“Well, the Lord Mayor calls on Captain Crawley—he is the gov’nor of this ‘ere prison—and shows him what Mr. Birtle bought at the market, and Captain Crawley says he was astonished, and he ‘ad no idea whatsoever that such filthy items were being sold ‘ere, under ‘is very nose—” the turnkey rolled his eyes expressively— “and he vowed to put a stop to it, so some of the prisoners were hauled out of ‘ere in chains, and sent to a prison hulk—”
“Who? Who?” demanded Madame Orly in a fright. “Not the Captain Duchesne!”
“Bless you ma’am, no. Why, the froggy captain, he was just as surprised as my Captain Crawley” — the turnkey turned his head and coughed elaborately into his hand— “and sacre bleu, he ‘ad not the least idea in the world that his men was carving obscene articles for sale to the public.”
“So, will there be no more market?” enquired Fanny. “Will no-one be permitted to speak with the prisoners?”
“Not ‘til Mr. Birtle finds somewhere else to poke his scabby nose in, begging your pardon,” the turnkey said, “and the prisoners is all very distressed on account of it, for they have lost their means of making a few coins here and there, but there is nothing to be done for it, at least not rightaways. You had best be off, ladies, for no-one is getting into the prison today.”
“Will you be so good,” said Madame Orly faintly, “as to inform Captain Duchesne we called upon—”
“Oh, most certainly ma’am,” said the turnkey, but in an indifferent tone of voice which did not inspire confidence in Fanny. She felt for her reticule, extracted a coin and held it up to him.
“Please, sir,” she said, “We would be most obliged.”
The turnkey reached his hand through the bars and took the coin in his grimy fingers.
“I said I would, didn’t I? I will give him your best compliments.”
The walk back was enlivened by a constant flow of animated French from Madame Orly, giving her unflattering opinion of the stupidity and probable personal attributes of Mr. Birtle, or lack of them. Fanny said little; she was truly sorry to think her friend should be separated from a man who appeared to be genuinely attached to her.
As they approached their home, tired and footsore, Fanny hoped Mr. Birtle was not at that moment taking tea with Mrs. Butters, for she could not answer for what Madame Orly might do or say.
Fortunately for the peace of the household, Mr. Birtle was not there—he was perhaps savouring his triumph at the home of the Lord Mayor—but there were half-a-dozen assorted visitors in Mrs. Butter’s parlour, enjoying their tea and pleasurably sharing their indignation over the latest scandal in Bristol politics.
Fanny looked in briefly, to assure herself that Mrs. Butters did not need her. She recognised Mr. Thompson, an elderly, whiskered old gentleman, clad all in black, and she went in to greet him.
“Well now, Miss Price,” he answered, “and what has thee been doing?”
“Oh, sir, I’m sure Mrs. Butters has told you of the committee for distressed gentlewomen which we are getting up,” replied Fanny, “and I have been practising my pianoforte.”
“Will thee be favouring our gathering today?” asked Mr. Thompson, nodding his head toward the pianoforte in the corner, but Fanny surmised his request was merely one of form. Talk, and not music, formed the basis of Mrs. Butters’ morning gatherings, especially for a Quaker like Mr. Thompson.
“I am not a proficient, sir,” said Fanny. “I only took up the instrument a few years ago, and have not been able to apply myself to it regularly.”
“I wonder that thee did not study the piano as a child. Did not thy uncle engage music teachers?”
“Indeed he did. But I refused to share in the lessons,” Fanny confessed, “because I understood the ultimate aim of acquiring accomplishments was for display, and that my cousins and I should be called upon to perform—not only before the family but in company, and the prospect was dreadful to me.”
“I see. I do seem to recall thee once favoured a small dinner party with a recital from Shakespeare, and a very pretty performance it was, too.”
Fanny blushed. “If Mrs. Butters requested something of me, I would never refuse her, but I would rather not do anything of that sort.”
“Most young ladies at a social gathering would be affronted if they were not at least applied to,” returned Mr. Thompson.
“Oh, sir,” said Fanny, “pray do not suppose I would disparage the motives of any lady who does perform for her friends, or to suggest that it has its origin in nothing but vanity. I myself enjoy listening to music extremely.”
“The young always enjoy music more than the old,” Mr. Thompson nodded, and he looked about the parlour, where Mrs. Butters was conversing animatedly with several friends. “Alas, we are all growing old.”
Another person might have said the same with the hope of being contradicted, but Fanny knew Mr. Thompson spoke as he found. His gnarled hands clutching the top of his walking stick confirmed the truth of it; and while her dear friend Mrs. Butters still commanded the room with her customary self-assurance, there was a faint but decided loss of vigour, which she grieved to observe.
* * * * * * *
The morning after the thwarted visit to Stapleton Prison, Fanny determined to pluck up her courage and speak to Mrs. Butters about an idea she had been seriously revolving in her mind. Whilst they were sitting together at the breakfast table, Fanny began by remarking, “I cannot stop thinking of the unfortunate Frenchmen.”
“Neither can Madame Orly,” replied Mrs. Butters, stirring some honey into her tea (for sugar produced by slaves was forbidden in
