Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (11 page)

May at Longbourn

Dearest Jane,

It was to be my finest hour. As you know, I had looked forward to Colonel Millar's ball for months, and recent events—the announcement that he had arrived at Northfield with an unknown woman—made my attendance at that ball fraught with peril beyond even my imagination. I would need to look my best no matter the cost to my husband.

As you know, my gown was made from the finest silk, fawn in colour, shot through with silver. I would shimmer as I glided about the floor. The bodice—a work of art if I do say so myself—woven of threads of silver and silk and gold, engirdled my waist, ending in a point to accent my
slimness. No one could know that I had given birth to two. The neckline was cut low, just low enough to suggest the fullness of breasts beneath, but no lower. Because my gown's sleeves were relatively short, I wore long gloves the colour of ivory, which reached to my elbows, leaving a small portion of my upper arms bare and, if I do say so myself, enticingly plump. My pannier filled out the skirt of the gown so that room would have to be made for me as I arrived in the chaise and two that I inveigled Mr. Bennet to procure for this signal event. My dress would announce me to everyone as I came through the entrance and up the stairs, as I floated up to my colonel, so handsome, awaiting me in the receiving line.

Now I know, dear sister, that there are those who would accuse me of fostering a silly illusion. Those same persons—perhaps you—would argue that two years had passed since our first and only meeting, and that he and I had led full and different lives e'er since. But I would answer that surely his taking a house adjacent to my garden, not far from my favourite walking path, signified an awareness on his part of my presence, and if my conjectures were false, then that fate was taking a role in my future. Not having thought very much, if at all, about fate—what is it anyway?—I preferred to believe that the colonel sought me out and intended this ball to re-introduce himself to me in a polite and gentlemanly manner. If the ball—and my future—was in the hands of fate, then let fate be kind. Thusly, I prayed.

It should not surprise you that I chose not to wear jewels of any kind, nor would it surprise you that Mr. Bennet appeared relieved when I announced this decision. Instead, I wore an ivory-hued velvet riband around my neck. It begged to be touched. As did I.

Now indulge me, dear sister. Bear with me while I try to remember and relive those wondrous moments before my world came crashing down. Our carriage and two brought us to the steps of Northfield just a bit after eight. Northfield is a magnificent house, more like a palace than a country house, three entrances along the front, wings on either side. Grand, very grand. I had never visited here, not ever. Mr. Bennet, in an aside, mentioned that he had come here often as a boy. Why did I not know that? How is it that he could not bring himself to tell me? I could have teased him into presenting me here before this time. Perhaps then I might have become something more than a country wife and perpetual mother. Bear with me, Jane, while I take a new breath.

Now, then. We arrived at the middle entrance and were conducted to the entrance hall where a staircase ascended to the upper gallery. The floors were marble and our footsteps echoed; it was as if we were in a cathedral. Upstairs we made our way into the receiving line. Just ahead of us the Littleworths waited their turn. Mrs. Littleworth nodded approvingly at me, at my gown, for indeed it had been she, not at all put off by my over-indulgence at that humiliating dinner party, who had advised me, over the
course of several visits, as to colour and voluminousness of skirt. In the absence of you, dear Jane, and of any real friend at all, I have become rather fond of Mrs. Littleworth. What I believed to be deafness on our first meeting was only her effort to ensure her husband's participation in the conversation. Indeed, she seemed almost as lonely as I, and we spent many hours discussing fashion here and abroad, quite odd because she herself did not have what one could call a fashionable figure, there being too much of her for fashion to cover except strategically. Still, she seemed to enjoy my prattling on about muslins and silks and in particular those afternoons when the two of us played the card game Twenty-One, newly arrived from France. 'Twould be impossible to tell the girl from the lady with such clapping and laughter echoing about the house. Such a friendship, one between a lady of many years—I would guess her to be in the neighbourhood of forty—and one of few years—I am but eighteen—to be unusual. But friendship is determined by who is nearby. It is sustained by common enthusiasms and deepened by loyalty and affection. Such is the case with Mrs. Littleworth and myself. Oh my, I sound like an old, wise woman, forgive me. I seem to have lost the thread of my story, perhaps my way of avoiding living once again that which awaited me in the ballroom.

I barely noticed Mrs. Littleworth on that night, or anyone else, for there he stood, tall and straight, his dark hair powdered, pulled back, and tied with a band (never a wig
for him, such a natural man, though perhaps it was in deference to his guests, these country persons, like my husband, who have forsworn the wearing of wigs forever, muttering as they do something about the French and a tennis court). My colonel had set aside his military uniform for this occasion and was slimly elegant in evening wear tailored to perfection.

Men's breeches—a forbidden subject for such as I or you or any woman of propriety—have never made themselves of interest to me. Mr. Bennet's breeches, for instance, have never been of note. But I must, must continue: my colonel's breeches, banded as they were just below the knees, be still my heart, made a stunning announcement of my colonel's legs, in particular—dare I say—his calves, encased in satin, pulsing with power therein. I know because I dared not look up at him, so God help me, my eyes fastened on—I am small, remember—a point some distance above the calves, to a place that even at my most confessional I will not name. The colonel wore his sword. He would make graceful flourishes with it during the minuet, perhaps with me as his partner. I grew faint with yearning. I must have teetered a bit for I felt Mr. Bennet take my elbow. It was then I noted the young woman standing beside my colonel. She was resplendent in ivory satin and glittering with diamonds about her neck and bosom, her hair sprinkled with smaller but no less precious stones. She was alight with beauty. The world began to
spin and once again Mr. Bennet took my elbow and whispered into my ear, “Steady there, old girl.” There he goes again! This time as if I were a horse!

I suppose the disaster began then though I chose to ignore warning signs. Firstly, the colonel did not know me. He did not recognize me. The colonel's aide muttered “Mr. and Mrs. Bennet” into his ear and he nodded politely. Although how should he recognize me? I was presented only as Mrs. Bennet, wife of the gentleman who stood next to me smiling that fixed smile he always wears when he is out in society, the smile that says how he detests being wherever it is that I have insisted he appear. I had thought that forcing him into social occasions, small ones such as the little supper for Mr. Collins with only a few guests, would prepare him for more significant events. Apparently not, for here he was, grouchiness personified.

My colonel spoke. To Mr. Bennet! “Ah yes, I believe we are neighbours. My huntsman has spoken to me of what could very well be mutual property.” Mr. Bennet sputtered something about enclosure and the colonel said, “Yes, we shall have to discuss this in greater detail. I understand you are not a hunter.” He nodded to me and handed me on to the well-lit beauty at his side. “My sister,” he announced, “Miss Millar.”

My spirits lifted, my head cleared, and my balance returned. His sister! All was not lost. I moved us along the line as quickly as good manners would allow. “Mr.
Bennet,” I whispered to him, “you need not show your teeth anymore.”

He looked relieved, then not, when I said, “Will you have the first dance with your wife?” Silence. “The mother of your children?” He remained unmoved. “The woman you will spend all eternity with?” With a sigh, he bowed, I nodded, and together we made our way past the gaming rooms, where men stood at tables rolling dice, and past the sewing room, where the old ladies, secure in their caps, knitted and chattered to each other or were silent, intent on games of whist. Ah yes, there was Mrs. Littleworth, quite splendid, actually, in her magenta gown whose dips and swoops combined to conceal her unfortunate bosom. Mr. Littleworth, we could see, was already at the buffet table. The magnificent ballroom, resounding with music for the Country Dance, was almost filled with guests, many of them from neighbouring estates, now almost unrecognizable in their finery. We nodded to them and they to us.

At the risk of seeming immodest, I must declare that more than one couple eyed my gown with envy, thus assuring me that I was wise not to offer a distraction from its singularity by way of ornamentation, Miss Millar's be-jeweled splendour aside. The ladies of the county, truth be told, looked to be behind the times with respect to fashion: they wore gowns with no panniers, it seemed. Their skirts drooped about their bodies and puddled upon the floor, a most uncelebratory style, I must say. However, my mind
was on other matters, and I am certain that, if the next difficulty hadn't occurred, we might almost have enjoyed the music and the dancing, with which Mr. Bennet was not altogether unfamiliar. “No chassé,” he warned. “One skip and I leave the floor with or without you.” Upon my soul! He is so lacking in adventurousness. He is so cautious. He is so pedestrian. I smiled up at him, pretending for everyone that our union was full of gaiety and mystery. Years had passed since I had practiced my art, but at that moment some part of my earlier self—my fifteen-year-old self—returned to me and I commenced flirting. My eyelashes, glistening with some of Mr. Bennet's shoe polish, fluttered up and down rapidly. Mr. Bennet looked down at me as if I were mad. “Why are you acting the hussy?”

Now, I grant you, my flirting skills may have gotten a bit rusty, but “hussy”? Undaunted, as we entered the dance, arms linked, I pressed his inner arm and lowered my eyes, earning yet another sideways look of suspicion and condemnation. I refused to allow the tears that had gathered in the corners of my eyes to fall, reminding myself of what happens when Mr. Bennet wears his newly polished shoes on a rainy day. I soldiered on, as they say, whispering to myself, “Courage, Marianne.” The sound of my name revived me.

My expectation had been that at some point Colonel Millar, recognizing me and remembering our promises of undying love on that singular night alongside the little stream, would tap my husband on the shoulder and beg to
become my partner. Mr. Bennet, I had no fear, would accede readily to the colonel's request and I would once again be in the arms of the man to whom I had given my all, and then some. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he had finished greeting guests and was at that very moment descending the staircase where we would take our rightful turn together. But it was not to be, because of course his partner for the first dance of the evening was his lofty sister. Each time she turned or curtsied or raised her arm she glittered. The whole room glittered, for her jewels were reflected in the chandeliers and, for the briefest of time, we all, countrymen and ladies, sparkled. I must say, we would never see our like again. With each whirl I tossed a flirty glance at the colonel, who, although he appeared intent on his sister-partner, could not have helped but see me, for I spun out just ahead of the rest of the dancers and just a bit wider, my panniers creating a light breeze. Oh yes, I confess that I intended that I stand out from the rest, so that he could not fail to notice my beauty, or certainly my beautiful dress, and recall our night together only a few short years before. Just to make sure, I made an extra-wide turn which brought me close to him, so close my skirt brushed my colonel's ankle. “What are you doing?” Mr. Bennet whispered. I did not answer, simply lowered my lashes (which I must confess lay heavy by now). I had no time to answer, for at this very moment, as Mr. Bennet waited for me to complete yet another turn on the floor, my gown began to come apart.

“Edward, take me away from here,” I whispered. “Quickly.” He seemed not to understand and continued to dance what looked to me like a silly jig. “Pull me to you, please, I beg of you.” Frowning, of course, he did so and knew at once that flight was the only answer.

What his fingers had felt when he clasped me close was the ripping of my gown. At any moment the threads would snap; the bodice would shatter and collapse in sorry splendour about my waist. My corset had burst and the rest would follow in an instant.

So profound a public humiliation is not deserved by even the flightiest of women, the most vainglorious, the most selfish—all of which I confess to being at one time or another, sometimes all at once. I prayed to God above to see me through the coming disaster. I prayed that fate would be kinder than I deserved. I prayed that my colonel would not of a sudden recognize me. I prayed to Edward to make me disappear.