And so we talked, and I kept her with me well 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 all leaving me; Fanny, William 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 will have all 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 sitting here and talking together like this. Perhaps it will be the last time we can talk together so freely. Who knows what changes will have come about the next time we meet?’
The coming change was in the air all through the house. After dinner, Mama said, ‘How sad it is to lose friends. You will be gone from here tomorrow. You must write to me soon and often, Fanny, and I will write to you.’
‘And I shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything worth writing about, anything to say that I think you will like to hear, and that you will not hear so soon from any other quarter,’ I added, thinking that, if all went well, I would be able to tell her of my engagement. I gave her an affectionate farewell, 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 William are now well 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 chimney piece. It is already taking shape, and I do not believe there will 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 will 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 William 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 small, so that everyone was always falling over one another, increasing all 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 will do her good to be back with them again,’ he said. ‘It will show her that the pleasures of a gentleman’s residence are not to be overlooked, and that, as Mrs. Crawford, she will suffer none of the ills her mother endures. No small house or thin walls; 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 all in my power to try and promote her happiness by helping her to overcome her shyness, and to fully 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 will wait a little longer, I feel all will be well. 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 all to the good. A connection between the two families will 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.
‘Will 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 all 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 will 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 all 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 little filly 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 will be lucky, and if he is, the filly in question will bring him twenty thousand pounds.’
‘Twenty thousand? What sort of odds must you have to get... Oh! well said, Bertram. A fine filly 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 will have me.
Tuesday 28 February
The day was unusually 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 fell 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 all 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 will do you good to have some fun for a change. You need not worry about Mary missing you. By all accounts, she is enjoying herself in London, with a constant round of parties and friends, and she will not even notice you have gone.’