Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (9 page)

Dear Sister,

Please forgive the brevity of this note. I write primarily to tell you that I think of you and pray for Mr. Phillips's improved health every hour of the day. The current weather cannot be conducive to his recovery. Can you recall a colder spring?

I remember his laboured breaths during your last visit. You are, I know, the best remedy for anything that ails him. Your patience and calmness are themselves healers and your affection for your husband is itself balm. I look forward to a visit when the roads can be made passable. Just now they are icy ruts and our light carriage would make travel an arduous and even dangerous affair. In the meantime, you are much in my thoughts.

Good fortune continues to provide us with good health here at Longbourn. Mr. Bennet was for a time afflicted
with an unexplained irritation to the skin which caused much irascibility in his person, albeit freedom from assault for me. It seems to have abated and except for a recent verbal outburst against what he calls my poor administration of the household he has returned to his usual glum distractability. To you and to you only I will confide that in some ways he is right: the servants do whatever pleases them, often nothing; and I must confess, though again only to you, that I do not quite know what orders to give or how to give them. “Stop lazing about,” does not seem to stop their lazing about. “You said something, ma'am?” they respond, often without the “ma'am,” and then resume what I am to think is an industrious task. Our mother's tea service shows no evidence of such labour, so what they are polishing is forever a mystery. I do not know what to do but do something I must.

I would never blame our dear mother for my shortcomings but I do wish she had taught us something about servants (though we had only two). Granted, she did teach us to set a fine table. Thank heavens for that. And here at Longbourn, from happenstance, we have a wonderful cook who does as she pleases, which in turn pleases all who partake of her talents. As for the rest, they do as little as possible, which is very little indeed. The linens are thrown into the laundry, where they remain until Mr. Bennet orders that his bedsheets be renewed. In the evening, as he stands next to the fire, he runs his finger along the mantel, marking a path through the dust that has accumulated
thereon, then holds his dusty finger up to me. I busy myself with my embroidery. Sweeping? The dust on the floors rivals the dust elsewhere. And the children? What of the children? Oh dear, I am going on much longer than I had planned or than you have time to read, but . . .

Mrs. Rummidge, of whom you may have heard me speak, sees to both Jane and Elizabeth so I do not fear for their well-being though Mr. B. would not agree with me here, either. But the children are washed and fed—neither is at my breast any longer—and despite their differences in character do seem to get along. They are in the nursery most of their waking hours or, when weather permits, bouncing along a path in their perambulator, Mrs. Rummidge pushing them along. Lately, however, both the girls have begun to behave in ways that concern both Mr. B. and me. There is much pushing and shoving and even striking. The other day, as they sat on the flagstone path, Elizabeth reached for Jane's nose and pulled hard. Jane shrieked and struck her sister in her little tummy and both tumbled about the ground, where they rolled and pummeled each other as if they were two little boys! Mrs. Rummidge scooped them up and all three came back to the house out of sorts and sulky. I must admit that this sort of behaviour may be the result of the arguing they see and hear between their mother and their father, though of course we have never struck each other in ways visible to the naked eye. But I must confess that we are all here embattled in some unknowable way against I know not what, perhaps the
general untidiness of our household or more I cannot ascertain. When we are not quarreling in the common rooms, Mr. Bennet resides in his library, I in my bedchamber. One of us—or both—will have to emerge. I suspect that it will be I.

And now amidst all this disarray and my own preparations for the ball only weeks away I am told that we are to be visited by Mr. Bennet's cousin, Mr. Collins. It is a visit to be dreaded by all concerned except for young Mr. Collins, who surely intends to lay hands on what he presumes will one day be his. We shall see about that.

Have you secured your own copy of
Pamela
? If so, then you have also secured a hiding place for it. Secrets are delicious, are they not.

Affectionately,
MB

In Which a Visitor Appears

Equidem plura transcribo quam credo.

“Truly, I set down more things than I believe.”

—QUINTUS CURTIUS

The present cannot be depended upon to predict the future. I would come to know my cousin in later years after he had turned into a wrinkly fuss-budget with a lisp and a leer. When he came to us, on his first visit to Longbourn, his hair had not yet receded. His midsection had not been force-fed into prominence. His eyes were free of the spectacles that would identify him (wrongly) as a serious man with religious convictions. He betrayed not even a hint of the toady he would become. Then, at eighteen, Mr. Collins was what one might call, if one was seventeen and female,
a looker: tall, slim, with a ruddy complexion and broad shoulders.

I did indeed stop short at the sight of this hale and hearty young cousin who might someday own and live in and rule the remains of myself and my property. Intolerable. In the meantime, I would continue to do my duty as the progenitor of heirs, thus staving off any presumption by this upstart cousin that might despoil the tranquil future I envisioned for myself and my multitudinous family, among whom there would be a boy. This Collins fellow looked to be a threat. He looked as if he might any minute drive a cart into the drawing room and tack up a sign over the hearth announcing “It's Mine.” I began to enact the role that I and Mrs. Bennet had created for me.

“Mr. Bennet!” my wife cried. “Take heed of the mud you have brought with you onto our carpet! Must I remind you always?”

“Good news, old girl,” I shouted. “We have some mud at last. The ground seems to be softening somewhat; at least, the ice is melting and so we have this! Good, clean mud!” As if noticing Mr. Collins for the first time, I strode toward him, tracking mud across the Aubusson as I did, and held out my hand be-gloved and grimy. “Halloa, young cousin! I remember you as but a lad.” I looked him up and down. “You have changed, my boy, and for the better, I'd say. You were a sorry runt, if memory serves. How goes the health of your parents?” I tore off my gloves. “Please excuse me; these gloves have come to be a part of
me, so often do I find them necessary in my dawn-to-dusk labours. I sometimes forget I once used to be a gentleman.” I sighed loudly. “No longer. I am a farmer, no more nor less than my tenant Tom, who of course steals from me at every turn and must be scolded and threatened almost daily.”

Old girl? Mrs. Bennet seemed to take umbrage, as if to say that already I was over-acting. “Now, husband,” she said, “leave off your tales of woe. Our young cousin has come to make himself acquainted with the delights of Longbourn.”

I grumbled something about there being no delights and plumped myself down on the settee next to Mr. Collins, who sat stroking its velvet cover. “So, young sir,” I said, clapping him upon the knee, “what say you to picking up a spade on the morrow to see if the earth has warmed enough for us farmers to begin to work it?”

So fine a performance was I giving that Mrs. Bennet almost believed it. In truth, I had rarely lifted a spade or any other tool during the whole of my life at Longbourn. I had borrowed Tom's field gloves that were indeed scarred and worn with hard work, and I had kicked away the ice on the path in order to muddy my boots. Most unusual of all was my manner. My wife had never seen me in what she called a jovial mood; she had rarely seen me even cheerful. And she had never ever seen me welcome someone to Longbourn with such heartfelt sincerity as I displayed now. Even her own sister's visit had not elicited the warmth she
saw now bestowed upon the young man who would steal her rightful home from under her and her children.

Hildy, the new parlour maid, appeared from the vestibule. “Mr. and Mrs. Littleworth have arrived,” she said, dimpling in Mr. Collins's direction and reddening when he grinned boldly at her. That girl will have to go, I thought. I looked anew at this cousin and marveled at the animal vigour he possessed, which I had never had, and now, the prisoner of middle age, never would. Alas.

Mr. and Mrs. Littleworth, who lived not far from Longbourn, were the wealthiest, the oldest, and the fattest couple in the county. They were also the dullest, or so I thought then. They had been invited so that they, too, could act out their parts, in this case being themselves. They would surely bore young Collins back to Buddington. I and Collins rose from the settee.

“We came by cart,” bellowed Mr. Littleworth as best he could. “Don't remember all those steps out front. Not so easy to make it up the lot of them,” he gasped.

“And did you notice,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that they're crumbling?” She glanced meaningfully at Collins, who was moving in the direction of Hildy.

“We came by cart, indeed we did,” said Mrs. Littleworth, bending her right ear in the direction of her husband's voice. From this somewhat peculiar angle, she explained, “Mr. Littleworth wishes to save the carriage for more formal excursions; he prides himself on his thrift and insists that he can drive the cart without benefit of a
coachman or a footman or any person who might make our journey comfortable. Isn't that right, my dear?” she shouted. “And wouldn't you say that your cart jolted us near to breaking our bones!”

“Yes, jolted us, keeps costs down,” Mr. Littleworth answered.

“Such a spring we're having!” Mrs. Littleworth leaned into her husband, exposing the enormity of one breast, and added, “But it will no doubt be our last.” She poked him in the general area of his ribs with her elbow and winked, this time at Mrs. Bennet. “You're a pretty little thing,” she said.

“Most likely our last, yes,” Mr. Littleworth said; then he pulled himself upright and pronounced, “One certainty remains, however; we have not lost our appetites.” Clearly, Mr. Littleworth's appetite had followed him all the days of his life, for his belly tormented the seams of his waistcoat, from which the buttons dangled uselessly. Mrs. Littleworth giggled and elbowed him again in the ribs. “Don't do that, my dear,” he said. She poked him again and cackled. Mr. Littleworth raised his hand.

Quickly Mrs. Bennet motioned toward Collins. “This is our cousin, Mr. Collins, visiting our county for a bit. It is his first visit, you see.” Mr. Collins held out his hand.

“It's not getting any lighter out there,” said Mr. Littleworth, ignoring the hand and pointing his sausage-sized finger at the window. “Don't like to eat by candlelight and then, well, we'll have to gird our loins for the ride home.”

“Girding our loins,” Mrs. Littleworth chortled. “Could be our last.” She made as if to elbow him again, but her husband held her off with, “How soon can we expect dinner?”

Hildy, having been the object of handsome young Collins's attention ever since his arrival, stood scarlet-faced and breathing heavily at the door to the dining room. “Dinner is served,” she said and rolled her eyes. With young Collins so attentive, serving such a dinner as her mistress had commanded made for much humiliation. This dinner made no sense to her, nor did it to Cook in the kitchen below, whose tears of shame salted the chicken livers. Such a dinner would please no one, nor would it satisfy anyone's appetite.

Mr. Littleworth tucked his napkin under his chin and looked hopeful. Mrs. Littleworth, from across the table, heaved her bosom upward to prevent it from interfering with her lap and winked at no one in particular. Mr. Collins took his seat on Mrs. Bennet's right, in direct view of Hildy, and rubbed his hands together. He raised his empty wine glass and said, “Here's to a fine repast and to the friends and family who will share it. Exceedingly lovely crystal, good cousin. Ravenscroft, is it not?” I nodded and noted silently that already he was taking stock of what his future might hold, young buzzard that he is.

“You may serve now,” said Mrs. Bennet to Hildy, who, eyes lowered and lips trembling, did. She required almost
no time to place it all on the table: soup, a joint, a pudding, pickles, jellies, and a fowl. Mr. Littleworth looked doubtful.

“I do hope the turtle kept well in the cooling shed,” said Mrs. Bennet as she ladled soup from the tureen into bowls. She nodded to Hildy and said, “Bring our guests some ale. Or claret if they would prefer.” She explained to her guests, “This weather has prevented our chapman from delivering to us the meats of the sea; where once we would be partaking of a salmon and perhaps a turbot, we shall have to settle for pork and potatoes from our very own farm. And of course a guinea hen.” She sighed. So did the Littleworths. Ale and claret? Poor substitutes for the sherry and hock they had anticipated, not to mention the absence of an entire course. Surely someone could have found a fish somewhere.

I hacked at the shoulder of pork, cursing the absence of veal. “My apologies, we simply could not keep the pork as fresh as we had hoped. I trust this will be to your liking even so. The sauce is ample for spreading, a good cover for whatever lies beneath, ha-ha. And we can look forward to nuts and raisins, again from our very own Longbourn.” I cast a benevolent smile down the table. My new role was turning out to be great fun!

The Littleworths appeared downcast. A wretched cart ride and now this scrap dinner with libations fit for the servants. Mr. Littleworth tried for conversation. “I hear your man Tom is selling his wife's weaving in the village. Doing quite well, I understand.” Nods all 'round. “Careful
there, Edward, he might buy his farm right out from under you.”

Mr. Collins, who gave new meaning to the word “exuberance,” said, “Oh, I do believe that e'en so Longbourn will remain the substantial holding it is. And so beautiful.” He gave himself back over to smiling in the direction of Hildy.

Mrs. Littleworth took her turn: “And the Dalrymple girl is with child, no father in sight. Tsk. Tsk. And of course our new neighbour, Colonel Millar, I believe he is called. A most handsome fellow, I understand, and surely in command of quite a fortune, given his purchase of Northfield.”

Mrs. Bennet, at the end of the table, stopped her fork in midair. Without pausing to empty her mouth of her previous biteful, she said, “Yes, he has taken that grand house very near to us. We look forward to making his acquaintance. Do you know,” she asked, bits of guinea hen churning in her mouth, “if he brings with him a Mrs. Millar?” She turned to Hildy. “Serve the burgundy.”

“I seem to recall mention of a Mrs. Somebody, a Mrs. Jewkes, something like that,” said Mrs. Littleworth, who had long since finished her small portions of a small meal and sat slumped in her chair, picking at bits of fowl hiding in her lap. Not finding enough to bother with and mostly small bones, she tossed back the last of her single serving of claret, Mrs. Bennet seeming to have corralled the burgundy. “They are said to be inseparable, she and the colonel.”

Mrs. Bennet sat rigid in her chair, her cheeks pale, her eyes fixed on a distant point. “A housekeeper, perhaps,” she said, and drained her glass.

“And he brings with him a younger woman also, I believe,” said Mrs. Littleworth.

“A veritable harem,” said Mr. Littleworth, rousing himself from a close-on slumber, his napkin lonely and virginal on the floor beneath.

“His sister, no doubt,” said Mrs. Bennet, slurring a bit on “sister.”

I looked at her sharply and interrupted. “This Millar fellow is the cause of a serious worry.” I turned to Collins, who was partaking liberally of the sack that had appeared only moments before from the mysteries of Hildy's apron. “He has made claim to the westernmost plot of Longbourn, insisting that without fencing one cannot be sure of where Longbourn ends and his estate begins.” Collins was busying himself with sipping. I continued, this time more loudly. “My hope is that I can in the most neighbourly fashion convince him that enclosure, whilst the coming practice in the north counties, is not now nor has ever been the rule in our county. We have no need for fences; gentlemen's agreements are all that are necessary. ‘Just look about you,' I will say to him. He will see that custom and tradition take precedence over the here and now.” No one appeared to be listening to me, not even out of politeness. Collins poured himself another glass of sack, and I hurried
to make my point, this time at full volume. “If this Millar fellow has his way, what you see now of Longbourn is not necessarily what you will see of it in the future.” Collins set aside the empty decanter and resumed ogling Hildy. In a final push I shouted, “It could be very small. One man could, simply by way of fencing, claim ownership of land not his.” At this I stood up from my chair at the foot of the table and said with all the force at my command, “One man could reign over an entire county!”

At that very moment the tray laden with the bone china left me by my mother slipped from Hildy's hands. The crash resounded throughout the house. It couldn't have helped but wake the children upstairs and roused the servants below. Mrs. Littleworth blinked rapidly with both eyes. Her husband slumbered on. I stood transfixed by the sight of my shattered past. Hildy shrieked and fled. Collins bent down to discover if any piece, any piece at all, might have escaped destruction. “So sad,” he murmured. “Nothing left.”