Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (18 page)

Dear Jane,

I am filled with shame and yet I am not. Are you sitting down? I allowed Colonel Millar to take liberties with my person. It all seemed so innocent. For a few afternoons we walked about the parks and along the river, talking as we went. He seemed to enjoy my Frenchifying, though I was careful not to over-do it lest I seem to be putting on airs. By the way,
ma cherie
means “my dear.” That's what the colonel began to call me.
Ma cherie
. O la! The sound of a man who speaks French! It comes from deep within his throat and travels upward until it spills like honey into my ears and I am made deaf to common sense.

But let me tell you all: I pray that you will not harden your heart against me, for now as in no other moment of my life I need your kind understanding. Mrs. Littleworth has found considerable relief from the waters and so she
has spent every afternoon and early evening in their presence. I, therefore, have been left unchaperoned. I did not concern myself with her absence; after all, I am a grown woman and can properly look after myself. The colonel, however, did take note and began his campaign.

At first we talked of Longbourn and Northfield and of the Littleworths. We laughed over my memory of Mr. Littleworth always hungry, always waiting for his dinner like a dog who has been kept away from his dish for too long and is starving. I agree, Jane, this picture does not seem all that amusing now that I write it, but at the time I, in my giddiness, thought it hilarious. I could not stop laughing. I am not laughing now.

The colonel and I did not talk of Mr. Bennet nor of my children. We did not speak of my marriage vows or of his military assignments. We did not speak of his sister. And finally, on the night in question, we did not speak at all.

It was, for autumn, a balmy evening. We had been to the theatre, a lovely little play about magic potions and queens falling in love with donkeys, in the forest, so delightful, so silly. I wore yet another dress Mrs. Littleworth had ordered made for me, this one a creamy white
peau de soie
, translation to come later, neckline modestly low, enhanced by much tulle, and sashed in an azure silk. My bonnet, too, was swathed in tulle to complement my dress and to frame my face as if I were a beautiful painting. The colonel presented me with a sweet bouquet of violets—in September no less!—and I fastened it beneath my breasts
just there in the center. No need for my pelisse, no need for anything except the strong presence of this man, his hand firm beneath my elbow, my arms bare of gloves, of sleeve, of all but his touch.

As we walked from the theatre, he suggested a carriage ride around Sydney Gardens. I agreed and shortly we found ourselves close together, the driver of the carriage a very old man not at all curious about his fares. “I do remember you,
ma cherie
,” the colonel said. “A village girl, as I recall, light and pleasant in my arms.” I nodded. He said, “And now you are grown into a woman, a beautiful woman. I count myself fortunate to have found you again.” He took his cloak from his shoulders and placed it over mine. He leaned into me as he did, tipped my chin up with his hand ever so gently, and kissed me full on the mouth. “Forgive me,” he said. “I find you impossible to resist.”

“And I you,” I answered and raised my mouth up for another kiss. And another. Even now, after everything, Be still my heart.

As I look back, perched as I am on the ledge of despair, I know I should have chanced breaking the spell. I should have reminded him of our brief meeting at the festival, he with his sister, I with my husband and children. Perhaps then, the suffering that awaited me would never have occurred or would not have been so painful. But no, such common sense had no chance. I was as a girl blossoming into womanhood before his very eyes. Foolish, oh, how foolish.

The following evening we strolled in the garden in the maze, in the labyrinth; I scarcely knew where I was going, only that I would follow him wherever he led. On the third evening, as we walked, he drew me into an alcove, kissed me, and said, “Come away with me. I am called to Devon on Monday next. We shall be together there.” With that, he cupped my breast with his hand and kissed me there where I was the softest, where the scent of his violets rose to fill the air. I was as close to a genuine swoon as ever I have been. “Yes,” I breathed.

I slept not a wink that night. I tossed and turned until almost morning, longing for him, afraid of our future together, afraid for my future without him, fearful of Mrs. Littleworth's low opinion of me, and regretful for what I could no longer be for Mr. Bennet. And here I must confess that even in the most intimate moments with Mr. Bennet my thoughts flew not to my husband but to my colonel. Alas.

Dawn crept through my window at last, and I knew what I would do. I would do as he asked. I would need only the time to return to Longbourn and claim the colonel's rightful child. I did not care that I would be branded a harlot or, worse, a negligent mother or, worse, a divorced woman should I become one. It was not a new marriage that I wanted; my old one is quite enough. What I wanted was to lose myself in him, to feel the rush of passion at his touch that burned like fire and soothed like gentle waters, his lips soft yet insistent on mine. I wanted all this not just
for this hour but forever. Thus, I believed, I would become the woman I was meant to be.

I imagined that the three of us would live as one in a village by the sea. Or, should he so desire, we would reside at Northfield. I would be proud to be mistress of such a grand estate, though, in a rare burst of practicality, I believed that settling some distance from Longbourn would be in the best interest of us all. As for Mr. Bennet, he would recover quickly, and as for Elizabeth, she is happiest when I am not with her. Mrs. Rummidge or that Mathilda my husband has hired would see to her needs, most of which she seems prepared to meet herself. Willful child, Elizabeth.

I wish that I had not read
Manon Lescaut
all the way through. Manon and her lover flee, too, to Louisiana of all places—where is that!—and she catches a cold in the swamp and dies. Oh dear. Well, 'tis but a story and French at that.
Quelle
unrealistic.

Tomorrow we will dine and plan our future. I cannot wait. I must be with him. He is my life.

In Which I Bring About My Own Disgrace

It is my decision that this diary be prohibited to anyone save my own eyes. I do not wish my heirs or curious strangers niggling their way into my private shame. However, I will continue to keep the diary, as I have found it quite a necessary companion to me who recently has found himself in unusual and embarrassing straits. Still, I do not wish my heirs to see me as womanish inasmuch as tears have fallen, and so I will confine my thoughts to this diary and this diary only and on my death I order whoever finds it to burn it to the ground next to where I will lie, untended, unmourned, unheralded. No less than I deserve.

Thusly do I confess. Mathilda proceeded to drive me
wild with desire. She fled from me whenever I drew near. She armed herself with my children, which is to say she perched Jane on one hip, Elizabeth on the other, and strode the hallways and the drawing room like a ship with both guns blazing from her gunwales. I was defeated before I declared war. Which eventually I did. This estate belongs to me, as does everything within it, including this young strumpet. How dare she provoke me into lustful thoughts with her plump shoulders, her trim ankles, her flourishing bosom, her tiny waist, her nipples rising against the roughness of her apron, the . . . I decided to assert my authority. I would conquer her with a full frontal assault aided by my faithful servant, the ever-ready Mrs. Rummidge. It would serve Mrs. Bennet right for refusing my pleas for congress; it would release me from the torment of unfulfilled desire; it would set things right.

Now, I was perfectly aware that the involvement of a servant, especially one so impertinent as Mrs. R., might not be wise. But how, otherwise, would I be able to persuade so young and untried a lass as Mathilda to take her place in a bed alongside me, her employer, for heaven's sake, whom, I must admit, she could very well fear. Hence, my plan, born of delusion and desire, was hatched: On a dark night Mrs. Rummidge would appear to take sick. From her bed she would call for help. Mathilda would come running. “Oh, Mathilda,” Mrs. Rummidge would say, “I have caught a chill. I am so cold and cannot make
myself warm. Please comfort me by laying yourself down next to me, you who are so warm and so full of animal spirits.” Mathilda would of course comply. Once abed, she would discover that Mrs. Rummidge was not alone, that I, her master, lay on just the other side of Mrs. Rummidge. At this point, Mrs. Rummidge would leap from the bed, leaving only the two of us—Mathilda and yours truly—to clasp each other till all passion was spent.

Will it surprise you when I tell you that the plan failed? That it never even got to the battlefield? It will certainly not surprise you when I tell you that my aide-de-camp, Mrs. Rummidge, deserted her superior officer, but not before upbraiding him mercilessly.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said when I approached her with my plan. “You are a husband to my little one, my Marianne. God help her—God help you—if you do this dastardly deed!” And here she shook her crooked finger directly into my face.

“Mrs. Rummidge,” I countered, “may I remind you of your place here? I am master, you are my servant. You are to do as I ask.”

“Servants knows rights and wrongs, sir. And what you are up to is not right. Not for young Mathilda, either. Think of her.” She grew red in her face again.

“I am thinking of her,” I said. “I think of her all the time. I am asking you for your help. No, I am demanding it.”

“You shall not have it. Furthermore, I will remove your children from this house and place them into the safety of my house in the village.”

I doubt that Mrs. Rummidge has a house in the village. She is so full of lies that I had believed that this one little lie I was asking her to participate in would be in keeping with her prevaricating self, that she might take pleasure from the little trick I had proposed. “You will not kidnap my children,” I said firmly.

“Then give up this plan for deceit and ravagement.”

“I have no plan for ravagement, as you call it. Whatever happens will be by mutual consent. And now, if you please, return to your duties, whatever they are.” This did not seem the time to ascertain exactly what her duties were or whether she did in fact have a home in the village. It was time for me to re-assert our proper places in the infinite scheme of things. “Should your duties not be to your liking, you are free to return to that village of yours.”

She turned to leave the room, then paused to point her finger once again in the direction of my nose: “My duty is to your poor dear wife. She is yet but a child. She is often lonely and afraid. She is my lost lamb, and I will use any means to protect her until she can discover how to protect herself.” And she fled, though not before she called out, “I will leave when my little one insists. And not before.” She was gone. Good lord, how that woman talks.

But I was through with such talk. I had had enough of
peering through keyholes and hiding behind draperies and putting myself in Mathilda's path in the miserable hope that at some point she would yield of her own accord. It is a truth universally acknowledged that if you want something done right, you had best do it yourself. And so I did. And lived to regret it.

That very night, after Mrs. Rummidge's excoriation of my plan, I made sure that all in the house was quiet. I tiptoed quietly up the steep stairway that I knew led to Mathilda's room. I paused on the landing to make sure no one was about and that the girl was in her room. Thusly, I proceeded. I was most careful not to burst in, for I knew that she might scream or at least be somewhat startled and cry out. I turned the knob of the door very quietly and very quietly let myself into the room. She lay in her bed, eyes closed, and I crossed to her bed and, bending down, I whispered, “Be not afraid. I am come to satisfy you.” In an instant she leapt from her bed and made for the door. I blocked the way. “You ought be filled with joy, my girl,” I said, “and so leave off your protests. Believe me, I will not hurt you.”

She stood upright, stock-still, her nightdress a bit torn at the breast, and pleaded. “Oh, sir,” she said, “please do not take my virtue from me. I have naught but that. I am poor and unschooled, but I am pure. It is all that I have to offer a man who might one day make me his wife.” She clutched at her nightdress, her hair tumbling over her
shoulders, her dark eyes bright with fear, and I felt the lust rise in me again. I advanced. She stumbled and fell onto the bed, all fight gone from her. Tears flowed from her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. “Oh please, sir, I beg of you.”

Was I to bow to her pleas and scurry away like some rodent? Was I not a man and a man of property at that? Was I not born with certain rights and privileges? Was I not ignored and even shunned and, from the look of things, abandoned by my own wife? Was it not true that I lived in a house without warmth, without company, without affection? Should I not have what I deserved? After all, she was but a mere servant, and so yes, I would have my way with her, no matter that she was but a girl, although one who had served me well, a girl who had comforted and amused my children, who had brought nothing but happiness into this house.

Perhaps it was that, the sweet purity of her nature to which, lord knows, I was so unaccustomed that prevented my advance, for suddenly a blast of cold air—reason, perhaps?—swept across my forehead, dashing the film from my eyes and rooting me where I stood. For the first time in many months I saw truth: the girl lying helpless on her servant's bed was not Mathilda but my wife in the marriage bed weeping uncontrollably and utterly miserable over what lay ahead. In that moment I saw myself as my wife and how this poor girl Mathilda must see me: a beast
bent on making his kill. Desire fled; shame took its place. “Forgive me,” I said and turned to leave. “Forgive me,” I repeated, remorse rising in me as desire had risen only moments before.

Then I heard it. “Papa!” I had neglected to close the door to the hallway and there on the threshold stood Jane and Elizabeth. How long they had been there I could not know, but it was long enough to frighten them. Tears ran down Jane's cheeks. Elizabeth, too, was moved, but to anger. “No, no!” she cried and tottered toward the bed. I had by this time restored my person to respectability and I knelt down to take my children in my arms. Finally, after what seemed an eternity Jane ceased her sobbing, Elizabeth left off striking my back with her little fists. The three of us knelt together clinging to each other and to any shred of decency that my lecherousness had not devoured. Behind us, Mathilda lay exhausted, her virtue intact.

How could I have behaved in so dastardly a fashion? How could I have allowed my animal nature to overwhelm my good and noble self? I had not debased Mathilda; I had debased myself, and in the eyes of my children I was no more than a mad creature of the wild, a thing to run from. And what had I done to my wife? Our life together, as I had imagined it, collapsed before my very eyes. No wonder she had flown to Bath. Safety was there, not here.

I do not know at this writing if my children have forgiven me. I surely asked it of them, of Mathilda as well. But
it remains quiet here in this house, as if everyone has gone out, as if everyone has moved away, as if everyone is in hiding. As surely they would should a monster such as I be allowed to roam at large.

I must do better.

From Longbourn, October of '87

My dear wife,

I write to enquire when you might be returning to us here at home. We are well, but your absence is felt by all, and we wish for your speedy return. You will scarcely recognize your little girls, they have grown so and are speaking quite coherently now. You will note on your return that we are absent one of the staff: Mathilda has returned to the farm where her mother finds herself in need of her. Otherwise, all is as you left it, including Mrs. Rummidge.

As for myself I am somewhat at a loss without your good direction and pleasing ways; I have given serious thought to visiting you in Bath, though not without an invitation from you. Until such is forthcoming, may I say that nothing will please me more than to see you running up the steps to Longbourn once more ne'er to roam again, at least not so far and not for so long.

Mr. Littleworth, also surprised by his wife's long
absence, gives me to understand that you are becoming fluent in the French language. Therefore, I shall bid you adieu, ma cherie.

Your loving husband,
Edward