“Perhaps. Perhaps I am.”
“But my dear Fanny, we are not newly-acquainted with one another. Surely you have never doubted my sense of your worth, your superiority of understanding, even when I was infatuated with Mary. Nor have I any doubts of our similarities of taste, of temper, no doubts of your excellent principles and disposition.”
“Dear Edmund,” she said, “it is only natural you would be anxious to bind by the strongest ties all that remains to you. For me, every recollection of the past, as associated with you, is a happy one—exceedingly precious to me.”
“You speak of the past, Fanny. What of the future?”
She shook her head. “Indeed, it is too soon for us to speak of these things. Do not think I reproach you. I feel for your situation extremely.”
“Fanny, please at least assure me that you recognize my regard for you. From the time you arrived amongst us, an innocent and helpless child, I have loved, guided, attempted to protect you.”
“Edmund! I know it is the established mode for a gentleman to speak of his doubts and fears, of his unworthiness, when making his declaration. But truthfully, have you ever, ever doubted, how important you are to me? You were my first teacher, and I your first pupil. Always I have relied upon you, confided in you. There were many occasions when your kindness was my only comfort.”
“And? Fanny, have I offended you by speaking today? May I be permitted to make an attempt to persuade you?”
“Those principles which you praise, were all formed and directed under your care.” said Fanny gently, “Those same principles now tell me we must resume our walk, and put this conversation aside for now.”
“I must obey you,” said Edmund, but added, “But I cannot be sorry I confided in you in this fashion, Fanny. You are my oldest friend. Do you not recall when you came to visit me at Thornton Lacey? I told you then, as clearly as was in my power at that time, to let you know I regretted my marriage, and wished I had made a different choice, of a different kind of woman.” He took her hand and gently raised it to his lips. “I know you feel esteem for me, and if I could convince you, in time, that your cousinly affection is enough of a foundation to build upon…”
Fanny smiled and shook her head. Cousinly esteem? She also well recalled that conversation at Thornton Lacey. And she had thought, truly believed, that Edmund had discerned her secret. It seemed she was mistaken. He did not know, had never known, how he had occupied her heart during her girlhood years.
“What did that shake of the head mean?” said Edmund. “What was it meant to express? Disapprobation, I fear. But of what?”
It had always been her habit to conceal from Edmund her love of him. And since the time of his marriage, she had conscientiously schooled herself to denominate her romantic inclinations for him as a girl’s love, a youthful infatuation. Had she in fact succeeded in this? Had that early, girlish love subsided into a calmer friendship? And if so, was it wrong for her to listen to him now? Or, would marriage to Edmund bring her comfort, security, peace, respectability and lasting affection?
“You must give me time, Edmund,” was all she said after a silence of some minutes, marked only by the sound of their footsteps in the gravel path and the pattering of the rain on their umbrellas.
He was about to ask, “then, when?” when the sound of breaking glass coming from the greenhouse, followed by running feet, caused them to hasten to the sound. Around the corner came John and Henry Clay, one carrying a cricket bat, and both wearing guilty expressions.
The rest of the evening, and Fanny’s visit, was devoted to the children.
* * * * * * *
Huntingdon was a pleasant town, and Mrs. Price’s spirits and activity improved owing to the increased comforts and luxuries which Fanny’s income brought to their joint home.
The many tasks and decisions around setting up her first household kept Fanny agreeably occupied; for the first time she could exercise her own choices and her own tastes, and though she was by no means extravagant, the result was neat and pleasant and her mother was exceedingly pleased to welcome visitors to her parlour.
That anyone in Huntingdon might remember and call upon Mrs. Price after an absence of almost 40 years, may require some explanation. She owed her hospitable welcome to her sister Lady Bertram. Ever since she had had the good fortune to captivate Sir Thomas and gone away to Mansfield, she had maintained a correspondence with many of her old friends in Huntingdon. Thanks to those tireless epistolary efforts, the three pretty Ward sisters had not been forgotten. The Huntingdon girls they had gossiped with—now grandmothers—and the young men they had danced with so long ago—now rheumatic old men relying upon walking-canes—were ready to resume a long-interrupted acquaintance, and to declare that Mrs. Price had not altered since her days of triumph when she was Miss Frances, and for her to reply, neither had they!
Fanny found an apothecary willing to take an apprentice, and she sent Sam the funds for him to bring Betsey and Charles to Northamptonshire.
Betsey was grown into a fine-looking girl, having her share of the family’s good looks. Her temperament was very different from Fanny’s, and she was indifferent to her studies. This might have caused Fanny more concern but for the fact that Betsey loved reading. A fondness for reading, even for lurid novels, must hold out the hope of future improvement.
More than that, Betsey’s favourite pastime in her leisure
