“No, ma’am, I cannot, but—”
“Please! Miss Price! Think of the young persons present! How dare you!” Mrs. Blodgett drew herself up and pointed to the door. “You are discharged, as of this instant. Leave these premises—at once!”
It was futile to argue. Fanny turned, her eyes swimming with tears, and stumbled back to the counting office to retrieve her bonnet and shawl.
“Oh, Eliza—” she began to exclaim, then stopped in confusion.
Eliza Bellingham, with a conscious and guilty air, turned away from her.
Then the answer came to Fanny, with the force of a blow—Eliza Bellingham, for whom she had done so much, had betrayed her!
Fanny gasped in surprise, but no words came. She tied on her bonnet with trembling fingers, picked up her shawl, then turned and walked numbly to the staircase, conscious of four and twenty pairs of eyes watching her hurry away.
Fanny gained the street and paused to wrap her shawl around her, wondering if any of her students had hopped down from their stools and pressed up against the window to catch a last glimpse of her. Overcome by feelings of humiliation, she could not command herself to turn around and look up, but instead walked on, hardly knowing where she went, only wishing to be out of sight of the academy. Later, she heartily wished she had waved good-bye to her students.
She had poured so much of herself into the school, into the pupils, and now she was leaving without a backward glance, without a word of thanks or acknowledgement, but rather, with her reputation in shreds.
Fanny walked blindly down the street, grateful for the close brim of her bonnet which shielded her face from the few passers-bye. But after a few moments, the tears welled up, and she could no longer compose herself—she must give vent to her feelings. Through tear-filled eyes, she fled down the lane to the peaceful old St. Pancras church. She slipped inside and took a seat on a wooden bench, just as the full force of her grief burst forth.
The unexpected betrayal of Eliza Bellingham was severely hurtful. Fanny thought of Eliza as a true friend, an intimate friend. How often had Eliza expressed her gratitude to Fanny for what she had done!
She had championed Eliza Bellingham at the academy and had even paid for her first month’s salary—she had asked her friend Mr. Gibson to do what he could, to help Eliza’s unfortunate husband. She had confided the story of her secret past with Henry Crawford with the purest of motives; to offer sympathy while her new friend underwent a gruelling ordeal. And this is how she was to be rewarded!
Fanny covered her face with her shawl and tried to muffle her sobs. Composure and self-command fled her entirely for a time.
“Miss Price? Oh, pardon me.... I do not wish to intrude. May I be of assistance? Are you unwell?”
A wave of humiliation washed over Fanny as she recognized the voice of Mr. Edifice and she became aware that the curate was hovering over her, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
Fanny dabbed her tears with her shawl. “Thank you, Mr. Edifice, for your kind concern.” She sighed, trying to find the words. “Mr. Edifice, there has been a... a problem at the academy... and I am discharged. You will soon hear all the details, I have no doubt. There was an episode in my past which—is difficult to describe, and perhaps impossible to justify. Mrs. Blodgett has decided I can no longer work with the students.”
Mr. Edifice’s brows shot up with astonishment.
“You, Miss Price? Compromised in some way? I had not thought—that is, I am quite taken aback. I must infer that you were harbouring secrets from—-from all of us? I had thought better of you, Miss Price, as I think you were not entirely unaware. This is a most disheartening revelation, to be sure.”
Seeing Mr. Edifice’s evident discomfiture almost helped Fanny regain her own composure. He only wishes to be rid of me now, was her thought, and out of the goodness of her heart, she obliged, leaving the church, and crossing the fields so as to avoid re-passing the academy. She walked briskly, weeping occasionally, all the way to Stoke Newington, finally arriving, worn out in body and spirit, at Mrs. Butters’ house. She let herself in—Mrs. McIntosh was snoring gently in an armchair in the back parlour—and she crept upstairs, to reach the sanctuary of her bedroom, where she collapsed upon her bed.
Finally able to give vent to her emotions, she allowed herself to succumb to a tide of humiliation, resentment and sorrow.
She was not surprised at the petty vindictiveness of Cecilia Butters, nor the unthinking condemnation of Mrs. Blodgett. Their characters had long been known to her. But she felt exceedingly hurt by Eliza Bellingham’s betrayal.
She could draw no moral lesson, no ethical adage, from the episode. What had she done, which in hindsight, could be faulted as imprudent or unkind? Should she have turned Eliza Bellingham away at the door, when the desperate woman had come looking for work? Was it foolish of her to have shared a confidence with a woman sorely in need of comfort?
What of all the additional hours, thought and care she had devoted to the concerns of the academy? Was she a good person, or a fool, to have invested so much of herself in an enterprise which tossed her aside in an instant?
She must have finally fallen asleep, for she awoke late on Saturday morning, unrefreshed and still sunk in an abyss of misery. She decided to allow herself twenty-four hours to indulge in feelings which she would not want to harbour in her breast when she went to church on Sunday morning.
“I believe I shall go for a long walk, Mrs. McIntosh,” she told the housekeeper.
Mrs. McIntosh’s face reflected her disapproval. “After no
