Jacob Miller offered to deliver their purchases himself, and took both the basket of bread and Susan’s arm, and the enlarged party set out—at first together, but Betsey and Charles scampered ahead, with their pieces of gingerbread, and Susan and her escort dawdled behind, and finally, Fanny and Mr. Gibson were able to speak together in confidence.
“Now that you have me alone, Fanny, you may scold me at your leisure.”
“Mr. Gibson, no loyal friend could have objected to what you said to Mr. Miller. You were defending a principle, as ever. But you see how it is with Jacob and my sister,” said Fanny, glancing over her shoulder.
“What? Oh, yes!,” said Mr. Gibson, following her gaze. “There goes a man in love, if ever I saw one. Impervious to cold, and all other passers-by. Fortunately, your mother condescends to approve the match, though young Jacob Miller is guilty of having a father who became wealthy in trade.”
Fanny sighed, then laughed. “Oh dear! I wish my mother would not insist upon our gentility! Should any of her talking reach Mr. Miller’s ears! I only hope Jacob’s father will not object to his son marrying a girl with no dowry.”
“And speaking of unfortunate topics, you would prefer that I not contend with Mr. Miller about the Luddites, or politics, or anything else?”
“Mr. Miller is not accustomed to hearing opposition to his views, and I generally find it is best to let people of that stamp have their own way, especially if they are older. You will not alter their opinions, and you will only vex them.”
“I should save my breath to cool my porridge, as the saying goes.” Fanny’s arm was drawn more securely to his side. “Fanny, I truly regret having to leave you so soon. Will you give me some assurance that upon my return, you will permit me to propose marriage to you?”
Despite the cold, Fanny felt a warm flush sweep up her body. She was very conscious of his nearness to her. “How—when will you return?”
“By the end of January, or early in February, I fancy. Fanny, am I correct in thinking that you do not require an elaborate society wedding? When I return from York, I shall publish my novel, and then, if everything goes well, we will have enough to marry upon!”
As he spoke his warm breath came out in frozen puffs of cloud, which dissolved into nothing. Fanny could not help thinking that, although Mr. Gibson sincerely believed what he was saying, his expectations could be just as insubstantial.
“You are silent, Fanny! And you look troubled, my love.” Mr. Gibson lowered his voice. “What is the matter? My dearest, do you have some reservations? Please share them with me.”
“I am only a little worried for you, that is all. However, if you feel you must go to York—"
“Yes, I feel I must—in the sense that water feels it must go over a waterfall. I cannot do otherwise. I must meet these accused men, and hear their stories, for myself.”
“And you must write about it,” said Fanny quietly.
“Fanny—tell me truthfully—does this cause you distress? I fear it does.”
Fanny hesitated, and Mr. Gibson gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. Finally, she spoke, in a steady, level voice: “Mr. Gibson, you live by your convictions. You fought against slavery, even when it set the authorities in Bristol against you. You speak out against the powerful, on behalf of the weak. You do not live for selfish, shallow pleasures, as so many do. It is no wonder I admire and esteem you. But I have come to understand what this may mean for—for any persons who care about you, whose happiness is bound up with your safety and credit in the world. When you believe something to be a matter of principle, you will place it above everything else.”
They walked in silence for a few moments, then Mr. Gibson said, in a chastened manner, “You must have been contemplating this point for some time, Fanny. Have you been worrying about what might occur, should you bind yourself to me? Am I too engrossed in public affairs to be a considerate husband? I used to think so myself—used to say so, in fact, rather boastfully. I thought I was ill-suited for marriage for the very reason you describe in such flattering terms. Until I met you. Then I realised I had never before met a woman whom I wanted to marry. And are you afraid you face a lifetime of listening to me quarrel with stiff-necked old John Bulls, like our friend Mr. Miller?”
Fanny shook her head. “You have a fondness for disputation, which I certainly do not share, but that is nothing. No, I am anxious, I must own, very anxious, that perhaps your account of the York trials will be too critical of the authorities. You must be exceedingly careful of what you say, and how you say it, or you will be charged with libel.”
Mr. Gibson scowled. “Libel. You know about Leigh Hunt, do you? Mr. Hunt wrote that the Prince Regent was a selfish, lazy glutton, a companion of gamblers and demireps, a man completely devoid of any redeeming qualities. In other words, Mr. Hunt was sent to prison for printing the exact truth, and they call it libel.”
“Do not think I am defending the law,” Fanny rejoined. “But it is the law, and what are we to do?”
“Being imprisoned would make me more famous,” her companion jested, “and I should sell more books.” But he saw Fanny was in no mood for levity on such a subject. The thought of you being sent to prison is quite unbearable to me. Could
