DECEMBER
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.’
‘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.