Friday 2 December
Business taking me up to town, I called in to the jewelers and ordered a gold chain for Fanny. Now that she is going out and about she will need some adornment, and it will give me great pleasure to give her such a gift. I looked at a variety but in the end I chose a simple chain so that she will be able to wear it on any occasion. I asked for it to be shortened as it was rather long for her and I was told it would not be ready until I had left town. When I called on Tom, I asked him if he would collect it for me. He promised to do so, and to send it on to me at Mansfield.
He was in good spirits. He asked me if I had proposed to Mary yet, and when I shook my head he said I was making slow work of it.
‘I want to find you all married the next time I come home: you, Fanny, Julia — and Aunt Norris!’
I could not get a serious word out of him, but it was good to see him again, all the same.
Monday 5 December
Fanny and I dined at the Parsonage again this evening, and on Fanny happening to mention her brother, Crawford continued to draw her out by asking her all about him.
‘William is on the Antwerp, you say?’ he asked, drawing his chair closer to hers.
‘Yes,’ said Fanny.
‘And you are longing to see him again, no doubt,’ he said with a smile. ‘You have been parted for a very long time.’
‘Oh, I have. I would like to see him again above anything. I wish I knew when he was coming home.’
‘I will ask my uncle. Admiral Crawford will know, or if he does not, then some of his connections at the Admiralty will be able to find it out. The Antwerp is in the Mediterranean, you say?’
‘Yes, or at least it was, the last time I heard.’
‘Well, it is not so very far from there to here. I am sure he will be home again soon. will you see him when he is?’
‘I hope so.’
‘And so do I, for I can tell how much you miss him.’
They continued in similar vein, and I thought how very good it was of Crawford to take such an interest in William, for if there was anything guaranteed to please Fanny, it was someone’s taking an interest in her brother.
I said as much to Mary, who remarked satirically, ‘Oh yes, Henry is always able to please young ladies.’
‘And I...’ I caught myself, as she looked at me expectantly, and I realized I had almost asked if I could please them, too... ‘will be very glad to see William, too.’
‘Ah, yes, I am sure you must be longing for a visit from him quite as much as Fanny,’ she said, laughing at me.
I was bewitched, and wondered again if I had any chance of being accepted by her. If her smiles were anything to the point, then yes. But if her professions of a desire to be rich were to be taken seriously, then no.
I was no closer to understanding her when the evening came to an end.
Tuesday 6 December
As sometimes happens in life, talking about a thing has brought it on, for Fanny had a letter from William this morning.
‘Well, Fanny, are you not going to tell us your news?’ I asked her, as I saw her bright eyes, and knew it must be good. ‘Do not keep us in suspense!’
‘The Antwerp has returned. William is home!’
‘I wondered why the letter was so short!’ I said with a smile. She smiled back at me, for William’s letters are usually exceedingly long.
‘He had time for no more than a few lines, written as he was coming up the Channel. He sent the letter in to Portsmouth with the first boat that left the Antwerp when she lay at anchor.’
‘The first boat? I would expect nothing less!’
‘That is very good news,’ said my father kindly. ‘You will like to see him, I am sure. There will be no difficulty in his obtaining a leave of absence.’
‘No, none at all. It is one of the advantages of being a midshipman, ’ she agreed.
‘Then we must invite him here. Fanny, you must write to him. I will dictate the letter myself.’
Fanny furnished herself with pen and paper, and I could not help remembering the first letter she had written to William, blotted with tears, and strangely spelt. As I watched her even hand flow over the paper, I thought how much she had grown, not just in stature but in person, and how graceful she had become over the years.
She was in the middle of the letter when Crawford strolled up from the Parsonage, carrying a newspaper.
‘My dear Miss Price, what do you think? As I turned to the ship news this morning, I saw that the Antwerp had docked, so I came at once to give you the news.’
‘I know,’ she replied, looking up from her letter. ‘I have had a letter from William this morning.’
‘Ah! I had hoped to be the first to tell you. But I cannot be sorry you have had it already, when I see how much pleasure it brings you. I have never seen you looking happier.’
‘You are too kind. And it was very thoughtful of you to bring me the paper,’ she said, ‘for if I did not already know, it would have delighted me beyond anything.’
‘Then I am rewarded for my small trouble,’ he replied with a bow. The letter was finished, and Crawford suggested we go out for a ride. I asked if Miss Crawford might like to come with us, but she was indisposed, and so the three of us went out together. When we had done, Fanny and I returned to the Parsonage with Crawford, and I asked after Miss Crawford. She was better, but her head still ached, Mrs. Grant said. I sent her my good wishes, and after lunch I repaired to the study where my father and I talked over estate business until dinner.
The table seemed lifeless without Mary. I have come to depend on her presence, and the liveliness of her company; a liveliness I am increasingly unwilling to live without.
Friday 9 December
Fanny could not settle to anything all day, so busy was she watching for William’s arrival. I came across her in the lobby, in the hall and on the stairs, her eyes looking out of the window, and her ears straining for the first sound of a carriage. At last she repaired to the drawing-room and took up her needlework, though I believe very few stitches were laid, for every time a step came on the gravel she jumped up, and if she heard a horse whinny she ran to the window.
‘He cannot be here before dinner,’ I told her.
‘If he has a good journey he could be here by four o’clock,’ she said.
‘You have measured the distance?’ I asked her teasingly.
She said with a smile, ‘I have been looking at the map.’
She sat down again, and picked up her needlework.
‘What a lucky boy William is, to be sure, to have had so much help from Sir Thomas,’ said my aunt, as Fanny’s eyes went every few minutes out of the window. ‘I hope he is properly grateful for all the help he has received, for without it he would not have done half so well.’
‘I did very little,’ said my father kindly. ‘He has worked hard and made the most of his advantages. I gave him his start, perhaps, but he has progressed on his own merits.’
My aunt continued in a similar vein until, hearing the carriage, she said, ‘There he is! What a day this is, to be sure! How happy he will be to be here, in the house of his benefactor. I must go and welcome him at once.’
‘Pray, do not stir yourself,’ said my father, as Fanny ran out of the room, ‘for I am sure there is no need.’
‘But Sir Thomas, there is every need in the world,’ she said, eager to be doing something.
‘It is cold in the hall, you had much better remain by the fire,’ I said to her, for I was determined to give Fanny some time alone with William before she had to share him with others.
‘I have never been one to worry about a little cold, when there is a duty to perform,’ said my aunt. ‘Indeed, where would we all be if we allowed such trifles to prevent us from doing what we knew to be right?’
As she stood up, my father spoke, and I realized we had the same idea.
‘Mrs. Norris, I need your advice,’ he said. ‘Do you think I should have the fire built up? It is, as Edmund so rightly says, cold today. Do you think we should have more coal on the fire, or will we grow too hot?’
She looked surprised at being consulted on such a trifling matter but the ruse served, for it gave Fanny a few minutes alone with William. By the time the fire had been thoroughly discussed, Fanny and William had joined us, faces aglow, evidently delighted in each other’s company. William proved to be a young man of open, pleasing countenance, and frank but respectful manners, a credit to my father, the Navy, and himself.
My father welcomed him cordially, and though she sprinkled her conversation with, ‘I am sure you will be grateful to your uncle’... ‘benefactor’... ‘stirred himself on your behalf’... my aunt made William welcome, too.
Mama showed him Pug, and before long we were all being entertained by stories of life at sea. Fanny watched William avidly, tracing in his manly face the likeness of the boy she had known. I saw her emotions change from elation at being with him, to perplexity at seeing the changes time had wrought in him, to a welcome recognition of certain expressions and features, and then a more happy, settled joy at being with her beloved William again.
Saturday 10 December
William kept us entertained with stories of his exploits at sea and Fanny lived through every minute of them with him, whether he was telling of his time in the Mediterranean or in the West Indies.
‘My captain sometimes took me ashore, and the places were strange at first, and so were the people. They wore—’
‘I have lost my needle,’ said my aunt. ‘Pray, has anyone seen my needle? I cannot sew without it. Sister, have you seen it? It was here with my sewing not five minutes ago.’
We all stopped and looked for her needle. When it was found, William continued, telling us of a chase as the Antwerp ran down a prize.
‘We were gaining on her every minute, and at last we drew alongside her, and then—’
‘Now where is that button? I know I had it somewhere. Do help me to look for it, Fanny.’
‘The button can wait, I am sure, until we have found out whether the Antwerp captured her prize,’ I said. ‘So, William, you boarded the ship? And what then?’
We sat enraptured as he painted the scene for us, and did it so vividly that Mama murmured,
‘Dear me! How disagreeable. I wonder anybody can ever go to sea.’
‘Why, sister, if no one ever went to sea, what would we do with so many men on land?’ asked my aunt. She turned to William. ‘I hope you are grateful for all the chances you have been given because of the beneficence of your uncle. It is not every young man who has someone to speak for him.’
‘Indeed, I am very sensible of it,’ said William, though he looked surprised to be reminded of it for the third time.
After lunch, I suggested that Fanny should show her brother the Park, and they set out on horseback. As I watched them go I was glad that they would have the afternoon alone with no one to interrupt them. I thought how tender Fanny’s heart was, and how never a brother had been loved as well as William.
Thoughts of brothers and sisters took my own to Miss Crawford and before long I was at the Parsonage, asking after her health. It was much improved, she told me, and smiled at me as she thanked me for taking the trouble to enquire.
Tuesday 13 December
I had a letter from Tom this morning, saying that he would not be able to collect the necklace at once, but promising to send it on as soon as he could.
Wednesday 14 December
The Grants were eager to meet William, and Fanny, having had him to herself for a time, was happy to share him with others, or at least, to allow them to bask in the delight of his presence. That being so, we dined at the Parsonage this evening. Afterwards, Mary played her harp, and I took the opportunity of going to sit beside her. She finished her air, and after I had complimented her on her playing, we began to talk.
‘How happy Fanny is,’ she said, glancing towards the side of the room where Fanny sat, with face aglow, watching and listening to William. ‘I am sure I have never looked at Henry like that.’
‘But perhaps you would if you had not seen him for years, and had been parted when you were ten years old.’
‘I am glad for her. She has a good heart, and she deserves her happiness.’
This could not help but warm me, and her brother warmed me more when he offered William a horse so that he could join us in our ride tomorrow.
Fanny’s face was a mixture of heartfelt gratitude for such kindness to her brother, and fear that he would take a fall.
‘Nonsense!’ said William. ‘After all the scrambling parties I have been on, the rough horses and mules I have ridden, and the falls I have escaped, you have nothing to fear.’
‘Do not worry, Miss Price. I will bring him back to you in one piece,’ said Crawford indulgently. The party broke up in good humor, with an arrangement for us all to dine together tomorrow.
Thursday 15 December
We had a fine day’s sport, and once Fanny saw William come home safely again she was able to value Crawford’s kindness as it should be valued, free of the taint of fear. She was so much reassured by William’s return, without so much as a scratch, that she was able to smile when Crawford said, during dinner at the Parsonage, ‘You must keep the horse for the duration of your visit, Mr. Price.’
‘I thought your brother was going to return to his estate?’ I asked Mary.
‘He was, but he has changed his mind. We have Fanny and William to thank for keeping him here,’ she said. ‘He has decided to stay indefinitely.’
Crawford looked round.
‘What was that? Did someone say my name?’
‘I was telling Mr. Bertram that you had decided to stay with us instead of returning to your estate.’
‘Yes, indeed. I find the place suits me. When I was out riding this morning, I found myself in Thornton Lacey,’ he went on. ‘Is not that the living you are to have, Bertram?’
‘It is. And how did you like what you saw?’ I asked.
‘Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow,’ he said, adding satirically, ‘there will be work for five summers at least before the place is livable.’
‘No, no, not so bad as that!’ I protested. ‘The farmyard must be moved, I grant you; but I am not aware of anything else. The house is by no means bad, and when the yard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach to it. I think the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air of a gentleman’s residence, without any very heavy expense, and that must suffice me.’ I could not help adding, with a glance at Miss Crawford, ‘And, I hope, may suffice all who care about me.’
‘I have a mind to take something in the neighborhood myself,’ said Crawford. ‘It would be very pleasant to have a home of my own here, for in spite of all Dr Grant’s very great kindness, it is impossible for him to accommodate me and my horses without material inconvenience. will you rent me Thornton Lacey?’ he asked me.
My father replied that I would be residing there myself, which surprised Crawford, who had thought I would claim the privileges without taking on the responsibilities of the living.
‘Come as a friend instead of a tenant,’ I said. ‘Consider the house as half your own every winter, and we will add to the stables on your own improved plan, and with all the improvements that may occur to you this spring.’
Crawford said he had half a mind to take me up on it, but the conversation progressed no further for William began talking of dancing, and it captured the interest of everyone present.
‘Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?’ he asked, turning towards her.
‘Yes, very; only I am soon tired,’ she confessed.
‘I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance. Have you never any balls at Northampton? I should like to see you dance, and I’d dance with you if you would, for nobody would know who I was here, and I should like to be your partner once more. We used to jump about together many a time, did not we? When the hand-organ was in the street? I am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a better.’ And turning to my father, who was now close to them, said, ‘Is not Fanny a very good dancer, sir?’
‘I am sorry to say that I am unable to answer your question. I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a little girl; but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like a gentle-woman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may have an opportunity of doing ere long.’
‘I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price,’ said Crawford, leaning forward, ‘and will engage to answer every inquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.’
Fanny flushed to hear herself so flatteringly spoken of. Fortunately for her modesty the conversation moved on to balls my father had at ended in Antigua. So engrossed were we all in listening to him that we did not hear the carriage until it was announced. I was about to take Fanny’s shawl to lay it round her shoulders when Crawford did it for me. I glanced at Mary and she smiled at me, wishing us a safe journey back to the Park. And now, back in my room, I feel the time is coming when I must put Mary’s feelings to the test, for I cannot hide my own any longer. I am in love with her, and I wish to make her my wife. Once Christmas is over and I have been ordained, I will be in a position to know exactly what I have to offer her.
But will it be enough? When I think of all the encouragements she has given me, the smiles and playful comments, the thoughts and feelings shared, then I think yes. But when I think of her comments on the necessity of wealth and her decided preference for London life, I am sure she will say no.
Friday 16 December
This morning my father announced that he intends to give a ball in honor of Fanny and William, and I was relieved and pleased. Relieved, because it would give another turn to my thoughts, which are at present occupied by the serious considerations of my ordination and the torment of wondering whether Mary will marry me. And pleased, because Fanny has little opportunity for dancing, and I want her to be given the pleasure.
My aunt was soon busily deciding that she must take all the care from Mama’s shoulders, and Mama had no objections to make.
My father suggested the twenty-second, a date my aunt declared to be impossible because of the shortness of the notice, but he was firm.
‘We must hold it soon, for William has to be at Portsmouth on the twenty-fourth, so we have not much time left. But I believe we can collect enough young people to form ten or twelve couples next week, despite the shortness of the notice.’
As soon as I had a chance to speak to my father alone, I said, ‘I am very happy at the idea of a ball, for it has been troubling me recently that Fanny has not yet come out.’
My father was surprised to learn of it.
‘Mama felt that her health made it wise to wait until she was older.’
‘Just so,’ he said. ‘Well, this shall be her come-out ball then.’
The invitations were sent out this afternoon, and as I happened to be going past the Parsonage, I took the Crawfords’ and the Grants’ invitation in person. I was pleased to see Mary’s eyes sparkle, but learned it was not with thoughts of the ball. She had just then received a letter from her friends in London, and they had invited her to stay.
‘I thought you were fixed here,’ I said, my spirits sinking.
‘And so I am, but you would not begrudge me a visit to my friends, I am sure,’ she returned.
‘Henry has kindly agreed to remain at Mansfield until January, so that he might convey me to them.’
And so, before January I must offer her my hand, for if I do not, I may miss my chance for many months, or, if she decides to stay in London, forever.
Wednesday 21 December
William and I went into Northamptonshire this morning and I collected Fanny’s chain, which Tom had sent on for me. William was pleased to see it.
‘It is exactly the sort of thing I wanted to buy for Fanny, to go with the amber cross I bought her, but as a midshipman my pay would not stretch so far.’
‘Your time will come,’ I reassured him. ‘When you are a captain, you will be able to buy Fanny as many chains as you wish.’
Our business concluded, William and I rode back to the Park and I took the chain upstairs, thinking to find Fanny in her sitting-room, but she was out. No sooner did I sit down to write her a note, explaining that the chain was hers, and what it was for, than she entered the room. Hardly had I handed it to her when she told me that Mary had already given her a chain for that very purpose. I was heartened to hear of it, and then thought, a moment later, that I should have expected it, because Mary has always been thoughtful, particularly where Fanny is concerned. Fanny said she would return Mary’s gift, but I would not allow it, for it would be mortifying to Mary.
‘But it was given to her by her brother,’ said Fanny. ‘I tried not to take it when I knew, but she insisted, saying he gave her so many things, one more or less did not signify. But I was not comfortable with it then, and I am not comfortable with it now, the more so because it is no longer needed.’
‘Miss Crawford must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least,’ I said. ‘I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise between the two dearest objects I have on earth. Wear hers for the ball, and keep mine for commoner occasions.’
And so it was settled, and I was heartened as I returned to my room, to know that Mary had so much generosity in her.
Thursday 22 December
It is not only Mary who has generosity in her, it is also her brother, for he has done a very kind thing. He has offered to convey William to London, whither he is bound himself, and has invited him to spend the evening at Admiral Crawford’s. This is just the kind of notice that will help William in his career. To be brought to the attention of an admiral can do him nothing but good. I went down to the Parsonage shortly afterwards, intending to thank Crawford for his kindness, and to engage his sister for the first two dances at the ball. Crawford was from home, but Mary took my thanks very prettily and invited me to sit down.
‘I am here on another errand as well,’ I said. ‘I have come to ask if you would stand up with me for the first two dances.’
‘Certainly,’ she said, adding, ‘For it will be the last time I will ever dance with you.’
‘But why? What is this? You are to return from London, surely? I thought you were only going to pay a visit to your friends.’
‘And so I am, but when I return, you and I will never again be partners.’
I was astonished. ‘How so?’
‘I have never danced with a clergyman, and I never will.’
I could not make her out. Was she joking? If so, it was in very poor taste. If not... At that moment Mrs. Grant came in and I could not say any more about it, but as soon as I returned to the Park I sought out Fanny.
‘I come from Dr Grant’s,’ I said to her. ‘You may guess my errand there, Fanny. I wished to engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances.’
‘And did you succeed?’
‘Yes, she is engaged to me; but...’ I forced a smile. ‘... she says it is to be the last time that she ever will dance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she is not serious; but I would rather not hear it. For my own sake, I could wish there had been no ball just at — I mean not this very week, this very day; tomorrow I leave home.’
‘I am very sorry that anything has occurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle meant it so.’
‘Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure,’ I said, recollecting myself, for the ball was intended for Fanny, and I did not want to spoil her enjoyment. ‘It will all end right. I am only vexed for a moment. I have been pained by her manner this morning, and cannot get the better of it.’
I shook my head as I thought that Mary’s former companions had encouraged her in such shallow opinions and poor taste.
Fanny thought as I did, that Mary’s words were the effect of a poor education.
‘Yes, education! Her uncle and aunt have much to answer for!’
Fanny hesitated.
‘Excuse the liberty; but take care how you talk to me,’ she said gently. ‘Do not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. The time may come—’
‘The time will never come, I have almost given up every serious idea of her,’ I said, shaking my head, for the more I remembered her words and expression, the more I began to feel that I had been a fool to believe I could ever win her. ‘But I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever befell me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the sincerest gratitude,’ I said to Fanny with a smile.
We were disturbed by the housemaid and, though I would have liked to say more, this prevented further conversation.
I returned to my room to dress for the ball, and my head was full of Mary. I recalled every nuance of her voice and her expression, and by and by I began to think that I had lost heart too easily, and that things were not so very bad. It was playfulness, surely, and not rejection, for even in London there were clergymen, and she could not refuse to dance with them if they asked her. With these happier thoughts in my head I went down to dinner. My humor was so far improved that I was fully able to appreciate Fanny’s beauty and elegance of dress, and to compliment her on it.
‘But what is this?’ I said, seeing her cross hanging from my chain.
‘Miss Crawford’s chain was too big. It would not fit through the hole,’ she said. ‘Yours was just the right fit. I thought it only proper to wear Miss Crawford’s chain also, as she had been kind enough to give it to me, and so I wore it on its own.’
I saw Mary’s chain hanging beside mine.
‘An excellent solution. The amber becomes you, Fanny. You are in looks tonight. You must keep two dances for me; any two that you like, except the first,’ I said to her. No sooner had the ladies withdrawn after dinner than the carriages began to arrive. Mary looked more lovely than ever, her hair arranged in the most becoming style and her dress as faultless as ever. To my delight, Crawford sought out Fanny. They made a handsome couple, and admiring eyes were turned on them. My father looked pleased, and Mama, too, smiled, as Fanny walked on to the floor.
And then I had eyes only for Mary. When she smiled upon me, I banished the last of my fears and gave myself over to an enjoyment of the evening.
‘It was very kind of you to supply Fanny with a chain for her cross. It shows to advantage against her delicate neck,’ she said, as I led her out on to the floor.
‘No kinder than it was of you. I know she wanted to wear your chain with the cross, and was prevented only by its being the wrong size.’
The music started. I bowed, she curtsied, and the dance began.
‘But she is wearing it anyway. I believe a better girl does not exist. She seems to be enjoying herself,’ she said, glancing towards the top of the set, where Fanny and Henry were dancing, adding, ‘though she seems to be looking at William as often as she looks at Henry.’
‘She has seen so little of him these last eight years, I believe she feels she must keep her eyes on him in case he disappears!’
‘Which he will do all too soon, alas.’
‘Yes. It is good of your brother to interest himself in William. My father has done all he can to help, but he has little influence in the Navy and can do no more. If your uncle would take up William’s cause and help him to a commission as lieutenant, it would mean a great deal to him. We would all like to see him do well.’
‘He is ambitious,’ said Mary approvingly. ‘He tells me that, if only he can be made a lieutenant, he means to rise through the ranks and not stop until he makes Admiral. It will be a lucky young woman who wins his heart. A handsome young man with a fortune, to say nothing of a uniform, will always be popular with the gentler sex.’
‘He has many years of bachelorhood ahead of him yet. He is only nineteen, hardly more than a boy!’
‘He has achieved a great deal for someone who is hardly more than a boy,’ she returned. ‘He has had adventures many an older man might envy.’
My heart sank, as I suspected where her conversation was tending. Sure enough she began, gently at first but then with more passion, to tell me what a fine career the Navy was, and how a man might take a pride in his achievements, whereas there was no glory in being a country parson, and I was left to realize that her remarks to me this morning were not in jest, after all.
‘Would you have me do something for which I am unsuited, and in which I have no interest?’ I asked her, as the steps of the dance parted us.
‘I would have you use your talents and abilities instead of wasting them,’ she said, as we came together. ‘You have it in you to make your mark on the world. There is a need for men like you in public life. Great orators—’
‘I am hardly that.’
‘You underestimate yourself. I have heard you reading from books with Fanny, and you have a power that other men would envy,’ she said coaxingly. ‘Your words could sway others and bring you renown. London would be at your feet.’
‘I prefer the country,’ I returned.
‘But could do so much more in the town. It would give you more scope, and a greater stage for your endeavors.’
‘I thank you, but I have had enough of stages. I have no taste for acting,’ I returned.
‘Indeed,’ she said, and there was something vulnerable in her voice. ‘I rather thought you liked it.’
I was reminded of the scenes we had performed together, and softened.
‘As Amelia you did not seem so set against the clergy,’ I said more gently.
‘As Amelia I was not.’
The dance parted us, but when we came together again I tried to make her understand.
‘If I could only make you see that the life you want for me would not bring me happiness,’ I said.
‘The noise you speak of, the bustle and importance, are only necessary because they hide an emptiness at their heart.’
‘William Price does not appear to think so.’
‘William’s case is different. He is in the Navy, and we depend on the Navy for our freedom.’
‘And do we not depend on our politicians for our freedom, too?’
‘But I have no taste for politics,’ I said, ‘and if I did, it would have no taste for me. A younger son belongs nowhere in such an arena. This is where I belong, in the neighborhood where my family have always lived. I am a part of it, and it is a part of me. In the parish I have a chance of making a difference; in London I can do nothing except make myself miserable.’
‘You are determined to squander your talents,’ she said, annoyed. ‘I thought that you, of all people, would pay attention to the parables.’
I shook my head at her notion that I was hiding my light under a bushel.
‘My light would soon be extinguished in London,’ I said. ‘And so would yours. Think again about going there.’
‘So now you want me to forgo my own pleasures because they do not match your own?’ she demanded.
‘I would by no means rob you of any pleasure,’ I said stiffly. ‘But there is a price to be paid for everything, and I hope you may not find that the price you pay for the life you desire is too high.’
We relapsed into silence, whilst all around us my father’s guests danced. We continued down the set, but my thoughts were not on the steps, they were on Mary and her unquenchable desire for wealth and renown.
The dance ended, and we parted with vexation on both sides. Mixed in with my anger was the dismal knowledge that she would never consent to marry a country parson; and that I could never be happy being anything else.
I wandered here and there amongst the dancers, offering my hand to the ladies who were sitting out, talking to the chaperons and making everyone feel welcome, for I could not let my personal feelings interfere with my duty. But all the time I was thinking of Mary, and feeling the loss of her like a physical pain.
At last it was time for me to claim Fanny, and I found her with relief.
‘I am worn out with civility,’ I confessed, as I led her on to the floor. ‘I have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But with you, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence.’
She smiled in silent sympathy, and I found it a great solace to be able to dance with her. How different was our silence to the one that had fallen between Miss Crawford and myself, for that had been angry and not at all comfortable. But then, Fanny is one of my oldest friends, and it would be a strange day, indeed, if I should ever find myself at outs with her.
Friday 23 December
I arose in bad spirits, and glad to be going away. No good could come of my seeing Miss Crawford again, for all hope of a marriage between us had gone, and my absence, followed by her own, was the best thing for both of us.
I went down to breakfast and found Crawford just arriving. He ate with us, for his sister was fagged after the ball and had not wanted to get up so soon. Crawford and William were cheerful, but I could think of nothing to say, and so I sat silently. Fanny, too was silent. She watched William avidly as he ate his pork chop and mustard, refusing to take her eyes from him even for a minute, so unwilling was she to lose one precious moment of his company. At last William pushed back his chair, and Crawford did likewise, then William embraced his sister robustly. But although he was sorry to leave her, it was clear he was equally eager to be gone, for he knew that on the next forty-eight hours his whole future depended. There was all the usual bustle of departure and then the carriage pulled away. Fanny would not relinquish her post at the door until it had turned the corner and gone from sight.
‘Come in Fanny, before you catch cold,’ I said to her.
She allowed me to take her inside, and I plied her with eggs and tea, which she cried over very prettily. But she ate all the same, for much as she missed William, she was hungry, and besides, she wanted to please me.
After she had eaten, I suggested we go out for a walk, and the beauty of the morning revived her.
Once indoors again, I made her join me for a second breakfast, where I persuaded her to eat a little seedcake, and then I bade her and the rest of my family goodbye for a week, mounted my horse and set off for Peterborough.
Once on my way, I was free, at last, to think of my own business. The day was fine, though cold. Frost coated the bare branches, and covered the last blooms of summer that remained in sheltered hollows or in the lee of walls. I wanted Fanny with me when I saw a red rose still blooming, one hardy flower keeping its place amongst the thorns, for I was persuaded she would have liked to see the
Hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
I reached Lessingby and was glad to find myself going up the road to Owen’s house before darkness fell, though the daylight was already fading, dwindling into a soft twilight brightened by the translucent frost.
A light shone in the window. Then the curtain was pulled back, and the candlelight flooded out in all its splendor, staining the drive gold with its brilliance. The curtain fell; I was at the door; my horse was taken, and then I was being welcomed into the house by Owen and his family. It was bright inside, so bright that I had to blink, and the heat flowed over me and wrapped itself round me like a blanket.
‘Welcome,’ said Owen’s mother, looking every bit as elegant as she did when I first met her eight years ago. ‘You must be cold. Here, sit by the fire. Beddows, a glass of wine.’
And before long, I found myself seated by the fire with a wineglass in my hand, surrounded by Owen’s family.
His sisters were elegant and pretty and were much grown since my last visit. They were sitting over their needlework; which, however, they neglected so as to listen to the conversation. After the details of my journey had been thoroughly dealt with, and enquiries had been made as to my family’s health, Owen and I began to talk of our forthcoming ordination. It was a relief to be able to talk about it in sympathetic company, knowing the subject would not prompt ridicule or frustration; for with Owen’s father being a clergyman himself, and Owen to be ordained with me, it was a house of clergymen.
We continued our conversation over dinner, and the three Miss Owens added their thoughts. Everyone was very pleasant, and the meal was excellent, and I found myself looking forward to the coming week.
Over the port, we discussed the subject more thoroughly and then went through to the drawing room, where the women entertained us with singing and playing on the pianoforte. I thought of Thomson:
An elegant sufficiency, content,
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books.
And thought of the three Miss Owens, and how different they were from Mary Crawford.
Thursday 29 December
This has been perhaps the happiest week of my life. To have finally fulfilled my destiny and become ordained has left me feeling at peace with the world.
‘We are so proud of you both,’ said Mrs. Owen this evening over dinner. ‘You are both fine additions to the clergy.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mr. Owen. ‘The church needs young people like you, forward-thinking young men with ideas and energy. Men who will lead by setting a good example to their parishioners, and who will restore the clergy to its proper respectability. There has been too much easy living of late; too much ignoring of parish duties; too many clergymen inclined to take their ease and let others do the work. They do not seem to realize that it is in the work of the church that its future lies. You young men have a chance to make a difference, to enhance your parishioners’ lives with your judgment, example and understanding, and to set the tone of the country for generations to come.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs. Owen.
‘I only hope my brother might soon have a living. You have one, I understand, Mr. Bertram,’ said Miss Owen who had grown very pretty.
‘I have, at Thornton Lacey,’ I told her.
‘Thornton Lacey! What a coincidence. We passed through there on our way to Aunt Hester’s in October. I remember it well. The rectory was a gentleman’s residence, and the parish was a good size. Do you mean to live there?’ she asked me.
‘Yes, I do. I can see no point in going into my parish only to read the sermons.’
‘Good, good,’ said Mr. Owen approvingly.
‘And is the house well situated?’ asked Mrs. Owen.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Owen, before I could answer. ‘To be sure, the farm could perhaps be moved, but the situation is admirable. The house is very fine, quite the finest house in the neighborhood, and the view is very pretty. There is a dear little garden, with meadows beyond, and a stream—’ She realized she had said too much and relapsed into silence, blushing. I found myself wishing that Mary could have been as well pleased with the house, but Mary was of a different kind from Miss Owen. I remembered her insulting words at the ball : A clergyman is nothing... can do nothing... be no one... easily satisfied... no ambition... a real man makes his mark in the world....
I was so busy thinking of her that I did not realize Mr. Owen was speaking to me. I brought my thoughts back from their own paths in time to hear Mr. Owen say, ‘You have been fortunate.’
‘Indeed I have.’
‘And how are your friends the Crawfords?’ asked Owen, as the conversation moved away from the church. ‘The Crawfords are the brother and sister of Dr Grant,’ he explained to his family.
‘Mr. Crawford has an estate in Norfolk, and Miss Crawford is an heiress. A beautiful and intelligent young woman by all accounts. Are they still at Mansfield?’
‘For the present, but they will not be there for much longer. Miss Crawford is going to stay in London for an extended visit.’
‘She will be staying with her uncle?’ asked Owen.
‘No, with her friend, a Mrs. Fraser.’
There was a short pause, then Mrs. Owen said, ‘It seems a shame that you should have to hurry back to Mansfield tomorrow, Mr. Bertram, we have seen so very little of you. will you not do us the very great favor of staying another week?’
I thought of Mansfield and I knew that Mary would not yet have left, so that if I returned as planned I would be forced into company with her. I found I did not want to see her again. What use would it be for me to torment myself with the sight of her, when I knew she would never marry me? For she would not be satisfied until she had a house in town and a husband who was universally acclaimed.
And then I thought of Owen’s house, with his welcoming family and his pretty sisters, and I said,
‘You are very kind. I would like to stay above all things.’
Mrs. Owen smiled.
‘Then it is settled,’ she said.