Mrs. Bellingham’s feelings gave way and she began to weep. Tears came to Fanny’s eyes as well. Fanny placed a sympathetic hand on the poor woman’s shoulder and let her cry softly for a while. Finally, Fanny said: “I understand why you did not confide in us before now, Mrs. Bellingham. I believe I should have felt and acted likewise, in your position.”
“Alas, now you know why I have had so little to say about myself! I was ashamed to be so guarded with you, and with everyone here, when you have all been so kind to me. It is a torment to know he is speaking of our financial failures all over London, and telling everyone about his distress for his poor wife and children—yes, that is what he says, even when I, his wife, have begged him to leave off. He told me he would, he promised he had—but he lied to me. I am resigned—he cannot stop himself.”
Fanny debated within herself, wondering if she could provide some consolation to her new friend by sharing her own story. Fanny was not in the habit of speaking about herself; she was reticent by nature. But her newfound intimacy with Eliza, and her compassion for the afflicted woman’s feelings, moved her to set aside her own habitual reserve.
Warmly, impulsively, sympathetically, she began: “I understand, as perhaps few could, the fear of notoriety, Eliza. But, if my own experience can provide any consolation, I will confide that I, myself, was featured in all the newspapers two years ago. How dreadful it was at the time! But now, other stories and scandals have supplanted it. If it is any encouragement to you, Eliza, this trial will pass eventually, mustn’t it? At worst, we are the topic of a brief hour and then are forgotten.”
And to gratify Mrs. Bellingham’s curiousity and to distract her, Fanny confessed that she was the once-notorious ‘Miss P,’ who had pretended to be married to the late Henry Crawford, or as the newspapers had called him, ‘the well-known and captivating Mr. C.’ As she had intended, her friend was distracted from her own sorrows by the astonishing revelation.
“What an extraordinary tale! Yes, I think I remember reading about ‘Mr. C’ at the time. A reckless, rich, well-born gentleman pretending he was married, so as to avoid getting married to another young lady. And you were truly ‘Miss P,’ his pretended wife? Nay, I cannot believe it.”
“It was misrepresented in the papers,” Fanny said hastily. “But of course it was not in my power or my inclination to come forward to correct the misapprehensions of the public. It was reported there was to be a duel, fought over my honour. But my honour—”
“Oh, my dear Miss Price, do not imagine for a moment that I, knowing you as I do, could conceive of you doing an immoral or a wanton thing! Really, you need not explain yourself—no explanation is necessary—I have absolute faith in you.”
“I did do something wrong, Eliza, I let the world believe I married Henry Crawford. It was wrong of me, very wrong. Do not suppose I am comparing your blameless conduct with mine, in any way. It is not generally known abroad that I am ‘Miss P’ and as the memory of the scandal fades, I grow more secure on that account.”
“Of course! But, my dear Miss Price, I am certain you must have had your own good reasons for doing what you did.”
“Will you not call me ‘Fanny’?” asked Fanny diffidently.
Eliza’s eyes watered anew: “I can never forget your goodness to me, not so long as I live... Fanny.”
Fanny waited in sympathetic silence while her friend composed herself. In a few moments, Eliza was able to say, “Let me go and wash my face and return to my duties. Thank you, Fanny. Whatsoever may occur, please know how grateful I am.”
Chapter Fifteen
William Gibson, flattered by Fanny’s appeal for his help, and quick to oblige, arranged to meet John Bellingham in a public house in Fleet Street. When he went to keep their rendezvous, Mr. Bellingham was already there. Gibson recognized Bellingham as the man he had seen haunting the galleries of the Houses of Parliament, asking for the names of the important figures to be pointed out to him.
Mr. Bellingham had already laid out upon the table, a considerable mass of papers, letters, and publications. At first Mr. Gibson was reluctant to read and absorb all the details of what looked to be a complicated and tedious narrative, and in the poor light of the public house, it was a struggle to take in all the documents which Bellingham kept thrusting under his nose, all the facts and details which the aggrieved man could recite from memory.
Then, as the writer began to understand the hardships which the composed and well-spoken man sitting opposite him endured in Russia, he grew indignant. Clapped up in a cramped, foul prison crawling with lice and bedbugs. Fed only sour porridge and wearing the same clothing for months on end. Paraded in shackles through the streets with the most brutalized common thieves and cut-throats—thrown to the mercy of the Russian wolf by a dilettante English ambassador who was absent from his post for months at a time—it was a story to rouse the spleen of any proud Englishman.
But, as one hour stretched to two, then
