"I once overheard a lady of my acquaintance describe me as "pretty enough," and although I was mortified at the time, I am not sorry for it, now, and for the same reason," Fanny agreed.
The ladies were interrupted by the entrance of Anna Imogen with her nursemaid. Anna Imogen ran directly to Miss Owen. Fanny smiled and watched, but she felt a little stab of jealousy at her heart. Here was Edmund’s child, being fondly caressed by a stranger. The genuine affection on both sides was apparent. And it was she, Fanny, who was really the stranger.
* * * * * * *
One day, as Fanny’s visit to Mansfield was drawing to a close, Miss Owen returned from an errand in the village to find the Clay boys sliding down the banister on the grand staircase, and the other boys endeavouring to make the circuit of the drawing room by jumping from chair to table to sofa, without touching the floor.
“What are you about?” She exclaimed sternly. “Henry—Cyrus—come here. Everyone! She herded them into the old billiard room, now a classroom, and ordered them to sit. She opened the connecting door to the study, expecting to find Edmund there. But the room was empty and he was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is the Reverend Bertram?” She asked the boys.
Thomas answered, “I saw father walk into the shrubbery, Miss Owen.”
“Everyone wait here!” she replied. “Open your books, everyone. Read something. Stay there, and do not move.”
Portia hurried outside and hastened through the shrubbery, highly alarmed, for she could not conceive of anything which would cause Edmund Bertram to neglect his duties.
She found him, sitting alone on a cold stone bench, with his head in one hand. He did not appear to be aware of anything around him. She approached him cautiously, although her footsteps in the gravel sounded as loud as kettle-drums to her ears. She saw that he held a letter in his hand
At last he became aware of her and looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed. Her heart squeezed in her chest at the sight of his misery.
“Good heavens, Mr. Bertram, what can the matter be? I fear you have received bad news.”
He said nothing, but handed her the letter. It was very brief.
12th February, 1819
The Office of the English Consul, Naples
To the Reverend Edmund Bertram, Esq.
Dear Sir:
It is my most unhappy duty to inform you that a gentlewoman, whom we believe to be your wife, expired in the city of Naples on the 10th inst. Enclosed you will find the certificate of Dr. John Roskilly, an eminent physician of this city, attesting to death as a result of typhoid fever.
Dr. Roskilly has provided a description of the deceased which corresponds with Mrs. Bertram’s passport, which is also enclosed. Dr. Roskilly has asked me to state he is willing to answer any enquiry concerning Mrs. Bertram which you may wish to put to him.
May I convey my profound sympathies to you and I have the honour to be, sir,
Your most obedient and humble servant,
Sir William A’Court,
Envoy to the Kingdom of Naples
“Oh, Mr. Bertram,” breathed Portia when she could speak. “Richard and I will take care of the school, pray, do not…”
Edmund nodded his thanks. Portia very much wanted to sit down beside him and put her arms around him. Instead, she handed the letter back, and said, “would you like me to send for Miss Price?”
* * * * * * *
London, Summer, 1819
The press of his engagements in town and his business with his publisher prevented Mr. Gibson from immediately responding to Mr. Orme’s invitation to visit his friend’s wine warehouse. With the help of Prudence, he had already made arrangements for a more extensive tour of the locomotive workshops of Newcastle and Leeds, and the industrial centres of the north.
But Mr. Orme received a note from one “P.A. Imlay, assistant to Mr. Gibson,” enquiring “if the coming Thursday would be suitable for a visit to the wine warehouse,” and Mr. Orme responded that Mr. Meriwether and Captain Duchesne would be honoured to receive Mr. Gibson on Thursday and begged to acquaint Mr. Gibson with the fact that he and Mr. Meriwether had met before at a dinner party in London.
Mr. Gibson was punctual to his time and was received in Cheapside. Mr. Meriwether begged leave to introduce Captain Duchesne who had selected some of their finest bottles of claret for their honoured guest to sample. In this fashion, the men fell into easy and then rather more animated conversation, and soon Captain Duchesne felt at liberty to jest with Mr. Gibson on the coincidence of their both having been guests of His Majesty. To the amusement of the others, Mr. Gibson and the captain went on to compare the accommodations, victuals, et cetera, of their respective prisons.
“In France, sir,” said the captain, “I trust that you dined better than whilst in prison.”
“I think none of us,” replied Mr. Gibson affably, gesturing to Mr. Meriwether and Mr. Orme, “would deny that even out of prison, a Parisian sits down to a better dinner than an Englishman,” and he added, “and doubly so in my case, for I leave for the North within a few days, and must resume dining on coach-house fare.
“We are told there is a great deal of trouble brewing in the North,”
