The kind, cheerful, interesting letters which accompanied these parcels were always addressed to Fanny’s mother and closed with a desire to be remembered “to Fanny, Susan, Betsey and young Charles.” He wrote no letters directly to Fanny. She knew the reason—his wife Mary’s jealousy and lingering resentment.
Fanny accepted that Edmund would do whatever he thought necessary to maintain peace in his own household. But she knew the gifts he selected were with her tastes and interests in mind, and the candles were a useful gift as the winter nights grew longer. Even the linen was a testament to his pride in her skill with a needle. Fanny understood all these things, without being told.
Edmund’s restraint in the matter of letter-writing put it out of Fanny’s power to answer him. This, while regrettable in itself, at least spared her from writing falsehoods, for she would have sent a cheerful account of herself, and in truth, she was not in good health or spirits that winter.
The smoky chimney, the scuffed and dirty walls, the low, cramped ceilings of her Portsmouth home made a miserable contrast to the elegance of Mansfield Park. Even her little room in the attic at her uncle’s grand house was warmer than the drafty chamber she shared with Susan.
But all this might have been borne without a murmur, had Fanny not sorely felt the loss of congenial companionship, the lack of anyone to share her literary interests, whose conversation might rise above the mundane and tedious remarks about the price of beef, the indifferent weather, and the insolence of Eliza. She had been used to the stimulating talk of Mrs. Butters, with whom she had lived for several years—Mrs. Butters, though a widow like her mother, was entirely engaged with the world, supported numerous philanthropic causes, and had a large and interesting acquaintance.
Her friend Mr. Gibson—for so Fanny referred to William Gibson, despite her little sister Betsey’s broad grins and gleeful taunts—her friend had expressed some concern about her health, before his writing assignments for the Gentlemen’s Magazine and other publications drew him back to London; he was expected to return to Portsmouth that very day.
The fast-approaching new year would mark six months since the death of Mr. Price. Mr. Gibson had agreed, with some reluctance, when Fanny put a negative on any talk of marriage, until at least six months were gone by. Fanny could not allow herself to speak of marriage out of her adherence to propriety. But her rectitude was not so strict as to prohibit thoughts of what would happen after she laid her mourning clothes aside. And there was much to think about—she and Mr. Gibson, while sharing many common interests, such as a love of books, were also very different. Fanny was timid and self-effacing, he was confident, even brash. She was cautious, he was impulsive. His temperament was sunny. Fanny, while benevolent, patient and kind, had a habit of magnifying difficulties, and a disposition fearful of giving displeasure.
Thus, while he saw no obstacles to their marriage worthy of the name, she sometimes did. And this, despite the promise that marriage meant an escape from her current confinement to a small parlour on a narrow street, where one day blended into the next, a tame and dull life where she marked the days by the progress of her needle.
* * * * * * *
Breakfast, with its attendant delay, clatter and confusion, came and went, and the morning was far advanced when a rap on the door announced the arrival of Mr. Gibson. The usual clamour ensued, as always occurred after a knock at the door—Mrs. Price loudly called for Eliza to admit their visitor, Eliza shouted back that she was occupied in the kitchen, Betsey and Charles pushed and shoved one another aside in their race to be first to push open the latch and welcome a man who was a favourite with the family. Even Susan came through the swinging door, which always banged loudly against the mantelpiece, wiping her hands on her apron and exclaiming “Mother, we need not stand on ceremony with Mr. Gibson, of all people! He is almost one of us—we do not need a servant to announce him!”
Fanny kept her seat in the corner, well out of the fray, and only someone acquainted with her character might have perceived that of all the household, she was the most pleased to see William Gibson enter the room, ducking his head under the low doorway, with Charles pounding him affectionately on the back, and Betsey hanging off his arm; Fanny was the most anxious to speak with him, and the last to be able to do so.
Several more minutes passed before the tumult subsided, and Susan scolded the children to leave Mr. Gibson alone, and then the visitor made his enquiry into Mrs. Price’s health and listened to her reply, which spared few details. Finally he could turn his attention to Fanny and take her hand.
“And Fanny, how have you been—are you quite well? I have been thinking of you—I fear this cold weather we have been having must have prevented you from taking much exercise.”
“I am very well, thank you, Mr. Gibson,” was of course her reply, but to him she looked a little thinner, and paler, though her mild blue eyes shone with pleasure at the sight of him. He held on to her hand, and his eyes spoke his pleasure in seeing her, being in the same room with her, touching her.
Dropping his voice still further, he added, “I have some news for you, Fanny, but I am afraid you will not much like it.”
“What? Is anything wrong in London? Is Mrs. Butters well?”
“Oh no,” came the smiling reply, “Mrs. Butters was very well when I last saw her. I meant only some news concerning myself.”
But he was
