“Do you recall, after he and I finished at Eton, and he came home with me for a visit, and he picked up a book to look into it, and was bending the spine backward most unmercifully, and our father called to him and said, ‘for pity’s sake, young man, what has that book ever done to you!’?”
“Oh, yes,” smiled Portia, “and then father was sorry, I think, to have spoken as he did, for Edmund looked so abashed. And his manners in general, you know, were so excellent, so unassuming. No doubt he had never lived in so confined a home, with so few servants to wait upon him, but he never made us feel awkward or uneasy about having the son of a baronet as our guest.”
“I remember, rather,” said her brother with a smile, “how mama would insist that he take the best arm-chair, and she banished father to one end of the sofa, so that Edmund might have the best view of the pianoforte, the better to see you girls perform after dinner!”
Portia looked down at her book and a slight blush rose to her cheeks, which she hoped went unobserved by her brother.
“I cannot blame mama for hoping for... for wishing .. it is what any mother would do. And Mr. Bertram was, I think, perfectly easy about it all and very fond of our mother. He took no offense, I hope?”
“Oh, certainly not,” Richard agreed. “And what is more, he genuinely admires your playing.”
Portia was not certain if her brother, by saying “your” was referring to her alone, or to all his sisters, and she could not ask him. She ventured, “he was always perfectly affable. Although during his final visit, that time before you and he went to Peterborough for your ordination, we observed he was rather melancholy and quite distracted. If you will recall, mother wondered whether he had doubts about becoming a clergyman.”
Richard nodded. “I asked him about it, privately, and he said enough to me at the time, to make me understand he was struggling with an affair of the heart. So much for mother and the pianoforte, I thought to myself! I did not say anything to mother, or to you girls, of course. I did not wish him to detect any change, however slight, in our conduct toward him.”
Portia sat up, alarmed. “I hope, Richard, you are not hinting that I was—that we were—too forward or designing in our manner toward Mr. Bertram?”
“No, no, of course not. In fact, more than once he said to me, ‘Owen, your sisters are such pleasant girls, so unaffected in their manners.’”
“He did?”
And Portia hoped her brother might say more, but Richard went on, “So then of course, Edmund went back to town and married Miss Crawford. And what he has suffered since then, has almost confirmed me in the advantages of single blessedness.”
“It is a very great pity,” Portia said with real feeling, “that such an excellent, amiable man should have been so unfortunate in married life.”
“I wonder if we shall ever meet with the notorious Mary Bertram ourselves, Portia? At first, his letters to me were full of her praises, and he looked forward to the time when he might invite me to meet her. No longer! I confess to some curiousity. However, I doubt she will ever come to Thornton Lacey.”
“And if she will not return, perhaps neither will he,” said Portia. There seemed to be nothing more to be said on the sad subject, and her brother returned to his book. She looked down at her own volume, a history of Ireland, tracing with her finger one of the marginal comments written in Edmund Bertram’s clear, elegant hand.
Perhaps he had sat in this very armchair, lingering over this same page, as she now did. She knew from the housekeeper that when his wife left him and he lived here alone, he read in the evenings. He must have been lonely.
Chapter 10: Belfast, Summer 1815
In the latter part of June, whispers reached Belfast of a tremendous battle on the continent, involving all the great powers of Europe against the French. Rumours and hopes became confirmation with the arrival of ships from England bringing tidings of the final victory over the Corsican monster.
Waterloo, a place no-one had ever heard of before, became the most famous patch of ground upon the earth and Wellington was acclaimed as the saviour of Europe. The English citizens of Belfast, notwithstanding the more complicated feelings of their Irish neighbours, resolved to celebrate as dozens of other towns and villages throughout the kingdom were doing, with a giant bonfire.
Half-a-dozen youths set about gathering the brushwood and building the pyre in a field before the ruins of an old fort left from the time of King William, and Saturday evening was fixed for the celebration.
As the sun set on Saturday, it was evident that the citizens of Belfast, no matter what their religious or political persuasions, did not intend to deny themselves a sight of the spectacle. Duncairn Street was thronged with people riding and walking to the bonfire-field, many of them prepared, if necessary, to dispute the difference between watching a bonfire and participating in the celebration of an English military victory.
Edmund and Mary debated, between themselves, whether to bring young Thomas to the entertainment; Edmund was in favour; Mary feared the crowds, and disease, and sparks, and the lateness of the hour. Thomas pleaded with his mother and tears threatened. Edmund quietly spoke for the boy but Mary did not wish to be seen to waver, so they left without Thomas,
