“Indeed, sir, I wish to ascertain the degree of unrest, or ‘disaffection,’ as the Prince Regent calls it, as though his feelings are wounded when labourers ask to be paid enough to feed their children. As is always the case, any efforts for reform are equated with treasonous intentions. But—let us leave all talk of politics and reform aside for another day.”
Mr. Meriwether poured out another sampling of claret. “Let us consider, rather, the auguries for future prosperity. Here we are sirs, representatives of two nations which have been at one another’s throats for centuries, enjoying some good wine together and by heaven, I hope our governments will never have cause to quarrel again.”
“Indeed, sir, let the claret flow,” Mr. Gibson nodded, “because trade is the answer. Trade between our nations is the best preventative against future war.”
“My wife must be a true patriot then,” said Mr. Orme, “for she does her part in buying as much French fashion as ever she can.”
“As does mine,” added Mr. Meriwether.
“And I shall boast that my wife makes most of her own garments, and all my shirts,” said Captain Duchesne, raising his glass. “And, if I may invite you upstairs to my humble apartment, Mr. Gibson, she very much wishes to be re-acquainted with you. She is an old friend of yours from Bristol.”
There was only one lady he could think of, only one, who was skilled at dress-making and whom he had known in Bristol. A cold sweat broke out on Mr. Gibson’s brow.
“By all means,” he heard himself say. “I should be delighted.”
The thought raced through his brain: How could it possibly be that William and John would neglect to tell me that their sister was married?
“Duchesne must tell you someday, about how he met his wife,” said Mr. Meriwether, following Mr. Gibson up the staircase. “It is a charming tale. She used to come to the prison, carrying baskets of food for the prisoners.”
Mr. Gibson nodded. Before her death, Mrs. Butters used to write to him of Fanny’s benevolence toward the prisoners at Stapleton.
“And in fact, as I recall,” added Mr. Meriwether, “you were acquainted with the lady with whom she lived. When I was first in the wine trade, her husband built my ships.”
“You refer to Mrs. Butters?” said Mr. Gibson.
“Indeed yes, Mrs. Butters, rest her soul,” said Mr. Meriwether, and they had reached the landing at the top, Captain Duchesne stepped ahead to alert his wife.
The intelligence came so unexpectedly upon Mr. Gibson, the news was so surprising—so unwelcome—so destructive of his peace— that he struggled to maintain his composure. Mr. Gibson heard the captain call out: “my dear— my dear— your visitor has arrived,” and with many awkward and painful sensations flooding his breast, he had only an instant to fortify himself to greet the wife of Captain Duchesne.
In a moment Madame Duchesne appeared before him.
“Why—it is—it is Madame Orly!” he exclaimed.
Madame Duchesne’s pleasure in welcoming Mr. Gibson was most sincere, but Mr. Gibson’s ardent delight was almost peculiar. He looked excessively happy, congratulated her warmly, almost fervently, on her marriage, and wished her great joy. She had to wait for his effusions and compliments to subside, before she could turn to the other men and say, that it was her boast to have been acquainted with the famous writer when he was but an obscure and hungry poet in Bristol, living on bread and stale cheese, and a visitor at her late mistress’s house.
“And now his works are read and enjoyed all over the civilised world,” said Mr. Meriwether.
“But he was the friend of Mrs. Butters first, she was the first to appreciate him,” said Madame Duchesne. “She was so very fond of you, Mr. Gibson, and no doubt you were sorry to be far away on the Continent when she died.”
Mr. Gibson entered readily into an encomium on their late friend’s many virtues.
“Dear Mrs. Butters. She did so much good in the world. A very great lady, madame, the world will not see her like again.” After due tribute was paid to the late philanthropist, Madame Duchesne waited expectantly for Mr. Gibson to enquire after their other mutual acquaintance, but he did not. She saw no reason, though he were reticent, to refrain from asking. “Why is it, Monsieur Gibson, that you do you not ask after our friend Miss Price?”
Mr. Gibson bowed slightly and said, “Of course. I trust she is very well? I am sure I would have heard otherwise, if she were not.”
Madame Duchesne rolled her eyes, “Very well, since you are so eager to know, I shall tell you. She is well, yes, and presently at Mansfield.”
“Where her cousin Edmund Bertram now resides, I believe.”
“Yes, the same. He has turned their fine house into a school for boys! I have never been to Mansfield Park, but I saw an engraving once, in a book of gentleman’s houses. It is very grand, really I had no idea that Fanny grew up in such a place. My husband’s family, you know, had a very handsome old chateau in Bordeaux.”
“It was, however, exceedingly uncomfortable,” smiled the Captain. “Especially in winter. Bats in the tower, mice in the cellar, that sort of thing.”
“But magnificent!” declared his wife, loyally. “The chateau, I mean. Ah, my noble husband, to be reduced to living above a warehouse in Cheapside! He bears it so well!”
“His happiness must derive from other causes than his residence,” Mr. Gibson returned. “perhaps his excellent wife may be the reason. But pardon me—a school—you say? Has Fanny been residing with her cousin since Mrs. Butters’ unhappy demise?”
“No, no, she is only visiting there. She will settle in—oh I forget where—up there, in Northamptonshire, and she will take care of
