Fanny was silent for a while, then replied, “I will not pretend that I do not understand you, Mr. Gibson. I am astonished. You are labouring under an extraordinary misapprehension. I cannot imagine how you formed such a mistaken notion.”
“Truly, Miss Price? I had it on what I thought was very good authority. Your Aunt Norris, in fact.”
“Mr. Edifice!” Fanny repeated, bemused. Then, she began to laugh, almost recovered herself, then laughed some more, for she could not bring herself to act affronted.
And Mr. Gibson thought, so this is what walking on air feels like.
The gentlemen escorted Fanny by cab back to Mrs. Butters’ house. They were welcomed in for tea, and all disagreeable topics, such as unjust dismissals and attempted assassinations and mistaken rumours, were put aside in favour of happier conversation.
Mrs. Butters greeted John Price with especial kindness. Fanny had never presumed to invite him to her benefactress’s home, and John was somewhat abashed at being in genteel company, but his reserve could not long withstand Mrs. Butters’ cordial and frank reception. While at first, he sat rigid and immobile, afraid he would break one of her teacups or commit some other vulgarity, he soon relaxed, especially when Mr. Gibson began recounting his humbling experience at the “Childe Harold” dinner party, omitting only the identities of everyone involved, and his tale had them all laughing immoderately.
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Butters, wiping her eyes. “Aha! A salon full of society ladies, swooning over Lord Byron, in front of their own husbands. What is this world coming to? And you, my poor Mr. Gibson, how very mortifying for you!”
“You tell a story against yourself very wittily, Mr. Gibson,” smiled Fanny, “but I cannot help being a little indignant on your behalf. And as well, I suspect at least one of those ladies you describe was attempting to annoy her husband, to make him jealous. If so, it is behaviour unworthy of a wife.”
“I am glad to know you think so, Miss Price,” answered Mr. Gibson, “and I will add, that this rule of conduct applies to both sexes. No man, worthy of the name, would ever treat his wife, in public or private, with anything less than the respect she deserves.”
Mrs. Butters turned away to fuss with the tea things, so that Mr. Gibson might give Fanny a look full of eloquence and devotion.
“Is there any more apple tart, Fan?” asked John.
Chapter Eighteen
“Margaret!” exclaimed Janet Fraser, holding out a note written in an elegant hand. “My sister informs me that Mr. Meriwether proposed marriage to the younger Bertram girl—and she has accepted him!”
“That would be Julia,” Mary Bertram offered, reaching for her coffee with more calm languor than she felt. “So, I should fancy they will be marrying soon? Nothing to wait for?”
Margaret, already dismayed at finding Mary Bertram at the breakfast table with her step-mother, twisted her hands in her lap and waited for the reproof she knew was coming.
“This is the second time you have allowed a Bertram girl to steal a suitor away from you, Margaret!,” exclaimed Mrs. Fraser, throwing the note down on the table in disgust. “First you lost Mary’s brother, after I had moved heaven and earth to bring you two together.”
“Although to be fair,” Mary added, “many young ladies had hopes of Henry, but he never had a serious thought of Margaret.”
The memory of Henry Crawford’s attentions, his flattery, his whispers, his secret caresses and stolen kisses, all came upon poor Margaret in an instant, and she flushed to the roots of her hair. She had believed him to be in love with her. She had been miserably undeceived.
“But,” continued her step-mother relentlessly. “I had supposed our Margaret might have succeeded with Mr. Meriwether—he was actually looking for a wife. Of course, it all comes to nothing once again.”
“But what was I to do, ma’am?” said Margaret mournfully.
“You have no spirit, Margaret, no character, no fire!” Mrs. Fraser scolded. “What are we to do with you? You are almost three-and-twenty! And still behaving like a child!”
“Mr. Meriwether was kind to me, ma’am, but then Mary introduced him to Miss Bertram, and he p-p-preferred her to me!”
Janet Fraser looked at Mary and raised an eyebrow. “Have you been fishing in my pond, Mary?”
“I do feel for you, Janet dearest, but—”
“Ah! My dear Mary! How slow of me! If Miss Julia Bertram is to be married, then, your husband may at last condescend to take you back under his roof? Is it not so?”
“Yes, so naturally I did nothing to stand in the way of Mr. Meriwether’s preference for Julia. Had it been otherwise, of course I would have done everything in my power to help Margaret catch him—and perhaps even she will have the goodness to acknowledge my many efforts on her behalf these past months,” —this last, with a sigh and a scowl at Margaret.
“May I congratulate you then, on the fulfilment of your ambitions, my dear Mary? When shall you re-join that handsome husband of yours?” Mrs. Fraser was struggling between the remains of resentment, and pleasure for her friend, but Mary thought that loyalty to friendship was winning through.
“We have only to decide where we are to live, which is no small matter. He will need to leave his profession, and I must reconcile him to it, for his own good. I have been speaking to Lady Delingpole about the possibility of moving to Ireland.”
“Ireland! Amongst the savages! No, no, my dear friend, that cannot be. You cannot leave me!”
“Lady Delingpole assures me it is not so dismal there as one might suppose.”
“How I admire your fortitude, Mary! The thought of leaving
