Edmund Bertram's Diary (22 page)

‘Of course she wil ,’ I said. ‘She wil have Aunt Norris.’

‘But Aunt Norris wil not fetch and carry for her as I do.’

‘Then I wil do it for her.’

‘But you wil not be here.’ She colored. ‘You wil soon be going to town, and you wil have other demands on your time, other people . . .’

I thought of Mary, and I was sure her thoughts had gone to Mary’s brother, for why else should she fal silent? I reassured her that Mama would manage without her, but she was stil perturbed, and it was not until my father reassured her after dinner that she was content. It is so like Fanny to be always thinking of others. It wil do her good to go to Portsmouth, where she can think more of herself. And if she marries Crawford — when she marries Crawford —

she wil be able to consult her own inclination on almost everything. She wil have servants to run her errands, instead of having to run them for others, and everything in the house wil be organized as she wishes. She wil be a very happy woman before the year is out. Tuesday 31 January

Having told Fanny Mama could manage without her, I was surprised to find that Mama saw it in a different light.

‘Why should she see her family?’ she asked, when Fanny was out riding. ‘She has done very wel without her family for eight or nine years. Why can she not do without them again?’

‘My dear,’ said my father, ‘it is only right and proper that Fanny should visit them from time to time.’

‘I do not see why,’ said Mama, picking Pug up and stroking him. ‘I am sure she does not want to go. Ask her, Sir Thomas. I am sure she would much rather stay here.’

‘She has a duty to her family,’ said my father, trying again.

‘And she has a duty here,’ returned Mama.

‘It wil be a sacrifice for you, I know,’ said my father, ‘but Lady Bertram has always been capable of sacrifice for the good of others, and I know she wil be so again.’

This courtesy did little to soften Mama’s unhappiness. ‘I see that you think she must go, and if you think it, Sir Thomas, then she must, but for myself I can see no reason for it. I need her so very much here.’

At this my aunt joined in the conversation.

‘Nonsense, my dear Lady Bertram. Fanny can very wel be spared. I am ready to give up al my time to your pleasure, and Fanny wil not be wanted or missed.’

‘That may be, sister. I dare say you are very right; but I am sure I shal miss her very much,’ said Mama.

Knowing that my father would have his way and Fanny would go to Portsmouth, I blessed Mama for her words; it was good to know that Fanny would be so missed by someone other than myself, for I fear she is often taken for granted.

Wednesday 1 February

Fanny has written to her mother, suggesting the visit, and now she waits for a reply. Friday 3 February

The reply arrived, a few simple lines expressing so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of seeing Fanny again as to confirm al Fanny’s views of happiness in being with her. She was brimming over with spirits as we walked in the park, making the most of a dry spel that has left the ground as hard as iron and the air as heady as wine.

‘I wil be much more useful to her than when I left, and now that she is no longer occupied by the incessant demands of a house ful of little children, there wil be leisure and inclination for every comfort, and we should soon be what mother and daughter ought to be to each other,’

she said.

Wil iam was almost as happy as Fanny.

‘It wil be the greatest pleasure to have you there to the last moment before I sail, and perhaps find you there stil when I come in from my first cruise. And besides, I want you so very much to see the Thrush before she goes out of harbor. She is the finest sloop in the service, and there are several improvements in the dockyard, too, which I long to show you.

‘It wil be good for al the family to see you,’ he went on. ‘I do not know how it is, but we seem to want some of your nice ways and orderliness at my father’s. The house is always in confusion. You wil set things going in a better way, I am sure. You wil tel my mother how it al ought to be, and you wil be so useful to Susan, and you wil teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you. How right and comfortable it wil al be!’

Saturday 4 February

My aunt was horrified when she heard that Fanny and Wil iam wil be travel ing post to Portsmouth.

‘My dear Sir Thomas, there is no need for it, no need for it at al . Only think of the expense. There are many cheaper ways for them to reach the coast,’ she said. My father delighted me by saying, ‘They wil certainly not travel any other way,’ and settled the matter by giving Wil iam the fare.

‘Wel , if it is to be, then it is to be. But surely,’ said my aunt, suddenly struck with an idea to her own advantage, ‘there wil be room for a third in the carriage. Do you know I think I wil go with them. I am longing to see my poor dear sister Price. I have not seen her for an age. I must say that I have more than half a mind to go with the young people; it would be such an indulgence to me; I have not seen her for more than twenty years; and it would be a help to the young people in their journey to have my older head to manage for them. I cannot help thinking my poor dear sister Price would feel it very unkind of me not to come by such an opportunity.’

Fanny’s face fel , and Wil iam’s look of horror was comical. I could not blame him for his reaction. To be forced into such close company with my aunt, for such a period of time, would daunt even the strongest of hearts. Fanny retired, and fortunately my aunt changed her mind, so I fol owed Fanny from the room to tel her of her reprieve. I found her in the library.

‘Aunt Norris has decided that she is needed here. She wil not be going with you,’ I said.

‘Though I suspect that her real reason was a realization that she would have to pay her own expenses back again.’

Fanny’s look of relief lit up her face.

‘My aunt is a very good woman, but. . . .’

‘Exactly. But!’

We both smiled.

‘Come, Fanny, walk with me outside. I do not seem to have seen anything of you recently. You are always closeted with Wil iam. Your old friends have had to do without you.’

‘No!’ she said in consternation, then saw that I was teasing her. ‘I see so little of Wil iam, I have to make the most of every minute when I see him.’

‘I wil let you go back to him soon, but I am selfishly claiming you for the next hour. I have no one sensible to talk to when you are elsewhere, unless it is about business, and I am tired of business. Tel me what you have been reading, and what you have been thinking, and what you have been feeling.’

And so we talked, and I kept her with me wel past the hour, for we had so much to talk about. Sunday 5 February

Mama was so downcast at the thought of my leaving: ‘You are al leaving me; Fanny, Wil iam and you’, that I have promised to stay another week or two. I was rewarded by a return of her comfort, and I told Fanny of my decision as we sat in the drawing-room, having returned from church.

‘I am not entirely displeased at the delay. The shops and parties in London wil have al the delight of novelty for Mary in the first few weeks, but I want her to have a chance to be reminded of how empty a constant round of pleasure is before I propose.’

Fanny said nothing, for she had reached a difficult part of her work and needed to pay it close attention.

‘This is very companionable, is it not, Fanny?’ I said, watching the dancing fire paint a warm glow on to her winter complexion, and on to her white hands, which worked diligently with her needle. ‘The two of us sit ing here and talking together like this. Perhaps it wil be the last time we can talk together so freely. Who knows what changes wil have come about the next time we meet?’

The coming change was in the air al through the house. After dinner, Mama said, ‘How sad it is to lose friends. You wil be gone from here tomorrow. You must write to me soon and often, Fanny, and I wil write to you.’

‘And I shal write to you, Fanny, when I have anything worth writing about, anything to say that I think you wil like to hear, and that you wil not hear so soon from any other quarter,’ I added, thinking that, if al went wel , I would be able to tel her of my engagement. I gave her an affectionate farewel , and she went upstairs, retiring early so as to get a good night’s sleep before her early departure tomorrow.

Monday 6 February

And so, Fanny and Wil iam are now wel on their way to Portsmouth, and I have put my day to good use. The farmyard has been moved, Jackson has finished the repairs and he has begun work on the chimneypiece. It is already taking shape, and I do not believe there wil be a better one in the neighborhood. The approach is now much improved, and I have given instructions for some new planting to shut out the view of the blacksmith’s shop. I hope it wil please Mary when it is done, for on her acceptance of my hand my happiness now depends. Saturday 11 February

We had a letter from Fanny this morning, and it drew a vivid picture of family life. I am certain it is not what she was expecting, for between her protestations of happiness she revealed that Wil iam had had to leave sooner than planned; that her mother had little time for her; that Susan’s free and easy manner with their mother was surprising; that her father’s oaths were alarming; that Tom and Charles were wild, and were forever running about and slamming doors; and that the house was very smal , so that everyone was always fal ing over one another, increasing al the arguments and chaos of a large family.

My poor Fanny! How I felt for her. But my father was very pleased when he read it.

‘It wil do her good to be back with them again,’ he said. ‘It wil show her that the pleasures of a gentleman’s residence are not to be overlooked, and that, as Mrs. Crawford, she wil suffer none of the il s her mother endures. No smal house or thin wal s; no troublesome servants; no curses; no lack of order.’

‘So that is the direction your thoughts are taking,’ I mused.

‘Yes, they are. I would like to see her provided for, comfortably settled, and with a secure future; for to remain here as a companion to her aunts is no life for a young girl. She is timid, and needs encouragement, and I mean to do al in my power to try and promote her happiness by helping her to overcome her shyness, and to ful y realize the advantages of the life she is being offered. Have you heard anything from Crawford?’

‘Yes, he sent me a letter. He is in Norfolk at present, having some business there. He is as constant as ever, and though he said little about Fanny, what he said was to the point.’

‘Good, good. I was afraid he might cry off. With so little encouragement, it would not be surprising. But it seems he means to have her, and if he wil wait a little longer, I feel al wil be wel . Did he see your sisters in town?’

‘No, but Maria has sent him a card for her party on the twenty-eighth, when she opens her house in Wimpole Street. His sister means to go with him.’

‘That is al to the good. A connection between the two families wil help his case.’

I did not say that I hoped for an even closer connection between the two families ere long, but I thought it.

‘Wil you be attending your sister’s party?’

‘If I am in London in time.’

We returned to the drawing-room, and I was struck by how empty it was without Fanny. I thought it strange that someone so quiet could make such an impression on the house, and that I noticed her absence more than that of my sisters, who were twice as noisy. Saturday 25 February

Tom echoed my father’s question, asking if I would be going to Maria’s party when I met him in London today. He invited me to dine with him and his friends and I arrived at his rooms this evening to find al his usual cronies there. The atmosphere was jovial and the wine was flowing freely.

I said that I was, and asked if he would be there.

‘I suppose I wil have to look in, but I do not intend to stay for long. I have better things to do.’

‘Better things in the shape of a sweet little actress,’ said Langley, drawing her shape with his hands in the air, and they al laughed.

‘Whilst your better things come in the shape of an opera dancer,’ returned Tom.

‘Have you a mistress, Bertram?’ asked Hargate.

When I said no, he said, ‘We must find you one.’

‘Edmund has no taste for mistresses,’ said Tom with a sly glance at me. ‘He is more interested in horse flesh. There is a certain lit le fil y that has caught his eye.’

‘Have you put a bet on her?’ asked Langley curiously.

Before I could reply, Tom said, ‘No, but I have put a bet on him. I think brother Edmund wil be lucky, and if he is, the fil y in question wil bring him twenty thousand pounds.’

‘Twenty thousand? What sort of odds must you have to get . . . Oh! Wel said, Bertram. A fine fil y indeed!’

I tried to get Tom to be serious but it was not to be, and the evening was spent in similar vein. The conversation turned to an outing on the river they were planning and Tom said, ‘Come with us.’

He would not take no for an answer, and I have promised to join him on Tuesday. Monday 27 February

I went to see the solicitors this morning and had a long consultation with them. I feel I am better prepared to take the step of matrimony, if Mary wil have me.

Tuesday 28 February

The day was unusual y mild and we spent a riotous afternoon on the river. When it was time to turn for home there was a good deal of confusion and one of the boats overturned. Tom fel in, I went with him, and the result was that we missed Maria’s party.

‘The weather is too fine to stay in town. I have never seen such fine weather in February, it is hot enough to be May! We are al going out of town for the races next week. You should come with us, Edmund,’ he said, as we changed our clothes in his rooms. ‘It wil do you good to have some fun for a change. You need not worry about Mary missing you. By al accounts, she is enjoying herself in London, with a constant round of parties and friends, and she wil not even notice you have gone.’