Edmund Bertram's Diary (17 page)

‘Indeed, I am very sensible of it,’ said Wil iam, 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 wel as Wil iam.

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 col ect the necklace at once, but promising to send it on as soon as he could.

Wednesday 14 December

The Grants were eager to meet Wil iam, and Fanny, having had him to herself for a time, was happy to share him with others, or at least, to al ow 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 Wil iam. ‘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 Wil iam 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 fal .

‘Nonsense!’ said Wil iam. ‘After al the scrambling parties I have been on, the rough horses and mules I have ridden, and the fal s I have escaped, you have nothing to fear.’

‘Do not worry, Miss Price. I wil bring him back to you in one piece,’ said Crawford indulgently. The party broke up in good humor, with an arrangement for us al to dine together tomorrow. Thursday 15 December

We had a fine day’s sport, and once Fanny saw Wil iam 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 Wil iam’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 Wil iam 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 tel ing 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 fel ow,’ he said, adding satirical y, ‘there wil 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 al 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 al Dr Grant’s very great kindness, it is impossible for him to accommodate me and my horses without material inconvenience. Wil 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 wil add to the stables on your own improved plan, and with al 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 Wil iam 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 bal with you and see you dance. Have you never any bal s 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 shal 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 wil engage to answer every inquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.’

Fanny flushed to hear herself so flat eringly spoken of. Fortunately for her modesty the conversation moved on to bal s my father had at ended in Antigua. So engrossed were we al 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 wil be in a position to know exactly what I have to offer her.

But wil it be enough? When I think of al 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 wil say no.

Friday 16 December

This morning my father announced that he intends to give a bal in honor of Fanny and Wil iam, 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 wil 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 al 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 Wil iam has to be at Portsmouth on the twenty-fourth, so we have not much time left. But I believe we can col ect 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 bal , 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. ‘Wel , this shal be her come-out bal 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 bal . 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

Wil iam and I went into Northamptonshire this morning and I col ected Fanny’s chain, which Tom had sent on for me. Wil iam 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 wil come,’ I reassured him. ‘When you are a captain, you wil be able to buy Fanny as many chains as you wish.’

Our business concluded, Wil iam 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 al ow 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 bal , 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 Wil iam 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 wil help Wil iam 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 bal . Crawford was from home, but Mary took my thanks very prettily and invited me to sit down.

‘I am here on another errand as wel ,’ 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 wil be the last time I wil 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 wil never again be partners.’

I was astonished. ‘How so?’

‘I have never danced with a clergyman, and I never wil .’

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 wil 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 bal 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 wil be a day of pleasure,’ I said, recol ecting myself, for the bal was intended for Fanny, and I did not want to spoil her enjoyment. ‘It wil al 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 shal ow 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 tel me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. The time may come—’

‘The time wil 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 befel 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 bal , and my head was ful of Mary. I recal ed 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 ful y able to appreciate Fanny’s beauty and elegance of dress, and to compliment her on it.