“I do not understand you, madame. The old baker?”
“Yes, for the reason why she refused to marry you! The baker.”
“My impetuosity, my unguarded writing, the disgrace of my imprisonment, was the reason. She did not want to share in such a life.”
Madame Duchesne waved her hand impatiently, “Perhaps not. Perhaps yes. She was always a timid sort of girl. But the reason, the cause, was for the old baker, I do not know his name, would not allow his son to marry Fanny’s sister—what was her name—”
“Susan?”
“Oui, oui. Yes, Susan. The old baker would not consent for his son to marry Susan because he would not allow his family to be related to an enemy of the country—that is to say,” she dimpled, “you, monsieur.”
Mr. Gibson stood, absolutely stupefied, for a moment. Finally he said, “Are you certain, Madame Duchesne? How came you to learn this?”
Madame Duchesne bristled slightly. “First, I am a woman, and I can hear and see and understand what is before my face. And secondly, yes, Fanny told me herself. She could not tell anyone in her family, poor little soul! So she must confide in someone. And I know that Fanny gave away her dowry to Susan, but she kept it all a great secret, for she did not want for her sister to feel obliged.”
The conviction of the truth of this assertion struck Mr. Gibson most forcibly. He actually had to walk away, and look out the window, oblivious to the passing scene around him, and to marvel at his own blindness.
Up until then, he had accepted Fanny’s decision, but not without a tinge of resentment of her character, which was, he felt, a perverse mixture of inflexibility and timidity. It was true that she had warned him that he might go where she could not follow—he had gone regardless. He had hoped that she loved him well enough to keep faith with him—but she did not.
Now this—it all fit, it was entirely consistent with the character of Fanny that he knew, and further, had always admired. Of course she had unhesitatingly put Susan’s welfare ahead of her own. Perhaps her qualms about him also played a part in her decision—what of it—the sacrifice was all Fanny’s.
And he had, over the years, wished Fanny well, and said generous things such as, “I hope she will find someone to make her happy,” and thought to himself, “I imagine she is married by now,” but in that brief interval of walking up the stairs, when he had been preparing himself to meet Fanny as a married woman, he understood his own feelings better.
“If I did not know that your friend Mr. Gibson was a writer, I would have guessed it,” said Captain Duchesne to his wife after their guests had left.
“What do you mean, my dear? Because of his spectacles?”
“No, because he had the appearance of a man living in another world. His body was here, but suddenly his mind was elsewhere. All writers and philosophers are notoriously distrait, is that not so?”
* * * * * * *
Fanny and Mrs. Price extended their visit in Mansfield for another fortnight, for it would have been barbarous to leave Edmund and his family in such a condition as the news from Italy had plunged them.
Portia lodged in Mansfield Park to watch over the school and Anna Imogen clung to Miss Owen’s skirts whenever she was at liberty to attend to the little girl. Thomas and Cyrus soon chose to resume their lessons, for the companionship of their new friends and the distraction of activity were the best remedies for them.
Miss Owen saw little of either of them—When he was not with his children, Edmund was always with Fanny. They went horseback riding, and walked in the shrubbery in the evening, or sat upon the lawn under the trees, or shut themselves up in the study while Edmund wrote to Everingham, to his father.
They were always deep in conversation. Edmund wanted to talk of Mary, and who, in all of Mansfield, was better fitted to listen kindly and candidly? Fanny could best attend to Edmund as he retraced the past, spoke of how they had first met, how she had attached him, how delightful nature had made her, and how excellent she would have been, had she fallen into good hands.
Edmund’s reliance on Fanny, whose compassion was blended with composure and steady judgement, enlarged day by day. He even took up her suggestion and wrote a long and sympathetic letter to Mrs. Bellingham in Liverpool, offering a place of refuge from the tragedy which blighted her life, and a good education for her sons.
But Mrs. Price began to grow restless; she had had enough of her sister’s company and enough of Fanny’s being entirely preoccupied with the concerns of the Bertrams, and she began to urge Fanny to resume their journey to Huntingdon and the new home she was anxious to see.
On a wet Monday afternoon, Fanny finished packing their trunks and she arranged for their departure on the morrow. She promised to give Edmund all her time until then and walked up to the parsonage one last time.
“It is a pity that it is raining, Fanny, or else we might take a final turn in the shrubbery at the great house,” Edmund remarked.
“Let us take our umbrellas and go,” Fanny replied. “It will not be so wet if we keep upon the gravel, and I should like to take some exercise,
