FEBRUARY

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 all 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 spell that has left the ground as hard as iron and the air as heady as wine.

‘I will 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 full of little children, there will be leisure and inclination for every comfort, and we should soon be what mother and daughter ought to be to each other,’ she said.

William was almost as happy as Fanny.

‘It will be the greatest pleasure to have you there to the last moment before I sail, and perhaps find you there still 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 will be good for all 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 will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You will tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful to Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you. How right and comfortable it will all be!’


Saturday 4 February

My aunt was horrified when she heard that Fanny and William will be travelling post to Portsmouth.

‘My dear Sir Thomas, there is no need for it, no need for it at all. 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 will certainly not travel any other way,’ and settled the matter by giving William the fare.

‘Well, 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 will be room for a third in the carriage. Do you know I think I will 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 fell, and William’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 followed Fanny from the room to tell her of her reprieve. I found her in the library.

‘Aunt Norris has decided that she is needed here. She will 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 William. 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 William, I have to make the most of every minute when I see him.’

‘I will 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. Tell 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 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.’