He intended to work diligently on his writing. He hardly had any excuse for not staying at his desk.
Mr. Ives stayed in place, smiling fixedly at him.
“Oh, pardon me, sir,” said Mr. Gibson. “Of course.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled some notes from his wallet and handed them to his new jailer.
“Your servant, sir,” said Mr. Ives.
* * * * * * *
Margaret Meriwether did not scruple to avow to her dear friend Maria Crawford that the dearest wish of her heart was to see her make a second, happy marriage. She wanted all her friends to be as happy as she, if such a thing were possible.
Although Margaret’s husband approved the project as well, being an advocate for matrimony in general, Mr. Meriwether privately resolved to keep a watchful eye on the proceedings. A woman in Mrs. Crawford’s situation could not fail of attracting the intentions of unscrupulous men. Then there was Maria’s romantic history, which suggested she was perhaps over-susceptible to regrettable entanglements. Without due caution, she might ally herself with a fortune-hunter, eager to divest her and her little boy of everything they owned.
Matrimony was indeed Maria’s chief object, although the situation of a pretty young widow with an estate in the country, a house in town and a handsome jointure is not an entirely pitiable one.
The Meriwethers gave such good dinners that Margaret Meriwether found no difficulty in collecting many eligible men to be admitted to her friend’s acquaintance. On one occasion in the new year, there were no fewer than three unmarried gentlemen amidst the dozen guests at the Meriwether’s long table. Mr. Greville had the advantage in being seated opposite Maria; Mr. Fenwick, although placed a little farther away, contrived to draw her attention with his lively manners, and Mr. Orme quietly admired her from a distance.
Mr. Greville was Margaret’s candidate, for he was the tallest and had dark hair, and she thought that he and her friend would look well together. Mr. Orme was favoured by Mr. Meriwether, and was a sensible, honourable and well-educated man. He was, however, an attorney of modest means. Mr. Fenwick, an independent gentleman of fortune, was the first to spark an interest in the lady herself, on account of his cutting sallies and droll remarks.
When the men joined the ladies in the drawing room, and Maria’s three new suitors headed directly to where she was sitting, she had no cause to wish any alteration in her circumstances. Mr. Greville arranged her cushions, Mr. Orme went to fetch her a glass of wine, and Mr. Fenwick made her laugh.
“Where is Greville now? Ah yes, where else would he be,” Mr. Fenwick murmured to Maria later when he had got her alone. “Posing by the chimney-piece, the better to admire himself in the glass. Mark me, my dear Mrs. Crawford, you do not want to place yourself between Mr. Greville and a mirror—you may be trodden upon.”
Maria smiled. “You are very wicked, Mr. Fenwick.”
“There is no denying Greville is a well-looking fellow. I am not half so handsome.”
“But I think regular features are not so important to our sex, as beauty is to yours. I think we ladies value a pleasing disposition above anything else.”
“Ah, you are about to say, ‘I like a man with a good wit.’”
“Well?”
Mr. Fenwick leaned forward, as though confiding something. “All ladies say the same. They all declare the only thing they value in a man is a good wit.”
“And you say we are not to be believed.”
“My dear Mrs. Crawford, I would never suggest you are dissembling, heaven forbid, but forgive me for asserting that you ladies do not always know what you want.”
“Certainly we have no objection if a man is handsome,” Maria conceded with a smile. “But I will maintain, if a woman feels affection for a man, then he is handsome in her eyes.”
“Ah! May I dare to express the hope that one day, you will regard me as being handsome?”
Maria fluttered her fan. “How do you know I do not already regard you as handsome, Mr. Fenwick?”
Chapter 6: London, Spring 1814
Prudence Imlay could not rely upon seeing John Price at the book shop every Saturday afternoon. She was bursting with excitement to see him today, however, and looked up at the clock on the wall every minute, her fingers sometimes drumming an impatient beat on the counter. There were no customers to distract her, for her father’s book shop was not one of the more successful establishments. The premises smelled of mould and cat dung, especially on rainy days, and the uneven floor was laid with damp, dirty bits of carpet.
But the shop had long been John Price’s quiet refuge from the world, a place where he might disappear between the narrow shelves and read away the afternoon. Sometimes, and only occasionally, he bought a book. At first he was barely aware of the young female assistant who answered his questions. Then he chanced to notice how she always knew instantly whether a particular volume was in stock, and if so, where it was to be found in the crowded establishment. They began to converse about books, and to compare them, and then they started recommending books to each other, and before long, John looked forward to talking to Prudence most Saturdays.
One afternoon John happened to mention his friendship with William Gibson, to Prudence’s very great astonishment. John was never given to exaggeration or falsehood but she could still scarcely believe he knew the famous prisoner. Now, she had no doubt.
At last, the tinkle of the bell over the door announced John’s arrival. He was out of breath, for he had run almost
