a DIFFERENT KIND
of WOMAN
by Lona Manning
© 2020 Lona Manning
ISBN:
Book cover design by Dissect Designs
www.dissectdesigns.com
Also by Lona Manning
The Mansfield Trilogy
A Contrary Wind
A Marriage of Attachment
A Different Kind of Woman
Quill Ink Short Story Anthologies
Available in e-book, paperback and audio
Edited by Christina Boyd
“The Address of a Frenchwoman”
A short story about Tom Bertram of Mansfield Park, in
Dangerous to Know: Jane Austen’s Rakes & Gentlemen Rogues
“The Art of Pleasing”
A short story about Mrs. Clay from Persuasion, in
Rational Creatures
“By a Lady”
A short story about Anne de Bourgh from Pride & Prejudice in
Yuletide: Austen-inspired short stories
E-book and paperback proceeds of Yuletide to Chawton House
and the Centre for Women’s Early Writing
“Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford…before it began to strike him whether a very different kind of woman might not do just as well, or a great deal better…”
Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, Chapter XLVIII
Table of Contents
PART 1
Chapter 1: Portsmouth, December 1812
Chapter 2: London, January 1813
Chapter 3: Portsmouth, January 1813
Chapter 4: London, February 1813
Chapter 5: London, January 1814
Chapter 6: London, Spring 1814
Chapter 7: Bristol, Spring 1814
Chapter 8: Belfast, Spring 1815
Chapter 9: Northumberland, Summer 1815
Chapter 10: Belfast, Summer 1815
Chapter 11: Bristol, Summer 1815
Chapter 12: England, Autumn 1815
PART 2
Chapter 13: Italy, Spring 1818
Chapter 14: England, Summer 1818
Chapter 15: Italy, Summer 1818
Chapter 16: London, Summer 1818
Chapter 17: Italy, Summer 1818
Chapter 18: England, August 1818
Chapter 19: Italy, August 1818
Chapter 20: England, Autumn 1818
Chapter 21: Italy, Winter, 1818
Chapter 22: England, Spring 1819
Chapter 23: Livorno
Chapter 24: Manchester, Summer 1819
Chapter 25: Conclusion
END MATERIAL
Dramatis Personae
PART 1
Chapter 1: Portsmouth,
December 1812
The late Mr. Price, a well-known figure at the Naval dockyards and the Crown & Anchor, left behind nine living progeny, one grieving widow, and few possessions, save for a large arm-chair in whose faded cushions one might easily trace the outline of its former owner.
It was of course Susan who first summoned the fortitude to hint that the chair might be dispensed with without disrespecting their father’s memory; it blocked the swinging door to the kitchen, and no-one, not even Mrs. Price, ever sat in it. Mrs. Price agreed—or at the very least, she voiced no objections—and so the chair was wrestled out of the parlour by two stout men and into the dealer’s cart, and in its place now reposed a neat little rocking chair.
It was in this very chair that Mrs. Price sat on a bitterly cold December morning, awaiting her breakfast.
“Susan, tell Eliza to come build up the fire!” she called, in the general direction of the kitchen. “I vow, I am frozen to my bones!”
“Mother, I will do it,” said Fanny, laying her work aside. “Susan and Eliza have enough to get through in the morning.”
Mrs. Price raised her voice to countermand the order, as Fanny’s gentle tones would never carry so far, then bethought herself of another request—a hot water bottle for her feet.
An answering halloo came from the offices, “Kettle’s on, ma’am, you shall have it when it’s ready! I’ve but one pair of hands, you know!”
“There!” sighed Mrs. Price, pulling her lap robe around her. “Did you hear the way she spoke to me, Fanny? A more impudent servant than Eliza I never could imagine. Did you not hear her?”
“I think, mother, she did not intend to sound so disrespectful as she did, but no-one can sound perfectly civil when they must raise their voice from another room—”
“And yet, were I to give Eliza her notice, and believe me, I am sorely tempted,” went on Mrs. Price—for she had no interest in Fanny’s opinion on the matter, despite having phrased her complaint in the form of a question— “I don’t doubt the next one would be just as bad, or worse. I declare, no-one has ever had as much trouble and vexation with their servants as I have done!”
Fanny finished building up the fire while her mother continued to expostulate, then resumed her seat in the straight-backed chair which sat under the only window in the dingy parlour. She took up her work again—a new petticoat for Susan’s nineteenth birthday. Her two younger sisters disliked the tedium of sewing but Fanny was an excellent seamstress and since returning to live with her family, she had devoted herself to mending shirts, darning socks, patching bedsheets and re-trimming gowns. She was glad to feel herself useful in this respect at least. Bred up as she had been, at her uncle’s grand house in Northamptonshire, she had never studied cookery, and was, as Susan remarked, as helpless as a baby in the kitchen.
The fine Irish linen she worked with had been sent by her cousin Edmund, and it pleased Fanny to think that the fabric which slid softly beneath her fingers had first passed through his hands. It was his own selection, his choice—she knew that his wife Mary would never have consented to choose gifts for anyone by the name of Price!
Edmund now lived far away in Belfast, but in the six months since Fanny had returned to Portsmouth, hardly a fortnight had gone by without the delivery of a parcel from Ireland. He had remembered Betsey’s birthday in September. Books and journals appeared regularly. The first week of Advent was marked by a handsome gift of candles. December brought more gifts to the family passing
