by Jane Juska
Allow me to explain; perhaps then I will understand: My wife and daughters and I had passed a pleasant afternoon in the village, enjoying the sights and sounds of the autumn festival. It was our first outing since the death of our little boy, and I was hopeful that my wife would be cheered by the throngs of people and the gaily decorated stands filled with the bounty of the earth. And so she seemed, at least until that Colonel Millar and his blasted sister happened along. Miss Millar made reference to Marianne’s misfortune at the ball and, lord, didn’t my wife look as if she would faint again. Fortunately she steadied herself, and we returned home none the worse for wear. That infernal woman, Miss Millar, using her beauty and her position to bring insult to those less fortunate. Not that Marianne is not beautiful, just that she outweighs Miss Millar by several stone, at least at the moment. Really, it is merely the contrast here that causes me to remark on any such nonsense at all. I tried to explain all this to Marianne, but she would have none of it and carried on at length through the entirety of the daylight hours that remained.
And then, the very next night, long past the hour when children and servants were abed, she entered my room—and here yet another confession: we have never shared a sleeping chamber—at her insistence, mind you, certainly not mine. I accepted this marital slight out of politeness, out of concern that she be happy here at Longbourn. This did not appear to happen. And then came her lying-in periods—rather lengthy I thought, despite Mrs. Rummidge’s assurances to the contrary—and then headaches and the like, those discomforts of womanhood that seemed to last forever. “O la!” she exclaimed more than once. “My constitution has never been so fragile! Please remain a safe distance from me.” That distance seemed to grow with each passing month—she was again with child—when tragedy struck. She miscarried my only son. I must not return to the horror of that night even in memory; suffice it to say that the elemental scene of blood and screams caused me to forswear forever intimacy of any sort with this woman. I kept to my promise, that is until the very night under examination, the night she entered my chamber alone, candle aloft.
“Who goes there?” I called out and started up from my pillow. “It is only I, your wife,” she whispered softly. “Please, husband, may I enter?” She lowered the lantern to her nightdress, where it illuminated the outline of her 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.” She tossed her uncapped curls prettily, not at all as she tossed her curls most of the time, that being when she was angry.
“I see you have already crossed the threshold,” I said, “and in a most charming manner. Pray, come closer.” She did. “Set down your lamp,” I commanded. “One would hate to see your lovely nightdress set afire.” She did. “And settle yourself here.” I patted the side of the bed. She obeyed, gathering her nightdress about the supple lines of her body.
As you can tell, I was in complete command at this point. My wife was more obedient, more compliant than I had ever seen her. This would be the beginning of a true marriage. Of this I felt certain.
And then she proceeded to unclothe herself. And I was lost. She had set the candle on the table next to the bed so that its light flickered over her as first she slipped one shoulder from the nightgown and then the other. Before I could advise her of the inadvisability of such behaviour, there she was, naked to the waist. I was vanquished. Her breasts—plumper than when we married, tipped with nipples as rosy as any I had ever seen, admittedly few, but still—were more beautiful than any Aphrodite in any book, even in those books I kept hidden, reserved as they were for special times. “Lie back,” she ordered. I obeyed. Could this be but a dream? And then she kissed me. Now where, I asked myself, did she learn to do that? “Be still,” she ordered. I obeyed and murmured, “I am your slave.”
Do you not see how round-about, how topsy-turvy this all is? I am master of Longbourn and all that reside herein. I am husband, father. I am the patriarch. But I risked it all that one night when reason fled and passion took its place.
Memory refuses me entry to the rest of the night. I can recall only her mouth on every part of my body, her hands on parts of me she had heretofore refused even to look at, her hair as it swept my chest, her squeals of delight when at last I entered her. Afterward, we lay close together, exhausted by delight. And there we lay until morning.
Now she is gone to Bath and I remain here, devastated by my longing for the woman who showed herself to me for the first—and only—time that night.
I shall use her absence to restore strong will and discipline in myself. This yearning is most unmanly.
Ch. 25
At Bath
Dear Jane,
“First, we must get you properly dressed. Take off that dreadful mourning garb.” This is what Mrs. Littleworth said to me immediately as we arrived at the house she had taken in Laura Place. A most impressive address! And a most impressive house! With two drawing rooms! For receiving and entertaining guests! My goodness, there is enough room for a ball!
But I must tell you something of our arrival here. Such a change from country life! As we drove through the long course of streets, the calls of muffin men and milkmen, the rumble of carts and drays, the clattering of clogs necessary for walking the muddy streets—everything all about makes noise. The excitement of it was pleasing to me; I had been too long confined. Here I would not rest in my rooms or fret over servants or children. Here I would not concern myself with my husband, his deficiencies and, on occasion, his kindness. Here I would discover my own true self. I would be once again a girl. The woman, if ever she existed, remained far behind, in Longbourn. Bath would bring to life a new woman, the woman I was meant to be.
And so, thanks to the miracles wrought by Mrs. Littleworth’s dressmaker, I put behind me the drabness of mourning and stuffed myself into the latest fashions of Bath, the silks and the muslins, the cashmere, fabrics that caused me to bury my face in them and partake of their richness. I say “stuffed” because I have not yet been successful in returning to my youthful slimness. I am certain, however, that all the activities planned for me by Mrs. Littleworth will replace my hunger for foods not designed for holding back the stone. In addition, the kitchen here is nowhere in view, and I do not intend to search for it. One look at Mrs. Littleworth’s chins and the folds of her belly, not much disguised by the yards of silk and linen that flow about her person, and I can see my future. If I am not careful. And I will be careful. In all things.
This afternoon we will call on acquaintances of Mrs. Littleworth. Afternoon calls are frequent, she informs me, and a chief source of amusement here in Bath. I wonder how she will introduce me. Who will I be?
Yrs with affection,
Marianne
Ch. 26
Vivet, et est vitae nescius ipse suae.
“He lives, but does not know he is alive.”
—OVID
No word from Marianne during the whole time she has spent away from home. Mr. Littleworth dropped by Tuesday last to inform me that the ladies—his and mine—had arrived safely.
“Most likely the last,” he announced.
“The last what?” I enquired.
“The last visit to Bath,” he said. “Regina’s health is her primary concern. She has determined that taking a house in Bath will cure her.” He coughed. “The waters, you know.”
“So do you expect her to remain in Bath for a lengthy period?”
“No,” said Mr. Littleworth. “Once she discovers that the waters taste like sulfur and have no curative powers whatsoever she will hurry home where she can command the entirety of the household staff to do her bidding. No, she will leave Bath, I anticipate, within the next fortnight.” He harrumphed. “I would have said most likely the last fortnight, but that fortnight has passed so most likely the last fortnigh
t will have to wait until it gets here. That’s when our ladies will return.”
I could make little sense out of what he was saying and so I broached the topic that continued to trouble me, that being my property rights and the colonel’s encroachment onto my property. “What,” I asked Mr. Littleworth, “have you done to secure your boundaries? I see you have multiple hedges. Do they serve to keep others out? Will you need further enclosure? Colonel Millar seems to believe that all properties are ripe for his hunting.”
“I see that Northfield is closed up again,” he said. “The fair Miss Millar has departed the scene in favour of the scene in London. When I enquired about Colonel Millar, she murmured something about his spending a bit of time elsewhere before joining her in London. Odd that,” he continued. “One rarely sees one without the other. Which means nothing, for when I saw her last at Northfield, she was not accompanied by her brother who may not have been there at all or perhaps was and perhaps for the last time. Time for tea. Good day.”
All hopes for advice or counsel or conversation dashed, I left the premises and fastened my mind onto Mr. Littleworth’s assurance that our wives would return within a fortnight, perhaps even sooner. After all, he could have predicted a stay of many fortnights hence, sending me into yet another slough of despond. As resolute as I had been to reclaim my manliness, I must admit to failure in this regard. I took whatever steps were available to me. I visited Tom regularly, for instance, and engaged him in fruitful conversation about the coming winter, about the hunt that would soon transpire across his small acreage and my large one, and we agreed that the future in which hunters were forbidden to ride roughshod wherever they pleased was unfortunately far away. Like Marianne.
I enjoyed talking to Tom. He seems a level-headed fellow, content with his station in life and with his family. Tom’s eldest daughter, Mathilda, now almost seventeen, continued to please my eye. I write this because I wish to note that in my wife’s absence, I did not lose my singularity, that quality which distinguishes man from woman. No, I was quite able to stir myself into a firmness which could do battle with whoever appeared on the horizon. Mathilda, I must say, is wise beyond her years, for she arranged to be absent as often as was possible during my visits to her father’s farm. Uneducated in the ways of proper society, she knew by instinct of the inappropriateness of her attraction to me. And so she pretended, when she was present, not to notice me. In fact, several times she stumbled over my foot on her way to and from the barn; truly, it was as if I didn’t exist. Clever girl.
But I could not spend all my free hours in the company of a tenant farmer and his family. So I found myself looking for companionship from my daughters. They are a blessing, both of them, each so different from the other, but each affectionate and loving to one who is their father. In this, I am most fortunate. I will set my mind to that.
Ch. 27
From Laura Place in Bath, September 1787
Dear Jane,
I write this in early morning before the house is a-stir in the hope that you are not languishing in the despair of widowhood. We must up and greet the morn with hope that this day will bring about renewed eagerness for what lies ahead. Here in Bath, not long from now we will begin the bustle of preparing for our morning stroll along the Avon and then to the Pump Room for our morning lounge. Oh, Jane, I cannot begin to describe the excitement I feel with each new sunrise. In only one week I have met and spoken with all sorts of people, men and women, young like myself and old like Mrs. Littleworth, who seems to know everybody. “Pass on by quickly,” she will say about a perfectly presentable woman, dressed in high style, nothing about her person to suggest wrongdoing. “Pretend you do not notice her. It is rumoured that she has taken up with a bounder not her husband.” I do as Mrs. Littleworth tells me, or at least I try my best. “Pick up your feet,” she has whispered to me on more than one occasion. “You are shuffling.” I do my best, not wishing to embarrass Mrs. Littleworth with my country ways.
However, my shuffling, as she calls it, comes not from the country but from the shoes I have been given to wear. In her haste to outfit me for proper society, Mrs. Littleworth neglected to order shoes for me. Thus, I am shuffling in shoes made for Mrs. Littleworth and much too large for me. I can only hope that the cobbler will make shoes to fit me, for on Tuesday next I will attend my first ball here. Most assuredly, I do not want to shuffle then.
I have had no word from Mr. Bennet. Mr. Littleworth has sent a note assuring his wife that the Bennet family is doing fine, that the children seem well and happy, though Mr. Bennet spends much time strolling about his fields, eyes on the ground, deaf to Mr. Littleworth’s cheery greeting, kicking at stones and downed limbs. None of that surprises me. Mr. Bennet can play the part of wounded husband or sullen child ever so well; he has had much practice. And if I may be so bold, he might well spend some of his time not idling about the countryside but scratching out a note to his wife. He might admit in such a note that he looks forward to my return. As it is, I do not plan a return anytime soon, though of course I am but a guest here and beholden to Mrs. Littleworth. It is her bidding I must do, a welcome change from following Mr. Bennet’s orders. Everything Mr. Bennet ordered I did not wish to do: reprimanding the servants, for instance, was difficult for me, having had no training in such duties. But I did my duty and, Mr. Bennet would have to agree—could he bring himself to do so—the household has run much more smoothly in recent weeks. And the children? He persisted in ordering me to, as he put it, “make them fit for civilized company.” Piffle! I did not see that he was able to do that. Apparently the simple fact of their being at my breast—and not altogether successfully there, either—should have made me all-powerful, at least in the area of infant suasion. “Suasion” is a new word I learned in conversation with a gentleman one morning in the Assembly Rooms. “The suasion of young ladies is ever so preferable to force, don’t you agree?” That’s what he said whilst I struggled to imagine how it might be spelled so that Dr. Johnson’s dictionary could enlighten me as to its meaning when I returned to Mrs. Littleworth’s house. “Yes indeed,” I answered. After all, just about anything is preferable to force; surely suasion would fall into that grouping. Each day my vocabulary—that refers to the words I know—grows. I find conversation much easier now than back at Longbourn. Could it be that the conversants I have met here have more conversation than the one I spend my time with in the country, that being Mr. Bennet? O Jane, I can hear you twisting your handkerchief. Rest assured that I remain a dutiful wife and mother.
But—and do not hate me for what I am about to confess—my greatest pleasure here in Bath is the freedom to do as I see fit. I am not chained to my children, bless their little souls, nor to household chores, nor to my husband’s concupiscent demands. Are you surprised that your little sister is familiar with such a term as “concupiscent”? I only recently came upon it when, on a morning stroll along Green Park, I happened to hear one wag say to another, “But, dear fellow, concupiscence can be practiced with one’s wife as well as with ladies of the evening.” The other man seemed startled but then nodded rapidly up and down as if he had just opened a gift that pleased him. I sorted out in my mind the possible spelling of the word and on returning home flew to Dr. Johnson. There it was: “lust or strong desire.” A thrill ran down my spine before I realized that of course such a word applied only to men. And then another thrill as I recalled the night of rapture with none other than Mr. Bennet. You can be sure that Mr. Bennet’s concupiscence was much in evidence then. Fortunately, we women need not trouble ourselves, free as we are from concupiscence. We women are, because of such freedom, the stronger of the two sexes, and often, now that I am somewhat familiar with the word, I find myself pitying the men as they try, unsuccessfully, not to peer into the bosoms so artfully displayed by women here—and at every ball everywhere, I should think. Well, I shall be able to tell you more after Tuesday.
Should you so choose, you might
drop a line to Mr. Bennet in which you enquire as to the well-being of the children. I will admit to missing them, though, truth be told, not very frequently. Do not think me an unfit mother, please. I accuse myself quite often enough.
And if you do drop him a line, you might hint that he does have a wife whose well-being seemingly holds no interest for him. I have received not so much as a note from him. For all he knows, I could be in dire distress or even dead. But then, he paid me small attention when I lived at Longbourn, where, in a manner of speaking I was as good as dead. So there.
As I seem to be in the mood for truth-telling, I confess to missing the early hours with Cook, planning for the day ahead. I much enjoyed sitting on the stool in her kitchen, popping crusts of warm sugar pie into my mouth as we conferred. Here, even though the kitchen is not made available to me, I cannot seem to shrink myself back into youthfulness. Each day I fear the disappearance of my waistline entirely come eventide.
Yr loving sister,
Marianne
Ch. 28
In Which I Despair
She has been gone a fortnight. Mr. Littleworth informs me that all is well in Bath. Would that this were so here at home. The children have become too much for Mrs. Rummidge. They are to be found throughout the house, in the pantry, the closet, beneath the dining table, under my bed! If I am not careful, I would trip over them, for they are everywhere, Elizabeth in the lead, Jane close behind. I shall take steps. But I shall not pen my thoughts to Mrs. Bennet. It is she who ought to do the penning. I shall do the acting, though what form that will take eludes me at the moment. I will admit to a certain uneasiness as to the whereabouts of Colonel Millar. He seems to me to be capable of a worrisome deviousness beneath all his grand manners. Perhaps I will ask Mr. Littleworth to pass the following on to Mrs. Bennet: