by Jane Juska
Now I know, dear sister, that there are those who would accuse me of fostering a silly illusion. Those same persons—perhaps you—would argue that two years had passed since our first and only meeting, and that he and I had led full and different lives e’er since. But I would answer that surely his taking a house adjacent to my garden, not far from my favourite walking path, signified an awareness on his part of my presence, and if my conjectures were false, then that fate was taking a role in my future. Not having thought very much, if at all, about fate—what is it anyway?—I preferred to believe that the colonel sought me out and intended this ball to re-introduce himself to me in a polite and gentlemanly manner. If the ball—and my future—was in the hands of fate, then let fate be kind. Thusly, I prayed.
It should not surprise you that I chose not to wear jewels of any kind, nor would it surprise you that Mr. Bennet appeared relieved when I announced this decision. Instead, I wore an ivory-hued velvet riband around my neck. It begged to be touched. As did I.
Now indulge me, dear sister. Bear with me while I try to remember and relive those wondrous moments before my world came crashing down. Our carriage and two brought us to the steps of Northfield just a bit after eight. Northfield is a magnificent house, more like a palace than a country house, three entrances along the front, wings on either side. Grand, very grand. I had never visited here, not ever. Mr. Bennet, in an aside, mentioned that he had come here often as a boy. Why did I not know that? How is it that he could not bring himself to tell me? I could have teased him into presenting me here before this time. Perhaps then I might have become something more than a country wife and perpetual mother. Bear with me, Jane, while I take a new breath.
Now, then. We arrived at the middle entrance and were conducted to the entrance hall where a staircase ascended to the upper gallery. The floors were marble and our footsteps echoed; it was as if we were in a cathedral. Upstairs we made our way into the receiving line. Just ahead of us the Littleworths waited their turn. Mrs. Littleworth nodded approvingly at me, at my gown, for indeed it had been she, not at all put off by my over-indulgence at that humiliating dinner party, who had advised me, over the course of several visits, as to colour and voluminousness of skirt. In the absence of you, dear Jane, and of any real friend at all, I have become rather fond of Mrs. Littleworth. What I believed to be deafness on our first meeting was only her effort to ensure her husband’s participation in the conversation. Indeed, she seemed almost as lonely as I, and we spent many hours discussing fashion here and abroad, quite odd because she herself did not have what one could call a fashionable figure, there being too much of her for fashion to cover except strategically. Still, she seemed to enjoy my prattling on about muslins and silks and in particular those afternoons when the two of us played the card game Twenty-One, newly arrived from France. ’Twould be impossible to tell the girl from the lady with such clapping and laughter echoing about the house. Such a friendship, one between a lady of many years—I would guess her to be in the neighbourhood of forty—and one of few years—I am but eighteen—to be unusual. But friendship is determined by who is nearby. It is sustained by common enthusiasms and deepened by loyalty and affection. Such is the case with Mrs. Littleworth and myself. Oh my, I sound like an old, wise woman, forgive me. I seem to have lost the thread of my story, perhaps my way of avoiding living once again that which awaited me in the ballroom.
I barely noticed Mrs. Littleworth on that night, or anyone else, for there he stood, tall and straight, his dark hair powdered, pulled back, and tied with a band (never a wig for him, such a natural man, though perhaps it was in deference to his guests, these country persons, like my husband, who have forsworn the wearing of wigs forever, muttering as they do something about the French and a tennis court). My colonel had set aside his military uniform for this occasion and was slimly elegant in evening wear tailored to perfection.
Men’s breeches—a forbidden subject for such as I or you or any woman of propriety—have never made themselves of interest to me. Mr. Bennet’s breeches, for instance, have never been of note. But I must, must continue: my colonel’s breeches, banded as they were just below the knees, be still my heart, made a stunning announcement of my colonel’s legs, in particular—dare I say—his calves, encased in satin, pulsing with power therein. I know because I dared not look up at him, so God help me, my eyes fastened on—I am small, remember—a point some distance above the calves, to a place that even at my most confessional I will not name. The colonel wore his sword. He would make graceful flourishes with it during the minuet, perhaps with me as his partner. I grew faint with yearning. I must have teetered a bit for I felt Mr. Bennet take my elbow. It was then I noted the young woman standing beside my colonel. She was resplendent in ivory satin and glittering with diamonds about her neck and bosom, her hair sprinkled with smaller but no less precious stones. She was alight with beauty. The world began to spin and once again Mr. Bennet took my elbow and whispered into my ear, “Steady there, old girl.” There he goes again! This time as if I were a horse!
I suppose the disaster began then though I chose to ignore warning signs. Firstly, the colonel did not know me. He did not recognize me. The colonel’s aide muttered “Mr. and Mrs. Bennet” into his ear and he nodded politely. Although how should he recognize me? I was presented only as Mrs. Bennet, wife of the gentleman who stood next to me smiling that fixed smile he always wears when he is out in society, the smile that says how he detests being wherever it is that I have insisted he appear. I had thought that forcing him into social occasions, small ones such as the little supper for Mr. Collins with only a few guests, would prepare him for more significant events. Apparently not, for here he was, grouchiness personified.
My colonel spoke. To Mr. Bennet! “Ah yes, I believe we are neighbours. My huntsman has spoken to me of what could very well be mutual property.” Mr. Bennet sputtered something about enclosure and the colonel said, “Yes, we shall have to discuss this in greater detail. I understand you are not a hunter.” He nodded to me and handed me on to the well-lit beauty at his side. “My sister,” he announced, “Miss Millar.”
My spirits lifted, my head cleared, and my balance returned. His sister! All was not lost. I moved us along the line as quickly as good manners would allow. “Mr. Bennet,” I whispered to him, “you need not show your teeth anymore.”
He looked relieved, then not, when I said, “Will you have the first dance with your wife?” Silence. “The mother of your children?” He remained unmoved. “The woman you will spend all eternity with?” With a sigh, he bowed, I nodded, and together we made our way past the gaming rooms, where men stood at tables rolling dice, and past the sewing room, where the old ladies, secure in their caps, knitted and chattered to each other or were silent, intent on games of whist. Ah yes, there was Mrs. Littleworth, quite splendid, actually, in her magenta gown whose dips and swoops combined to conceal her unfortunate bosom. Mr. Littleworth, we could see, was already at the buffet table. The magnificent ballroom, resounding with music for the Country Dance, was almost filled with guests, many of them from neighbouring estates, now almost unrecognizable in their finery. We nodded to them and they to us.
At the risk of seeming immodest, I must declare that more than one couple eyed my gown with envy, thus assuring me that I was wise not to offer a distraction from its singularity by way of ornamentation, Miss Millar’s be-jeweled splendour aside. The ladies of the county, truth be told, looked to be behind the times with respect to fashion: they wore gowns with no panniers, it seemed. Their skirts drooped about their bodies and puddled upon the floor, a most uncelebratory style, I must say. However, my mind was on other matters, and I am certain that, if the next difficulty hadn’t occurred, we might almost have enjoyed the music and the dancing, with which Mr. Bennet was not altogether unfamiliar. “No chassé,” he warned. “One skip and I leave the floor with or without you.” Upon my soul! He is so lacking in adventurousness. He is so cautious
. He is so pedestrian. I smiled up at him, pretending for everyone that our union was full of gaiety and mystery. Years had passed since I had practiced my art, but at that moment some part of my earlier self—my fifteen-year-old self—returned to me and I commenced flirting. My eyelashes, glistening with some of Mr. Bennet’s shoe polish, fluttered up and down rapidly. Mr. Bennet looked down at me as if I were mad. “Why are you acting the hussy?”
Now, I grant you, my flirting skills may have gotten a bit rusty, but “hussy”? Undaunted, as we entered the dance, arms linked, I pressed his inner arm and lowered my eyes, earning yet another sideways look of suspicion and condemnation. I refused to allow the tears that had gathered in the corners of my eyes to fall, reminding myself of what happens when Mr. Bennet wears his newly polished shoes on a rainy day. I soldiered on, as they say, whispering to myself, “Courage, Marianne.” The sound of my name revived me.
My expectation had been that at some point Colonel Millar, recognizing me and remembering our promises of undying love on that singular night alongside the little stream, would tap my husband on the shoulder and beg to become my partner. Mr. Bennet, I had no fear, would accede readily to the colonel’s request and I would once again be in the arms of the man to whom I had given my all, and then some. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he had finished greeting guests and was at that very moment descending the staircase where we would take our rightful turn together. But it was not to be, because of course his partner for the first dance of the evening was his lofty sister. Each time she turned or curtsied or raised her arm she glittered. The whole room glittered, for her jewels were reflected in the chandeliers and, for the briefest of time, we all, countrymen and ladies, sparkled. I must say, we would never see our like again. With each whirl I tossed a flirty glance at the colonel, who, although he appeared intent on his sister-partner, could not have helped but see me, for I spun out just ahead of the rest of the dancers and just a bit wider, my panniers creating a light breeze. Oh yes, I confess that I intended that I stand out from the rest, so that he could not fail to notice my beauty, or certainly my beautiful dress, and recall our night together only a few short years before. Just to make sure, I made an extra-wide turn which brought me close to him, so close my skirt brushed my colonel’s ankle. “What are you doing?” Mr. Bennet whispered. I did not answer, simply lowered my lashes (which I must confess lay heavy by now). I had no time to answer, for at this very moment, as Mr. Bennet waited for me to complete yet another turn on the floor, my gown began to come apart.
“Edward, take me away from here,” I whispered. “Quickly.” He seemed not to understand and continued to dance what looked to me like a silly jig. “Pull me to you, please, I beg of you.” Frowning, of course, he did so and knew at once that flight was the only answer.
What his fingers had felt when he clasped me close was the ripping of my gown. At any moment the threads would snap; the bodice would shatter and collapse in sorry splendour about my waist. My corset had burst and the rest would follow in an instant.
So profound a public humiliation is not deserved by even the flightiest of women, the most vainglorious, the most selfish—all of which I confess to being at one time or another, sometimes all at once. I prayed to God above to see me through the coming disaster. I prayed that fate would be kinder than I deserved. I prayed that my colonel would not of a sudden recognize me. I prayed to Edward to make me disappear.
Edward answered my prayer. He understood the disaster at hand, placed his arm about my waist, and with his entire body shielded me and my gown, soon to be in tatters, from public view. Without a skip, without a bow, without a nod of the head, he propelled me from the floor and onto the balcony outside. “Don’t move,” he said, standing me against a pillar. “I’ll get your wrap.” At that moment, my husband and my protector became my hero.
I know, dear sister, that I have complained much as to his faults and deficiencies. I know that I have gone to considerable length to avoid his company and his person, even so far as to plead illness when, as you know, I have had nary a day of sickness in my life, unless one counts the lying-in periods, which no one does, motherhood being what it is. And now? It is not too much to say that I owe him my life or by any measure my reputation, in this case one and the same.
We hurried into the chaise and Mr. Bennet ordered the driver to make haste toward Longbourn. I huddled in the corner, wrapped in my cloak, hoping to make myself invisible. Neither of us spoke until the chaise pulled up to the entrance of our house. Coming round to my side, Edward handed me down and whispered in my ear, “You foolish girl.” I could not but agree.
Yr Marianne
Ch. 16
In Which I Am at a Loss and We Have Another Caller
Utatur motu animi, qui uti ratione non potest.
“He only employs his passion who can make no use of his reason.”
—CICERO
Mrs. Bennet has been seen only fleetingly, darting about the hallways, her curls matted to her head, her eyes wild, her skin mottled as if from fever. I fear for her sanity. When I have attempted to restrain her mindless perambulations, she shrieks and runs off. The servants, of course, have taken the opportunity afforded them by their mistress’s illness to return to their lazy habits of doing nothing. I had taken heart only weeks earlier when Mrs. Bennet seemed to take matters in hand and demanded that they perform their duties properly. Now, because Mrs. Bennet does not appear even for meals, they slouch about the lower floor and about the upstairs and present meals to me fit for themselves, I expect, but certainly not for the master of all they survey. My bed linens are a disgrace; my mother tosses about in her grave.
Mrs. Rummidge, for example, wails loud and long throughout the day as she paces back and forth along the hallway outside Mrs. Bennet’s bedroom, cradling one infant, then the other, in her bony arms. “God save your dear mother!” she chants. How this entreaty can help her mistress’s condition I shall never know. I order her to desist. She does not. I would order her out of the house if it were not she and only she who looks after the children, their mother having chosen madness over motherhood.
Granted, Mrs. Bennet has good reason to excuse herself from society. That damned ball at Northfield threw into relief her excessive vanity, her o’er-weening pride, and her inability to plan ahead. She was a recipe for failure.
To be sure, she looked, at the beginning of the evening, aglow. My heart leapt at the sight of her descending the staircase in that gown for which I paid more than I have ever paid for any animal of my fields or my barns or pens. But so alight with pleasure and pride was she that I forgave all her extravagances. (Though I will admit that I felt relieved to see that she wore no jewels. God help me if she ever decides to collect.) I was my most gentlemanly self. I held her wrap, she took my arm, and, quite the elegant couple, we stepped up into the chaise (another expense I shall not have to repeat). “You look lovely, my dear,” I complimented her. “Thank you, kind sir,” she replied, smiling up at me. “Shall we go?” I asked. “Indeed,” she answered. There was a lilt in her voice I had not heard since our courting days.
I had not been to Northfield for some years, not since I was a boy. It has stood empty since then until now. The sight of it as we arrived brought back memories of my happy childhood when my mother called on Lady Willoughby there. Lord Willoughby was most often occupied elsewhere, some military excursion I was told, and so, while my mother and Lady Willoughby chatted about children and the events of the day, I had the full run of the estate. I came to know the gamekeeper, the field hands, the Master of the Hounds, and the hounds themselves. Northfield is where I first learned to ride, thanks to the patience of Staunton, the groomsman. Northfield is where I watched the birthing of lambs and of calves and of foals, thanks to the kindness of Bentham, the husbandman. It is from there that I took away the notion of service. How hard, then, it has been to witness in my own home the sloth and the surliness of those i
n my employ. With the exception of Tom, who cannot be called an actual servant, my household is run by selfish, ignorant, and rudderless nincompoops. In the absence of my wife, she whom I had assumed would put things in order, it will fall upon me to restore the arrangements known to me in my earlier life, the life in which my mother, so effortlessly, commanded loyalty and industriousness from her household staff.
So I was not altogether resistant to attending the party at Northfield. In addition, it might provide an opportunity to speak further with this Colonel Millar concerning our properties which coincide. I have an uneasy feeling that he means to encroach onto my land and will use the absence of enclosure to do so. I shall have to instruct him in the ways of our county, where custom and tradition remain superior to the indignities of legal wrangling. And, with such a beautiful wife by my side, I almost looked forward to the evening.
I might have known that the dancing would take preeminence over practicality. Colonel Millar had no time for conversation. And Mrs. Bennet, strangely, began to pale as we were introduced. Instantly, she demanded that I dance and so, to keep the peace at least in public, I acceded to her request. Her behaviour then became even more peculiar, and if I didn’t know of its impossibility, I would have said that she was flirting with me. She began to flutter her eyelids in my direction, press my arm against her side (a first for that, I will say), and nod her quite adorable chin up and then down so frequently as to make my head spin and perhaps hers, too, for she glanced quickly in the direction of the colonel and his sister, then back, and then again. It was like dancing with a small flag caught in the breeze; indeed, at one point she stumbled into Colonel Millar. Perhaps it was my own dizziness that caused me to ignore the disaster about to occur. It required her panicked whispering—“Take me away from here”—to awaken me to the separation of seams in her gown, the gown so costly as to have forced my husbandman to reduce his order for feed for the animals. Of course, I hurried her away from the dancing and out onto the veranda nearby. I ordered her wrap and my chaise and took us both away as quickly as I could. At one point Mrs. Bennet seemed as if she would faint and indeed I suspect she would have had I not been there to hold her upright. She was weaving just as she had when she had gotten tiddly during our dinner party, except that tonight no wine had touched her lips. The thought occurs to me now that Mrs. Rummidge, never far from my wife’s side, might well have provided an alcoholic reinforcement. She is capable of anything.