Edmund Bertram's Diary (16 page)

Conversation flowed easily, and Crawford entertained us al with tales of his stay in Bath.

‘I am glad to have you back, Henry, my boy,’ said Dr Grant, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes after one of Crawford’s anecdotes. ‘You must stay awhile.’

‘But I have to return to my own estate,’ said Crawford.

‘Nonsense! It can manage without you a little longer. What do you say, Mary?’

‘Yes, Henry, do stay,’ Mary urged, with the most pleasing sisterly affection.

‘I have nothing here . . .’ said Crawford.

‘What does that signify?’ said Dr Grant. ‘You can send for your hunters.’

‘Nothing would be easier,’ I said, thinking how lucky we would be to have another gentleman for company over the winter, especial y one as wel informed, and agreeable to the ladies, as Crawford.

‘And what say you, Miss Price?’ asked Crawford, turning to Fanny. I blessed him for bringing her forward, for she was inclined to be silent, overawed by so much company.

She flushed and said nothing.

‘Do you think this weather wil last?’ he persevered.

‘I cannot say,’ she returned in confusion.

‘Should I send for my hunters?’

‘I real y do not think I can give an opinion,’ she said.

‘Wel , then,’ said Crawford, continuing with the breeding and kindness of a true gentleman, ‘do you think I should stay?’

‘It is not for me to say.’

‘But you would not dislike it?’

‘No,’ she said, when pressed. ‘I should not dislike it.’

‘Then it is settled.’

He smiled at her, and Fanny managed a smal smile in return, and though it was no more than civility demanded I was glad she had managed so much.

My sisters were, of course, mentioned. After dinner, Crawford spoke of Maria’s marriage, saying, ‘Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton, I understand?’

Mary drew Fanny into the conversation with quite as much kindness as her brother, saying,

‘Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not? And Julia is with them.’

‘How we miss them. You were Mr. Rushworth’s best friend,’ he said to Fanny. ‘Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part. He might not have sense enough to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honor from al the rest of the party.’

I smiled to see her so wel entertained, and by such an agreeable man. I was about to speak to Mary when Dr Grant claimed my attention.

‘About your living, Edmund,’ he said. ‘You wil be ordained at Christmas, I believe?’

‘Yes, that is so. I wil be going to stay with my friend Owen and we wil be ordained together.’

‘And you wil then come into the living. Wel , it is not a bad living, the one at Thornton Lacey . . .

?’

‘Seven hundred pounds a year.’

‘Just so. Not a bad living. But it could be improved.’

He gave me the benefit of his advice, and once we had finished our discussion, Crawford said, ‘I shal make a point of coming to Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shal come on purpose to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, wil not you join me in encouraging your cousin? Wil not you engage to attend with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time — as I shal do — not to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence preeminently beautiful? We wil provide ourselves with tablets and a pencil. When wil it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know,’ he said to me, ‘that Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you.’

‘I shal keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,’ I said with a wry smile, for he would be sure to disconcert me.

The party broke up, and I am persuaded Fanny enjoyed her evening in company, and wil have many more such evenings to come.

Friday 2 December

Business taking me up to town, I cal ed in to the jewelers and ordered a gold chain for Fanny. Now that she is going out and about she wil need some adornment, and it wil 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 wil 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 cal ed on Tom, I asked him if he would col ect 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 al 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, al 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 al about him.

‘Wil iam 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 wil ask my uncle. Admiral Crawford wil know, or if he does not, then some of his connections at the Admiralty wil 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.’

‘Wel , it is not so very far from there to here. I am sure he wil be home again soon. Wil you see him when he is?’

‘I hope so.’

‘And so do I, for I can tel 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 Wil iam, 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 satirical y, ‘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 . . . ‘wil be very glad to see Wil iam, 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 Wil iam this morning.

‘Wel , Fanny, are you not going to tel 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. Wil iam is home!’

‘I wondered why the letter was so short!’ I said with a smile. She smiled back at me, for Wil iam’s letters are usual y 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 wil like to see him, I am sure. There wil be no difficulty in his obtaining a leave of absence.’

‘No, none at al . 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 wil dictate the letter myself.’

Fanny furnished herself with pen and paper, and I could not help remembering the first letter she had writ en to Wil iam, 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 strol ed 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 Wil iam this morning.’

‘Ah! I had hoped to be the first to tel 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 smal 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 stil 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 unwil ing to live without. Friday 9 December

Fanny could not settle to anything al day, so busy was she watching for Wil iam’s arrival. I came across her in the lobby, in the hal 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 Wil iam 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 al the help he has received, for without it he would not have done half so wel .’

‘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 wil 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 hal , you had much better remain by the fire,’ I said to her, for I was determined to give Fanny some time alone with Wil iam 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 al be if we al owed 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 wil 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 Wil iam. By the time the fire had been thoroughly discussed, Fanny and Wil iam had joined us, faces aglow, evidently delighted in each other’s company. Wil iam 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 cordial y, and though she sprinkled her conversation with, ‘I am sure you wil be grateful to your uncle’ . . . ‘benefactor’ . . . ‘stirred himself on your behalf’ . . . my aunt made Wil iam welcome, too.

Mama showed him Pug, and before long we were al being entertained by stories of life at sea. Fanny watched Wil iam 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 Wil iam again. Saturday 10 December

Wil iam kept us entertained with stories of his exploits at sea and Fanny lived through every minute of them with him, whether he was tel ing 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 al stopped and looked for her needle. When it was found, Wil iam continued, tel ing 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, Wil iam, 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 Wil iam. ‘I hope you are grateful for al 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.’