Where is Mr. Gibson now, and what is happening? She murmured to herself. Oh merciful heavens, if I could only know what is happening. I cannot endure the thought that he may be harmed.
She could hear someone running up the path behind her. Frightened, she grabbed her skirts and began to run in earnest, and the footsteps followed in pursuit.
“Fan! Fan! Stop, for heaven’s sake! What’s happened! Where is Bellingham?” There was her brother, red-faced and panting, at her elbow.
Fanny turned to him pleadingly. “Oh, John!”
The world started spinning and she collapsed into John’s arms.
It was late at night when William Gibson appeared at Mrs. Butters’ house and despite the hour, he was eagerly admitted inside. By then, all of London had heard the news. In fact, many of the common people were overjoyed. There had been bonfires, singing and dancing and drinking in the streets.
“My dear fellow,” Mrs. Butters welcomed him in, both arms outstretched, overcome with emotion. He allowed her to embrace him like a fond mother before he sank into an armchair by the fire. Fanny pulled up her own little chair to sit beside him.
“I ran,” he said at last. “I ran toward the Houses of Parliament. I thought— ‘If he was planning to shoot someone as they walked into the House of Commons, he is indeed too late, for the session has begun.’ I thought, ‘surely, he cannot enter the floor of the chamber, someone would stop him. Perhaps we have succeeded in thwarting him. Perhaps all will be well after all.’
“Then I thought, that’s what Bellingham would always say, ‘all will be well.’ But I remembered that someone else said the same thing recently, and it was at the Parliament, too. ‘All will be well.’ The prime minister.’
He looked away as Mrs. Butters covered her face with her handkerchief to smother a wrenching sob.
“I was almost at the entrance at St. Stephen’s door,” he said quietly, leaning forward, his head bowed, his elbows resting on his thighs, his hands clasped tightly. “Almost. And I heard the shot.”
Chapter Twenty
Aunt Norris was visiting with Edmund and Julia while her home received a fresh coat of whitewash and new wall-paper in the dining room. Prevented from engaging in her usual occupations, and energetically spurned by Mrs. Peckover, Aunt Norris had little to do apart from making useful suggestions for the upcoming marriage of her niece.
“My dear Edmund, my dear Julia, how happy I am to be with you when you read the banns for the first time this Sunday!”
“This Sunday, Aunt Norris? So soon?” Julia asked with alarm. “do you really.... I mean, I believe I need some more time to grow used to the idea of getting married.”
“But, my dear Julia, you should reflect and consider Mr. Meriwether’s situation. He is so much older than you— he must feel the passage of time more acutely than a young person like yourself. Since Mr. Meriwether has asked, and you have agreed, I think there can be no reason for delay.”
“Except, of course, May is held to be a most unlucky month for marriage, is it not? We should wait until May passes, at least.”
“True, it is held to be so—by foolish, ignorant and superstitious people, none of which we are.”
Julia could not answer the arguments of her aunt, and gave her consent that her brother should read the banns. Julia spoke of her happiness and satisfaction, but she spoke with calm reserve. There was no glow of spirits, no heartfelt smile. Though outwardly complaisant, she was still inwardly doubtful, and as Sunday approached, she felt entirely worse—uncertain of herself, guilty towards Mr. Meriwether, and resentful of her aunt. Her bonnet shielded her from the eyes of the villagers as her brother announced, “Nathaniel Robert Meriwether, resident of Hotwells Parish, Bristol, and Julia Ann Bertram of this parish,” and asked if any parishioners knew “cause or just impediment. This is the first time of asking.”
“You can leave everything to me, dear Julia,” her aunt assured her as they left the church, amidst the smiles, nods, and winks of the villagers. “I shall arrange all the details—the wedding breakfast, and corresponding with your father about the marriage articles. It will be no burden to me at all, I assure you. My own labours, I never regard. How delightful it will all be! Mr. Meriwether is certain to make some very handsome gifts to you. Where is your presentation gown, the one that you were never able to wear at court, owing to the fire at the palace? Is it in Norfolk? I shall write to your mother this very day and have it sent to us. We will want to have it altered slightly, of course—remove the hoops—but it should do very well for you as a wedding gown, and it cost dear Sir Thomas a very considerable amount of money, and it would be inexcusable in us to think of buying a new gown when you never wore the other!
“I was never able to assist your sister in this fashion, which was most unfortunate. And oh! You can include a visit to Everingham on your honeymoon journey! Be sure to propose it to Mr. Meriwether! Or, I can suggest it myself, when I meet him. As obliging a gentleman as he is, I am sure he can have no objection. I should very much like to see Everingham myself, of course. Are you going to take a bridesmaid with you? Fanny, I suppose. But, all things considered, perhaps I ought to also accompany you. I am sure Mr. Meriwether’s carriage is large enough for four persons, and it has been an age since I saw my dear sister Bertram and dear
