It was not too late to send a challenge to Captain Templeton; however, Edmund was certain it would mean the end of his employment. School masters did not fight duels.
For Captain Templeton, a wretched drunk, he had only contempt. Templeton would drink himself to death, sooner rather than later.
But what of Mary? Was she correct that the incident could not be overborne?
He found himself back at Fort William, beside the remains of the bonfire, a huge pile of ashes and charred wood, which to a person of a poetical disposition, could provide a metaphor for a failed marriage.
But Edmund almost sneered at the thought. His aversion to melodrama was strong. He and Mary were as different as chalk and cheese in that respect.
He turned away from the site of the bonfire and looked at the bay and the grey waters beyond, and his imagination reached over the horizon, to his home in England. It would be exceedingly difficult to return to Mansfield, with Mary at his side. The people there, and the people of Thornton Lacey, would treat her with utter contempt. There was no prospect of their forgetting how she had abandoned their marriage within a year of contracting it; his Aunt Norris, he was sure, was diligent in keeping the memory alive. He winced to think of the gossip about Lord Elsham reaching her, as well.
The parish of Thornton Lacey had been left in the capable hands of his old school-fellow, Richard Owen, and Dr. Grant had a life interest in the larger living at Mansfield. The day would likely come, however, when Edmund would have to choose between his clerical calling or his marriage.
This of course was not the first time his wife had accused him of caring more for his cousin Fanny than for her. He had always pushed the idea away, whenever it suggested itself, for his own sake and for Fanny’s.
Yet, how different his life would have been, if he had married a different kind of woman. If he had married Fanny.
His domestic life, now filled with quarrels and tension, and borne by him with silent resignation, would be peaceful and harmonious. He would have a wife who respected him, supported him. The children were afraid of their mother’s rages—there would be no such difficulty with a gentle, loving, even-tempered wife like Fanny.
He did not know what Mary might do, in consequence of this latest, serious quarrel. Perhaps she would leave him again as she had done before. But the path of duty was clear for him—he must take care of his children. Captain Templeton had brought the rumours about Mary’s conduct to Ireland, which they had thought were safely left behind in England. The consequences for little Anna Imogen might be especially dire, as it was generally believed that daughters inherited the weak character of a wanton mother. He would need to devote the utmost care and attention to the upbringing of his children so their own characters and reputations remained spotless.
The thought of the pure and boundless love he felt for his children consoled him on his long walk homeward. Come what may, he would protect them from the sneers of the world.
He faced a cold wind on the walk home, but he welcomed its bracing bite.
Mary, he supposed, must be over the worst of her passion by now. The children and the servants must have heard her loud flights of temper—he hoped the neighbours had not.
* * * * * * *
Edmund Bertram’s philosophy had always been that good actions should and would arise where people of good sense were involved. On one occasion, his cousin Fanny was threatened with leaving his father’s house to live with Aunt Norris, and he had declared it would be a very good thing for both of them. As it happened, Aunt Norris protested that she, a broken-hearted widow, could not provide a home for Fanny, so Edmund never saw his cousin made miserable, nor learned how unfounded his cheerful prognostications were.
This tendency to assume the best of his fellow creatures led Edmund to predict that the incident at the Linen Hall dinner would soon be consigned to oblivion. He was correct in one respect: Captain Templeton disappeared from Belfast. His departure was so swift, so surreptitious, that no-one could say which coach had borne him away, or whether he had taken ship for England. The general esteem in which the Ritchies were held spared them from any impertinent enquiries masquerading as concern. Captain Templeton was never mentioned before them.
But wherever the Ritchies were not in company, Templeton’s character was held up and denounced. It was agreed that he had never been handsome, and no-one could believe he had ever distinguished himself upon any battlefield.
Moreover, all of Belfast united in agreement over Edmund Bertram’s many virtues. And most agreed he should not have condescended to answer the challenge of a drunken reprobate.
But the aspersions against the virtue of Mrs. Bertram could not be dismissed as inconsequential. There had been whispers before, talk of a previous estrangement between Mr. and Mrs. Bertram, and some matrons disclosed, that their servants had learnt from Mrs. Bertram’s servants, how Mrs. Bertram was not always so amiable when she was at home. What had been said and heard, could not be unsaid, nor forgotten.
Edmund sensed a change, a too-complete silence, when he climbed into his pulpit for evening vespers in the school chapel on the Sunday following the incident. The older boys nudged each other and grinned, the masters looked uncomfortable, and the governors looked grave.
Mary went out in her carriage to call on Mrs. Malcolm and Mrs. Ritchie, but neither were
