‘Which he will do all too soon, alas.’

‘Yes. It is good of your brother to interest himself in William. My father has done all he can to help, but he has little influence in the Navy and can do no more. If your uncle would take up William’s cause and help him to a commission as lieutenant, it would mean a great deal to him. We would all like to see him do well.’

‘He is ambitious,’ said Mary approvingly. ‘He tells me that, if only he can be made a lieutenant, he means to rise through the ranks and not stop until he makes Admiral. It will be a lucky young woman who wins his heart. A handsome young man with a fortune, to say nothing of a uniform, will always be popular with the gentler sex.’

‘He has many years of bachelorhood ahead of him yet. He is only nineteen, hardly more than a boy!’

‘He has achieved a great deal for someone who is hardly more than a boy,’ she returned. ‘He has had adventures many an older man might envy.’

My heart sank, as I suspected where her conversation was tending. Sure enough she began, gently at first but then with more passion, to tell me what a fine career the Navy was, and how a man might take a pride in his achievements, whereas there was no glory in being a country parson, and I was left to realize that her remarks to me this morning were not in jest, after all.

‘Would you have me do something for which I am unsuited, and in which I have no interest?’ I asked her, as the steps of the dance parted us.

‘I would have you use your talents and abilities instead of wasting them,’ she said, as we came together. ‘You have it in you to make your mark on the world. There is a need for men like you in public life. Great orators—’

‘I am hardly that.’

‘You underestimate yourself. I have heard you reading from books with Fanny, and you have a power that other men would envy,’ she said coaxingly. ‘Your words could sway others and bring you renown. London would be at your feet.’

‘I prefer the country,’ I returned.

‘But could do so much more in the town. It would give you more scope, and a greater stage for your endeavors.’

‘I thank you, but I have had enough of stages. I have no taste for acting,’ I returned.

‘Indeed,’ she said, and there was something vulnerable in her voice. ‘I rather thought you liked it.’

I was reminded of the scenes we had performed together, and softened.

‘As Amelia you did not seem so set against the clergy,’ I said more gently.

‘As Amelia I was not.’

The dance parted us, but when we came together again I tried to make her understand.

‘If I could only make you see that the life you want for me would not bring me happiness,’ I said.

‘The noise you speak of, the bustle and importance, are only necessary because they hide an emptiness at their heart.’

‘William Price does not appear to think so.’

‘William’s case is different. He is in the Navy, and we depend on the Navy for our freedom.’

‘And do we not depend on our politicians for our freedom, too?’

‘But I have no taste for politics,’ I said, ‘and if I did, it would have no taste for me. A younger son belongs nowhere in such an arena. This is where I belong, in the neighborhood where my family have always lived. I am a part of it, and it is a part of me. In the parish I have a chance of making a difference; in London I can do nothing except make myself miserable.’

‘You are determined to squander your talents,’ she said, annoyed. ‘I thought that you, of all people, would pay attention to the parables.’

I shook my head at her notion that I was hiding my light under a bushel.

‘My light would soon be extinguished in London,’ I said. ‘And so would yours. Think again about going there.’

‘So now you want me to forgo my own pleasures because they do not match your own?’ she demanded.

‘I would by no means rob you of any pleasure,’ I said stiffly. ‘But there is a price to be paid for everything, and I hope you may not find that the price you pay for the life you desire is too high.’

We relapsed into silence, whilst all around us my father’s guests danced. We continued down the set, but my thoughts were not on the steps, they were on Mary and her unquenchable desire for wealth and renown.

The dance ended, and we parted with vexation on both sides. Mixed in with my anger was the dismal knowledge that she would never consent to marry a country parson; and that I could never be happy being anything else.

I wandered here and there amongst the dancers, offering my hand to the ladies who were sitting out, talking to the chaperons and making everyone feel welcome, for I could not let my personal feelings interfere with my duty. But all the time I was thinking of Mary, and feeling the loss of her like a physical pain.

At last it was time for me to claim Fanny, and I found her with relief.

‘I am worn out with civility,’ I confessed, as I led her on to the floor. ‘I have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But with you, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence.’

She smiled in silent sympathy, and I found it a great solace to be able to dance with her. How different was our silence to the one that had fallen between Miss Crawford and myself, for that had been angry and not at all comfortable. But then, Fanny is one of my oldest friends, and it would be a strange day, indeed, if I should ever find myself at outs with her.


Friday 23 December

I arose in bad spirits, and glad to be going away. No good could come of my seeing Miss Crawford again, for all hope of a marriage between us had gone, and my absence, followed by her own, was the best thing for both of us.

I went down to breakfast and found Crawford just arriving. He ate with us, for his sister was fagged after the ball and had not wanted to get up so soon. Crawford and William were cheerful, but I could think of nothing to say, and so I sat silently. Fanny, too was silent. She watched William avidly as he ate his pork chop and mustard, refusing to take her eyes from him even for a minute, so unwilling was she to lose one precious moment of his company. At last William pushed back his chair, and Crawford did likewise, then William embraced his sister robustly. But although he was sorry to leave her, it was clear he was equally eager to be gone, for he knew that on the next forty-eight hours his whole future depended. There was all the usual bustle of departure and then the carriage pulled away. Fanny would not relinquish her post at the door until it had turned the corner and gone from sight.

‘Come in Fanny, before you catch cold,’ I said to her.

She allowed me to take her inside, and I plied her with eggs and tea, which she cried over very prettily. But she ate all the same, for much as she missed William, she was hungry, and besides, she wanted to please me.

After she had eaten, I suggested we go out for a walk, and the beauty of the morning revived her.

Once indoors again, I made her join me for a second breakfast, where I persuaded her to eat a little seedcake, and then I bade her and the rest of my family goodbye for a week, mounted my horse and set off for Peterborough.

Once on my way, I was free, at last, to think of my own business. The day was fine, though cold. Frost coated the bare branches, and covered the last blooms of summer that remained in sheltered hollows or in the lee of walls. I wanted Fanny with me when I saw a red rose still blooming, one hardy flower keeping its place amongst the thorns, for I was persuaded she would have liked to see the

Hoary-headed frosts

Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.

I reached Lessingby and was glad to find myself going up the road to Owen’s house before darkness fell, though the daylight was already fading, dwindling into a soft twilight brightened by the translucent frost.

A light shone in the window. Then the curtain was pulled back, and the candlelight flooded out in all its splendor, staining the drive gold with its brilliance. The curtain fell; I was at the door; my horse was taken, and then I was being welcomed into the house by Owen and his family. It was bright inside, so bright that I had to blink, and the heat flowed over me and wrapped itself round me like a blanket.

‘Welcome,’ said Owen’s mother, looking every bit as elegant as she did when I first met her eight years ago. ‘You must be cold. Here, sit by the fire. Beddows, a glass of wine.’

And before long, I found myself seated by the fire with a wineglass in my hand, surrounded by Owen’s family.

His sisters were elegant and pretty and were much grown since my last visit. They were sitting over their needlework; which, however, they neglected so as to listen to the conversation. After the details of my journey had been thoroughly dealt with, and enquiries had been made as to my family’s health, Owen and I began to talk of our forthcoming ordination. It was a relief to be able to talk about it in sympathetic company, knowing the subject would not prompt ridicule or frustration; for with Owen’s father being a clergyman himself, and Owen to be ordained with me, it was a house of clergymen.

We continued our conversation over dinner, and the three Miss Owens added their thoughts. Everyone was very pleasant, and the meal was excellent, and I found myself looking forward to the coming week.

Over the port, we discussed the subject more thoroughly and then went through to the drawing room, where the women entertained us with singing and playing on the pianoforte. I thought of Thomson:

An elegant sufficiency, content,