Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (17 page)

O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock,
in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance,
let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice,
and thy countenance is comely.

—SONG OF SOLOMON 2:14

“Now, Tom,” I said only a few days before this one, “your Mathilda's good efforts could bring you the additional income you are forever complaining to be in want of. We might even agree to your purchase of an acre of my property should you deem it right and proper that she settle into Longbourn, for the time being. Think, man!”

Tom did not seem to be in a thinking mood. He shook off the hand I had placed on his shoulder and said, “Begging your pardon, sir, but her mother is in need of Mathilda's efforts. The little ones need looking after; they are
always underfoot, and they slow my wife's weaving almost to a stop. Mathilda scoops them up and amuses them with some game she has made up in her head. She keeps them neat and clean, for the most part, and she does the same for her mum and dad. I do not know what we would do without her.” Tom looked glum.

“Exactly!” I answered him. “My daughters are becoming little ruffians. They scoot and crawl about beneath the furniture, under the feet of their nurse, if you could call her a nurse; they climb onto chairs and ladders. It is a wonder that one of them hasn't come to an untimely end. Oh, Tom”—I put my hand back on his shoulder—“it's the children we must think about, don't you agree?” And I added, “What with the extra guineas Mathilda would bring to you, your missus wouldn't need to keep up so much with her spinning and weaving and hauling cloth to market and all the other chores she does. She would be free to see to pleasing you. How long has it been since she's done that?”

Tom shook his head. “Too long, sir, too long indeed.”

And so it is that Mathilda has come to live with us. Mrs. Rummidge is not at all pleased; indeed, she does not speak to me at all, a welcome relief since almost everything she has ever said to me was in the form of invective that I cannot bring myself to re-produce here. The other servants roll their eyes and dart in the other direction when they see me. I should think they would be relieved as well not to have my children underfoot. But then, one never knows about servants; they are the most secretive of breeds.

As for the children themselves, they seem happy and content. Jane, who is struggling to enter the world of language, says, when I point to Mathilda, “Mama!” Everyone laughs then, save for Elizabeth, who shakes her head so vigorously that her red curls toss about like sparks from a wildfire.

As for myself, I am most relieved to be free of the worry that my children are not being cared for properly. Mathilda, as hearty and as healthy as my ewes down in the pasture, brings her good spirits and willing hands to our household. She seems happy to be away from the chores down in her mother's home and in her father's field. Here she can for a short time imagine herself mistress of Longbourn. Until Mrs. Bennet returns, of course. Assuming she does.

I have yet to exchange my mourning suits for the coats and breeches of winter. I find myself wondering whether Mrs. Bennet, mother of my late infant son, finds her mourning garb oppressive and if so, what she will exchange it for. Something in keeping with her role as wife and mother, I hope.

I have yet to determine whether or not to apprise Mrs. Bennet of this recent addition to our household. Mr. Littleworth will no doubt have an opinion. I shall seek it anon. On the other hand, perhaps not.

Dear Sister,

I trust that you are well. Colonel Millar appeared at the ball. We shall walk together this very afternoon in Sydney Gardens. Forgive me, I am in a tizzy.

I know, dear sister, that what I tell you suggests that I have not heeded your advice. I know that from the very beginning of my journey you have in your letters warned me of the seductiveness of such brilliance as is to be found in this most fashionable city. You have cautioned me against the dissembling you assured me awaited me here. “False promises are everywhere,” you wrote, “not least in the glittering society of the idle class. Mind that you do not fall prey to one of those dandies whose chief aim is to make you his plaything.” Such has not happened, dear sister, I swear!
Rien!
as the French would say. Or they might say,
rien de tout
, which means “nothing at all.” You see how
accomplished I am becoming. And I am reading daily from Mrs. Littleworth's not inconsiderable library. However, I do not recommend that you read the French novel
Manon Lescaut
, for it would serve only to heighten your worries over life in Society. Which is where I am at this moment. I am in Society. And I am in it with Colonel Millar.

Long ago, it now seems to me, in a letter to you I opined that women were not subject to the passions that men seemed incapable of curbing; in that, I pronounced us the superior sex. How foolish of me! Because now, I am consumed by wave after wave of passion when in the company of Colonel Millar. Which is as often as I can manage it. I place myself on paths where I know he walks and in rooms where I know he comes to discuss the matters of the day. I am as close to throwing myself at his feet as my shred of propriety will allow. And I am without shame, for it is he that causes my knees to weaken and my heart to beat so that I fear he must hear it. It is he that brings the flush to my cheeks and causes my eyes to shine. It is he whose absence I cannot bear. And I have been successful in my pursuit, for he has been my almost constant companion during my time in Bath. He makes me happy. He is my colonel and I am his. And yes, I have not forgotten that I am a wife and a mother and the mistress of Longbourn, and yet all of those responsibilities recede with each passing hour I spend with the colonel. It is as if I were being steered by an invisible hand; I seem to have lost control of the girl who lived at Longbourn, and in her stead there has
risen a passionate woman, for whom life unfolds in all its brilliance. I am becoming a true woman.

Allow me to explain how all this came to pass: First, let me assure you that Mrs. Littleworth has been at my side during the whole of this visit. She has provided advice and counsel and, I will admit, protection from those who flirt mercilessly in the hope of securing a new plaything, as you call it. But she has come to take the waters for her rheumatism and a rapid heart beat, and so today she has left me to my own devices while she immerses herself in the healing pools of the hot springs. I do hope she finds some relief from the discomfort that bedevils her every step. She shows great courage in insisting on accompanying me on our morning strolls. In the Assembly Rooms she passes the time mainly in the card room, though I know her fingers are too stiff to make the game a pleasant one. Nonetheless, she goes about the duties of Society insofar as they will serve to make me accepted and admired. Her generosity shows itself in every gown, every slipper, every jewel I wear. She sees that tradesmen and dressmakers and shoemakers and milliners are paid directly and fairly without argument, without bargaining, without discussion. I cannot imagine Mr. Bennet's reaction were he to be presented with a bill for such elegance; I am most fortunate to have Mrs. Littleworth as a most devoted friend for whom money means little more than what it can buy, in this case my adornment.

I confess that I have kept to myself today's plan to
walk in the gardens with Colonel Millar. I am quite certain that, were Mrs. Littleworth to know, she would forbid it despite her pronouncement that she wishes only happiness for me. But then I have also heard it said, “What one doesn't know, can't hurt one.” Have you heard that, dear Jane? The colonel whispered it in my ear as we sipped punch at the ball.

The ball: I shall remember it all the days of my life. Or rather I shall remember dancing with the colonel resplendent in his red coat and black, shining boots. The rest of the ball remains a blur. “May I have the pleasure, mademoiselle?” he said. Clearly, he believed I was in Society, for he used the French term of address, which means, in English, “miss.” I did not advise him that he was speaking to a “madame.” Do not chide me, sister. I have much to tell.

It was a minuet so I was much at ease, having danced just about every kind of minuet anyone could ever have imagined right there in Meryton when I was but a girl. Thus, I was free to make conversation, which I did and, out of nervousness, quite rapidly, too. I cannot recall at this moment about what: about the minuet, I would guess, or the musical accompaniment, which is made much more musical here by the presence of violin, cello, a guitar, and a flute. I must have gone on at some length, I suppose, for the colonel interrupted me to say, “Do you talk as a rule while you are dancing?”

“I am quite impressed by the size of this room, are you not?” I answered.

“I am impressed by some of the people within this room.” He smiled down at me and continued, “By one person in this room in particular.”

“And who,” I asked in the archest manner possible, “might that be?”

“I believe you know who that person is,” he answered.

I tossed my curls a bit. “No, who?” I asked.

“My partner in dance,” he said, “as you are well able to guess. It gives me great delight to know that this particular minuet lasts a good half an hour. I do not believe I should ever tire of seeing your curls dance about your lovely shoulders. I would that the dance might continue forever.”

Now, Jane, what should I have said in answer to that? I must have blushed, for I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. “You are too kind, sir.” And then, Jane, I thought to strike while the iron was hot. I summoned all my courage and said, “Could we have met somewhere before this?” Without waiting for his answer, I rushed ahead. “Perhaps it is your uniform, for in my childhood village of Meryton I encountered many dressed as you, though of course not so elegantly.” I smiled up at him. He was of great height, Jane, though not so tall that I could not feel the brush of his lips on my temple when the minuet brought us close.

“Surely I would have remembered,” he returned, “if that girl was you.”

I wanted to scream, But it was! It was I whom you danced with. It was I you held in your arms and kissed into breathlessness and led so sweetly beneath the elms and O my dear colonel, it was you who gave me your greatest gift. Her name is Jane and she is the loveliest of all children and she looks much like you, with your deep blue eyes and your gentle disposition. O my dear colonel, claim your right to your daughter and to the woman you hold in your arms at this very moment. We are yours. Take us with you. Wherever you lead, there shall we follow. But I said none of this. For once I held my tongue; for once common sense overcame the rush of emotion that threatened to topple everything I knew.

“May I be so bold,” he said, “as to enquire if you will come out with me on the morrow? I must see you again.”

“Yes,” I murmured. And the dance ended. We danced twice again during the evening. Mrs. Littleworth took no notice, busy as she was at the card table. I took no notice of anyone but him. As far as I was concerned, we were the only couple at the ball.

“Let us keep our plans to ourselves,” he whispered. “What one doesn't know can't hurt one.”

So yes, in just a few hours we shall commence our stroll in Sydney Gardens where I understand one can get lost in the mazes should one lose one's head.

Do not fear for me, sister. My future is safe with him.

What is this I hear from Longbourn? Mr. Bennet has
taken a new servant? Mathilda, she of the farm? Good grief! Mrs. Rummidge scratched out a note delivered to me here. I did not think that she could write, poor thing, and from what I see before me, I am not far wrong.

I know you wish me safe. Wish me well, too.

Yrs affectionately,
Marianne

'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

That damned Millar! He paid no heed to the order of the village judge that he and his hell-bound friends ride clear of my property. Indeed, out of necessity Tom enclosed the property so that Millar would know full well where his land ended and mine began. But no, he, or his hunting acquaintances and their mounts, simply tore down the fence in some places and in others jumped over the fence, crying Tally-ho or some such rubbish. I shall certainly speak to the colonel when next I see him. In the meantime, I have spent many daylight hours repairing the damage. Tom, of course, has given me his able hand e'en though
enclosure of land, any land, is not to his liking. A good man, Tom.

Tom's Mathilda, while not as strong as her father, is fleet of foot. She has taken to running in the direction opposite of myself. Surely she knows I mean her no harm; however, something must have happened to turn her from me. It cannot be that little kiss I planted on her plump and juicy lips just as she was coming from the pantry, her apron tight over her ample bosom, smudges of flour dotting her glorious curls. She looked good enough to eat and so I allowed myself a tiny taste, no harm meant, no harm done. However, things between us have not been cordial since then. I see more of her back than I do of her bosom. And so I have been forced to hide myself around corners of the hallways and leap out when she approaches. Damned if she doesn't almost jump out of her skin, a sight I wouldn't mind seeing, truth be told. “Oh, sir!” she cries. “You gave me such a start!” Then off she goes. It would not become me to run after her, but little surprises here and there could not offend, and who knows but that I will catch her. A surprise for both of us then!

This past week she has found her way into all of my reveries. Silly game, this. Not unlike those blasted hunters chasing after their doomed foxes, ruining fences and property not theirs. Mathilda, though, is my property, at least for the time being, but since I intend no execution of any plan, she is safe from marauding sportsmen. I shall see to that.

No word from Bath. Mr. Littleworth assures me all is well. I would rather Mrs. Bennet assured me herself. I wish she would pen me a note. Why she does not is quite beyond me. Perhaps tomorrow.

She is good with the children—Mathilda, that is. Jane of course is happy with everyone; Elizabeth, who is happy with no one save Mrs. Rummidge, seems to have taken quite readily to Mathilda. The three of them spend long afternoons in the sunshine down in the meadow farthest from the house. Perhaps one day I shall surprise them there.