Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (6 page)

Well, by the holy rood, if Juliet doesn't come across! And willingly, passionately, and gloriously! And so soon, it's only Act II! Romeo leaves off his adolescent maunderings and settles down to loving. “Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!”
Edward capitulated. He, too, felt great stirrings—and knew at once that they would come to naught.

In fact, they came to worse than naught, they came to the end of love and life and of the play, and, when the lady next to him rose to leave with her escort, the end of possibility. Edward was moved beyond words or movement and remained in his seat until the theatre had emptied itself of all but those even more forlorn than he, the cleaning women. “A glooming peace this morning with it brings. The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head.”

And now, dear reader, the worst is over and I can resume my role as self-confessor and teller of my tale. The sun did show its head, as so far in its history it does, and the following morning dawned as brightly as it was possible to dawn through the fog- and smoke-streaked window of my chamber. I sprang from my bed, the gloom of the previous evening dispelled by the promise of what this day would bring. This was the day I would call on Mr. Clark, bookseller, and by day's end be the proud owner of Burton's
Anatomy of Melancholy
.

I had been waiting to own this book for the entirety of my reading life. And now, if Arnold Clark's message held up, that very book awaited me at the shop. “It is the fifth edition,” Clark had warned, “not the first, but it is in fine shape for one that is more than a hundred years old. I think you will be pleased.”

I was pleased. Clark placed the volume in my hands, heavy from its almost 800 pages, bound in calf so Clark said, the title lettered on the spine in gold:
The Anatomy of Melancholy
. Very carefully I opened the book to a page that began, “Borage and Hellebore / Sovereign plants to purge the veins of melancholy and cheare the heart / of those black fumes which make it smart / To clear the Brain of misty fogs which dull our senses and Soul clogs / the best medicine that ere God made / for this malady, if well asseid.”

I am not a religious man, as you no doubt know, but surely some spirit greater than my own had brought me to this book. The price was beyond what I had expected but I paid it readily and, tucking the volume safely beneath my waistcoat, I promised silently to purchase hellebore and borage, though their location remained unknown to me. “I bid you a fond farewell, Mr. Clark,” I said, and with a smile I did not have when I entered, I exited into Covent Garden, warmed by what I held close. So great was my delight that I passed without noticing the cockfights and the dwarves and the puppet shows, the growing crowd, gaily drunk, on its way to another public hanging. The stench of London, the filth of the streets, the sight of raw sewage failed to trouble me even as the glow of the coal fires lit my way and hurried me on to the inn where, on my final night in this great city, I would lay down both book and head.

Covent Garden, rightly named Venus Square, was perfect for assignation, prolonged or spontaneous, its
footpaths lined with girls, five or six of them, most dressed in genteel fashion. Taverns nearby were ready for those shy of taking their pleasure in the open air, but I paid little attention to the solicitations of the girls. I hugged my new companion to me, eager to return to my chamber where I could lay my very own book flat and read with my own eyes the wonders of Mr. Burton's cogitations.

Without having paid attention to where I was or where I was going, I found myself, at dusk, on Westminster Bridge, the Buildings of Parliament nearby, once the home of kings and princes grand and glorious. There in their shadow, leaning against the low wall of the bridge, elbows akimbo to afford a passerby full view of her ample bosom, a woman neither old nor young, neither beautiful nor ugly, smiled amiably at me. “What's your hurry, dearie?” I smiled back; indeed, I was in no particular hurry: my mission to London had been fulfilled, almost, and here with her dark hair blowing in the wind and her skirts raised to show easy entry, she looked to be the final piece. Pleased with my accomplishments so far and confident beyond measure, I drew near. She held out her hand, I dropped four shillings into it, her smile grew wider. “Name's Alice,” she said, “if you like.” In the growing darkness, to the sound of the Thames flowing below, I grew bold. In full command I ordered, “Raise them high.” Alice's skirts billowed about us and with one thrust I found my mark and plunged. So great was my exertion and so pleasurable that I forgot that only the darkness obscured
me from public view, I forgot that I had forgotten my sheath, I forgot that my most precious possession was about to fall from my waistcoat. But fall it did. “Ow!” cried Alice, and I looked down to see her foot crushed beneath all 732 pages of my
Anatomy.
At once I withdrew, but not soon enough, for alas, all that I had stored within came rushing forth and spent itself onto
Melancholy
. I fell to my knees, clutching my breeches about my naked haunches, and with my coat sleeve swiped at the cover of my beloved book. “Could have been worse,” called Alice as she limped away. “Might've dropped into the water. I'd say you had a bit of luck there, dearie.”

I had desecrated a sacred object and it wasn't Alice. It was time to leave this bridge, this city, and return to the country where I and my book might be restored to cleanliness and perhaps even a touch of godliness. The journey looked to be a long one.

And I, the present-day Mr. Bennet, am relieved that this tale is ended and that the moral therein will be heeded by those who come after.

January at Longbourn

My dear sister!

How fierce this winter! The driving rain makes roads impassable and we are locked inside most of the day. I do so wish the weather had allowed a visit from you and Mr. Phillips; your company would have made Christmas here less dreary. The children are still too young to take part; Mr. Bennet is even more peevish on holidays if you can imagine and spends most of every day in his library with his recent acquisition, an enormous book with
Melancholy
etched upon its spine. He emerged only to tell me be sure and plant some hellebore, whatever that is. I was happy to see the end of the season.

But not all my news is doleful, for there is to be a ball!
At the grandest house in the county and perhaps all of England! And the host and the man who has leased this fine establishment is none other than Colonel Millar! I hear he is retired from the guard and is to become a man of leisure, lord of Northfield in all its glory. The gardens alone make it a paradise! What shall I wear? I have nothing. I shall have to sew something. Thank goodness Mama stood over us all those years ensuring that our skill with the needle matched the manners she was equally insistent upon. And thank goodness the ball is not so near at hand. I shall have ample time to order fine silk and to turn it into something beautiful. Or perhaps I will seek Mr. Bennet's permission to engage the talents of Mrs. Salther, the seamstress in the village, whose reputation quite precedes her. He will of course refuse me as he does all my little requests. No matter. I shall not wear a cap at the ball even though married women do. I shall seek to appear as fresh and lovely as I was the day Colonel Millar made me his. I shall go capless and show a proper amount of my breasts, which are as creamy and pert as ever despite little Jane, who would tug them downward at every opportunity. Elizabeth of course apparently sees them not as the fount of life but as weapons against which she fights with her little fists and her surprisingly bellicose jaw. I would swear she was born with teeth.

And so, to save her from starving and me from throttling her, Elizabeth now lives with a wet nurse at the far end of the village. I visit her every week and often Mr.
Bennet joins me; he seems amused at his tiny red-headed vixen who tightens her little fists into balls of fury every time I come near. Truth be told, Mr. Bennet visits her more than once a week and without me. Clearly he favours the impossible Elizabeth over the sweetness of Jane. Perhaps he senses in her rage something akin to his own feelings. I shall never know because he does not confide in me any more than does Elizabeth. Both of them insist on going their own way, preferably without the one who is their wife and mother.

I have never sought to concern myself with Mr. Bennet's darker moods and where they might come from. If pressed, however, I would admit that he returns from his visits to this irrepressible little creature seemingly lighter in mind, often a tiny smile on his usually dour mien.

I must defend myself to you, dear sister, for my actions even though I am not the only mother to place her infant with a wet nurse. You who hoped for so long to become a mother yourself must wonder at my willingness to give over the nourishment of my child to a stranger. I, too, believed for many weeks that I was a failure as a mother even though little Jane seemed happy and content. But with Elizabeth's first breath, she would not take nourishment from me and believe me, dear sister, I tried until my nipples burned like fire and the milk ran dry even for my adored Jane. I had no alternative but to seek out another source of milk lest both my babies cease to grow. Strange as it may seem, once Elizabeth was settled with Mrs. Dugan, my
milk began to flow again and Jane continued to thrive. Elizabeth herself grew fat and happy. Her howling gave way to gurgles and she was quite the wonderful baby, at least in my absence.

What is it that makes for enmity between those who should be close? What can it be in an infant that makes for such anger, for angry is how she appears to me. She seems furious with me, not with Mr. Bennet or Mrs. Rummidge, or now Mrs. Dugan. It is I who unleashes the squalling. No one, least of all I, understands where her rage comes from. Perhaps, I have wondered, she blames me for not feeding her properly. Perhaps she blames me for feeding Jane so happily. Perhaps she was simply born angry and I am her chosen target. We shall see. In the meantime, she will remain with Mrs. Dugan and I will peep in on her every so often. A quiet home is a blessing and so is Mrs. Dugan.

Indeed, “quiet” is the word for Mr. Bennet, though “absent” might be more to the point. He has not come near me since his return from London. Contrary to my expectations, he did not bring with him onion skin papers with ladies penned naked upon them. I know this because I scoured his library shelves and cupboards one day while he was seeing to the rents. Instead, everywhere in the house or out, he carries the large, heavy book called
Anatomy of Melancholy
. He is scarce seen without its company; he holds it close to his chest as he paces back and forth in his library as if to keep it safe or perhaps to draw from it
whatever wondrous knowledge it holds. It is his constant companion and for that I am grateful. He no longer paws me or assaults me in my chamber or in the kitchen, not even in the barn loft, a place that leaves me with nothing but sneezes and itching in my most private parts.

Which is what Mr. Bennet does much of: itching. It is clear that he is uncomfortable. He cannot sit still for more than a few seconds without scootching about, without excusing himself from the parlour, from the dining table, from his bedchamber to which, dear sister, he repairs even before the evening candles are lit. Not at all as it was before he made his way to London, when he sought me out in my chamber, the pantry, the clothespress, even the dining room, beneath the sideboard, where he insisted no one would think to discover us. I prefer this present to the difficult past. I do, however, wonder at the cause of his discomfort and while I do not wish it to persist, I am grateful for the freedom it gives me in my daily life. I am free to wonder about Colonel Millar, free to imagine placing his daughter, my own Jane, into his arms, free to hope for rescue from my unhappiness. At the same time, I imagine that Colonel Millar will not come to his new home unaccompanied. If I allow myself to do so, I fret and stew over who she might be and what her position is. Wife? Sister? Bespoken? Common sense tells me that a man of his position and reputation and good looks would not remain single for long. What then, dear Marianne? I lie awake nights, alone (I thank the good lord for Mr. Bennet's itch), little Jane at
my breast, aching for the colonel to come to his rightful place, beside me—or else to take me to my own rightful place, the magnificent Northfield. But then I scold myself, Oh, Mrs. Bennet, you are a married lady, a mother of two, this dreaming is such nonsense. And I answer, Oh, Mrs. Bennet, you are seventeen and ought not to wear a cap at all.

I cannot wait for the spring. I cannot wait for the silk that will be my gown, the laces that will trim its bodice and its neckline. My dear sister, would you consider lending me your pelisse in case the spring is more cruel than I anticipate?

Affctly,
Your loving sister

Postscript: Mr. Richardson's Pamela has been carried away to a far-off estate where she is watched over by the odious Mrs. Jewkes! What will befall her? Nothing good, I expect.