Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (15 page)

Well, this would certainly explain Mr. Bennet's pursuit of me upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's chamber. “Pray, continue,” I urged, though as I gazed at poor Mrs. Rummidge's arms like sticks and cheeks shrunken into her head, I could not but wonder if what she was preaching applied to her as well or if this was merely another of her fantasies.

“To bend them to our will,” she went on, “we need only
learn how best to use the body.” This, I gathered, would be the most important part of Mrs. Rummidge's sermon, for she pointed her finger into the air. “Less is more, certainly at the beginning. Allow him just a peek at what you have in store.” I recalled Mrs. Littleworth's breast bobbing from her gown. Surely such a sight would not serve to entice anyone. As if she were reading my thoughts, Mrs. Rummidge added, “Of course, if what they see is smooth and pliant, the contest will proceed more quickly. Complete disrobing need never occur but if it does, make certain it occurs later than sooner. Some men, by the way, like to help.”

Here I held up my hand. “Enough for now,” I said. Any more of her advice and I would have fainted dead away.

“All right, lovey,” she answered and hurried off to the nursery. I have never known anyone but Mrs. Rummidge to have the last word.

And so it was that there in my husband's bedchamber, perched on the edge of the bed, I began the long process of disrobing. I recalled my colonel's gentle touch—and Mrs. Rummidge's sermon—and slipped my shoulder free. I could see that Mr. Bennet's rumblings had commenced.

Sensus, o superi, sensus.

“The senses, O ye gods, the senses.”

—MONTAIGNE

I cannot write what I feel, so unaccustomed am I to feeling. Yet feeling threatens to overwhelm me, to overpower reason and good sense and judgement. It is my earnest hope that writing however much of experience I can bear to record might restore the faculties that have stood me in such good stead. Until now.

Oh, do not misunderstand. I have not been devoid of feeling. I have great affection for my dogs and an even greater affection for my daughters, albeit they are daughters and not sons. I suppose I could count as feelings when, as a youth, I passed some evenings at Mrs. Brown's London establishment. And I suppose that, in the early days of my
marriage, my feelings—well, perhaps they got a bit out of hand. Still, as I have sworn to be truthful, I am forced to admit that yes, in the beginning my feelings were lustful.

There, I have told the worst. And see what has happened: my grammar has been thrown into torment. My Latin master, Mr. Winthrop, bless his departed soul, could very well be spinning in his grave. But I must soldier on. As I believe Cervantes said, “Faint heart ne'er won fair lady”—or anything else, I might add. Thus, I gird my loins and advance.

My wife—she who bore my children, dear girls albeit girls, she who resisted my every advance, she who turned away from me at every opportunity, who grew tipsy at the dinner table, who once—and once only—seemed to welcome my attentions and then most likely on account of an over-abundance of wine—this very woman came to me of her own free will and proceeded to seize the advantage—provided by my astonishment—and overpower me.

Allow me to explain; perhaps then I will understand: My wife and daughters and I had passed a pleasant afternoon in the village, enjoying the sights and sounds of the autumn festival. It was our first outing since the death of our little boy, and I was hopeful that my wife would be cheered by the throngs of people and the gaily decorated stands filled with the bounty of the earth. And so she seemed, at least until that Colonel Millar and his blasted sister happened along. Miss Millar made reference to Marianne's misfortune at the ball and, lord, didn't my wife look
as if she would faint again. Fortunately she steadied herself, and we returned home none the worse for wear. That infernal woman, Miss Millar, using her beauty and her position to bring insult to those less fortunate. Not that Marianne is not beautiful, just that she outweighs Miss Millar by several stone, at least at the moment. Really, it is merely the contrast here that causes me to remark on any such nonsense at all. I tried to explain all this to Marianne, but she would have none of it and carried on at length through the entirety of the daylight hours that remained.

And then, the very next night, long past the hour when children and servants were abed, she entered my room—and here yet another confession: we have never shared a sleeping chamber—at her insistence, mind you, certainly not mine. I accepted this marital slight out of politeness, out of concern that she be happy here at Longbourn. This did not appear to happen. And then came her lying-in periods—rather lengthy I thought, despite Mrs. Rummidge's assurances to the contrary—and then headaches and the like, those discomforts of womanhood that seemed to last forever. “O la!” she exclaimed more than once. “My constitution has never been so fragile! Please remain a safe distance from me.” That distance seemed to grow with each passing month—she was again with child—when tragedy struck. She miscarried my only son. I must not return to the horror of that night even in memory; suffice it to say that the elemental scene of blood and screams caused me to forswear forever intimacy of any sort with
this woman. I kept to my promise, that is until the very night under examination, the night she entered my chamber alone, candle aloft.

“Who goes there?” I called out and started up from my pillow. “It is only I, your wife,” she whispered softly. “Please, husband, may I enter?” She lowered the lantern to her nightdress, where it illuminated the outline of her breasts. “I find myself quite unexpectedly at a loss this night and afraid of night terrors. I would that your companionship can dispel such fears. But, kind sir, I await your permission before I cross your threshold.” She tossed her uncapped curls prettily, not at all as she tossed her curls most of the time, that being when she was angry.

“I see you have already crossed the threshold,” I said, “and in a most charming manner. Pray, come closer.” She did. “Set down your lamp,” I commanded. “One would hate to see your lovely nightdress set afire.” She did. “And settle yourself here.” I patted the side of the bed. She obeyed, gathering her nightdress about the supple lines of her body.

As you can tell, I was in complete command at this point. My wife was more obedient, more compliant than I had ever seen her. This would be the beginning of a true marriage. Of this I felt certain.

And then she proceeded to unclothe herself. And I was lost. She had set the candle on the table next to the bed so that its light flickered over her as first she slipped one shoulder from the nightgown and then the other. Before I could advise her of the inadvisability of such behaviour,
there she was, naked to the waist. I was vanquished. Her breasts—plumper than when we married, tipped with nipples as rosy as any I had ever seen, admittedly few, but still—were more beautiful than any Aphrodite in any book, even in those books I kept hidden, reserved as they were for special times. “Lie back,” she ordered. I obeyed. Could this be but a dream? And then she kissed me. Now where, I asked myself, did she learn to do that? “Be still,” she ordered. I obeyed and murmured, “I am your slave.”

Do you not see how round-about, how topsy-turvy this all is? I am master of Longbourn and all that reside herein. I am husband, father. I am the patriarch. But I risked it all that one night when reason fled and passion took its place.

Memory refuses me entry to the rest of the night. I can recall only her mouth on every part of my body, her hands on parts of me she had heretofore refused even to look at, her hair as it swept my chest, her squeals of delight when at last I entered her. Afterward, we lay close together, exhausted by delight. And there we lay until morning.

Now she is gone to Bath and I remain here, devastated by my longing for the woman who showed herself to me for the first—and only—time that night.

I shall use her absence to restore strong will and discipline in myself. This yearning is most unmanly.

At Bath

Dear Jane,

“First, we must get you properly dressed. Take off that dreadful mourning garb.” This is what Mrs. Littleworth said to me immediately as we arrived at the house she had taken in Laura Place. A most impressive address! And a most impressive house! With two drawing rooms! For receiving and entertaining guests! My goodness, there is enough room for a ball!

But I must tell you something of our arrival here. Such a change from country life! As we drove through the long course of streets, the calls of muffin men and
milkmen, the rumble of carts and drays, the clattering of clogs necessary for walking the muddy streets—everything all about makes noise. The excitement of it was pleasing to me; I had been too long confined. Here I would not rest in my rooms or fret over servants or children. Here I would not concern myself with my husband, his deficiencies and, on occasion, his kindness. Here I would discover my own true self. I would be once again a girl. The woman, if ever she existed, remained far behind, in Longbourn. Bath would bring to life a new woman, the woman I was meant to be.

And so, thanks to the miracles wrought by Mrs. Littleworth's dressmaker, I put behind me the drabness of mourning and stuffed myself into the latest fashions of Bath, the silks and the muslins, the cashmere, fabrics that caused me to bury my face in them and partake of their richness. I say “stuffed” because I have not yet been successful in returning to my youthful slimness. I am certain, however, that all the activities planned for me by Mrs. Littleworth will replace my hunger for foods not designed for holding back the stone. In addition, the kitchen here is nowhere in view, and I do not intend to search for it. One look at Mrs. Littleworth's chins and the folds of her belly, not much disguised by the yards of silk and linen that flow about her person, and I can see my future. If I am not careful. And I will be careful. In all things.

This afternoon we will call on acquaintances of Mrs.
Littleworth. Afternoon calls are frequent, she informs me, and a chief source of amusement here in Bath. I wonder how she will introduce me. Who will I be?

Yrs with affection,
Marianne

Vivet, et est vitae nescius ipse suae.

“He lives, but does not know he is alive.”

—OVID

No word from Marianne during the whole time she has spent away from home. Mr. Littleworth dropped by Tuesday last to inform me that the ladies—his and mine—had arrived safely.

“Most likely the last,” he announced.

“The last what?” I enquired.

“The last visit to Bath,” he said. “Regina's health is her primary concern. She has determined that taking a house in Bath will cure her.” He coughed. “The waters, you know.”

“So do you expect her to remain in Bath for a lengthy period?”

“No,” said Mr. Littleworth. “Once she discovers that the waters taste like sulfur and have no curative powers whatsoever she will hurry home where she can command the entirety of the household staff to do her bidding. No, she will leave Bath, I anticipate, within the next fortnight.” He harrumphed. “I would have said most likely the last fortnight, but that fortnight has passed so most likely the last fortnight will have to wait until it gets here. That's when our ladies will return.”

I could make little sense out of what he was saying and so I broached the topic that continued to trouble me, that being my property rights and the colonel's encroachment onto my property. “What,” I asked Mr. Littleworth, “have you done to secure your boundaries? I see you have multiple hedges. Do they serve to keep others out? Will you need further enclosure? Colonel Millar seems to believe that all properties are ripe for his hunting.”

“I see that Northfield is closed up again,” he said. “The fair Miss Millar has departed the scene in favour of the scene in London. When I enquired about Colonel Millar, she murmured something about his spending a bit of time elsewhere before joining her in London. Odd that,” he continued. “One rarely sees one without the other. Which means nothing, for when I saw her last at Northfield, she was not accompanied by her brother who may not have been there at all or perhaps was and perhaps for the last time. Time for tea. Good day.”

All hopes for advice or counsel or conversation dashed,
I left the premises and fastened my mind onto Mr. Littleworth's assurance that our wives would return within a fortnight, perhaps even sooner. After all, he could have predicted a stay of many fortnights hence, sending me into yet another slough of despond. As resolute as I had been to reclaim my manliness, I must admit to failure in this regard. I took whatever steps were available to me. I visited Tom regularly, for instance, and engaged him in fruitful conversation about the coming winter, about the hunt that would soon transpire across his small acreage and my large one, and we agreed that the future in which hunters were forbidden to ride roughshod wherever they pleased was unfortunately far away. Like Marianne.

I enjoyed talking to Tom. He seems a level-headed fellow, content with his station in life and with his family. Tom's eldest daughter, Mathilda, now almost seventeen, continued to please my eye. I write this because I wish to note that in my wife's absence, I did not lose my singularity, that quality which distinguishes man from woman. No, I was quite able to stir myself into a firmness which could do battle with whoever appeared on the horizon. Mathilda, I must say, is wise beyond her years, for she arranged to be absent as often as was possible during my visits to her father's farm. Uneducated in the ways of proper society, she knew by instinct of the inappropriateness of her attraction to me. And so she pretended, when she was present, not to notice me. In fact, several times she stumbled over my foot
on her way to and from the barn; truly, it was as if I didn't exist. Clever girl.

But I could not spend all my free hours in the company of a tenant farmer and his family. So I found myself looking for companionship from my daughters. They are a blessing, both of them, each so different from the other, but each affectionate and loving to one who is their father. In this, I am most fortunate. I will set my mind to that.