Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (21 page)

“But”—he wagged his finger at me—“wherever we
live it will not be here. So we must make plans to leave Bath. Soon is not soon enough for me, for I must have more of you.”

Now I decided was the perfect time to introduce his little daughter to him. I would need to use the utmost caution; after all, little Jane would be a great shock to even so worldly a man as my colonel. Once he became accustomed to his newly discovered fatherhood, we would be We Three and my dream would come true.

Charles by now had dressed himself and I followed suit. I did not want to leave these rooms, not ever, but sensing some impatience in him, I said, “Shall we walk a bit?”

Night was giving way to day. We strolled along the river, which by now barely mirrored the moon. I held Charles's arm; he covered my hand with his. I granted him yet another kiss and then begged to be seated. Charles found the perfect bench. Behind us the leaves of the trees rustled, then fell to the ground, creating a canopy of reds and golds and yellows. The time was right. Loosing myself from his affectionate grasp, I said, “Charles, my darling, what thoughts have you about children?”

“They are fine, just so long as they keep their distance. Why do you ask?”

This was not a propitious beginning. “Oh, no reason,” I said as airily as I could. “Can you imagine our creating a family”—here I stuttered—“a child or perhaps two who would carry on your name?” He stiffened. “And care for Northfield in your dotage?”

“I do not intend to suffer a dotage. I shall most likely fall in battle before that.”

I uttered a little shriek. “Dear heart! Say not so!”

“What is all this, then, about children? My duties as a military man preclude children. Furthermore, as you have been quick to celebrate, We Two will do just fine. Something awkward about We Three or, God help us, We Four. Let us continue our stroll.”

“No, no, dear, just a moment longer.” I swear, sister, the wind grew stronger and colder. The river had turned from black to silver. Day was upon us. “Charles,” I said, “please hear me out.”

“What is it?” His impatience was showing.

“We are already We Three.”

“Silly goose, come now; let us find a warmer spot. Better yet, let us head for my carriage. It is past your bedtime, my darling. Besides, I have made my feelings clear: I have never cared much for children. To be blunt, I do not care one whit for them. Now, shall we go?”

This was it, all or nothing: “My dear, you would care for one such child, if you knew her.”

“Surely we could find some sort of conversation pleasing to us both. This one is boring me to distraction.”

Nothing, not even his boredom, could stop me now. “Do you recall the child you thought so adorable at the village fair? The child you called lovely? Her name is Jane. She is two years old. She was born nine months after you and I met. She is your daughter, yours and mine.”

“Silence!” he ordered. “It is not fitting for a married woman to have so intimate an exchange with a man not her husband.”

“She is your child, my beloved. Jane belongs to you.”

“Nonsense! This cannot be.” He rose as if to leave.

I rushed on. “We could easily pass by Longbourn and collect her. She is our child. She is our life together.”

His response was instantaneous and as I look back, probably not the first time he had uttered it: “And how could I be certain of that? Given the wanton behaviour you have apprised me of, your child's father could be any one of a number of men, men whom you have deceived just as you have deceived me, as you have deceived your husband. I cannot abide deceit. You have besmirched my honour.”

“I? I have besmirched your honour? What about mine?”

“You have no honour, madam, not now, not ever.”

“None now that you revile me.” I fell on my knees and beseeched him, “Have pity, my love.”

“Get up, you fool,” he ordered. “Someone may see us.” And with that he jerked me upright. “You have misled me. Damn you.”

I stared into the darkness at his retreating back and thought of how I might shoot it. From this distance my beloved looked more like a rabbit caught in a hunter's sights than a man. Yet he need not have feared me. Had I had a firearm I would not have had the strength to raise it, let alone to fire it. I stared into the empty darkness until the
chill of the early morning, so cold as to deny the sun forever, forced me to rise from the odious bench, and somehow I managed to stumble back to Mrs. Littleworth's rooms.

Fortunately, my friend and protector was engaged at the gaming tables and I was free to weep as loudly as ever I have or wish to again. My fury was not just at the colonel. My anger was at myself. How could I have been so foolish? How could I have let that man take such liberties? Where was I to go now? What life was left to me? I was and am deeply ashamed and I shall remain so all the rest of my life.

Upon Mrs. Littleworth's return, I threw myself upon her and sobbed anew. “What is it, child?” she asked. “Here, here, dry your eyes. Tell your mum everything.”

So I did. “And he deserted me. He walked away and left me alone there in the darkness, all alone without protection or friendship or anything at all except his never-ending loathing of me, his own dear one, his own Lydia!”

“Good God, I am ruined!” said Mrs. Littleworth. “Did he say where he was going?”

“He said nothing. But why, pray tell, are you ruined? It is I who am ruined!”

Mrs. Littleworth's face contorted itself in a way I had never seen. “Where do you think the money came from, for your wardrobe, your coiffeur, your face, your complete transformation into a lady of Society? Your dancing master, your French tutor—expenses I incurred gladly and for your benefit. And now what have you done? All my hard
work arranging for meetings, reserving rooms, encouraging walks and talks, all for nothing. I will be cast out in the morning if not before.” She turned her back on me and sailed toward the door. “One last piece of advice,” she said. “You had best be gone within the day. You have failed me, you little fool.”

Another shock, dear Jane, as if I were being lashed anew. My friend and confidante had turned against me. I was indeed alone as I had never before been. Perhaps this most recent shock dried my tears, but dried they were and I sat there wondering how the tragedy of my life concerned Mrs. Littleworth.

I brushed past Mrs. Littleworth's maid and burst into her boudoir. “I demand to know,” I said. “What do you mean by ‘cast out'? What has that to do with our friendship, your kindness, your generosity to me?”

“Just who do you think your benefactor was? Mr. Littleworth? Hah! My husband cut off my funds weeks ago, shortly after we arrived.”

So Mr. Bennet was right; Mr. Littleworth had rendered her penniless. “And so you are without funds?”

“It pleases Mr. Littleworth to think me so. But I am not without funds. I have not been without funds for quite some time. Mr. Littleworth's money was but a drop in the pond required to make you socially acceptable.”

“Then who? The colonel?”

“Colonel Millar's attentions to you were my doing. I
arranged not only for meetings and for your walks about this town and for the balls in the evening and for—”

“But my gowns! My shoes! My lessons! Where did that money come from if not from the colonel?” As much as I hated to admit it, he seemed the most likely source.

Mrs. Littleworth rose from her settee and puffed herself up to a great expanse. “The money came from me. All of it, every pound, every shilling, came from me.”

“From you? You have been so very kind to me, but I cannot think that your affection for me would cost you so dearly.” The light was dawning. “In return for?”

“In return for you. You, my dear, provided the protection I needed.”

I was becoming even more confused. “Protection from what?”

“I was to deliver you to him dressed like a lady with the manners of a lady but with the yearning of a woman. And, now that we are about it, why do you think I dressed you in so unusual a fashion, a veritable curtain overflowing your ever-burgeoning belly? I could not chance that he would reject you should he discover your swelling, you his virginal country girl. Because, you silly goose, do not suppose that you are his only one. He fills his time with all sorts of women, you offering the greatest challenge given that you are married. Perhaps it is your stupidity as well that attracts him. Perhaps he hoped that your motherhood would make you even more of a challenge, that's all. But
of course you with your simpering ways turned out to be no challenge whatsoever; no wonder he fled. With very little cause, he could have deserted us both long ago had I not been so vigilant and industrious on your behalf. And now he has! Thanks to you!”

I gasped; every word she uttered took the breath from me. “And you!” I sputtered. “You carried out your part of the bargain. How can you then be ruined? Surely you are owed! By him!”

“We will never see him again. Oh yes, he would have snatched you away to some destination known only to him, and I suspect he would have tossed you out once he'd had his fill of you. But by then I would have departed the scene with savings enough to assure my return to the tables wherever and whenever I wished. But not now, you strumpet! Do you not know, you idiot child, that you provide a cover for me?”

I stared at her, dumbstruck. What can she mean, a cover? I did feel, at that moment, like an idiot child, so like an idiot child I began to weep.

“Stop your bloody crying,” Mrs. Littleworth ordered. “You are no good to me now. To think of the money I spent on you just so that I would have good reason to appear in Bath sans husband and in the gaming rooms, my true destination. As long as you were visible, I could appear the chaperone, the friend, the protector you thought I was and be received in the most respectable homes during visiting hours. At night you would be holding hands with
the colonel, thus freeing me to apply my talents elsewhere in a place where no one, not even the cleverest card-player, would think to question my estimable presence at the tables.”

Here she must have called up a pleasing reminiscence, as a smile appeared on her face. I took heart. “You used me,” I said. “You betrayed me.”

“Of course I did, and I would have continued to do so had you not pushed yourself forward like the peasant you are. You are not the first innocent I have shepherded into Society, though you will likely be my last. You with your nattering on about children. Why couldn't you have slowed things? Good heavens, one kiss and you are ready to throw your entire life into the gutter—and mine—for a few hours of what you call love. How could you have been so stupid?”

She moved toward me as if to strike me. I covered my head with my hands and said, as if to assure her that I had learned her lesson, “I am stupid no longer.”

“Only a few more nights and I would have made off with a fortune,” she said, “and with it, I would have gained entry into the grandest houses in England. Such a future I envisioned! Fleecing the highest, the most noble, the richest denizens in the land! My dream would have come true. And now? Now word of this will get out and I will be persona non grata at every table in the country. Drat! And with the London season just beginning. Thanks to you, I am left with no season at all!”

By now she stood towering over me and once more I begged. “O Mrs. Littleworth, take pity on me,” I said. “I, too, am left with nothing.”

What an ugly laugh! I glanced up to see her wide-open mouth. How could I have failed to notice the absence of all those teeth before now? She leaned down to me, her bosom heaving this way and that, and bellowed, “You deserve every bit of suffering that has come to you, you useless piece of baggage. You brought about your own downfall—and mine. And now? I am left with demands from every tradesman, every dressmaker, every ribboner in town. I will be penniless before dawn. And all because of you, a stupid little tramp.”

“I am stupid no longer.” It was all I could think of to say, and so I said it over and over until finally she swept from the room.

Dear Jane, if there is anything to be gained from this terrible time, perhaps it is that though I would gladly have done without it, the shock forced me to see my world as it is: my love a prowler upon the innocent, a black-hearted reprobate, a wicked man; my friend, my confidante a liar, a panderer, a pimp, a procurer of flesh, just as if I were a scarlet woman in some bordello. I count myself fortunate to have been cast from such a society. Why, then, am I so miserable?

And I am with child. No, not the colonel's, thank heaven. I am carrying little Edward's twin. I had thought that the cessation of my flow was caused by the miscarriage
or by the grief thereafter. I had thought that my burgeoning belly was the result of my childish desires for sweets and butters. I had, if I am to tell the truth, not thought at all, perhaps not for most of my life. But I must begin now. I will write Mr. Bennet. I will go home where I belong. I will beg him to forgive my foolish wandering with that blackguard, though of course I will not apprise him of the extent of the liberties I allowed the cad to take. I beg you to keep my secrets, in particular that of little Jane's paternity. In return, I promise to become a faithful wife and a peerless mother. You will be proud of me. And perhaps I will, too.

October of '87

Dear Husband,

I shall return to you within the week. It seems that you were correct: Mrs. Littleworth has mounted such losses at the gaming tables that Mr. Littleworth stopped her credit. She is furious with him but not as furious as I suspect he is with her. Penury is not in her nature so she is closing up the house and returning, so I assume, to her husband. And I will take my proper place next to you and my children.

I look forward to my homecoming. My girls must be ever so grown and I am determined to be the mother they deserve and hope for. With that in mind, I shall make extra efforts on behalf of Elizabeth, who, as you know, has not been much in my favour. I shall change all that.

Now I hope you are sitting down, for what I am about to tell you will come as a shock, a pleasant one, I hope. I am bringing you an unexpected gift. I am carrying your child, our little Edward's twin. I had not known until a few days ago but find myself quite happy that little Edward will be with us by way of his sister or brother. I do hope it is a boy. You would be so pleased, I know. I am most desperate to keep this baby safe within. I cannot lose this child, nor any child. I pray each night that I may keep him safe. I love this child already and cannot wait for his arrival—or hers—in December.

I long to take my rightful place as

Your Wife,
Marianne.