Of all the subjects Mrs. Norris canvassed, there was hardly one to which Portia could join in assent, excepting the excellence of Edmund Bertram’s character. Though again, where Mrs. Norris might speak at length with pride of the nephew who had grown up under her loving and watchful eye, a soft brief “yes, indeed,” was Portia’s only contribution to the discourse. There was a great deal more she might say in Edmund Bertram’s praise.
Portia had thought highly of Mr. Bertram before, but his generosity toward her brother and herself elevated him above all other mortals. Her regard for him was even heightened by her better knowledge of his tragic marital circumstances, by seeing for herself the fortitude and reserve with which he bore his fate, the fact that circumstances had not embittered him completely—for indeed, he was a very good-natured man with a dry wit. She saw his goodness as a father, the erudition and compassion he brought to his role as a clergyman, and his excellence as a school-master. He possessed, in short, qualities which might have turned a weaker head than Portia’s.
She was also in danger of falling in love with his children—quiet, thoughtful, Thomas, lively little Cyrus and affectionate Anna Imogen. The feeling was mutual: Anna Imogen had begged for piano lessons, even though she was too small to climb up on the piano bench by herself. Even the boys were still young enough to respond to a feminine hand to guide, a feminine voice to give praise; in short, to hunger for the regard of a worthy woman with an affectionate heart.
Portia was sensible enough to never linger where Edmund was; she never manufactured reasons to speak with him, and she left the school promptly when her duties were concluded. But it happened that she was staying at the great house when Anna Imogen fell ill with the mumps, and the poor child cried piteously for Miss Owen—Edmund went to fetch her, walking back to the Parsonage with her, holding out a lantern to guide her through the gathering darkness. The intimacy of being alone with Edmund Bertram, seeing his handsome face in the lamplight, witnessing his anxiety for his daughter, and knowing that he had turned to her in his need, awoke sensations from which she could not soon recover.
Portia spent the next week by the child’s bedside, living under the same roof as Edmund, at the parsonage. Edmund would sometimes hear Portia singing in a soft, low voice, or reading to his daughter, but whenever he paid a visit to the sick room, Portia would go to her own room to rest, barely staying long enough to accept his profuse thanks.
In this way, she protected her heart as well as she might. For if, as has been wisely said, there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them, what then can be said for those women who have never been called beautiful? Not that such considerations applied in the present case, for Edmund Bertram was already married. And so Portia Owen continued to name her feelings for him as nothing more than esteem and gratitude.
* * * * * * *
Fanny did not remain in Bristol to long enjoy her new consequence as an heiress. Her mother wanted her assistance in making the removal to Northamptonshire. She stayed only long enough to responsibly turn the affairs of the bazaar over to a new manageress, and to complete whatever had been left undone for Mrs. Butters.
She remained in Bristol quite long enough to take some lessons on the difference between the treatment accorded to a spinster and a spinster with money. She was transformed, as though by alchemy, from something made of tin or enamel, into silver—or at least, silver plate. Her opinion was more worth having, her acquaintance more highly valued. Were she not in mourning for her beloved mentor, she could have dined out every night of the week, and been introduced to many men in want of a wife.
Fanny modestly hoped she would not become a different person in consequence of the different way she was treated And yet, she had already begun to change a little as a result of having a modest fortune. Money freed her from the necessity of deferring to the judgement of others against her own. With her own money, she could create and abide by her own consequences.
She spent many hours in pleasant meditations and schemes for her family: she calculated the income she might expect to receive, and how she might save enough to assist her brother John—and what could be done for Sam? But she was also wise enough to recollect her past experience with Susan, during the summer they spent at Everingham, when she had learned that having the ability to dispense charity awakens the urge to dictate to others.
Luckily for the preservation of Fanny’s humility, her family members were not in the habit of being compliant, even when she was paying the bills. She wanted Sam to go with her to Portsmouth; he strongly desired to follow Henry Hunt to London, in the hopes of making himself useful in the reform effort. He wanted to be a witness to the great movement for reform, and that meant going wherever “Orator” Hunt went. He would take none of her advice and only half the money she tried to press upon him.
While Sam did not want to go to Portsmouth, Betsey did not want to quit it, though Fanny spoke cheerfully of boarding-schools and making new friends. Although Betsey was by nature a bold and forward girl, she held back from leaving the only place she had ever known. Appealing to Betsey’s sense of duty to her mother was futile, and none of Fanny’s descriptions of the beauties of the countryside in Northamptonshire
