A Marriage of Attachment: a sequel to A Contrary Wind (Mansfield Trilogy Book 2)

suppose I might say, were the same question to be posed to me?
I need not explain why you cannot return and resume your role here at Thornton Lacey. To be re-united with you elsewhere, I would be compelled to hire a curate to take my place, something I vowed I would never do. To accept the income from this parish and be an absentee clergyman is as abhorrent to my feelings, as it is scandalous to my principles.
What alternatives do we have which would be consistent with my profession and my duty to my family? Under such constraints as have been imposed by past events, there appear to be no simple solutions. If you have any ideas, Mary, I would be—
(I would be what? Pleased? Eager? Curious? He scratched it out and started again.)
However, you must understand me, Mary. I will not consent to resume living as husband and wife as though nothing had occurred, as though there was nothing to discuss, nothing to repent, nothing to atone for.
Your husband,
Edmund

Chapter Three
The month of May brought Fanny’s friend William Gibson to London for the publication of his book, over which he had laboured in self-imposed exile in the countryside. His writing had appeared in print before, of course, in the pages of the Gentlemen’s Magazine and in the abolitionist newsletter, but nothing compared to the pride and wonder of visiting his publisher in the Strand and holding his first book in his hands. Even better was to read his name on the title page. Indeed, he would not have wanted his closest friends to know how frequently he opened the volume to admire those few words: Amongst the Slavers, being a narrative of a voyage with the West African Squadron, with additional remarks upon the customs, governments, and political economies of the African tribes, by William Gibson.
Mrs. Butters, already a warm advocate for the young writer, was eager to assume the rôle of literary patroness, and to help spread his fame. She held a reception at her home and bestowed invitations to her considerable acquaintance amongst London’s abolitionist set, including her friend and neighbour James Stephen. The fiery old man was a particular favourite of Fanny’s. Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield also promised to attend, Mr. Wilbraham Bootle and many other directors of the African Society accepted with pleasure; and a half-dozen clergyman from the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts were also expected.
Fanny felt the most delightful sensations of pride and nervous anticipation as she sat in Mrs. Butters’ parlour, surrounded by so many eminent persons, as Mr. Gibson stood in the middle of the room and began to read aloud from his account of the adventures of the West African Squadron.
Mr. Gibson’s prose was direct and forceful, without excessive ornamentation or discursion, for he had the happy ability to invoke a scene with a few well-chosen words. Moreover, he read aloud exceedingly well, and although Fanny always kept a piece of fancy work in her hands, she was glad to have the excuse of listening as an excuse for looking at her friend without interruption. His figure was tall and slender, and his hands expressive and graceful. As an impecunious poet, he had not the means or the inclination to attend to dress or finery, but his posture, his movements, and his air, were all perfectly gentleman-like. For that matter, gaudy dress and an affected air of fashion was no recommendation to the people of this particular gathering. James Stephen’s wife, a sister of the saintly Wilberforce himself, refused to wear anything better than washer-woman’s rags; and gave all her monies to the poor, instead.
There was something peculiarly charming about Mr. Gibson’s countenance. His long face with its high forehead announced intelligence, but without pomposity or severity. His features were individually good. There was sometimes a tinge of sadness about his dark blue eyes, but his mouth, in repose, was always curved in a gentle smile. As he read his own words to the assembled party, his expression was one of diffidence mingled with quiet pride.
Mrs. Stephen, and all of Mrs. Butters’ guests, along with Fanny, were captivated by the power of Mr. Gibson’s recital. There were no fidgettings, no throat-clearings, no whisperings—a most profound silence was observed by all. When Mr. Gibson came to describe the interception of a heavily-laden slave ship, and the rescue of hundreds of shackled men, women and children from the miserable mid-Atlantic crossing and a lifetime of bondage, his hearers, including Fanny of course, were moved to tears by the power of his narrative.
Sometimes the doings of her own brother William were described and at such times, Mr. Gibson would glance over to the far corner where Fanny sat—his eyes, peering over his spectacles, met hers for a moment of silent acknowledgement of their shared affection for her brother. “Lieutenant Price” never appeared in the tale but to great advantage, and Fanny, in a glow of high spirits, imagined Mr. Gibson’s book being read with fascination by all of the Lords of the Admiralty, resulting in a resolution, taken at the highest levels, to promote that exemplary young officer to command of his own ship. She was also privately delighted that, in a room filled with so many eminent, accomplished, and powerful people—politicians, abolitionists, captains of industry—her friend had made especial note of where she was, of where she sat, so that his eyes could seek her out.
At the end of the reading, the servants pulled open the doors to the dining room where a bountiful collation was laid out, and Fanny hurried to her station by the tea and coffee trays, barely ahead of Mr. Stephen, who demanded, with an impish smile, to be served first, in honour of his grey hairs.
“When I think back, Mrs. Butters, to when I first met Miss Price, I must say that she