“Well, I have come to realize that it is father who misses us the most. He says he wants us here for the sake of mother, but it is really for himself! He was so happy when Edmund came back from Ireland. You have seen how pleased he is to have you and Edmund to talk with every evening.”
“So, are you telling me I must resign myself to leaving you here at Everingham more frequently? Not that it isn’t excellent for the children,” he added, not wishing to sound ungenerous. At Everingham there was sweet clean air that smelled of new-mown hay, and a beautiful garden to play in. And for his wife, there was the ceremony of dressing for dinner, of having servants to attend on her for everything, of ease and comfort.
William took his wife’s hand and kissed it, noticing the little burn mark on her palm that still lingered from when she had picked up the kettle a few weeks ago. They had servants, of course, but his wife’s life in Newcastle was nothing compared to what she might have expected growing up as the daughter of Sir Thomas Bertram, the baronet.
William looked around their elegant bedchamber, and thought of the small and dingy room they slept in back at home. “So, you are prepared to make this tremendous sacrifice and stay here at Everingham a while longer! Truly, you are a saintly daughter.”
Julia gave him a playful push. “You know I would not remain behind if you did not agree to it. And you know how very, very much I shall miss you. But you shall be sailing in your convoy and I may as well wait for you here as at home. Still, I fancy I shall be wanted here more often.”
William nodded. Maria now had a new life in London, and last night at dinner, Edmund had surprised everyone by announcing that he was taking his family to Italy in the autumn. He refused to move to London and Mary refused to live anywhere else, so a long trip abroad was reckoned the best solution to the impasse.
“I hope that Mary’s disposition will improve as a result,” said Julia, in a tone which said she hoped to be contradicted.
“She is a very lively person, and I daresay the stimulation and novelty of travelling must have its good effect upon her,” William answered.
When Julia first fell in love with her husband, she had admired his kind-hearted nature, and contrasted it favourably with Henry Crawford’s sarcastic jests. But after several years of marriage, William’s unfailing cheerfulness and candour could be very provoking sometimes.
“Tell me, William,” she said pettishly. “Why don’t we go to Italy, too? We can live there very frugally, you know. What do I need to do to persuade you? Shall I do as Mary did, and be generally dreadful?”
William cupped his wife’s face gently between his hands, and kissed her. “Please don’t.”
“I hope she shall be happy—for the sake of the poor children, and Edmund as well,” Julia allowed.
“I promise you, my love,” said William, “we shall go sailing again together, as we first did after our marriage. This is not our time, but one day I will show you the seven seas and Rome and the antipodes and whatever you wish. I promise.”
She thanked him with a kiss, and he thanked her by closing their bedchamber door and interrupting the rest of her packing.
* * * * * * *
William Price returned to Newcastle without his family, and thence sailed to London with his convoy of coal ships, where he was fortunate to arrive just as William Gibson was released from prison.
He discovered that his friend was very much affected by the contrast, the sudden change from the isolation of his confinement, and the bustle and noise of the outside world. Moreover, his celebrity drew so much attention upon him that he was oppressed by it.
A hasty exit from London to the peace of the countryside appeared to be the best remedy, and Commander Price was happy to offer his friend passage to the north of England. He had intended, at the conclusion of the voyage, to retrieve his wife and children from Everingham, but out of compassion for Mr. Gibson, he proposed instead that the two of them make a walking tour, contriving to avoid all human habitation, so that Mr. Gibson might reacquaint himself by degrees with life outside of the walls of his prison. Hadrian’s Wall from Newcastle to Solway was the route decided upon, and Julia kindly consented.
In their long hours of walking together through the low, undulating landscape, it was impossible that Fanny should not be mentioned between the two Williams. Mr. Gibson spoke of her with respect and affection. He wished Fanny well; he was pleased to be assured she was very well.
William Price wanted to enquire most particularly into his friend’s private reflections—whether he was on the whole resigned and content, or whether regret gnawed at him. The right moment appeared to arrive one day when the late afternoon sun was slanting across the moors, illuminating the scene with a peculiarly enchanting and other-worldly light. “Did you ever regret penning that pamphlet, Gibson? You must have thought on it a great deal while you were in prison.”
“I must correct you on one point. I was not ‘in prison.’ I was ‘languishing in prison’ We prisoners always languish, and you will see it written so in all the newspapers,” answered Gibson in a cheerful tone. Then, more seriously, he added, “I had just beheld several dozen men executed by our government, men driven to desperation by oppression and want. I was seized with an ungovernable rage and under its influence, I spoke the truth as I saw it. I told myself I could brave the consequences. The satisfaction I derived
