Fanny’s intuition that Mrs. Bellingham would be a good addition to the academy proved to be correct. She was a good instructress, a good seamstress, and a good saleswoman, and before a fortnight passed, Mrs. Blodgett declared that she would stay on, even after Fanny’s return from Northamptonshire!
* * * * * * *
William Gibson returned to London after his time in Portsmouth, to discover that his literary star had been dimmed by a new and brighter celestial apparition.
George Gordon, Lord Byron, was creating a sensation in town. His exceedingly handsome face, his licentious private life, and his menagerie of wild animals drew even more attention than his new poem. Everywhere he went, Gibson heard nothing but talk of Childe Harold and Byron.
Most reluctantly, Mr. Gibson realized that his own day of distinction was over. Yes, he would produce new books and articles, the future productions of his pen might be well-received—he had the highest hopes for his novel in progress—but never again would he experience the gratification of newly-acquired fame, of knowing that people of fashion and influence were asking each other, “Have you read Mr. Gibson’s book?” as a first topic of interest.
However, as a single man, and moreover, a young, good-looking, and conversable man, his company was still highly sought at dinner parties when a hostess needed to even out her table. He might have received one invitation where Lord Byron received ten, but he still could dine out most evenings of the week, if he so chose.
Mrs. Janet Fraser often found herself in need of two or three extra gentlemen, for she was still burdened with her step-daughter Margaret, and her friend Mary Bertram was staying with her again. It was Mary who suggested the name of “William Gibson” as an amusing dinner guest. Janet Fraser, hearing Mary’s description of him, agreed he would be very eligible in that capacity, but, alas, could not be added to the list of potential husbands for Margaret because he was merely a writer, barely a gentleman, and she was the determined supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious, provided it be only mercenary and ambitious enough.
Janet Fraser still pinned her hopes upon Mr. Meriwether, the wife-hunting widower from Bristol, and he headed her invitation list.
Mr. Meriwether had risen from humble circumstances, and apart from the loss of his wife in childbirth some years ago, good fortune had blessed all of his endeavours. At eight-and-forty, having grown wealthy in the wine trade, he had the means and the inclination to pursue interests long denied to him by the press of business. He enjoyed engaging in political debates, all the arts were delightful to him, and he scarcely ever ventured out of his home without acquiring more books for his rapidly-expanding library.
Thus, in arranging her name cards, Janet Fraser sat Mr. Meriwether next to Margaret. Her sister Lady Stornaway and her noble brother-in-law would have the seats of honour, Mary Bertram, Mr. Gibson and three other fashionable couples filled out her table.
As he entered the drawing room, William Gibson recognized only Mary Bertram, who directly attached herself to him, and then pulled him into a corner, to ask, with a smile that belied her professions of concern, what news he had of their mutual acquaintance, Miss Price. “I must apply to you, Mr. Gibson, for I have heard the most alarming reports of her. I have heard, though I can hardly believe it, that she is working as a sempstress in some warehouse in Camden Town! Can she have fallen so far in the world?”
“You will undoubtedly be relieved to know, ma’am, that Miss Price is in fact serving as the head instructress at a sewing academy under the sponsorship of the Society for Improving the Condition and Increasing the Comforts of the Poor.”
“Aaahh, I see. She’s a Clapham Saint now. Well, that would suit her very well. Fanny was never one to hide her light of benevolence under a bushel. What do you think, Margaret?” She turned to Margaret. “Can you conceive of some way to make ourselves half so useful? Can you not think of some scheme by which we may revel in the plaudits of our fellow men?”
Before Margaret could reply, Mary went on: “Well, despite what the fashionable world may think, I am happy to hear that Fanny has found some occupation. When one scheme of happiness fails, after all, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better. Did you know Fanny previously had designs on my husband, and actually hoped that the son of a baronet would marry the daughter of a marine officer, or whatever he was? You look surprised, Mr. Gibson. You did not know of dear Fanny’s vaunting ambitions?”
“Mary, you speak as though she only wanted to marry him for his rank,” protested Margaret. “Mr. Edmund Bertram is a very good, honourable, sensible man. Why should Miss Price not genuinely esteem him, growing up with him, as she did?”
“Oh yes, my husband is a paragon, Margaret. A paragon of goodness and virtue. But when did you study his character? I was not aware that you and he had ever exchanged more than ‘how do you do’s’?”
It was Margaret’s misfortune to look guilty here. Mary had long suspected, but had no proof, that it was Margaret who had secretly informed Edmund Bertram of his sister Maria’s clandestine meetings with Henry Crawford. “We d-did speak—just a little.”
Mr. Gibson, seeing the cold expression on Mary’s face, put an end to further enquiries by offering Miss Fraser his arm, and asking her to show him a large oil painting of a rugged seacoast at the other end of the room. He swept her away and they tenaciously discussed the painting, while his mind was busy.
He had known, from the time he met Fanny, that she had loved
