Mr Murden clambered slowly to his feet, blood from a cut lip dripping down his chin. “My clothes,” he mumbled.
Mr Denny held out the bundle and a handkerchief. “Use this to clean up first.” Mr Murden took only his jacket, then shoved Mr Denny away.
Without a word, John ripped the cane from my grip as Mr Murden lunged forward, one arm outstretched. The cane dropped sharply. A crack, like the breaking of an oak sapling, then something fell to the ground. Mr Murden’s face twisted as he dropped to his knees, but he did not cry out. Only whimpers and spittle escaped his lips as he clutched a shattered wrist.
“That was poorly done, John, poorly done indeed,” I said.
He just pointed with my cane at the fallen object.
Mr Denny bent down. “Good God, Murden!” He held up a small knife, the kind used to slice an apple. “If this should get out.”
“Which it will,” I said, “Of that you can be sure.”
Mr Denny lowered his gaze. He threw the knife down at Mr Murden’s feet, then stepped back hurriedly, as if the bloodied man carried some disease. He turned to us. “My apologies.”
“We should see to his wrist,” said John.
“We will leave him to Mr Denny. He knows what to do with Mr Murden.”
“But his arm needs proper attention.”
“I was not talking of his injury. Come, John, we are finished here.” I put my arm around his shoulders to draw him away, back toward our horses. We made a grim couple as we retraced our steps across the field, one lame with age and the previous night’s excesses, the other bloodied and dirty.
“How did you know? About the knife?”
John laughed, a strangled sound that sent a pair of plovers screeching into the air. “I am a painter. Colour, movement…and light.” I gave him a curious look. “The knife caught the sun when he took it from his jacket.”
“If I know Colonel Forster, he will have Mr Murden patched up and packed off to another regiment before sunset. I do not think we will see him again.”
“That is a shame.” I could not tell if John was being serious.
“Let us return and get you cleaned up. Then you can enjoy some breakfast. I shall wait a little longer until my stomach settles.”
“I never asked who you were drinking with last night. It must have been good company indeed to involve such copious amounts of wine.”
“It was not company that might be described as good, but that is a story for another day. We must prepare for a more important task. It is time you talked with Miss Hayter.”
In pursuit of the post
Three of my daughters rushed to meet us as we entered the front courtyard, Kitty red-eyed, Lydia all a-flutter with excitement, and Lizzy full of concern. Mrs Bennet hovered behind them. I noticed our carriage stood ready in front of the door.
“Is he dead? I felt sure he would die. What will we tell his poor father?” My wife held her head in her hands.
“What of Mr Murden? Did he beat John cruelly?” asked Lydia.
“Quite the reverse. And, as you can see, John is not dead or even severely injured. You will hear the story in town, but Mr Murden has disgraced himself. Do not expect to see him again at Longbourn. Or anywhere.”
“I am quite well, Mrs Bennet,” said John. He gazed around the yard. “I do not see Miss Hayter?”
“She has left,” said Lizzy.
John smiled sadly. “Of course.” He dipped his head at me. “I thank you for your help today, Mr Bennet. I believe we may have won a battle only to lose the war.” He walked into the house, head down.
“Explain yourself, Elizabeth,” I said. “How can Miss Hayter be gone? Her carriage is not due for another week.”
“She asked Mama if she might have use of a horse.” Lizzy shook slightly in the cold. “We thought she wanted to ride and distract herself. But then I found this…”
I took the note from her hand. “It is addressed to you, Lizzy.”
“The contents are for everyone,” she said, unfolding the paper in my palm. “Please read it, Papa.”
It did not take long to do so. “Oh, dear God.” I looked up. “I must go to Meryton immediately. The coach to London does not leave until eleven, so we may catch her yet. Fetch John. He must come with me.”
“I have had the carriage already prepared, Papa.”
“Good girl, Lizzy, good girl.” I ushered my family away into the house, called for the driver and waited outside.
John reappeared a few minutes later. His face was clean, hair still dripping, fresh clothes clearly put on in haste. Lizzy followed behind him in a coat and bonnet.
“You will remain here, Lizzy. This is a business for men now.” I recognised her expression. “Very well. Inside the carriage with you both. Be quick, we have little time.”
John did not press me for an immediate explanation as the carriage moved off. With Miss Hayter’s letter in my hand, I glanced across at my fellow passengers. John’s face was unreadable, Lizzy’s set in determination.
“Why are you here, Lizzy?” I said.
“I have seen the heart of a most beloved sister recently broken. I do not wish to see the same happen to a friend. To two friends.” John sat upright. “John, if you were my brother, I could not wish for a better one. And I wish you were my brother so we might speak honestly with each other.”
I was tired of hidden meanings. “Lizzy, if you have something to say, do so. The time for circumspection is past.”
“John is in love with Miss Hayter,” she said.
“Is it so obvious?” said John.
I shifted forward in my seat. “How could you know?”
“Oh, Papa.” She patted my hand gently.
John stood up suddenly, banging his head on the carriage roof. “Does Miss Hayter know?”
“We talked of it. I think she did not want to accept the notion without first fully knowing her own feelings.”
“And does she…” There was terrible hope in John’s voice.
“A woman in her position cannot allow herself to love without giving due consideration to the matter.”
“That does not sound much like love,” I said.
“Do not mock, Papa. Not now. It is not a question of whether love is there but of whether it might be allowed to reveal itself. You men love easily but may love another just as swiftly.” I kept my face still. “But when we place our heart in your care, we risk everything. You have our shame, our joy, our hopes, our all. We cannot give this away without surety.”
“But…” John hesitated. “But she left?”
“She believed you in love with her, wanted to love you in return, but you offered no such surety. Then there was the business with Mr Murden. She could not bear to see you hurt on her account. To see you become the man you are not. In short, John, you made her love impossible. That is what her letter says.”
John ran his hands though his hair. “I am such a fool. But there must be something I can do? Elizabeth? Mr Bennet? Do not tell me I am lost to her.”
“This is why we travel to Meryton. Give her certainty, John. Talk to her. Tell her…tell her you love her. Before it is too late. Before she accepts another and you spend the rest of your damned life drowning in regret.”
We pulled in to Meryton just as the post coach moved off on its journey to the capital.
“We are too late!” cried John.
“They will wait at Church Street. If you run, you can cut through the alley alongside the inn and reach the post before it begins its journey proper. Go, be quick,” I urged.
He burst through the carriage door and charged up the road, his coat flapping wildly behind him.
There was a tap on the other side of the carriage. “I see you received my note.” Miss Hayter leaned in and looked across the square. “Should our men not run in a more heroic manner?” Lizzy embraced her friend, while I simply looked between Miss Hayter and the entrance to the alley that John had now disappeared up.
My daughter got down
from the carriage in one practiced leap while I took the steps slowly, shaken from the events of the day and the indulgence of the previous night. “I told you he would come, dear Anne. The letter worked.” Lizzy turned to me. “You see, Papa, we have been trying to provoke John into a declaration since Bath. We decided more drastic action was called for.”
The teas, the dance card, Lizzy’s headache. They had beaten us at our own game.
“And Mr Murden?” I said.
“He was definitely not part of the plan. But I felt sure you would never allow any harm to come to John.” Lizzy patted my cheek then looked toward the alley that had offered John so much hope. “It is rather cruel of us to make him run now. He will be quite exhausted.”
“And so he should be,” said Miss Hayter. “They should work for our affection, Elizabeth.”
“All that time in Bath…” I said.
“Yes,” said Miss Hayter. “I only wish I had not been such a fool around him. Always making such a mess of conversation.”
Soon I was doubled up in the pain of laughter. Both girls stood, hands on hips, disapproval etched in their tight lips. “I am sorry,” I said.
“You find Miss Hayter’s embarrassment amusing, Papa?”
“Not at all. I will explain another time. For now, you should know that it is John I am laughing at. But if I may ask, Miss Hayter, how long have you…”
“That day when he joined us unexpectedly for tea. He was the first man who did not try and impress me.”
“Ah.”
“He was honest.”
“That he was.”
“And completely unconcerned by what I might think of him.”
“Indeed,” I murmured. There was a time for truth and a time for discretion. “But how did you discern his affection?”
“Because I am right, Mr Bennet. As I said in Bath, true love cannot be so easily disguised or hidden. But a lady needs a declaration to be sure. And most men need to feel they have conquered their lady, even if quite the opposite is true.”
“Well, I declare I need breakfast. Quite apart from my empty stomach, I do believe we may soon require some privacy. Let us repair to the inn. I shall ask the driver to keep an eye out for John and direct him to us.”
We had no trouble getting a small room for ourselves, and I managed a rasher or three of bacon and a little cake. But as more time passed without any sign of my friend, the ladies’ smug expressions faded while nervous fingers played with the cutlery.
“It has been too long,” said Miss Hayter. “Where can he have got to? Was I wrong?”
A polite knock brought us all to our feet.
The door opened slowly to reveal John, hair dishevelled with sweat, his breeches and boots muddy. He stood taller than I could ever remember. Miss Hayter was free of all deception now, her high walls tumbled and broken.
“Might I have a word with…Anne?”
Lizzy and I made to leave but John held up one hand. The other remained hidden behind his back.
“Please stay.” He beckoned Miss Hayter over. “I have made you something.” He passed her a piece of paper.
She took it gently, and turned it over.
“Oh, John.” As she threw herself into his arms, the drawing slipped from her grasp, twisting and turning, dipping and rising until it slid to a stop by my feet. I looked at Lizzy, then knelt to retrieve it.
It showed a couple standing before an altar in wedding clothes, arms linked, she with her head on his shoulder. The likeness was too perfect. I covered it with my hand, so my tears would not smear the ink.
Perhaps some things do not need to be said, after all.
Epilogue
We sat outside the church on benches, lined up like old crows basking in the bright sun. Stanhope, Elliston, and dear Fielding, our wives—and Abigail—elsewhere enjoying the festivities. As Anne Barton passed us, I called out to her.
She stopped, hands still lifting her wedding dress to keep it clear of the ground.
“May I, Mrs Barton?” I stood and stepped closer to her.
“As the cause of so much happiness, I do believe you may do almost anything, Mr Bennet.”
I leaned in toward her and paused as a brief scent of lavender took me back to that first meeting in London. Then I lifted my arm to close my hand on her shoulder.
“Oh,” she said, uncertainty in her eyes until my fist turned to reveal the bright wings trapped in my grasp. They fluttered once, the touch soft and delicate, like a woman’s cheek. My fingers opened and we watched as the butterfly flew away, tracing waves in the sky.
“How delightful,” she said.
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
“Bennet,” said Fielding. “Was that a Silver-washed Fritillary? And you let it go?”
“Sometimes, Fielding, things of beauty should be left free, not chased. Would you not agree, Mrs Barton?”
“I would, Mr Bennet.”
“Gentlemen!” Jackson waved at us from a distance. “To arms with you. Come immediately.”
“What is the matter?” I shouted back.
“Cakes, Bennet, cakes. A whole tray of them. Unattended and in danger of spoiling. We should act fast.”
“Come, dear friends,” I said. “We must answer a comrade’s call.” As I walked away, I turned back to Mrs Barton. “I did not think today could be any more enjoyable, but I had forgotten life’s most important lesson.”
“And that is?”
“Whatever the situation, cake will always make it better.”
THE END
Author’s note:
Thank you for reading Cake and Courtship. If you’ve enjoyed the book, please consider leaving a review at Amazon, Goodreads, or elsewhere. Mr Bennet will raise a glass of port to your generosity.
Fiction by Mark Brownlow
Charlotte Collins Mysteries
The Lovesick Maid
The Darcy Ring
Mr Bennet’s Memoirs
Cake and Courtship
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Acknowledgements
This book would never have happened without the support of a fair few people. My heartfelt thanks go out to…
Sarah, my editor, for her keen eye, excellent suggestions and encyclopaedic knowledge of Jane Austen’s novels. Aimee for the wonderful cover design. Edwin, fellow adventurer on the publishing journey, for his advice and indefatigable support. Tom, Cheryl, Zac and Hazel at the “Albemarle Writers Retreat” for their friendship and enthusiasm (and the pulled pork). Rose for the encouragement and inspiration. The wonderful Jane Austen community on Twitter and Facebook for warming my soul with their positive responses to my Austenesque creations. Most importantly, Renate, Michael and Patrick for innumerable things, but mostly for their strength of belief in me and all my ideas, especially the stupid ones.
About the Author
Mark Brownlow is a British-born writer and humourist living in Vienna, Austria. “Cake and Courtship” is his first novel. He is perhaps best known for his reimagining of classic stories as email inboxes. When not writing or teaching, he watches costume dramas and football, depending on whether his wife or his sons are holding the TV remote.
Follow Mark on Twitter (@markbrownlow), Facebook (facebook.com/lostopinions/) or at the LostOpinions.com website.
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