by Jane Juska
Edward
Ch. 35
Dear Jane,
I am distraught, humiliated, embarrassed to death, and by none other than Mr. Bennet, who promised to wait for my invitation but who nevertheless showed himself most unexpectedly and most inappropriately just as the colonel and I had arranged ourselves in a quiet corner of the bistro’s terrace. The leaves in the nearby trees overlooking the jardin (garden) sighed, a few dropping at our feet; the sweet zephyrs of fall wafted o’er us and the perfume of nearby autumn grasses made my head swim in a very pleasant way. ’Tis true, ’tis autumn, but here in Bath it is a gentle season with only an occasional shiver rising against the coming winter. I had just shivered; the colonel was about to place my lovely muslin shawl about my shoulders when who should appear but my husband of all people, looking much the worse for wear, clumsy as only he can be, tripping his way onto the terrace and almost falling into the bistro before he righted himself. Fortunately, this being late in the season, past-season actually, the place was deserted except for we three.
We three: now, there’s a phrase. I shrieked from surprise while at the same time I could not help but notice the contrast in the appearances of the two men: the colonel so elegant in his frock coat of silk, his white linen shirt so crisp, his hair drawn back from his forehead and tied back at the nape of his dear neck, so modest yet so refined. Mr. Bennet, on the other hand—now, granted he had come some distance and clearly had not taken an opportunity to refresh himself or his travel clothes—looked more countrified than ever: his woolen stockings, one of them slumped toward his shoe; his breeches askew, as was his hair, thinner than when I last saw it. He breathed heavily, his face grew redder, and I feared for what would come next. Briefly, I thought to reach out and dust him off, to straighten his waistcoat, to pull up his stocking. Indeed, my heart went out to him so awkward and out of place he was. But I restrained myself; I chose to remain silent, yet another poor choice, one among many, as I came to discover.
The colonel spoke first, no doubt because Mr. Bennet, out of breath as he was, could not. “My dear man,” he said, “do recover yourself. Pray, be seated.” He held out a chair. Mr. Bennet landed himself in it. “You seem to have exerted yourself inordinately.” Mr. Bennet looked as if he would speak but couldn’t, his mouth ajar most unattractively. The colonel stood, looking down on him, and said, “Your delightful wife has given me the pleasure of her company on this lovely afternoon.” Mr. Bennet began to sputter. “In your absence,” the colonel continued, “I saw it as my duty to relieve her loneliness and introduce her to some of the delights of Bath.” He moved the toe of his beautifully appointed shoe about the flagstone of the terrace; it was as if he were dancing. Be still, my heart.
I must have smiled at the sight because Mr. Bennet’s face began to redden once more. This time, however, he found words. “You bounder, Millar! You have lured my wife to this ungodly place so as to have your way with her!”
The colonel gasped. “Heaven forfend, sir, that I should have improper designs on your—”
I attempted to intervene at this point, certain that I had every right to do so. “Mr. Bennet,” I began, but before I could continue, Mr. Bennet spoke in a voice so loud I was grateful for there being no other patrons.
“And about my property,” he sputtered. “Do not think for one moment that you can get away with it.”
“Get away with what?” Clearly the colonel was as confused as I by all this fuss.
“You know what I mean, sir. I refer to your hounds and your horses running rampant over my land. But all this is for another time. At present I am concerned with your running rampant over my wife!” The colonel smiled at this. Mr. Bennet did not. I was silent, since neither of them appeared to remember that this fracas revolved around moi and both continued to ignore me. Suddenly Mr. Bennet seized my arm and drew me up from where I sat. “Right now, I shall escort my wife to her lodgings, where she will remain safe from the salacious attentions of one who purports to be the soul of honour but who in fact is a cad and a blackguard.” He looked at me, finally, and said, “Do not shriek.” I had no choice but to obey.
The colonel, cool and composed still, said, “I should call you out, Bennet, for impugning my good name and reputation.”
“Then do so,” said Mr. Bennet, “for you are no gentleman.”
It was then that, despite my husband’s directive, I screamed and, in between screams, promised to go on screaming until threats of a duel were disappeared. “I will not have it, I won’t!” And I stamped my foot.
Allow me to pause here, dear sister, to offer an observation, though not one that came at the moment but upon later reflection. It is this: When men speak to each other cordially or angrily, in simple conversation or heatedly in passion, they ignore any woman near or far. It is as if we were mere pieces of fluff that they would brush off their coat collars. What is it that draws men together? Perhaps it is that they are relieved finally to have met an equal, no woman being up to that. Perhaps it is that at last they have met an adversary worthy of their attention. Perhaps it is that they enjoy combat without the likelihood of a shriek or a faint. So is it any wonder that we women must often make a scene such as I was making at this very moment? Oh, the racket we are capable of! A point of pride, I must say; a small one, but still.
However, so as to forestall another outburst, the colonel bowed and said, “As you wish, dear lady.”
My husband hauled me down the path. He can be quite strong when he wishes. I did not, however, have to be silent. “Who is the gentleman here, Mr. Bennet?” I hissed. I wrenched my way out of his grasp. “Not you, I can assure you.” And I turned to flee with the colonel. But he was not there. Alas, I had no choice but to follow my husband, pitiful creature he looked standing alone in the middle of the path.
Late That Night, at Mrs. Littleworth’s
I am exhausted, but I must finish this letter so that it will reach you as quickly as possible.
As you might imagine, dear Jane, there was a scene. I thought I might fare better if I took the offensive, although, first, I must assure you that in no way could it be even imagined, except by Mr. Bennet, of course, that I was in the wrong. I am assuming that Mr. B., bumpkin that he is, is not accustomed to the ways of a more sophisticated society such as resides in Bath. Here flirtation is the rule of the day. Indeed, if one has youth and a bit of charm on her side, one is expected to flirt, and after a few wrong turns, I flirted delightfully, so I was told. Yes, admittedly, Mr. B. did find me with the colonel, whose attentions appear, granted, a bit more than flirtatious. But I remain the proper woman I have always been whilst sojourning in Bath, despite the suspicions of my husband. And yet I must confess to you, dear sister, that remaining that proper woman is not part of my plan, which has not changed in its tiniest detail: I shall endeavour to meet with my colonel until such time as I can reveal the truth, that little Jane is his. After that, I expect that the three of us will make haste to a destination where pettiness such as that demonstrated by Mr. Bennet does not exist. London seems a likely destination. But I get ahead of myself. First, the scene:
“How did you know where to find me?” I demanded once he’d hurried me into Mrs. Littleworth’s rooms. Quickly I changed from my afternoon gown into an even more flattering dressing gown whose drapes and folds hid my burgeoning lower self, at the same time outlining my hips and breasts. O Jane, I know, I am impossible, but in the absence of a sword or musket, what weapon do we women have but our looks—and our wits? I chide myself, though not as quickly as you have already done.
“Mr. Littleworth provided me with that information. And so I came here to your lodgings thinking to find you in a mood to consider returning to Longbourn. I waited and waited and at last left these rooms and ventured out in hopes of discovering a bookshop.”
Yes, of course, he would find for himself a bookshop. Somewhere to hide himself. “And were you successful? With the b
ookshop, I mean?” Perhaps I could distract him from the scolding I knew was at hand. So tiresome.
“Yes, indeed, I was pleased to discover an elegant volume of Montaigne’s essays; fits right here in my breast pocket.” He tapped his lapel.
“Fortunate. A perfect resting place. And so your visit to Bath has rewarded you.”
“Indeed it has, in a way. In another, not at all. For, upon emerging from the shop, I was almost cut down by a carriage hell-bent on a destination unknown to me. Imagine my surprise when I saw that the carriage held persons familiar to me: you and Colonel Millar.”
“Ah yes, the carriage.” I could not think of anything reasonable enough to explain my presence in that carriage.
“The two of you looked to be quite the intimates. I could not keep my anger to myself. I determined to find you out. And so I did. And discovered you in what anyone would see as a compromising position there in that bistro, or whatever fashionable people call it. Will you offer an explanation? Is there an explanation?”
Hoping to distract him once more, since clearly my dressing gown was not performing as I had hoped, I said, “And Mr. Littleworth, how is his health? He seemed quite apoplectic when he dined with us.”
“How is Mr. Littleworth? He is surprised, that’s how he is, surprised that his wife has remained in Bath since he cut off her funds some time ago.”
“Why, the old skinflint! Why would he do that?”
“He mumbled something about her gambling debts, said she spent too much time at the tables.”
“Not so! She takes the waters daily and in the evening calls on friends.”
“Since you are rarely at home in the evenings, or so I assume, you cannot be certain that the friends she calls on do not reside in the gambling halls.”
“If her funds have been cut off, what pleasure would the tables have for her? And incidentally, I have seen no dropping off of services here at her home, nor ever a mean table, and she has been most generous with my wardrobe. Are you certain that Mr. Littleworth remembered correctly? He is, as you very well know, somewhat aged.”
“He was most definite. ‘For the last time,’ he said when he reported his wife’s excesses to me. So my dear, if life here remains unchanged, the money must come from a source not her husband.”
“This is all very tiresome,” I answered, and shivered so that the gown slipped from my shoulder. I have found that shivering as an artifice can be most rewarding. Not so this time, alas.
“It is tiresome and so I will bring it to an end. You are returning to Longbourn with me. At once.” And he added, frowning and growling, “If I have to drag you.”
At this point he rose from the settee where he had been wringing his hands and gnashing his teeth in my direction and moved as if to do exactly what he proposed. Just as he reached for me, who should enter the room but Mrs. Littleworth! An angel in disguise.
“I could not help but hear the two of you,” she said. “Like children, I must say, and as a grown woman of long experience, I must say that you, Mr. Bennet, will not take this girl from this house against her will.” My goodness, she seemed to increase in size with every breath and almost to tower over Mr. Bennet, who continued with his bluster though he remained unheeded by anyone. “She is welcome here for as long as she wishes to be here, and if you continue to behave like a pirate, I shall summon the law. We shall see then who’s in the right. And, I might add, we shall see what happens when this tawdry tale makes its way back to Longbourn. You could very well find yourself the laughing stock of the entire county.” She moved toward the bell rope and added, “And for your information, Mr. Littleworth’s threat to render me penniless is of little interest to me. You see, good fortune has been with me at the tables—in fact, very good.” Mr. Bennet collapsed back onto the settee.
Why does he seat himself that way? He slumps and his knees go akimbo and the buttons on his waistcoat look as if they will pop and his linen shows. Only in his library have I seen him seated in an upright and attentive position, looking almost elegant, I must say. But here, on Mrs. Littleworth’s most fashionable settee, he looked so beaten down, so forlorn, so just plain tired that again I could not help but feel a bit of sympathy for him—not enough to accompany him back to Longbourn, of course, but a genuine frisson (little shiver) nonetheless. “Thank you, Mrs. Littleworth,” I said. “I have no intention of accompanying Mr. Bennet back to Longbourn at this time, certainly not under these circumstances. Manhandling is not to my taste now, nor was it ever.” With that, I swept my robe back onto my shoulder and left the room.
Now what, dear Jane? I must somehow inform the colonel that I remain here of my own free person and am eager to resume our rendezvous (little meeting). My, my, soon you will know French as well as I. Until then, I shall enquire of Mrs. Littleworth what next I must do. She will, I am sure, be understanding and wise as she has in all things á la Bath. At least, and to my relief, Mr. Bennet has gone. Where I do not care.
Votre soeur,
Marianne
Ch. 36
Quaenam ista jocandi Saevitia!
“With a sporting cruelty!”
—CLAUDIAN
I am back to searching Montaigne, my only companion, for some understanding of or at least some comfort from the anguish laid upon me by my wife’s “sporting cruelty.” For the first time I see myself as she sees me: a boorish, awkward country lout without the wit or the strength or the wisdom to return her to her rightful home. I have always been thus, I suppose, but if one is to speak the truth—as one is obligated to in these pages—better a lout than a tart. That is what she seemed to me: dressed in all that finery, colour on her face and lips, and playing the part of a tease. Unforgivable! I shall not even go into her behaviour: eyebrows up and down, licking of lips, darting of tongue, sashaying this way and that, and in a dressing gown that is intended only for the darkest of night! Such a gown is worn surely for display, for tantalizing, for tarting! There, I’ve said it again.
Nothing I saw of her behaviour or appearance was in the least like the Marianne I brought to Longbourn only a few short years ago. Except for the screaming, which has always accompanied her, she was a stranger to me. And yet, there remains something about her that makes me want to protect her—from herself, it would seem—and take her away from the pretentiousness and the falseness that is Bath. Granted, I saw very little of the place. But I saw enough to know that no one who is my wife will enjoy its seductions for very long without suffering a terrible aftermath.
I am aware that I have avoided the topic of Colonel Millar. The thought of him and Marianne so close together in that café makes for too much pain. The memory of the way my wife looked at him, as she had never looked at me, will remain with me forever and makes me seethe with jealousy and fear and love for my wife, who may never be that again.
There is nothing for it but to wait. Never have I felt so powerless. Never so despairing. I fear that she is in danger, yet she has resisted my every attempt to help her. If there is right in this world, she will return to me. That is my only hope.
Ch. 37
Dear Jane,
I know you think me vain and heartless and I will confess to you that you are half right. Heartless I am not. It is just that my heart belongs, or should I say belonged, to Colonel Millar. All that I was belonged to him. Until now. I hope you are seated safely in a sturdy chair, for in this letter I will relate to you the manner in which my world came to an end.
After Mr. Bennet’s departure from Bath, I was of course distraught and could not keep from sobbing so loudly and so long that several of the servants hastened to my room to enquire if they could be of help. I shook my head and recommenced my wailing, for what, dear Jane, had I done but turn away my own husband! Such overwhelming guilt was new to me, though I am sure you would opine that by this time guilt surely must be a constant companion. Much of my lament, however, centered on my colonel, f
or what could I hope from him now, after Mr. Bennet had accosted him in so ungentlemanly a fashion, reminding him that I was a married woman? Most likely he would choose never again to seek my company, a thought that returned me once more to undiminished weeping.
I turned to Mrs. Littleworth for comfort and advice. She was ever so understanding; indeed, she was like a mother to me just then. “Leave everything to me,” she said. “All is not lost.” And away she went to a destination unnamed.
Soon enough she returned and said, “Colonel Millar will be at the New Assembly Rooms tomorrow at five o’clock in the afternoon. He has secured a private corner for tea in the octagon room. He begs you to meet him there, where, he asserts, your conversation will be undisturbed.”
Saved! All was not lost! Undeserving as I was, I was to be given another chance for a new life.
“Now, dry your tears. Much will have to be done to repair the damage your weeping has done to your face. Thank heaven for colour; we shall have to apply considerably more if you are to be an object of desire.”
I wrapped my arms around her ample self and wept anew, this time from happiness, from gratitude for being given a second chance—or was it a third? I had decided long ago not to keep count. Fortunately I was brought suddenly to my senses by a concern of the utmost importance: what should I wear?
That night I could barely sleep for imagining myself in which one, of all the fine gowns Mrs. Littleworth had so thoughtfully and generously provided, I would be most alluring. And then it came to me. Ah yes! I would appear as much as possible like the girl from Meryton, the innocent young thing he found so irresistible. Surely then he would recall our first meeting, and the stage would be set for revealing the identity of his child, my little Jane. I would arrange myself to look demure yet delightful, untouched but touchable.