighed and laughed inwardly at the inability of two well-disposed young people to come to the point. What was all the fuss and pother about? When was that Mr. Gibson ever going to declare himself?
It did occur to Mr. Gibson—but only after he departed—that perhaps there was nothing particularly lover-like in talking over the state of the nation and the barbaric disposal of a wretched sailor, with the young woman he esteemed. Unfortunately, he thought, he hardly knew what else to talk about. Miss Price was as little disposed to be flattered by gallantries as he was adept at bestowing them.
I have written poetry, he thought to himself, but none of it was love poetry. Should I try my hand at a sonnet? Somehow, I cannot think of it without laughing, and I think Fanny would laugh as well!
He might have felt reassured had he known that, immediately after his departure, Miss Price sat down and read his article for the Society and was once again filled with admiration for her friend’s talents with his pen. Anything that was awkward, tedious, or irksome about the day was smoothed away, every
