Mary stayed at home, or went out riding by herself, while Edmund buried himself in his work. Edmund persevered in hoping the entire matter would be forgotten. Mary declared it would not, and she was correct.
A fortnight after Captain Templeton insulted Mary at the White Linen Hall, the board of governors of St. George’s Academy asked for Rev. Bertram’s resignation: “with infinite regret, the board has concluded that the future well-being of the school would be best ensured under a new headmaster.”
Mary blamed Edmund for the debacle, and provoked and upbraided him until he was goaded to remind her that, had she not sinned against him with Lord Elsham, there would have been no slander to relate. In her ingenuity she found a way to turn the argument back against him. If only Edmund possessed the ambition to rise to distinction, he would be a powerful man, and they would both be immune to the hypocrisy of the world. If he were a leader in the government or the army, who would dare to turn their backs on her, who would dare to murmur under their breath as she passed by? His reputation would have protected hers, and together they would have attained the highest circles of influence.
Look at the Pagets, and the Wellingtons, with their divorces and their adultery, she told him. Look at the royal princes, with their score of bastard children. Look at the Marquess of Donegall, an inveterate gambler who married his moneylender’s daughter to get out of debtor’s prison! And yet, wherever he went, everyone bowed and scraped to His Lordship and Her Ladyship!
But no, her husband was without ambition, pride or resource. He even owed the headmaster position to her influence, not his own.
And then Edmund took Thomas and Cyrus out for a walk, and the servants began to pack up the library and prepare for the family’s removal from Belfast.
Chapter 11: Bristol, Summer 1815
“And so,” Mrs. Butters recalled with mirth, “there she stood, her hands shaking—like this— and I believe I could hear her teeth chattering. She was so frightened, poor little soul, that I almost—almost, mind, told her to sit down and I would speak for her. But, she did it, Mr. Thompson. She did it. She spoke to the committee, and she answered all their questions. She had some memorandums written out, with the expenses and the estimates, she had calculated how much ought to be paid to rent a stall, and so forth.”
Mr. Thompson, leaning on his cane, stood next to Mrs. Butters as they surveyed the newly-opened Bristol Ladies’ Bazaar. Ten stalls lined each side of the warehouse and the brick walls and broad wooden planks on the floor were freshly scrubbed, and everything looked clean and orderly.
“It all looks very well laid out,” he said approvingly. “Did thy servants help thee?”
“Oh, I made the mistake of asking Mrs. McIntosh,” answered Mrs. Butters, “and she was quite indignant. She declared that she and her maids were never going to muck out a filthy warehouse. So I hired some Irishwomen, and some men to build the stalls.”
Behind each stall stood a vendor, offering seat cushions, playing cards, eyeglass cases, and trims for bonnets—all items they had made at home, into which they had poured many hours of effort.
In between the sellers and the buyers, Fanny Price moved swiftly and quietly, looking, Mr. Thompson thought, like a little sparrow flying hither and yon, taking a half-guinea to be exchanged for shillings, answering questions, and greeting customers.
“This all looks very well,” said Mr. Thompson. “The stalls are very handsome.”
“But I have not finished telling you about what Fanny did,” said Mrs. Butters.
“Certainly, my dear Mrs. Butters, but I must find a seat somewhere. Let us go to the tea tables.” At the farthest end of the room, away from the double doors of the entry, were arranged half-a-dozen small tables where aproned ladies served tea and baked goods. Mrs. Butters selected a table next to a stall over which Madame Orly presided, shifting from one foot to the other (for her boots were rather too small).
“And what has thou made for this occasion, Madame Orly? Bonnet trim? Embroidered collars?” Mr. Thompson asked genially.
“Don’t you recall my telling you, my dear Mr. Thompson,” Mrs. Butters replied, “we have got up a scheme to assist the French prisoners.”
“I know better than to offer you a cribbage board, Monsieur Thompson,” said Madame Orly,” but perhaps you would care to examine the clever carvings on these cane handles.”
“I think not, just the same, Madame Orly,” said Mr. Thompson. “Although I’ve no objection if someone else wishes to, and if it is the only way by which the prisoners may earn some income. But then, we had thought the French would be gone from amongst our midst by now, did we not?” He shook his head. “Mr. Bonaparte had other ideas, and the war resumes.”
“So then, about Fanny,” Mrs. Butters went on, for she feared Mr. Thompson was about to inveigh against the folly of all wars and this war in particular, a talk she had heard many a time before, “as I was telling you, after Fanny gave her presentation, the Committee for Impoverished Gentlewomen told her she must find a warehouse to hold the bazaar, to know for a certainty what the expenses might be. So I brought her down here to Corn Street, where we had seen some warehouses for let, and told her she must speak to the agents herself, and negotiate the rent.”
Mr. Thompson was successfully diverted from the escape of Napoleon, for he answered, “Did thee now? She must have needed thy smelling salts after
