Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (14 page)

September at Longbourn

Dear Jane,

I have grown so stout as to have forsworn the wearing of any corset at all, at least within the confines of my home. For reasons unknown I crave sweets and am at Cook day and night for treacle on bread slathered with butter. Even writing this brings pangs of starvation. All one need do is see my reflection in the looking glass to know that I am well fed, overly fed one might say. I avoid reflections of myself in any form, and were it not for the necessity of presenting myself in public, my plumpness would remain a secret even to myself. I cannot understand my intense desire for sugars and creams and butters. Were it not that my poor dear little Edward was placed so recently in his
grave, I might suspect another child within me. I am the right size, heaven knows. But Edward has not been with me these many months now so I am hopeful that my own restraint will return me once again to the slimness of my youth.

The autumn festival was pleasant enough or would have been had I not had to bind myself into my largest corset so as to appear as respectable as Mr. Bennet would have me. He has become something of a family man, not so dedicated to studies in his library as once he was. He has shown himself solicitous of my health and pleased with my return to good health, or so he believes. Often, I have seen him out my window, either Elizabeth or Jane on his shoulders, tramping along the path and into the meadows. “I shall teach my daughters to fish,” he has told me, “once the trout begin jumping again in our stream.” The three of them arouse in me feelings I thought were lost forever. I desired to join their happy trio, and so off to the festival we went, all of us clad in our mourning clothes.

Such respectability had not truly been known to me up to that point in my life. Heretofore I had been nurturing children or entertaining romantic notions of the man whom I would make my king. For the first time since my marriage to Edward I felt a contentment, even a bit of pride, in the picture we must have painted for the villagers and our neighbours as the two of us, our children in tow, strolled the paths of the village. Had I not been so confined by my corset, I might have experienced true happiness.

At the end of the village, where town gives way to meadow, maidens of the village danced to the fiddle and the flute, skirts swirling about their ankles, indeed showing more than just their ankles as the music grew louder and faster. Soon they were joined by the young lads of the town, who swung them round so that their cheeks grew rosy and their breath came faster until the tune ended. Some girls looked as if they might fall to the ground were it not that the lads caught hold of them tight as anyone could wish. I was reminded of our girlhood—yours and mine—when we danced in the village square around the maypole. Do you recall Ned Lonergan sweeping me up as I loosed myself from the garlands and spinning me round till I feared to lose myself? You cried, “Ned, Ned! Keep care of her!” and reached out your hand to stop him. To no avail, none at all. Ah, the sweetness of it all! And now, here I am, going on nineteen, my youth spent, and fat as a cow.

To make matters as bad as they could possibly be, I espied a short distance away Colonel Millar talking most animatedly with Mrs. Littleworth, his very slim sister some steps behind and looking very bored. Mrs. Littleworth bowed and returned to the direction from which she had come. I was thankful; at least I would not have to suffer her nosiness. However, Colonel Millar and sister continued to advance.

I became mute.

Miss Millar babbled on about taking the waters in Bath and the upcoming London season, her head swaying this
way and that upon her swan-like neck. Just when I had concealed most of my bulk and my mourning dress behind Mr. Bennet—once again my protector and shield—I heard her say, “. . . most unfortunate should a gown separate from itself during the dancing.” My heart plummeted. The disaster that had befallen me at the ball had not gone unnoticed. I had not escaped public scrutiny and this dreadful woman's ridicule. The world spun about me, though not in the happy way it had on our village green. It was only the babies' carriage I grasped that kept me upright. I must admit that Mr. Bennet, for good reason, may very well have tired of holding me up, especially now that I have added excess poundage.

The colonel saved me. How brilliantly tall he was there in his country clothes, although I could not bring myself to look much beyond his boots, their rich leather contouring his, dare I say, well-turned calves. Forgive me, Jane, I can only hope that the writing of these things will cure me of the illness—for yes, my passion for this man had come upon me once again and threatened my newfound contentment. I do not recall what he said, only that it drew attention away from his impolite sister and the target of her disdain, myself.

I had almost regained my composure when, of a sudden, the colonel bent down and placed his hand on little Jane's head, a caress so right and true as I have never seen. “She is already a beauty,” he said, and then, “She resembles her lovely mother.” He looked directly into my eyes and, Jane,
I swear I saw recognition in his. I yearned to burst out with “She resembles her father. She resembles you, my dear colonel.” He moved his hand, then, from her head down along the contours of her face and took her chin in his hand. “You are a sweet one.” Jane gazed up at him, her blue eyes bright with happiness, and answered with her most delicious baby chuckle.

His sister called him away, and my world turned on its head. “There she goes again,” I could hear Mr. Bennet say, though this time I caught myself from sinking to the ground beneath me.

I do not remember our walk back home or Elizabeth's squalling to be let out of her carriage or Mr. Bennet's look of confusion or little Jane's eyes filling with tears; Mr. Bennet apprised me of all this as, safe within Longbourn, we two stood at the window and watched the bonfire from the village light up the night sky. “Whatever is dead will go up in flames; the earth will begin her sleep to ready itself for new growth come spring,” Mr. Bennet said. I said not a word but I thought, Those are the flames of hell in which my soul shall perish.

By morning my spirits had risen somewhat, and I received Mrs. Littleworth in as agreeable a mood as had been mine for many weeks. And what a visit it turned out to be! First off, Mrs. Littleworth seems not the person who dined with us during Mr. Collins's visit where she seemed silly and definitely addled. Perhaps that was the persona she adopted in the presence of her husband, who himself
seemed more than a little befuddled. I cannot know for certain; all I can know is that during this momentous visit she was the picture of uprightness and clear-headedness. But oh, I cannot hold off any longer: Mrs. Littleworth has invited me to accompany her to Bath! “A visit to a place unfamiliar to you, sans children, sans husband, is just what you need,” she said. “You have too long been morose. A change of scene, that will do the trick.” I do not know what she means by sans husband and children, but “A change of scene” spoke to me at once. She made as if to leave, then said, “Do what you must to gain your husband's consent. I will assure mine that my intention is to introduce you to Society. He is too suspicious of me, accusing me of preferring the gambling halls to the baths. Your presence will allay his concerns.” She winked. “We leave for Bath on Monday next.”

“Introduce me to Society.” Oh, if only she knew what that meant to me. Sooner than I could have new gowns made I would breathe the air of my colonel; I would, surely, find myself in his company; I will not turn faint and tongue-tied. I will be a proper lady of Bath, come to take the air and enjoy the company of persons yet unknown and of one person, very much known, my one true love. It is as if fate has given me a second, perhaps a third, chance to turn my life aright.

And so, dear sister, I seduced my husband. Bedecked, bedizened, and be-ribboned, I made my way that night to Mr. Bennet's bedchamber. I was quite uncertain as to how
to proceed. After all, I had had only one experience of seduction, that being the single night when my colonel took my virginity and left me only memories, with of course little Jane to renew them. Thus, in the absence of experience I determined to make use of my memories in the hope that my husband would give me leave to make the journey to Bath.

Forgive me, dear sister, for what will seem an indelicacy in this transcription, my apology precedes presentation. I can offer as an excuse only my desperation to flee from this house, from my husband, my children and, I prayed, my passion for this man, Colonel Millar, whose reappearance in my life has served to inflame me once again and whose disappearance from my heart I hope a fortnight in Bath will ensure. You may think, dear Jane, that seduction is an odd way to overcome passion, but seduction was the only means available to me, or so Mrs. Rummidge led me to believe.

To say that my appearance in Mr. Bennet's bedchamber was a surprise is an understatement of the first order. I held the lamp in such a way that its light made a halo about my head and, indeed, Mr. Bennet thought me at first an apparition. “Who goes there?” he called out and started up from his pillow. “It is only I, your wife,” I whispered just loudly enough to be heard and softly enough to soothe. “Please, husband, may I enter?” I lowered the lantern to my nightdress, so that it would illuminate the outline of my breasts. “I find myself quite unexpectedly at a loss this night and
afraid of night terrors. I would that your companionship can dispel such fears. But, kind sir, I await your permission before I cross your threshold.” I tossed my uncapped curls prettily. What a vixen, I!

“I see you have already crossed the threshold,” said Mr. Bennet, “and in a most charming manner. Pray, come closer.” I did as he asked. “Set down your lamp,” he said. “One would hate to see your lovely nightdress set afire.” I did as he asked. “And settle yourself here.” He patted the side of his bed. I joined him there, situating the folds of my nightdress so that they clung to the curves of my body.

Do you see, dear Jane, that without so much as a thought, men seek control of any event in which they find themselves? And they do so, if not through physical force, then by power of speech, which shows itself when they bellow orders to those about them. A poor sort of power, if you ask me. Still, what recourse do we poor women have? Now was not the time, certainly, to protest or to offer argument. Now was the time to summon our ultimate weapon, our bodies. And here I defer to Mrs. Rummidge.

I take nothing for true from the prattle of Mrs. Rummidge. There is nothing she has not experienced, so she says, and she advises me and anyone within hearing on the proper way of giving birth, on avoiding pregnancy altogether, on child-rearing, mothering, fathering, schooling, and on behaviour of both children and adults as befits those born into the gentry. I learned early on to turn a deaf ear to her sermons and to distrust her claims of securing
successive husbands for the benefit of the numerous children she insists she has borne without a whimper. I suspect that in fact she is a spinster whose fantasy life has enriched the parched nature of her actual life. Here I pause to remark on that particular commonality shared by we two. For has not that been true of my own life? And so I do not shut my ears to her on all occasions. A good thing, too, for one such sermon will serve me well this night. I summon up her advice on woman's ultimate weapon:

“Now, dearie,” she began. I sighed my exasperation. Nothing I have been able to say will convince her that “dearie” is an improper means of addressing one's superior. If separation between classes exists—and I have no doubt that it does—I do not believe that Mrs. Rummidge is aware of it. “We women,” she declared, seating herself heavily onto the damask of my armchair, “weak and silly as we are, find ourselves at the mercy of men, who, so they would have us believe, are strong and wise, invincible in both word and deed.” With that, my attention belonged to her, for such has my experience taught me. “What, then, are we to do to maintain our position in the family, in the household, and in the society at large? Let us begin with family, no, with husbands. The rest will follow.” She took a deep breath and said, “Mind what I say now.” Her voice deepened and became silky soft. “We have at our disposal one weapon that makes us invincible: our bodies.” I gasped and made as if to leave the room; such outlandish notions were most improper. “No, madam,” she said, “stay. Do not
turn away, do not lower your eyes, for what I say is the truth.” I resumed my seat on the bed, though I would have preferred to fling myself into my chair, which sadly was already occupied. Instantly, Mrs. Rummidge rose and rushed to bar the door. As she did, I hurried to take my rightful place on my chair, where I planned to feign a small swoon, but she was too quick for me. Leaning forward, she continued, more loudly this time: “Men grow mad for our bodies. Nothing else—not their horses, their dogs, their gold, their sport—can compete with the body of a woman. A man will go to any lengths to bed a woman, and not just a woman of his society, but women who are the lowest of the low. And, though we have been taught otherwise, it is not the perfections of body, it is not the youth and beauty of body, it is that we have a body at all. They don't much mind how scented we are, how clean we have made ourselves, how prettily we have dressed ourselves. No, it is the fact of our bodies that turns men into slaves. Our minds, our manners count for naught. All we need do is show up and the rumblings commence.”