Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (16 page)

From Laura Place in Bath, September 1787

Dear Jane,

I write this in early morning before the house is a-stir in the hope that you are not languishing in the despair of widowhood. We must up and greet the morn with hope that this day will bring about renewed eagerness for what lies ahead. Here in Bath, not long from now we will begin the bustle of preparing for our morning stroll along the Avon and then to the Pump Room for our morning lounge. Oh, Jane, I cannot begin to describe the excitement I feel with each new sunrise. In only one week I have met and spoken with all sorts of people, men and women, young like myself and old like Mrs. Littleworth, who seems to know everybody. “Pass on by quickly,” she will say about a perfectly
presentable woman, dressed in high style, nothing about her person to suggest wrongdoing. “Pretend you do not notice her. It is rumoured that she has taken up with a bounder not her husband.” I do as Mrs. Littleworth tells me, or at least I try my best. “Pick up your feet,” she has whispered to me on more than one occasion. “You are shuffling.” I do my best, not wishing to embarrass Mrs. Littleworth with my country ways.

However, my shuffling, as she calls it, comes not from the country but from the shoes I have been given to wear. In her haste to outfit me for proper society, Mrs. Littleworth neglected to order shoes for me. Thus, I am shuffling in shoes made for Mrs. Littleworth and much too large for me. I can only hope that the cobbler will make shoes to fit me, for on Tuesday next I will attend my first ball here. Most assuredly, I do not want to shuffle then.

I have had no word from Mr. Bennet. Mr. Littleworth has sent a note assuring his wife that the Bennet family is doing fine, that the children seem well and happy, though Mr. Bennet spends much time strolling about his fields, eyes on the ground, deaf to Mr. Littleworth's cheery greeting, kicking at stones and downed limbs. None of that surprises me. Mr. Bennet can play the part of wounded husband or sullen child ever so well; he has had much practice. And if I may be so bold, he might well spend some of his time not idling about the countryside but scratching out a note to his wife. He might admit in such a note that he looks forward to my return. As it is, I do not plan a return
anytime soon, though of course I am but a guest here and beholden to Mrs. Littleworth. It is her bidding I must do, a welcome change from following Mr. Bennet's orders. Everything Mr. Bennet ordered I did not wish to do: reprimanding the servants, for instance, was difficult for me, having had no training in such duties. But I did my duty and, Mr. Bennet would have to agree—could he bring himself to do so—the household has run much more smoothly in recent weeks. And the children? He persisted in ordering me to, as he put it, “make them fit for civilized company.” Piffle! I did not see that he was able to do that. Apparently the simple fact of their being at my breast—and not altogether successfully there, either—should have made me all-powerful, at least in the area of infant suasion. “Suasion” is a new word I learned in conversation with a gentleman one morning in the Assembly Rooms. “The suasion of young ladies is ever so preferable to force, don't you agree?” That's what he said whilst I struggled to imagine how it might be spelled so that Dr. Johnson's dictionary could enlighten me as to its meaning when I returned to Mrs. Littleworth's house. “Yes indeed,” I answered. After all, just about anything is preferable to force; surely suasion would fall into that grouping. Each day my
vocabulary
—that refers to the words I know—grows. I find conversation much easier now than back at Longbourn. Could it be that the conversants I have met here have more conversation than the one I spend my time with in the country,
that being Mr. Bennet? O Jane, I can hear you twisting your handkerchief. Rest assured that I remain a dutiful wife and mother.

But—and do not hate me for what I am about to confess—my greatest pleasure here in Bath is the freedom to do as I see fit. I am not chained to my children, bless their little souls, nor to household chores, nor to my husband's concupiscent demands. Are you surprised that your little sister is familiar with such a term as “concupiscent”? I only recently came upon it when, on a morning stroll along Green Park, I happened to hear one wag say to another, “But, dear fellow, concupiscence can be practiced with one's wife as well as with ladies of the evening.” The other man seemed startled but then nodded rapidly up and down as if he had just opened a gift that pleased him. I sorted out in my mind the possible spelling of the word and on returning home flew to Dr. Johnson. There it was: “lust or strong desire.” A thrill ran down my spine before I realized that of course such a word applied only to men. And then another thrill as I recalled the night of rapture with none other than Mr. Bennet. You can be sure that Mr. Bennet's concupiscence was much in evidence then. Fortunately, we women need not trouble ourselves, free as we are from concupiscence. We women are, because of such freedom, the stronger of the two sexes, and often, now that I am somewhat familiar with the word, I find myself pitying the men as they try, unsuccessfully, not to peer into the
bosoms so artfully displayed by women here—and at every ball everywhere, I should think. Well, I shall be able to tell you more after Tuesday.

Should you so choose, you might drop a line to Mr. Bennet in which you enquire as to the well-being of the children. I will admit to missing them, though, truth be told, not very frequently. Do not think me an unfit mother, please. I accuse myself quite often enough.

And if you do drop him a line, you might hint that he does have a wife whose well-being seemingly holds no interest for him. I have received not so much as a note from him. For all he knows, I could be in dire distress or even dead. But then, he paid me small attention when I lived at Longbourn, where, in a manner of speaking I was as good as dead. So there.

As I seem to be in the mood for truth-telling, I confess to missing the early hours with Cook, planning for the day ahead. I much enjoyed sitting on the stool in her kitchen, popping crusts of warm sugar pie into my mouth as we conferred. Here, even though the kitchen is not made available to me, I cannot seem to shrink myself back into youthfulness. Each day I fear the disappearance of my waistline entirely come eventide.

Yr loving sister,
Marianne

In Which I Despair

She has been gone a fortnight. Mr. Littleworth informs me that all is well in Bath. Would that this were so here at home. The children have become too much for Mrs. Rummidge. They are to be found throughout the house, in the pantry, the closet, beneath the dining table, under my bed! If I am not careful, I would trip over them, for they are everywhere, Elizabeth in the lead, Jane close behind. I shall take steps. But I shall not pen my thoughts to Mrs. Bennet. It is she who ought to do the penning. I shall do the acting, though what form that will take eludes me at the moment. I will admit to a certain uneasiness as to the whereabouts of Colonel Millar. He seems to me to be capable of a worrisome deviousness beneath all his grand
manners. Perhaps I will ask Mr. Littleworth to pass the following on to Mrs. Bennet:

“Thou shall not sow thy vineyard with diverse seeds, lest thou defile both.”

—Deuteronomy 22:9.

Perhaps I will deliver it myself.

Dearest Jane,

My slippers are satin, their little heels named after Louis, a French person, who I am told wore them. The buckle is a beautiful silver so one could say that I will sparkle when I dance, which I will do this very evening at my very first dress ball to be held in the New Assembly Rooms. Mrs. Littleworth has secured two tickets from a Mr. Tyson since tickets are not available to ladies. Yet they are transferable to ladies. I do not think I will ever come to know the rules and regulations of this beautiful place, but I continue to try. Listening, I have found, is a very good way to learn. I have learned ever so many vocabulary words which I find make my conversation sparkle. At least, that's what I have been told during our morning walks when we are paused to pass the time of day with the gentlemen on parade. My slippers are a perfect fit, no shuffling at all.

According to Mrs. Littleworth, a new ladies' fashion is in evidence here. It, too, is from France whose queen is Marie Antoinette and who, according to rumour, may very well be out of favour, especially with the rabble who seem intent on turning things upside down in Paris. Heaven forfend. It is all very confusing. The Assembly Rooms are a-buzz with news from France, much of it to do with the perilous situation of the monarchy, something I cannot imagine happening here. I shall have to learn French. So much is to be learned of their culture. Occasionally, in conversation in one of the Assembly Rooms, a gentleman will begin to speak French, assuming that I of course will follow. That I cannot is an embarrassment to me; one gets the idea that people of quality are fluent in more than one language, the French language being the most popular at the moment. I have learned to say
mais oui
, which means “yes indeed.” That seems to have sufficed so far. I'm not sure what
ma cherie
means, but I am determined to find out since so many of the gentlemen use that when they converse with me. I suspect it is a term of endearment.
Charmant
, I must say.

But I digress. The new fashion is called Empire, pronounced “Ahmpeer,” just like the French country. It is quite different from what we are accustomed to and ever so much more comfortable. It is cut low, lower than we are used to, allowing for a surprising amount of bosom to show itself. Mother would have raised her eyebrows into her hair—as I can see you doing at this very moment. But it is
the skirt that is the most different. It has no waist! My dear sister, can you imagine: the folds of the skirt are drawn up under the bosom where they are fastened with a brooch or a sweet flower and then allowed to flow, passing quite free of the waist and onto the tips of the slippers below. If I had known how to pray to heaven for something so gloriously perfect, I would have prayed for just such a gown. For, as I have reported to you in earlier letters, my waistline has all but disappeared. Just think: without this newest of costume I would have been required to wear a sash, and a very wide one at that, and no one would wish to escort such a pumpkin onto the ballroom floor, which, all praise to Marie Antoinette or Josephine or whoever, will not happen. Also, I need not cinch myself so tightly. I need not fear the bursting of seams or stays.
“Vive la France!”
That's French for “Hooray for France.”

In keeping with the theme of Francais, I have discovered a novel—a French novel!—in Mrs. Littleworth's dressing room. She did not take it amiss that I should be in her private chambers; rather, she thrust the book at me and urged me to read it. It is entitled
Manon Lescaut
, which is French for the heroine's name. Fortunately, Mrs. Littleworth has seen to it that she has a copy written in English. I learn quickly, she tells me, but not that quickly. Perhaps I will be able to consume a few chapters this very afternoon before I begin my preparation for tonight's ball. I shall not chalk my face; the French have given that up for just a bit of rouge, which now that I see the word on the paper, looks
French. I shall enquire into its meaning from one of my dancing partners.

As you can see, I left Pamela back at Longbourn. She became quite dull once she was married, forever trying to get into high society when she wasn't even a lady and then she does thanks to her lord of a husband. This Manon, though, is French. I don't believe they look as favourably on marriage as we English.

Has Mr. Bennet written you news of Longbourn? I do not worry about the children since they are well cared for by Mrs. Rummidge. I do wonder, at times, about Mr. Bennet. Who is looking after him?

Yr loving sister,
Marianne