“You are kindness itself, my dear madam, but, sooner rather than later, Fanny must leave you. I see the necessity for it. She has, in consequence, no home. There are some relations who might take her under their roof, but who is to say she will be greeted with the affection she deserves? But there—” he shook his head, as though to clear away some disagreeable thoughts. “I mean to say, I wish, most earnestly, that I had made my proposals to Fanny before this unexpected crisis. Do you see?
“And to ask her to take my name, when her own good name has been attacked--perhaps I am being overly nice here, but to offer her a home, when she is in need of one, might cause her to doubt her own disinterestedness—or worse, cause her to suspect I am acting out of motives of pity, and not true affection.”
“And our Fanny is apt to question and doubt and hesitate at any rate, when faced with such a momentous choice. But,” Mrs. Butters laid a reassuring hand on his arm, “my dear Mr. Gibson, this is but a passing regret. After five, ten, fifteen years’ happy marriage, what will it matter? And, I know you do not mistrust Fanny’s integrity, you only lament the appearance of things. You cannot imagine for a moment she would accept you, merely for the advantage of acquiring a home when she is in want of one. That is not the Fanny we know.”
“Indeed not. Still, I wish I had spoken to Fanny a long time ago. It would have spared me more than one alarm and vexation. As it is, I am still anticipating the success of my novel—without it, we shall have a fairly narrow income to live upon.”
“When will you speak? Today?”
“I think I need to prepare the ground first, and I have been racking my brains as to the best approach. May I enlist you as my confederate in my schemes?”
Just then, Fanny was heard in the ante-room, returning from her walk, so Mrs. Butters hardly had time to assent to Mr. Gibson’s request that they meet tomorrow morning, and that they all take the air together in her carriage.
Fanny was agreeably surprised to see Mr. Gibson when she came in from her walk, the more because she had been attempting to harden herself to the likelihood that she would be leaving London very soon, and she did not know when it would be in her power to see him again.
“Your walk has done you good, Fanny, I see,” said Mrs. Butters, and Mr. Gibson, as usual, wondered if he ought to join in praise of her person, to remark how the fresh air had brought the bloom to her cheeks.
“Mrs. Butters, I intend to write to my mother today, and propose a visit to Portsmouth,” said Fanny with calm resolution, after seating herself and accepting a cup of tea.
Mr. Gibson frowned. He knew that Mrs. Price’s household management left much to be desired—in fact, he feared that, although he had survived the experience, he could not be so sanguine about Fanny’s chances! But he could not denigrate Fanny’s parents to her face, nor could he offer an immediate alternative.
“But, my dear Mrs. Butters,” Fanny continued, “I find that it eases my mind to know I have my own monies—monies which I have earned and saved, thanks to you, as well as my settlement from Mr. Crawford. How utterly cast down I should be, if I were to be completely dependent upon my relations for charity, as is the case with so many other females in my situation!
“Now, I am spared from feeling myself to be an encumbrance on my family—for I can and will contribute my share to the household. This will be different, so very different, from....” and Fanny waved off the rest of her thought, not wishing to complain of the years at Mansfield Park and her aunt Norris’s endless reminders of the gratitude she ought to feel for the generosity shown to her.
“I quite understand you, my dear,” nodded Mrs. Butters. “My late husband always acknowledged that I had been his partner in everything, in building our business together, and he always said, everything we had was as much mine as his, and he trusted me with it altogether.”
“The occupations open to women of gentle birth are so few, and the pay, I have observed, is so miserably low,” said Mr. Gibson, “that I suppose not one lady in a thousand could command enough monies to support herself in tolerable dignity, even supposing she were so inclined.”
“Very true. And,” Fanny said with a sigh, “because of my past folly, I cannot return to my old occupation of governess. My character is too compromised. But I was wondering, Mrs. Butters, if you could speak to some of your charitable acquaintance on my behalf? Perhaps there is some other benevolent scheme in which I might find employment. Caring for the elderly, perhaps, or maintaining a linen-service for lying-in mothers... really, I could go anywhere, if need be...”
Mrs. Butters shook her head regretfully. “If the times were better, Fanny, that is—but if you were to accept such a position, you would be taking it from someone who is worser off. You have your own little income from your savings. You are not destitute.”
Fanny could not deny the justice of this. “Of course, it is only right that positions like this are bestowed upon gentlewomen who are in true distress, for whom the wage, paltry as it is, suffices them to keep body and soul together. The Miss Owens are a perfect example. My cousin Edmund’s friend, Richard Owen—his father died last month, and his
