“Well?” he said expectantly. “Did you see him?”
Prudence was almost bursting with her news, but she did not relax the rules of decorum she was attempting to inculcate in John for his own good.
“Good day, John. How are you?”
“Ah, right,” said John. “I am well. And I trust you are the same, Miss Imlay—Prudence?”
“I am well, thank you. And now—” she smiled and clapped her hands together with glee. “Yes, yes. I met him! I stood in the same room with him! Oh! But wait, first, I must tell you what happened when I applied at the gate-house. The man said that many people wanted to visit Mr. Gibson, and he looked me up and down, and said, ‘you are not a lady, and you don’t look like a Covent Garden dolly mop, so what is your business?’ And I said I had a gift for Mr. Gibson and a letter from a friend. And so he bade me wait, and then a matron came out, and gave me the queerest look, and said Mr. Gibson would see me, and then—”
“And so you saw him?” John interrupted.
Prudence pursed her lips out in displeasure at the interruption to her story, which she wanted to unfold in her own way. The rapturous sensations arising out of her visit could not, however, be long constrained, and she burst forth with: “I did! He is the most eminent person to whom I have ever spoken! And he is so—ordinary! No, not ordinary—what I mean is, he is very agreeable, no condescension about him.”
“And did you tell him I was sorry that I cannot come to visit with him?” John asked.
“I did, and he said he understood. And I told him I was made to sign a visitor’s book before I could see him, and he said no doubt the names of his visitors were supplied to the Home Office, and so it would not do for a clerk at the police office to be his friend. He was not at all resentful, John.”
John nodded, relieved. “Did he say you could visit him again? Did he like the book we chose for him?”
The book in question was Murray’s Treatise on Atmospherical Electricity.
A broad smile creased Prudence’s face. “You will not believe it.”
“Why wouldn’t I believe it, if you are telling me something that happened?”
“I danced with happiness all the way back home,” Prudence sighed. “Oh—yes, he liked the book. He said it looked very interesting. And he asked where had we got it, and I said, from my father’s book shop and he said, could I possibly assist him—that’s what he said! Could I assist him with obtaining some rare volumes which he wished to consult for his writing!” This last, Prudence almost shrieked.
“So what did you say?” asked John with interest.
Prudence laughed at him. “What do you suppose? I said it would be my honour, and he said, he would pay me for my trouble, and I said, I knew all the booksellers in London, so I knew which seller would be most likely to carry this or that sort of a book, and he said he would draw up a little list of books for me.”
“That should be entertaining!” said John with real feeling. “I wish I had time away from work to go with you.”
“I will ask my father if I might work different hours, and we could go together on Saturday afternoon! I must return to the prison to get the list in a few days.”
The two congratulated themselves a while longer on this happy and interesting turn of events, and then Prudence remembered another part of the conversation with Mr. Gibson she had yet to relate.
“John, he asked me most particularly about your family. Especially your sister Fanny. I said I knew nothing about her. I said I only knew your brother Richard” —here Prudence rolled her eyes— “but I supposed she was nothing like Richard.”
“No indeed, she is not,” John affirmed.
“And he said, he fancied that soon I should come to know more about your family,” said Prudence.
“Why?” said John.
Prudence nodded her head in a pitying sort of way, then exclaimed: “Oh! John, I forgot to tell you about Mr. Gibson’s apartments in the prison. Roses on the walls, and clouds on the ceiling!”
* * * * * * *
Mr. Fenwick had long been Maria Crawford’s preferred escort to the park or the theatre. Those who recalled the late Henry Crawford might have observed that of her three suitors, Mr. Fenwick most resembled her late husband in liveliness of disposition and a talent for pleasing. Yet, after a year’s residence in London, Maria Crawford had still not exchanged the name of ‘Crawford’ for that of ‘Fenwick.’ How this was so, when everyone in their circle was convinced Mr. Fenwick would bear away the prize, deserves some explanation.
Of her three suitors, Mr. Greville, handsome and agreeable, was exceedingly eligible, but excessively vain. His self-regard might not have been an insuperable barrier to their union, but he happened to offend Maria by showing too-pointed attentions to another lady.
The quiet, respectful tributes of Mr. Orme pleased her, but failed to find a way to her heart. However, the demands of his profession meant Mr. Orme lacked the leisure to press his suit as assiduously as Mr. Fenwick.
Mr. Fenwick, very much conscious of being the favoured man, and certain of his eventual success, was not in a hurry to get to the altar. He declared his heart was lost, but he and Maria were enjoying the game too well to put an end to it through matrimony.
Still, Mr. Fenwick intended to be successful in time and Maria intended to have him. But, most unexpectedly, he destroyed his own prospects.
His future happiness with Henry Crawford’s widow was blighted
