Edmund Bertram's Diary

‘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 tel 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. 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 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 tel 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.