Fanny obliged her, not sorry to have someone show solicitude for her well-being, and delayed her walk until after she attempted to eat some soup and soft rolls which tasted like clay in her mouth.
The news of her abrupt dismissal must by now have been relayed to the charitable ladies of the Committee. Would any of them question Mrs. Blodgett’s decision? Would any of them take a moment to say, ‘hold, have we done justly by this young woman who has worked so hard for us?’ Would they perceive that the vindictive nature of Cecilia Butters and the self-interest of Eliza Bellingham was at the heart of the matter? Or would the committee ladies take the easier path, and forget there ever was such a person as Fanny Price?
Mrs. Butters and Madame Orly were expected to return from London late that afternoon. She knew they would be highly incensed on her behalf, but she had no thought of asking Mrs. Butters to intercede and restore her to her employment. On the contrary, Fanny was coming to the reluctant conclusion that she could no longer live with the kindly widow. Mrs. Butters’ granddaughters would never be permitted to visit their grandmama, not so long as she was there—Cecilia Butters would be adamant on that point. In losing her job, Fanny had lost her home, as well.
She knew it was her duty to exert herself, to cease indulging in such black thoughts, but oh, how painful was the effort to subdue her feelings of misery and yes, resentment!
The quiet, solitude and shade of the tree-lined lanes of Abney Park helped Fanny compose her spirits. As a result of her dismissal, she thought, she now had the leisure to contemplate nature, rather than toil in a warehouse.
She thought of her friend William Gibson. Perhaps by now he had received word of what had happened. There, at least, she could be sure of sympathy, and the thought calmed and supported her a great deal.
And—it does appear that I must abandon all hopes of Mr. Edifice! She thought, and even laughed a little.
After her return to the house, a scruffy little boy came to the door with a bouquet of forget-me-nots in a small crockery vase wrapped with a bit of old ribbon.
“My sister Martha goes to your school, Miss,” the boy stammered. “And they all said to tell you as how they will miss you very much.”
The little bouquet cost her more tears. She thought of the girls gathering the flowers from the fields around Camden Town, and one of them contributing the jar, and another the ribbon, and the lengthy walk for the young messenger, who was thanked with a glass of lemonade and some meat pie.
Fanny sat with her bouquet as the afternoon shadows fell, comforting herself by thinking of what she had been able to accomplish in her brief time at the academy. A teacher’s knowledge is diffused slowly, from one person to another. Her old governess at Mansfield Park, Miss Lee, had taught Fanny how to do fancy-work, and she in turn had passed on her skills to the four-and-twenty girls of the academy. They would be able to earn their own bread, even if it was just a pittance; thanks to Fanny, they need not exist in utter poverty or abject dependence. It should be enough; and she hoped that with time, the sweetness of these reflections would outlive the disgrace of her dismissal.
Chapter Seventeen
William Price was back at Gibraltar once more, but this time as an officer, instead of as a lowly midshipman. It seemed another life since he had first marvelled at the sight of the massive pinnacle and the fortress when they appeared over the horizon, or when he had cheerfully risked his neck to scramble along the narrow paths which overlooked the churning seas far below.
The temptations of Gibraltar; the women from many nations beckoning from upstairs windows, the jewellery-sellers and the conjurers and the fortune-tellers; the opportunity, seldom passed up, of getting into a fist-fight; all of this was the same as he remembered, but he had no spirits to venture out with his fellow shipmates, no desire to lose in a few hours the coins which took weeks to earn, no wish even to drown his thoughts in the oblivion of strong drink.
But the Governor and his wife were holding a grand reception at the Clubhouse Hotel, to celebrate Lord Wellington’s victory at Badajoz, and William was amongst those invited to attend.
So inadequate was the room and so numerous was the crowd, with so many persons swarming here and there, in quest of a better seat, or a lost comrade, or a glass of punch, that only a person utterly determined to take pleasure in the event, could have done so. And William, in the dejection of his spirits, shying away from seeking out any old acquaintance, and lacking ambition to make any new ones, allowed himself to be pushed about, as unresisting as a piece of flotsam pulled along in a strong current. And as a piece of flotsam, when carried past a turning in the fast-flowing stream, will be caught in an eddy and be left behind, so William found himself elbowed into a quiet alcove, unregarded by the passing throng. Without caring what he did, he took possession of an unoccupied chair and silently regarded the revellers pushing to and fro.
When a cheerful-looking older woman, likewise buffeted by the current of humanity, chanced to come his way, he swiftly stood and surrendered his chair. The lady seated herself and, smiling broadly, declared she would not let form prevent her from making the
