“Then, cousin,” Fanny said with a detachment she did not feel, “if you were to resume living with her as husband and wife, you would have to leave this lovely place, and perhaps go somewhere... somewhere where no-one knows your history?”
“Yes, someplace very distant, Fanny. But where? Some little crofter’s cottage in the Scottish Hebrides? St. Petersburg? Calcutta?”
“Pardon me for observing that none of those places seem calculated to satisfy Mary. A place remote enough for discretion’s sake, would be a good deal too remote from the fashionable world for her.”
“Indeed. And how shall I support us? Shall I become a Methodist and preach in the fields? Or collect beaver furs in Quebec?”
“It must be faced up to, I suppose,” Fanny sounded unconvinced.
“I am hardening myself, gradually, to the necessity of leaving Thornton Lacey, for Mary’s sake. Please say nothing to Julia just yet. Nothing has been resolved upon.”
Fanny nudged Julia’s mare up next to Edmund’s horse and reached out to touch his arm. “Cousin, you know that whatever happens, you will always have my loyal friendship. I hope you will be content.”
“I am lonely, Fanny,” he suddenly confessed. “Very lonely. I fear Gray’s ridicule applies to me, these days...
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
Fanny’s eyes flooded with tears and she quickly looked away. To tell him that she would gladly have been his lifelong companion, would only bring further distress to them both. He had chosen another; he belonged to Mary. If only Mary could make herself worthy of such a man!
“I think—” she stammered, “I doubt— that you will find an effusion upon spring, that does not end with some reference to fleeting youth, and the limits of mortality. Poets,” she attempted to laugh, “would not think themselves worthy of the name if they could contemplate the season with anything less than melancholy.”
Both were silent for a time, struggling to contain their emotions. The silence between them seemed to grow more eloquent, and Fanny feared she might betray the secrets of her heart, locked inside for so many years.
Fortunately, Edmund was the first to regain his composure, and with a smile, he said, “What would content me the most at this moment, Fanny, would be a good dinner. Shall we return home?”
“Certainly, cousin.”
Chapter Thirteen
William Gibson’s confidence in his abilities as a writer were but briefly shaken by the advent of the flamboyant Lord Byron. He resolved to leave off poetry and concentrate on prose. Since his return from Portsmouth, he had been hard at work on his first novel, a fantastical tale of the future, which he hoped would equal or surpass the success of Against the Slavers. He also continued to pen reviews and articles for the Gentlemen’s Magazine and other periodicals. His diligence left him little time to call upon Fanny in Stoke Newington, but she played no small part in his imaginings.
Not long after making the acquaintance of Miss Fanny Price, he was wont to say to himself, “I am not the marrying kind, but if I were, Miss Price is the type of person who would do well for me, I think.” His mind admitting this much, over many months and many involuntary, idle musings, and without his intending it whatsoever, he began to sketch a future in which Fanny became established in his imagination as his partner.
He now acknowledged to himself that in the scenes his fancy painted, he and Fanny lived together in a comfortable little house on the outskirts of London, close enough to Fleet Street but far enough away from the smoke of the city so she could breathe fresh air and walk through the fields with him in the morning. Fanny would read his first drafts, encourage his efforts, and pour scorn his critics.
Although Fanny’s relations had given her a better home, in material terms, than her old home in Portsmouth, he would be the one to give her a home she could truly call her own, in which she could exert her own tastes and preferences, where she would be respected by her friends and neighbours.
When Mr. Gibson first realized Mr. Edifice was his rival for Fanny’s affection, he had laughingly dismissed the possibility that she might ever bestow her hand upon the self-important cleric. He had hinted the question to Mrs. Butters, and she too, had laughed at the idea. But in the following weeks, his doubts kept recurring—surely Fanny would prefer a man in holy orders rather than me, a Free Thinker? And... say what you like about that Edifice fellow, he does recognize Fanny’s worth, but... Edifice says he will not take her without a handsome settlement, still... if he did propose, would she accept him? Would she value the stable, secure kind of life he could offer her, instead of casting her lot with a writer?
At least, if Fanny were considering matrimony—with anyone—he ought perhaps to think it an encouraging thing; it meant that her heart was detaching itself from her cousin, her first hopeless love.
He wondered if he should speak now, even before his novel was published—for he depended upon the success of that novel to provide enough income to afford a modest home. But was it not presumptuous and rash to offer matrimony before he was in a position to support a wife? To ask her to bind herself to him, before the future was certain?
But, consider as he might, he could think of no way to hint at matrimony with Fanny without actually coming to the point. How to prepare her to take such a step?
He agreed, along with Mrs. Butters, that
