Fanny and Edmund were again left to smile at each other, and drink their tea in peace, and say very little.
The next morning, Edmund called again just as the ladies were rising from the breakfast table and very shortly they were away, and able to take a proper survey of each other, and share their mutual delight at their reunion.
Fanny’s spirits were higher than they had been in weeks. Both of them had been exiled from Mansfield, and both had returned, and both had sympathetic tempers and spirits—equally ready to exclaim on the beauty of the day, the pleasures of Mansfield, and equally inclined to share some tender or funny recollection of childhood conjured up by the familiar scenes around them. Fanny could not be sorry that Edmund’s wife was far, far, away—now, she and Edmund might speak together, walk together, be together with the perfect unreserve of their youth.
Once, only once, did Edmund mention his wife as they reached the great house, and that was to say, with calm generosity, “If I had not gone to Ireland with Mary, I might never have learned how much I enjoy being a schoolmaster. I was raised for the church, but few things have given me as much satisfaction as teaching. For that, at least, I am very much in her debt.”
It being June, the boys were permitted plenty of time for outdoor pursuits, but the morning was devoted to lessons; Miss Owen was in the parlour with Cyrus sitting beside her at the pianoforte, his legs dangling far above the pedals, while John Clay made excruciating sounds with a violin. She looked up and smiled at Fanny and Edmund when they looked in. Mr. Owen was drilling the older boys in their Latin upstairs, for the East Room was a classroom once again. There were rows of beds fitted into what been Lady Bertram’s chamber, and Christopher Jackson was fitting Sir Thomas’s chamber with additional beds.
Fanny looked, and approved, and encouraged everything. “It was a pleasure to observe how attentive Dick Jackson is to his father,” she remarked to Edmund as they concluded the tour and began to walk back down the hill to the parsonage for refreshments. “He is always at hand, handing him whichever tool he requires, or a bit of board, just as his father appears to want it, and sparing him any additional exertions, without the necessity of exchanging a word. How well they work together!”
“Yes, Dick is an excellent fellow,” Edmund agreed, “and the boys are all very fond of him, as well. He joins us on our trout-fishing excursions.”
“It is good to have such an able young man in your employ, but I believe you had better engage a Matron for your school before you take on any more pupils.”
“Quite so,” said Edmund, “I did intend to of course, but everything happened so rapidly I have not given any attention to it, and the boys are being supervised by the housekeeper, poor woman! What do you think? Should I advertise? Or make some enquiries of some of my fellow clergyman for a recommendation?”
“No doubt you would prefer a personal recommendation. I know you will want to engage a kind, motherly, sort of woman. What a pity that Mrs. Grant has left Mansfield! But then, Dr. Grant would not have spared her from the parsonage—and you would not be in the parsonage now.”
“Mrs. Grant had just those qualities which would have suited very well,” agreed Edmund. “Even though she had no children of her own. We must look elsewhere. I recall once reading about a poor widow who obtained a position as a Matron in a school, in exchange for an education for her children. I recall thinking it was such a clever solution, and a commendable benevolence on the part of the school-master.”
Fanny expressed her warmest approbation of the idea.
“Yes,” Edmund went on, encouraged by Fanny’s enthusiasm, “if the lady came from the right sort of background, I should be pleased to make the same offer to a widow in similar circumstances.”
A thought struck Fanny, as though by a thunderclap, and she stopped in the middle of the path. “Cousin, you can tell me if I have lost my senses. But I do know of exactly such a lady as you describe—intelligent, capable, hard-working, and a widow. And she has three boys.”
Fanny started walking again, rapidly, as the idea took possession of her. “The thing is, Edmund, if ever there were three boys in need of the special consideration which your school provides, it is these three. A scandal lies upon their family name, a scandal which will make life exceedingly difficult for them. And the widow is blameless in the matter and she has suffered much for it.”
“What was the nature of the scandal?”
“Her husband murdered the prime minister.”
Edmund stared at her. “Wait a minute. Are you speaking of the assassin of Mr. Perceval? His widow? His children?”
“Yes. Sarah Bellingham. She has three boys—”
“Fanny, if I recall correctly, this same woman betrayed you to the manager of the sewing academy, to get you discharged so she could take your job. Are we speaking of the same person?”
Fanny slowed down and looked down at her shoes. “Yes.”
“Fanny, I always said you had the most charitable heart of any woman in England, but now you are taking your disinterestedness too far. Mrs. Bellingham is your enemy, and furthermore, she has
