“Or should William be discharged,” put in Fanny, “as may be possible, he and Julia must settle somewhere, and no doubt you will want to be close to them.”
Mrs. Price shook her head at the thought of her favourite son’s wife. “Oh, and how will Julia manage a household on half-pay! She, who has known only servants, and ease and luxury, all her life!”
“Fanny was raised with Julia, and Fanny is very frugal, Mama,” Susan said loyally, for Mrs. Price was still more inclined to deplore, rather than boast, of the exceptional match her son had made in marrying his elegant cousin Julia.
“Whatever you may decide, madam, please call on me to assist you in making any necessary arrangements—settling with your landlord, looking out for a new home, and anything else you need,” said Mr. Gibson. “And in the meantime, with so many idle men upon the town, I trust you will not allow the girls to walk out abroad, not without myself or Charles to escort them.”
“Oh! Indeed not,” came the answer. “My girls were always brought up properly, and not suffered to run wild. And I hope you will call on us on Sunday morning to escort me, Mr. Gibson.”
“Unfortunately, madam, I—”
“The new chaplain is not someone I can like. He speaks too soft. We were much better off before we got the new chaplain, for I cannot make out one word in ten of what he says, but then, I always go to the service for the sake of the singing. I used to sing very well, when I was a girl, and played the pianoforte.” With a sigh and a shake of her head, “I haven’t sat down to a pianoforte these twenty years and more. We had no room for one, you know, Mr. Gibson, not with so many children.”
“Could I supply you with—
“Perhaps I shall not go to chapel this Sunday after all,” said Mrs. Price. “The weather has been so very cold. It would be as much as my life is worth to climb up on the Ramparts and be exposed to the north winds. This winter has been very trying, Mr. Gibson, and I am so happy that Fanny came to stay with us, for she has been paying me five pounds a month for her room and board, and I do not know how we should have managed without it.”
“Her friends in London miss her a great deal,” said Mr. Gibson, looking over to where Fanny sat and tapping his jacket pocket to let her know he was carrying letters for her.
“And with the price of beef, it is quite impossible to come by any meat nowadays,” went on Mrs. Price, “except for a bone or two which Susan contrives to turn into stew. Fish and cabbage, Mr. Gibson, is all we see for weeks on end.”
“If you would allow me, Mrs. Price—”
“But you are welcome to join us for dinner tonight.” And to show her goodwill to her son William’s friend, Mrs. Price actually rose from her seat and went to the kitchen to speak to Eliza about the meal. Susan followed, for if anything were to be reliably done, she would need to do or supervise it herself.
“What were you saying, Mr. Gibson—must you leave us again so soon?” Fanny asked as soon as the swinging door closed behind her mother and sister.
“Yes, I go north immediately—I must go to York. I think you can guess why.” Her friend looked grim, and Fanny knew he was speaking of the upcoming assizes in Yorkshire, at which several score of Luddites would be tried, many of them for capital crimes. “I must be a witness to the trials and must write about them. A pamphlet perhaps, if I cannot place it in the Gentlemen’s Magazine.”
Fanny nodded in reluctant assent.
“The public must be kept informed,” Mr. Gibson added gently.
“Of course. But—” Fanny hoped, by an anxious look, to convey all her fears without speaking of them before Betsey and Charles. Mr. Gibson bent closer, but they were once again interrupted.
“Mr. Gibson!” Betsey demanded, tugging at his sleeve. “You began telling me a new story before Christmas and you never finished it.”
“Will the present time suit you?” said William with mock gravity, followed by warm smile for Fanny which promised they would have a confidential talk, so soon as they might steal a moment away from the others.
Betsey sat down on her three-legged stool by the fire, and Mr. Gibson resumed his seat on the bench, stretching his long legs under the table.
“Betsey, pick up your mending,” said Fanny. “We can continue our work while Mr. Gibson tell us the story.”
“It is not fair, Fan. Why can Charles just sit and listen while I have to sew?” complained Betsey.
“That is because women, unlike men, can do several things at once,” explained Mr. Gibson. “Your sister can listen, and reflect, and answer, whilst she works, but a man must either listen, or speak, or work. He cannot do everything at once.”
Mr. Gibson’s pronouncement interested Betsey, and she obviously intended to test it, for she began to place a few ragged stitches while gesturing that he might begin.
“Very well, remind me, Betsey, where did I leave off?
“Reginald De Mortimer and his beauteous daughter lived alone in a watch-tower on the Cornish coast,” Betsey prompted, “and she was asking him—”
“‘Beseeching,’ I think,” said Mr. Gibson. “Not asking.”
“She was beseeching him to tell—I mean—relate his history, for she knew nothing of their past and how they came to be there.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Gibson cleared his throat, a signal that he was about to declaim, and Betsey’s sewing project was forgotten. “The father said: ‘You are now on the brink of lovely womanhood, my sweet Clarintha, and
