Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (2 page)

A Tuesday in May at Longbourn

Dear Jane,

Do you remember as fondly as I the dancing in the town hall? It is the very hall where your beloved Mr. Phillips proposed to you beneath the trees which lined the path where the two of you wandered. I recall Mother worrying that Mr. Phillips was only a clerk. How pleased you must be that he has become the attorney that our father was, his office occupying the very space as that of our dear papa. Oh, that Father had lived! He might well have warned me off entering into a loveless marriage. Still, I suppose he would have seen Mr. Bennet as upright and as responsible as any suitor could be, the holder of property, a man entirely suitable for his daughter. But of course,
were I to confess—as I always do to you, dear sister—I would admit that fortune smiled on me, perhaps in recompense for the terror that struck when my monthly flux ceased. I will not trouble you with the memory of we two in the shameful corner of my little bedroom where I told you my fears. So while I cannot bring myself to think of Mr. Bennet as a godsend, I must admit that he was a bit of luck and came, as they say, “in the nick of time.”

Can you hear my sigh, dear sister?

Until he stumbled against me during the minuet—how anyone could trip over his own feet in such a simple dance is beyond me—I was barely aware of this fellow, who on first glance and first dance was clearly from the country. The word “bumpkin” comes to mind. My attention was absorbed by the presence of Colonel Millar far across the room, who gazed at me with the utmost fondness—surely my due—and whose name was next on my dance card. Taller than Papa, his eyes as black as his moustache, his smile warm and inviting, he bowed slightly in my direction, and my heart beat faster. The dance would be a gavotte, my favourite, particularly so with the colonel, who would be the lead man, of course, and who at the end, as tradition would have it, must kiss his partner. Oh, please let me not stumble or, worse, perspire. Happily, I had brought with me a second pair of gloves, which would replace those which this Mr. Bennet had soiled with the moisture of exertion from his own hands. Mr. Bennet, if I may be so crude, sweats. Colonel Millar, an officer need I
remind you, perspires and that only lightly. I prayed to the heavens above that I would do neither.

I like to think that the colonel took notice of my small waist but could not help but note that his eyes fell most often on my neckline, which, allowed by such social occasions, had dipped somewhat, encouraging a wee bit of peeping from those who would be so bold. Do you recall how tightly we laced our stays so that such peeping would be rewarded? Mother urged us to take up the newer style, which she said was not so heavily boned; she even offered to purchase the new corsets for us. She said they would not so distort us as she assured us they did by narrowing our back and widening our front. But we would not risk the newer and more comfortable strapless stays because they did not make the waist small or push the bosom into amplitude but forced us only to stand with our shoulders back. Fashionable, our mother said. More of her advice we did not heed. Such are daughters, I suppose.

As the gavotte ended and I looked up at the colonel, he leaned down and his lips did not graze my cheek or scuff my ear or touch my brow. His lips met my lips quickly, soft and lightly as a butterfly. Just as quickly he straightened and smiled, holding me by my elbow to steady me as he led me back to you and Mother, and as he assisted me to sit—for it was clear that my head was spinning—he whispered in my ear, “You are a love.” Had it not been for Mother's suspicious frown, I would have followed him then and there. Alas, my dance card announced the next dance and
my next partner: Mr. Bennet again. Mr. Bennet took no notice of my waist; his ogling went directly to my bosom, where it remained throughout the minuet. Subtlety, it would seem, is not his forte.

Even now, some weeks into our marriage, I cannot believe that my life is forever tied to him. I take some comfort in the loveliness of the countryside.

Yrs affectionately,
Marianne

Edward Bennet on His Courting

Quem circumcursans huc atque huc saepe Cupido Fulgebat crocina splendidus in tunica.

“When Cupid fluttering round me here and there Shone in his rich purple mantle.”

—
CATULLUS

Despite my initial awkwardness on the dance floor, I will confess that I was quite admired by the young ladies present. And so I continued with plans to become the father of
sons, the caretakers of my old age and of the property that would naturally fall to them. I found the future Mrs. Bennet, née Gardiner, to my liking, in ways similar to the broodmare of which I was at that time particularly fond. Like the pretty little horse, Miss Gardiner had a sprightly manner and hips that promised the birthing of sleek colts; I imagined this exuberant young girl frolicking in the fields behind the barn, she and the mare, together. I imagined myself gazing fondly at the scene from my library, then turning to my books, which even at my relatively young age numbered, along with those volumes attained by my father, in the hundreds. Ah yes, I could imagine that her 4,000 pounds per annum might serve even to add to my collection. My own 2,000 was barely sufficient to keep a few servants, but Miss Gardiner, I could see, was young and strong and would not require a large household staff. I decided to ask for her hand in marriage.

June, from Longbourn

My dear Jane,

What a fine sister you are! Too late I have come across the little book you handed me when I was but fourteen. As I did all good sense, I set it aside when you offered it to me and now, of course, it is too late. Allow me to point out those Hints, as they are titled in this little book, so that should you have daughters, they will be made aware of pitfalls and so avoid the errors of my recent past. I know that you yourself must have made use of it, as your Mr. Phillips is a living example of the ideal man revealed in those chapters, which guide us, as they say, on our Journey to the Land of Hymen. I need not tell you that guidance of this sort ought be made available to all young women as they are made aware of their future role as wives and mothers. I have copied out some of it for you:

1)
If the man have thick, red lips, he will be simple, good-natured, and easily managed.

2)
If he speak quick but distinct, and walk firm and erect, he will be ambitious, active, and probably a good husband.

That, my dear sister, describes my colonel, not my husband. The following is more characteristic of Mr. Bennet:

3)
If he speak and look with his mouth extended, it is a certain mark of stupidity.

4)
If he be beetle-browed, it shows duplicity and fickleness.

Now, I know you are saying that Mr. Bennet is not as repulsive as all that and reluctantly I would have to agree: He is not stupid even though his lips are thin and lacking in colour, with occasional spittle in the corners. He as yet reveals no fickleness; indeed, he is more faithful more frequently than I would have it. I do not yet know about his duplicity, although his calls for repeated lovemaking, as he would call it, would suggest a certain dishonesty. But then, I suppose one could call me duplicitous as well, for I married as a virgin, withholding from him the secret only you and I share. Still, had I been apprised of such honest words as these Hints offer, I might not have agreed so readily to marry the man who is the source of my constant sorrow.

My dear sister, I am with child. But then we knew that, didn't we.

Yr sister,
Marianne

Dear Jane,

Thank you for your good wishes and your sound advice. I hope Mr. Phillips has got over his cold. Mr. Bennet remains in perfect health. My sniffles have come from within for I have spent many secret hours in tears, though none of them in Mr. Bennet's presence. He is not a cruel man, but he is without that which would allow him to apprehend my sadness. I hesitate to say something so harsh about the man who is my husband, but he is without feeling, at least when it comes to me. His sympathies are great for his horses, especially the foals, and for the old dog who follows him everywhere. I cannot recall a single time when he has looked directly into my eyes; his own dart about every which way and light only on my belly where my child grows with each passing day. Often I wonder if he is simply shy in my presence, but I cannot know, for there is no conversation between us. And no smiles. In the evening, after supper, he repairs to his library. I sit by the fire sewing tiny clothes for the baby until the fading of the light.
He lights our way upstairs with nary a word or even a nod. Could it be that he regrets his insatiability? That I remind him of his coarser nature? Well, there is no sense in pursuing answers. It is time to dry my tears.

I will send to the village for the name of a midwife to assist me when my time is nigh. I have decided to keep my expectations from Mr. Bennet for the time being; he could very well question the speediness with which I have become pregnant; after all, it has been not even one month since our marriage. Of course, he would put it up to his potency, and yet one can never be sure of this man. When he is not turning from me, his face dark with concentration on one of his books, he is mercurial: laughing, flailing his extremities, galumphing across the bed (and me), his eyes aglow with lust, a terrifying sight. Even during daylight hours I cannot so much as cross from one side of the room to the other without his grabbing at my petticoat and shoving his hands, which for a man who does no manual labour whatsoever are surprisingly coarse and rough, beneath my chemise. And he seems not to care if his behaviour is witnessed by others! Only the other day, whilst I was consulting with Cook in the pantry, in he stormed and all but tossed me onto the counter, where he lifted up my petticoat and began to rummage. The shame of it seems always to be mine, never his. Also the cleaning up after. Cook refuses to come near.

When he is not asserting his dominion in the bedchamber or the parlour or even the kitchen, he sulks, is surly in
manner, broods, and spends much time in his library—where, not surprisingly, I am not allowed to go. On the rare occasions that he takes a stroll about his property I do enter the library and have found there many books about the creatures that live nearby, a very fat book called
The Sermons of John Donne
, whose very title puts me off, but also some novels! O la! One such is
Pamela
by a Mr. Samuel Richardson. Although Mother taught us to read when we were but small, she forbade either of us to read that very book; but now that I am a married woman, she could have no objections. Mr. Bennet is fastidious about the arrangement of his books so I have been very careful to tuck the book beneath my skirt so that no servant can notice and then to return it to its proper place before Mr. Bennet returns. O Jane! It affords me such pleasure even for so short a time. Here is her story: Pamela, a young servant girl, is pursued by an older and titled man. Oh, Jane, she is only fifteen years of age—as am I—and she vows to lose her life before her virtue. I will her to succeed; however, I have read only to page 9 of the first folio and cannot imagine her maintaining her purity for another 400 pages! We shall have to see; in the meantime, she brings me great delight. I am her champion on every page. She is my friend.