Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (20 page)

Votre soeur,
Marianne

Quaenam ista jocandi Saevitia!

“With a sporting cruelty!”

—CLAUDIAN

I am back to searching Montaigne, my only companion, for some understanding of or at least some comfort from the anguish laid upon me by my wife's “sporting cruelty.” For the first time I see myself as she sees me: a boorish, awkward country lout without the wit or the strength or the wisdom to return her to her rightful home. I have always been thus, I suppose, but if one is to speak the truth—as one is obligated to in these pages—better a lout than a tart. That is what she seemed to me: dressed in all that finery, colour on her face and lips, and playing the part of a tease. Unforgivable! I shall not even go into her behaviour: eyebrows up and down, licking of lips, darting of
tongue, sashaying this way and that, and in a dressing gown that is intended only for the darkest of night! Such a gown is worn surely for display, for tantalizing, for tarting! There, I've said it again.

Nothing I saw of her behaviour or appearance was in the least like the Marianne I brought to Longbourn only a few short years ago. Except for the screaming, which has always accompanied her, she was a stranger to me. And yet, there remains something about her that makes me want to protect her—from herself, it would seem—and take her away from the pretentiousness and the falseness that is Bath. Granted, I saw very little of the place. But I saw enough to know that no one who is my wife will enjoy its seductions for very long without suffering a terrible aftermath.

I am aware that I have avoided the topic of Colonel Millar. The thought of him and Marianne so close together in that café makes for too much pain. The memory of the way my wife looked at him, as she had never looked at me, will remain with me forever and makes me seethe with jealousy and fear and love for my wife, who may never be that again.

There is nothing for it but to wait. Never have I felt so powerless. Never so despairing. I fear that she is in danger, yet she has resisted my every attempt to help her. If there is right in this world, she will return to me. That is my only hope.

Dear Jane,

I know you think me vain and heartless and I will confess to you that you are half right. Heartless I am not. It is just that my heart belongs, or should I say belonged, to Colonel Millar. All that I was belonged to him. Until now. I hope you are seated safely in a sturdy chair, for in this letter I will relate to you the manner in which my world came to an end.

After Mr. Bennet's departure from Bath, I was of course distraught and could not keep from sobbing so loudly and so long that several of the servants hastened to my room to enquire if they could be of help. I shook my head and recommenced my wailing, for what, dear Jane, had I done but turn away my own husband! Such overwhelming guilt was new to me, though I am sure you would opine that by this time guilt surely must be a constant companion. Much
of my lament, however, centered on my colonel, for what could I hope from him now, after Mr. Bennet had accosted him in so ungentlemanly a fashion, reminding him that I was a married woman? Most likely he would choose never again to seek my company, a thought that returned me once more to undiminished weeping.

I turned to Mrs. Littleworth for comfort and advice. She was ever so understanding; indeed, she was like a mother to me just then. “Leave everything to me,” she said. “All is not lost.” And away she went to a destination unnamed.

Soon enough she returned and said, “Colonel Millar will be at the New Assembly Rooms tomorrow at five o'clock in the afternoon. He has secured a private corner for tea in the octagon room. He begs you to meet him there, where, he asserts, your conversation will be undisturbed.”

Saved! All was not lost! Undeserving as I was, I was to be given another chance for a new life.

“Now, dry your tears. Much will have to be done to repair the damage your weeping has done to your face. Thank heaven for colour; we shall have to apply considerably more if you are to be an object of desire.”

I wrapped my arms around her ample self and wept anew, this time from happiness, from gratitude for being given a second chance—or was it a third? I had decided long ago not to keep count. Fortunately I was brought suddenly to my senses by a concern of the utmost importance: what should I wear?

That night I could barely sleep for imagining myself in which one, of all the fine gowns Mrs. Littleworth had so thoughtfully and generously provided, I would be most alluring. And then it came to me. Ah yes! I would appear as much as possible like the girl from Meryton, the innocent young thing he found so irresistible. Surely then he would recall our first meeting, and the stage would be set for revealing the identity of his child, my little Jane. I would arrange myself to look demure yet delightful, untouched but touchable.

I chose a simple white chemise, thin and flowing, gathered with a narrow blue ribbon beneath my breasts. I would carry a cashmere shawl to protect my shoulders from the cool air of evening or to give myself a hint of mystery should I decide to wear it over my curls. I would wear my hair down with only a thin blue ribbon as ornament. Mrs. Littleworth urged me to be generous with colour for my lips and cheeks, but I demurred, dashing only a bit onto my cheeks and biting my lips to bring forth the natural colour that was mine. I was a breath of springtime in the autumn of the year. Who could resist me?

I can hear now, dear sister, your sharp intake of breath, can feel your wanting to have me before you so that you can scold me for my prideful foolishness. Fret no more, my comeuppance is nigh.

The colonel and I dined discreetly in a lovely alcove just off the octagon room, which offered the privacy rarely available in the gathering places of Bath. No Grand
Concourse for us, not as we planned our escape from humdrum convention and tiresome society. We sipped Champagne—it had become my favourite French
eau
—and his eyes met mine. “Soon we will be together,” he said. He reached for my hand.

Jane, I am approaching that part of the evening which is most upsetting to me. You will find much of this letter blotted with tears, but I must go on. I have heard it said that confession is good for the soul but I beg to disagree. Confession is the shredding of the soul accompanied by pain indescribable by my poor pen. Bear with me, I beg of you, please know that I am suffering.

“We are together now,” I teased my captain. “What can you mean?” I pulled my hand away.

“I mean that I shall hold you close, that you will be mine.” He moved nearer to me and took my hand once again. I could feel his breath on my neck. I shivered as a most sudden and now familiar feeling surged deep within me. I felt my face flush; my breath came quickly.

“Forever,” I breathed.

“Forever.”

I felt his warm lips on my neck just below my ear. They glided gently down and fell into the hollow of my shoulder. I feared I was about to swoon. “Oh please,” I begged. “Allow me to catch my breath. I am feeling faint.”

He released me but still held me close. He handed me my little blue hair ribbon, which had slipped to my shoulders as he wooed me, and I felt at that moment that he
would look after me forever. I knew that my refusal to return to home and family was the right thing to do. I knew that this man cared for me in a way that my husband never could. I knew that my marriage and my life at Longbourn were wrong. I knew that the colonel and I were meant to be together and marriage be damned. Was ever a girl so misguided!

Our room had emptied itself of other visitors. Teatime had come and gone. The tables were bare except for the china cups holding the dregs of some exotic tea and a few plates sullied with bits of cucumber and watercress. Evening was becoming night.

“Please,” I begged. “May we not walk a bit? It is so very warm in here.” Indeed, my cheeks felt afire.

“Of course, my love. Let us repair to the out-of-doors. The cover of night will provide us with all the privacy we need.” He rose from the table and led me out to the deserted gardens nearby. “You are so lovely, my dearest one. Your flush becomes you. It makes you so very alive, my darling.”

None of this was cooling. I leaned against him and begged, “Please, find a bench where we might sit for a moment until I regain my composure.” And the strength of my lower limbs, I could have added, for they had turned to warm milk and I feared I might fall.

“Come, my darling,” he said. “I have rooms not far from here. Are you agreeable to accompanying me there?”

“Yes.”

Thus began the night I had longed for, the night that would change my life forever.

I cannot tell you what his rooms were like nor even where they were located. I remember only standing stock-still while he kissed me on my mouth and my eyes and at the same time began to unfasten my dress, which quite naturally fell from my shoulders. But impediments showed themselves: never before had I hated my underthings, but now, what with the loosening and untying and struggling with twisted ribbons and laces, even so patient a lover as my colonel began to mutter his frustration, and for a brief moment I considered taking myself into my own hands, when at last he succeeded in unfastening my corset and then my chemise, thus rendering me naked to my waist. I stood like a statue, feeling his hot breath upon my neck and then my shoulders and upon my breasts as all the while he held me around the waist so that I would not faint dead away. He kissed me where no one had gone before. “You are so lovely,” he murmured and took my nipple into his mouth. At this I felt myself melting; I could barely breathe and feared that I would crumple to the ground. He laid me carefully upon the velvet covering of his couch, which, in retrospect, had surely felt the weight of many a woman, but which at the time felt designed just for me. And then, with his mouth upon my breasts and then my belly, somewhat flattened, thank goodness, by my horizontal position, and then so close to the mound of my womanhood, he said, “At last, I have you. Remove your shoes.” As my shoes
were all that were left of my original habiliments I kicked them to the floor, where they joined the rest of my clothing there in a heap, and I did so without the slightest protest and with all the speed that I could muster. “You are so lovely,” he murmured. The oceans swelled within me and I welcomed him in. Glorious surrender.

I can write no more just now.

M.

But I must.

Afterward, we lay quietly together, each of us lost in our own thoughts, each of us feeling the quietude that surely must come after so passionate an interlude. I thought to ease us into a bit of conversation, and so I said, “May I enquire into a matter of some import to me?”

“Anything, my adored one.”

“Please do not think me forward, but I cannot call you Colonel, not after we have been so intimate. What is your given name, dearest?” He was silent. To encourage him, I asked, “What, for instance, does your sister call you?”

“What my sister calls me is of no matter here,” he said abruptly and rose from the couch.

“Oh please, I did not mean to offend, but if we are to—”

“Yes, yes, of course.” He paced back and forth for a
moment and then said, “You can call me Charles, my darling. Indeed, I would like to hear you say my name.”

“Charles,” I murmured. In my mind's eye I saw my future calling cards: “Mrs. Charles Millar.” I heard our names announced at banquets and balls: “Colonel and Mrs. Millar.” So much more dignified than “Mr. and Mrs. Bennet.” Oh, what a nuisance, my husband. But not such an obstacle as one might suppose, for I have heard tell of persons who journeyed to America to begin a new life. My colonel and I could do the same. We could start afresh with none of the archaic conventions that hinder the blossoming of our life together in this country. The world is so full of a wonder of things; why should we not avail ourselves of them? I can think of no good reason.

Charles sat himself upon the couch once more. I felt the heat rise in me again. “And Charles, my dearest, what shall you call me? You know, endearments alone may not prove sufficient in all instances of our life together. Our long life together,” I added.

Again he rose but now I felt a coolness. He paced and I grew cold. “My darling,” he said, “my endearments will never grow stale, nor will they ever be diluted of their passion. Passion for you, my darling.”

“Oh, Charles, you are so wonderful. Still”—and here I knew I was taking my life into my hands—“I remain curious. What, should the necessity arise, will you call me? What is my name, dear heart?”

His face paled, though handsomely, and he took up his pacing once more. I began to fear I had been too bold; perhaps I should have waited until we were Colonel and Mrs. Millar before broaching so private a conversation. Suddenly he stopped his pacing and turned to face me, his colour fully restored, and said in the most
charmant
manner, “Lydia. I shall call you Lydia.” Lydia? My face must have fallen for he rushed to add, “No matter what your name really is you will be Lydia to me and only to me. It is our little secret. No one else but the two of us shall know. My darling.”

The two of us.
My heart was full to bursting.
Our little secret.
I sat up from the couch and threw my arms around his neck. “Oh, Charles.”

“Now, now, my dear,” he said, unwinding me from himself. “We must be cautious until such time—”

“Until such time as . . . ?” I could not wait for his answer and so I said, “Until such time as we are man and wife.”

He stiffened then and said somewhat condescendingly, “Do you not remember that you are already married? Do you not recall that unpleasant little man who so rudely interrupted our tête-à-tête—”

“Tetatet, what is that?”

Impatiently, he answered, “It's French, but never mind.”

“But I do mind. What does it mean?”

“I fail to understand how you can be so scattered in your conversation. Furthermore, I hate being interrupted. I find it quite disconcerting. However, since you insist, it's French for ‘face-to-face.' Lydia,” he added.

Lydia.
What a lovely sound, what a lovely name. I would endeavour to do better. “I will endeavour to do better,” I said. “And yes, I do recall Mr. Bennet's appearance and behaviour and my chagrin over both. He had no right, no right at all.”

Charles looked puzzled. “But, my darling, he is your lawful husband.”

“Lawful, that is all. And none of that matters. You will be my true husband.”

“Of course, but we need not concern ourselves with that now.”

Something in me compelled me to the notion, however dangerous, that now was the time to plan for the future. “Where will we live, my dearest?” I asked in my most timid fashion.

“Never fear. Perhaps somewhere near the sea, perhaps upon a hillock in a dale, perhaps in a teeming city, perhaps simply beneath the open skies. What need have we of shelter? We have our love.”

With that, he drew me to him, placed his finger beneath my chin, and raised my face to his for a solemn kiss, his solemn promise that we two would be joined forever.