Such was Edmund Bertram’s assessment of his wife, after six years of marriage, and he remained resolute in endeavouring to accept matters as they were, and not as he wished or once expected.
Edmund had many other compensations in his life as headmaster of St. George’s Academy. He was well-suited to the post. The Reverend Bertram’s erudition, his kindness, and his care for his pupils earned him the confidence of the board of governors.
In his private life, he was a devoted father, Thomas promised well, even at such a young age, Cyrus was a lively and affectionate boy, and their daughter, Anna Imogen, was a placid, happy infant. On the Bertram side of the family, Edmund maintained a regular and affectionate correspondence with his parents, his sisters and his brother Tom in America.
And so matters might have continued, but for an unfortunate addition to Belfast society in the spring of 1815.
Captain Templeton was a distant cousin to one of the governors of Edmund’s school—so distant, in fact, that Dr. Ritchie had not even known of the captain’s existence until he arrived with a letter of introduction and the expectation that he stay with Dr. Ritchie and his wife for some unspecified period of time.
The Captain had served in Portugal under Wellington, but declined to describe his experiences there, except in the most general way. His humility made him even more interesting in the eyes of the ladies. His bearing was martial, his features, while somewhat red and coarse, were agreed to be quite striking.
True, his voice was sometimes too loud and unregulated, his expressions occasionally ungenteel, and he did not possess that elegance of address which proclaims a true gentlemen, but this was laid to the fact that he had spent his adult life in military camps and not in drawing rooms.
The Bertrams first observed him out walking with Dr. and Mrs. Ritchie, and he came to a reception at Mrs. Malcolm’s.
At this last-named gathering, Mary Bertram was gratified, but not surprised, when Captain Templeton particularly requested an introduction, and upon being admitted to her acquaintance, was profuse in his admiration.
“Mrs. Bertram, when my eyes first beheld you in this Irish wilderness, I was amazed. ‘Who can this vision be?’ I said to myself. ‘From where has she come?’”
“We ladies are reluctant to tear away any veil of mystery, Captain, but there is no mystery here. The whys and the wherefores are quite comprehensible. My husband is the master at St. George’s Academy.”
“And you, the faithful wife, followed your husband here.” The Captain glanced over to where Edmund stood, deep in conversation with two elderly clerics.
“It would be more accurate to speak of the reverse. My very dear friend, Lady Delingpole, is cousin to the Marquess of Donegall. Her interest obtained the position for my husband.”
“Still, a considerable sacrifice for you, dear lady!”
“Not at all, Captain,” answered Mary, a little stung at the imputation that by living away from London, she had fallen below the fashionable standard. “Here in Belfast, we have some society. I much prefer it to living in Northamptonshire—my husband’s parish was so very backward! The Church of England, in its wisdom, requires that their officiants know how to read the Old Testament in Greek. This is to qualify them for life in some barren rural village surrounded by people who can barely make their mark with an “x.” Here, at least, my husband can converse with other educated men.”
“As he is doing right now, and, speaking as a selfish man, I hope he will continue his conversation for some time!” The captain moved a little closer, and lowered his voice: “And what of society for you, Mrs. Bertram?”
Mary glanced about her, then leaned closer to the Captain, whilst gracefully shielding her smile with her fan. “The Irish ladies compete amongst themselves to display the latest London fashion, London novels, London music, and London gossip, all while preening themselves on being proud Irishwomen. As for Irish manners, what is different from our English ways, is not worth emulating.”
The Captain laughed, but a little too loudly. “You are too clever to misunderstand me, dear lady. When I enquired whether you had formed new friendships, can you suppose I meant, only the companionship of other females?”
“Of course my husband and I have a large acquaintance.” The fan fluttered briefly.
“Spoken very carefully, Mrs. Bertram. May I say, I hope that in time, you will think of me as a friend, one in whom you can confide?”
The lady did not frown, and feeling himself encouraged, her admirer went on: “For my part, I am delighted with the Irish. They are so open and honest a race, are they not? Compared to we English, with our reserve and our hypocrisy.”
“Do not speak so unkindly of hypocrisy, Captain. Hypocrisy serves us all well, and smooths over the bumps of social intercourse,” laughed Mary. The fan batted him lightly on the arm and the tête-à-tête continued rather longer than Mary intended.
The Captain’s admiration came as no surprise to Mary Bertram—it was only natural, that of all the belles of Belfast, she would be the one preferred. Unfortunately, Captain Templeton did not improve upon better acquaintance. He drank too much, and when he did, his manner became vulgar.
After only a fortnight, his admiration began to cloy. His praises of her beauty and charm, carried back to her, were so enthusiastic as to make her feel uncomfortable and even vexed. She did not wish him to hang at her elbow every time they met. Worse, his conversation soon took an insinuating turn. He would ask her, most
