Mr. Gibson’s expression was grave. “I have no intention, Fanny, of breaking the unjust laws which fetter the press at this time, but I shall not cease protesting against them.”
“But you are so passionate about the causes you believe in, you may provoke the government to retaliate, should you go too far. Lord Sidmouth has already prosecuted several journalists.”
“I hope I will never speak, or act, or write, blindly, foolishly and in the heat of passion. If I do a thing, it will be after considering all the consequences. More than that I hope you will not require of me.”
Fanny nodded, but was not reassured.
“I am afraid, my dear Fanny, that your spirits have suffered this past winter. Think on the future—think on us—do not anticipate the worst. I am sure you would see matters differently if you were not so oppressed at home. I wish I left you in stronger health.”
“You are suggesting my low spirits have affected my judgement. Do you believe that only you can judge candidly? Am I prejudiced, partial, blinded by my womanly feelings?” Fanny said with an asperity which surprised both of them.
The pair had by now almost reached her modest home and Charles was standing on the doorstep, calling for everyone to hurry so they might sit down to dinner, and from within, Mrs. Price could be heard bidding Charles close the door before they all froze to death.
For the rest of the evening, Mr. Gibson was kind, conciliatory and attentive, and then he took his farewells. Fanny could only hope he would take her warnings to heart.
Chapter 2: London, January 1813
“Miss Bertram! Miss Bertram! Stop! Wait! Oh! No, I mean— Mrs. Crawford! Mrs. Crawford!”
The driver pulled on the reins, the carriage stopped, and an excited young woman leaned halfway out of the door, calling after a fashionably dressed lady on the street.
“Mrs. Crawford! Is it you?”
Maria Bertram Crawford paused on the pavement and turned back at the sound of her name. She saw a plump, dark-haired young lady leaning out of a handsome carriage, smiling and waving at her. The face was familiar and yet... she could not think of the name.
“Yes?”
“Oh, it is you! Indeed, I was not mistaken! How are you, Mrs. Crawford?”
Just in time, Maria managed to summon up a name.
“Is it... Miss Fraser?”
“Yes!” came the delighted answer. “That is,” the young woman added, “Mrs. Meriwether now.” And she bestowed a fond glance on the gentleman at her side. “Pray, pray step in and allow me to present my husband to you. Why are you walking? Where are you going?”
A footman, his nose frostbitten with the cold, hopped stiffly down from the back of the carriage, and opened the door for her. Maria took a seat opposite Margaret Fraser and her husband, who were comfortably swaddled under fur throws. While Margaret made her introduction, Maria marvelled at the warmth of Margaret’s reception of her, and secondly, she wondered at the elegance of her dress. Shy, awkward, Margaret Fraser, as she had known her four years ago, was vastly different from the laughing, talking, exclaiming Mrs. Meriwether sitting opposite to her now. Maria had to swiftly adjust her thoughts and mask her surprise, and to return Margaret’s friendly smiles and nods, and declare her pleasure in making the acquaintance of Mr. Meriwether—who, she suddenly recollected, with sensations of great awkwardness and dismay—was briefly betrothed to her younger sister Julia.
All the while Margaret chattered, happily.
“What a delight it is to see you, Mrs. Crawford!”
“Please,” interposed Maria. “Do call me Maria.”
There had not been that degree of acquaintance between the two, four years ago, to authorize such an intimacy, but it mortified Maria to hear the name “Crawford” fall from Margaret’s lips. Margaret, she knew, was once in love with her late husband, and the consciousness of this fact, as well as her husband’s connection to her sister Julia, threatened to overcome Maria’s composure.
“Of course! Is it not amazingly cold, Maria!” Margaret exclaimed. “We are for home. Where can we take you?”
“If it is not too much trouble, Margaret,” Maria answered. “I should be greatly obliged to you if you might convey me to Bedford Square. I am staying with my cousins there.”
“Oh, we can take you to Bedford Square—will not we, dear,” Margaret turned to her husband, then resumed her questions before he could even draw breath to indicate his happiness to oblige, “How long will you be in London? When did you arrive? Could you not find a hackney coach? How provoking! How is your little boy? Is he in Norfolk? Are your parents well? And all your family?”
Maria answered, all the while racking the recesses of her memory for the names of Maria’s relations so that she might make one polite enquiry about Margaret’s relations in return for the dozen placed to her.
Margaret, her step-mother and her aunt were but minor acquaintances when she was last in London before her marriage; they had hardly exchanged half-a-dozen words, and Maria’s chief recollection of Margaret was of the laughter she had provoked over her awkward dancing and her gaucherie. And her pathetic infatuation with Henry Crawford! Maria had never considered silly little Margaret Fraser as a rival for Henry’s affections; she had watched Margaret’s sighings and simperings over Henry with amused contempt rather than resentment.
Yet, here was Margaret—Mrs. Meriwether now—attired in velvet and lace and fur, and with diamond ear-bobs swinging from her ears, smiling at her, as though they had never both loved the same man, as though Mr. Meriwether had not once proposed marriage to her sister Julia. Every moment in the company of Mr. and Mrs. Meriwether brought fresh recollections, fresh considerations to Maria’s mind! It was exceedingly awkward! She could think
