Edmund Bertram's Diary

We are all In turmoil. Uncle Norris has died. I cannot believe it. He seemed so well, and he was so young. He ate too much, to be sure, and drank perhaps too freely, but none of us expected this. My aunt has been bearing up bravely; Tom has spent the afternoon standing about looking grave and Papa has given his attention to all the business natural y following on from the calamity. It has come as another burden to him at a time when he is already burdened with worries about his business affairs, and I am sorry I cannot do more to help him.

APRIL

Wednesday 3 April

Papa cal ed Tom into his study this morning, and Tom emerged an hour later looking sick and ill. I was about to ask him what was wrong when I was summoned, and found myself closeted with Papa.

He looked very serious, and hummed and hawed as though he did not know how to begin.

‘This is a sad business, Edmund, a very sad business.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Then, as he did not seem to know how to continue, I added, ‘Mr. Norris always seemed so hearty. Apart from his gout, he was in good health. It has come as a shock to us all.’

‘Indeed, indeed.’ He collected himself. ‘And it could not have come at a worse time. I had expected to give the living of Mansfield to you upon Mr. Norris’s death, for I was sure he would not die until you were old enough to be in holy orders, but this has put a new complexion on matters. I should, by rights, be giving the living to a friend to hold for you until you are old enough to claim it for yourself but, as you know, things have been going badly for me in Antigua and, as you perhaps do not know, Tom came home a few weeks ago with very heavy debts. I have settled them, of course, but his excesses have left me in difficulties. I blush for the expedient which I am driven on, but I am forced to sell the living of Mansfield. I only hope this might curb your brother at last, for he has robbed you for ten, twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income which ought to be yours, and I am extremely sorry for it.’

‘It is no matter,’ I said, though in truth it was a blow. I had expected the living of Mansfield, and I had wanted it, for it was the very living to which I belonged.

‘You have taken it like a gentleman. You make me proud,’ he said with a grave smile. ‘I promise I will do everything I can to make it up to you in the future if possible.’

We talked for some little time more and then he said I might go. I went out to the stables, thinking a ride would clear my head, and found Tom there, preparing to mount.

He was awkward, as well he might be, and stammered out an apology, but he was soon making light of it.

‘It was not so very much money after all,’ he said. ‘I was not half so much in debt as some of my friends. And besides, I am sure you will not have to wait long for the living. As soon as the new incumbent dies the living will revert to you, and he cannot live for ever.’

He suggested we ride together but I had no taste for his company and, without realizing what I was doing, I found myself walking up to the attic to see Fanny. I found her in the schoolroom with a book. She looked up as I entered, and smiled, and made me welcome, like a hostess receiving a friend, and we were soon discussing the books she has read. And then, I do not know how it happened, I was telling her about the living of Mansfield and my disappointment at finding it had been sold.

‘It is a bad thing,’ she said, entering into my feelings and shaking her head, ‘a very bad thing. But you do not need Mansfield, Edmund. You have yourself, and that is all you need to do good in the world.’

I smiled, cheered by her attitude.

‘And you will still have Thornton Lacey. It is not such a large parish as Mansfield, to be sure, or such a prosperous living, but it is still yours.’

She so comforted me that by the time dinner was served I was able to greet Tom with civility, and I believe I am reconciled to the loss of the Mansfield living.

1806 AUGUST

Tuesday 12 August

I cannot believe it! My father is to leave us and go to Antigua for a year. I knew his affairs were not prospering as he had hoped, but I had no idea things had come to such a pass.

‘You will have to look after my affairs here at home whilst I am gone, and the family, too,’ he told me. ‘It is a heavy responsibility for a young man of two-and-twenty years, but I have confidence in you, Edmund. Take your tone of conduct from me. If you are in difficulties then ask yourself what I would do in the same circumstances and act accordingly.’

I said I would do my best.

‘I will be taking Tom with me,’ he said. ‘I had hoped he would grow more settled, but he appears to be getting worse instead of better. His friends are badly chosen and lead him astray, and Tom, alas, does not have the character to resist them. If I leave him behind, I fear he will squander what remains of our fortune whilst I am away.’

He told me what he expected of me, and then I was free to go.