Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say

PRAISE FOR

Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say

“
Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say
is, like its author, uproarious and savvy and wild. If Jane Austen had been allowed to write about sex, I'd like to think this is how she would have done it: with irreverence and wit, showing us how sexual politics might set not just a marriage, but an entire family, on an irreversible course. A delight on every level.”

—Rebecca Makkai, author of
The Borrower
and
The Hundred-Year House

“As we have come to expect, Jane Juska's wit and insight once again show us our foibles and humanity while entertaining us on every page.”

—Kelly Corrigan,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Middle Place
and
Glitter and Glue

“
Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say
is the witty and ribald mother-from-hell prequel that fans of Jane Austen have been waiting for.”

—Mark Haskell Smith author of
Raw: A Love Story

“Funny and irreverent (a trademark of Jane Juska).
Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say
is an intimate look into the marriage of literature's most mismatched couple. I loved it! A lot! If it goes to series, I want in. I'll learn the accent.”

—Sharon Gless

PRAISE FOR

A Round-Heeled Woman

“Feisty, charming, moving, and wise, this page-turner of a memoir proves that life for a woman—sexual and otherwise—hardly stops at thirty-nine.”

—Cathi Hanauer, editor of
The Bitch in the House

“Juska writes well about the sex . . . but even better about the seductions, which take on the luster of years served. Expressive and touching: Readers will be rooting for Juska to get all that she wants.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“There's something universal in [Juska's] love affair with the written word.”

—Publishers Weekly

“[A] thoroughly engaging memoir . . . Refreshingly honest, remarkably candid.”

—Booklist

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of Penguin Random House LLC.

Copyright © 2015 by Jane Juska.

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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18391-9

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Juska, Jane.

Mrs. Bennet has her say / Jane Juska. — Berkley trade paperback edition.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-425-27843-7 (softcover)

1. Young women—England—Fiction. 2. England—Social life and customs— 18th century—Fiction. I. Austen, Jane, 1775–1817. Pride and prejudice. II. Title.

PS3610.U875M77 2015 2014048297

813'.6—dc23

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley trade paperback edition / August 2015

Cover art by Andrew Bannecker.

Cover design by Judith Lagerman.

Interior hat ornaments © venimo / Shutterstock.com.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

To William

In May by Candlelight at Brighton, 1785

Dear Jane,

O la! If only poor Mother had lived to tell me of the infamy that would be my wedding night. I recall, dear sister, when soon after your own marriage you tried to warn me of what lay in store: We were upstairs in my own dear little room which looked over the town square. Suddenly you pulled me to the window and said, “Look there.” I did as you asked but saw nothing unusual, only a few dogs playing about. “Look at those two,” you said. “What?” I wondered and then—I shudder to recall—my glance fell upon a pair of dogs, one on his hind legs clasping the rear quarters of the other, all a-quiver. Suddenly he ceased his jittering and returned to ground. It was clear from the rigid
portion of this agitator that he was a male, the victim female. I hoped never to see such a sight again. Alas, 'twas not to be.

Something of this I knew to be my fate; I have, after all, reached the proper age of fifteen. And so I kept in my mind that the female dog did not die, though she seemed to take no pleasure from the encounter or to have a choice as to whether or not to participate. Still, she continued on her way afterward with no signs of the ravage that had befallen her. Small comfort.

Brighton is a lovely place. Our (that odious pronoun) inn borders the sea and I can see ships far off on the horizon, and on the promenade couples and families on holiday. One couldn't wish for a prettier place in which to begin one's life as a married woman, which, forever and a day, is what I am. I could enjoy myself if it weren't for the man who is my husband and who appears to be a satyr. He seems to believe that I am his to muss and turn this way and that and up-end at will. He seems to believe it his right to do this at any time of the day or night and often both and sometimes twice in one lying! Surely, dear sister, this frequency is unusual; had you suffered as I do surely you would have warned me.

Here—for writing is my only friend at present—is my wedding night. Wedded bliss it was not. He had been watching me from the darkness and now, his breath heavy from wine, he ordered me to unloose my stays (a not
altogether unwelcome command, for as you and I know, stays can bind and even cut when worn overlong). I did as I was told and stood silent in my petticoat, feet bare, arms crossed over my bosom. He dropped his trousers and oh, dear sister, you as a married woman would not be surprised I do not think. But, despite the blissful memories of my beloved colonel, memories I have shared with you, such a sight was new to me; indeed, I had scarcely seen or felt the colonel's entry, so impassioned had I become from the sensation that his voice and his lips and his touch inspired in me. Clearly, marriage does not require such tenderness, although I was ignorant of that as well. And so the little shriek I uttered from surprise and apprehensiveness Mr. Bennet took as my expression of delight because he grinned and advanced, calling out, “Consummate!” Why he should summon the broth that Mother provided us when we were sickly I have no idea, and so I leapt onto the bed and attempted to cover myself with the bedclothes. But he grabbed them, threw them from me, and straddled me, his manhood seeking its inevitable way up and under my underthings, muttering “Consummate” as he did. All night long and into the morning he was at me—it certainly did not take that dog so long—until he fell off me and to sleep. I followed him shortly for I, too, was exhausted.

To be fair, I must say that despite my protestations, I could not help but admire his energy and his determination, at least in retrospect. And I was grateful to him: after
such a night no woman could forestall motherhood, and Mr. Bennet's paternity would never be questioned, because if anyone had ever been consummated it was I.

I did not bleed, dear sister, and my husband promises to make much of that, so I must dissemble so convincingly that he believes that my pleasure exceeded any pain and injury I might have suffered in my virgin state. I will not tell him—I cannot tell him!—that I did indeed bleed but not on this night. No, not on his night, but on the night of my true marriage (albeit without benefit of clergy) to Colonel Millar those many months ago.

All this you know, but it helps me during this time of despair to recall our meeting, how I stood with all the pretty maidens along the road as the militia in all their splendour marched into Meryton. And how, soon after, their leader, beautiful in his military regalia, black hair, flashing eyes, and oh so tall, stood before me. What can he want? I wondered. And he said, “I am a stranger here and lonely. Would you walk with me about the village on this fine day?” Oh yes, I would and I did. We continued to walk until darkness fell. Tired, we fell upon the grass next to the river, where we lay side by side until he leaned over and kissed me, oh so gently, and oh so gently pressed his hand upon my skirts and then beneath them. You know, dear sister, what came next. I was deflowered and blissfully so. I do not recall returning home; I am certain he escorted me there. I do recall the devastation I felt when I learned soon thereafter that his regiment had been called to
another town. At least I have the memories and, truth to tell, a bit more.

But ah, how I thought of my dear colonel during this everlasting wedding night and blessed the memory of his kisses and gentle touches that carried me through the misery of my debut as Mrs. Edward Bennet.

Oh dear, I must close, dear Jane, for he is come upon me again.

Your loving sister,
Marianne

Verbis, quae timido quoque possent addere mentem.

“Words which would have inspired the greatest coward.”

—HORACE

I, Edward Bennet, begin this journal in order to record the events of my life such as they occurred in this year of 1785, the year in which I took myself a wife. Such a momentous occasion is deserving of my considered attention, and this journal will bear witness to my efforts in that direction.
And, should I choose to continue those efforts beyond this year, this journal will also serve as a history of myself for those of my descendants who wish to delve into their beginnings. And of course they will, if only the boys, my direct heirs.

First, some explanation of my life as it preceded my marriage. I have always been a retiring sort of fellow, more interested in books than in parties, more at home in the country than in the town. I grew into manhood in this very home, Longbourn, a respectable red-brick with a respectable cook and housekeeper and a manservant for myself, in the midst of green meadows, a pretty forest, trails for walking, a brook for fishing, all the beauty the English countryside offers. I was content.

However, not long after reaching my majority, I faced the necessity of finding a wife even though I was perfectly happy in my library and on my ambles about the property. I looked into my future with apprehension. Should I remain single and childless, my property, entailed as it was, would fall to my closest male heir, in this case a cousin, a Mr. Collins. In truth, I came to detest Mr. Collins, and as he grew in years and in health, I lived each day in the fear that should he so choose, in the absence of male heirs, Longbourn would be his and my family cast out. The very thought that Collins might someday stroll about the grounds of this, my home, was intolerable. Action, never my natural inclination, seemed called for, and so
reluctantly I left Longbourn, though never for very long, and ventured into nearby Meryton, where, I had been given to understand, marriageable girls waited in every parlour and at every ball. It appeared that I would have to learn to dance.