Cake and Courtship (Mr Bennet's Memoirs #1)

by Mark Brownlow

  I marvelled at the ladies’ capacity for gathering intelligence where an eligible bachelor was concerned. “Consider, husband,” said Mrs Bennet, her hands shaking in what I presumed was excitement. “Mr Bingley possesses a chaise and four.”

  “I cannot see how that is of great importance,” said Mary.

  “My dear child, it is of overwhelming importance,” I said. “For a man’s worth is defined as much by the number of horses attached to his carriage as the number of titles attached to his name.”

  “But what of his character?”

  “Goodness, Mary, you have much to learn.” I removed my spectacles and waved them to emphasise my point. “Kind or cruel is of little consequence, provided a man can present a good figure in a book of accounts and on the assembly floor.”

  “You cannot believe that, Papa?” said Jane.

  “I should have practised dancing more as a young man, instead of foolishly improving myself with education. Latin cannot compete with a Cotillion or an expensive carriage. Sic vita hominum est. Ask your mother.” All heads turned to Mrs Bennet.

  My wife looked up. “A chaise and four. Imagine…”

  ~ ~ ~

  The reluctance to visit Mr Bingley did not sit well with Mrs Bennet. As the days darkened, so did her disposition.

  She began making grim prophecies concerning my lack of enthusiasm. It seemed only a matter of time before Beelzebub himself would descend on Longbourn to punish me for my sedition. I hoped for his sake he was already married.

  John’s imminent visit meant Mr Bingley would have to wait. The idea of male company in the evening was certainly a grand one. The girls, too, let the prospect of John’s arrival distract them from the ongoing mystery of Netherfield. Whenever I emerged from my study, they would be rushing past, fretting about colours and curls. All except Lizzy.

  “Do you not have some great decisions to make concerning the correct choice of bonnet for our esteemed guest?” I asked as she lounged like a satisfied cat on a sofa, book in hand.

  She shook her head. “I believe friendship and affection—even love—come from matching characters, not matching ribbons.”

  “Well said, my dear. There is hope for this family yet. Before his correspondence ceased, Henry always spoke well of his son. We shall judge John for ourselves, though. I place little store in a father’s opinion; he can hardly be objective. And while many men are excellent judges of good wine, few can recognise good character. There is too little of it around for them to practice on.”

  “Will he come directly to Longbourn?”

  “No, I shall meet his coach in Meryton. I have not seen him since he was a young boy and doubt ruffling his hair and offering a dried apple from the stores will now be an appropriate greeting. We shall eat in town and find the privacy your sisters will deny us here at home.”

  “You should not keep Kitty and Lydia from the pleasure of his company for too long, Papa. They will be most grieved otherwise.”

  “We will see. If against expectations he turns out to be an unpleasant sort of fellow, I shall introduce him to them as soon as possible.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Meryton was full of people scurrying about their business as if someone had poked an ant hill with a large stick. Or rather with a regimental sword, as I learned we were soon to enjoy the presence of the militia.

  I did not know who seemed more excited at the prospect—the ladies or the tradesmen. Mr Weintraub looked particularly pleased, his face flushing the colour of one of his better Spanish reds as he took delivery of more crates from the London warehouses. The tailors and vintners appeared to forget that amounts billed and amounts paid rarely tallied where the military were concerned.

  There were, then, more than the usual number of waggons in the square, and much coarse language as boys with wheelbarrows clattered into each other like drunken bullocks. Into this chaos rode a coach to London, horses flecked with sweat and steaming in the autumn chill.

  The door opened, and a young man climbed down slowly to stand before me for the first time in over ten years.

  Inevitably, his face had lost the softness of childhood, but his dark eyes still hinted at a playful intelligence. I could not say if he was handsome, for that is the domain of wives and daughters. He certainly had his father’s looks, and those attracted many an admiring glance back in the day. His fine blue coat had frayed edges, revealing more than any letter or credit note ever could.

  We gave each other deep, serious bows, like actors on a Shakespearean stage, and so the ice of conversation was shattered with a gesture. “You remembered,” he said, then returned my nod with a smile of sincerity rarely seen among superior society.

  “You are much changed from when we last met, John.” I lifted my hand to indicate how he stood a full inch taller than myself. “They must feed you well in Austria. Or is it the mountain air? I am no longer willing to carry you on my back while the girls try to bring us down with swords and axes.”

  “And you, sir, are not changed at all.” It was a lie, of course, but an honest one.

  “Are you hungry? The Flighted Duck does a fine mutton stew and I would grant you a little respite before we return to Longbourn—you will find no peace there.”

  He nodded. “Famished and most grateful for mutton stew, fine or otherwise.”

  We walked the short distance to the inn, careful to avoid the sticky traps left by nervous horses and oxen. Inside echoed to the shouts and laughter of cart drivers snatching a quick ale before their return journey and tradesmen spending the profits of their militia dealings, both real and imagined. Even so, a quick reminder to Mr Tincton of where the Society intended to hold its forthcoming meetings ensured he found us a small room and privacy. John tackled the stew and wine with the enthusiasm of the long-distance traveller, so I let him finish eating before troubling him with conversation.

  “How is your father?”

  “He was no worse than usual when I left Vienna and sends his regards. He very much hopes you might visit one day.” No doubt Mrs Bennet would have enjoyed the fine Viennese pastries, but I could never have inflicted her on the Austrians—they were our allies, after all. Nor could we have afforded it.

  “Perhaps he might come to Longbourn? He must return to England sometime.”

  John paused before replying. “He never speaks of returning. It is too early. I think it will always be too early.”

  The room seemed to darken a little; I was not sure it was a passing cloud.

  “And you, John? If I recall your father’s earlier letters correctly, you have become quite the artist.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. “It is true that I paint and sculpt a little.”

  “We all paint, John. Some of us even sculpt. It does not make us artists.”

  “You will forgive my modesty; self-doubt is a condition of my calling. To be an artist is to doubt. It is what drives us to improve, since we are never satisfied. My work hangs in the homes of many of our Austrian acquaintances, so my head tells me I am truly a painter and sculptor. But my heart sees the palaces in Vienna, rich in reminders of my own artistic inadequacies. The world calls me an artist; I merely claim to paint. And sculpt a little.” He rose from his seat and then walked over to the window to view the scene below.

  “There is one thing I am most curious about,” I ventured, with the care of a man stepping into a puddle whose depth he does not know. “You wrote of a lady.”

  He turned and stood quietly for a while, staring at his hands, rubbing one palm with his fingertips. Then he looked up, his eyes unreadable.

  “I was in Bath.” He hesitated before continuing. “It will be common knowledge soon enough, so I may as well tell you. Selling a piece of the estate to settle some bills.” I looked away briefly to hide my embarrassment for him. “I will not speak ill of my father, but if he continues to spend as he does, Rudford will soon be nothing but a house and a wine cellar.”

  “Knowing Henry’s eye for good wine, that
would not be such a bad thing. Do not be harsh on your father, John. He misses the guidance and temperance of a good woman, for which he bears no blame. You were speaking of Bath, though. The purchaser was a lady? How extraordinary.”

  “No, no. After concluding our exchange, the purchaser and I took tea on Milsom Street.” He smiled, seemingly enthused by a memory. “Then I was hit by a musket ball.”

  “You jest, surely? If not, Bath has changed a great deal since I was last there.”

  His smile widened. “Papa told me once how he felt when he got his leg wound. The unexpected blow. So it was that day when I first saw her. I have enough intelligence to know the folly of my immediate affection, but I can no more stop my feelings than Papa could stop that musket ball. There is always a battle within me. The free spirit of the artist against the dutiful, sensible heir to a small estate. But in matters of love, the artist seems to have the upper hand.”

  “I see.” I shook my head slowly. “John, may I suggest you avoid using the musket metaphor should the occasion ever arise. Women like to be compared with flowers, even summer days, but undoubtedly not muskets. That much I know.”

  He simply shrugged. “I could not be introduced. Papa has neglected all connections beyond yours and my cause is hopeless anyway. I am heir to little of consequence, and she is, so I learned from my buyer, Miss Anne Hayter, the only child of the late Archibald Hayter, owner of Highcross and half the wine trade with Portugal. She has wealth and position, while I have little of either in comparison. I hoped you might have some advice.”

  “Me?” I took a step back. “I am a man with five unmarried daughters, a man who prefers the company of books to ball gowns. You will get no sense out of me on such matters. None at all.”

  “But Papa said…” John’s brow grew deep furrows. “Have you not been in love?”

  “John!” I shot him a sharp look. “You must know such a question cannot be answered and should not even be asked. I will put it down to tiredness and your foreign upbringing.”

  “My apologies.” His shoulders crumpled before me. “I was too presumptuous. It is just that I have nobody to speak to on such matters.”

  “No, I know, and I am sorry for it.” I took a deep breath before rubbing my face with one hand. “You are right. I have been in love. And learnt little but the futility of being so. You should move on. The feeling will pass.” I drank deeply from a glass of wine to stop my face betraying the lie in my words.

  “Should I speak with Mrs Bennet?”

  “Goodness, no. The fuss would be unbearable.” Besides, I knew she would likely seek to shift his attention to one of our daughters. I might have approved of such a match, but not after John had confided in me so.

  “My apologies again, Mr Bennet. I shall not mention the subject in future.”

  “My dear boy, you may mention it as often as you like. Just do not expect much guidance from me.” He looked miserable. “Perhaps you may find a way. And, if not, you can console yourself that many an artist has drawn inspiration from a broken heart—it is practically a requirement of genius.” He did not smile or speak. “I will give it some thought, too. But do not have high expectations. Virgil once claimed that love conquers all, but he never had to face the rules of English society.”

  We drank the last of the wine in the silence of small talk. Even while he spoke, John’s fingers were rarely still, always rubbing at some surface or tracing patterns across the table top. “Your fingers seem in need of a brush or a chisel. We must find you other distractions. Come, let us depart to Longbourn. We may not solve your problem, but I know Jane and Elizabeth will lift your spirits. They are most eager to see you.”

  “And I them, and also to make the acquaintance of your younger daughters. They were very small when I last saw them. If they are half as delightful as your eldest, they will be fine companions for the evening.”

  “Ah. Let us talk about that on the way.”

  With a strange sort of friendship renewed, we took to my carriage and left a teeming Meryton behind us.

  ~ ~ ~

  John’s reception at Longbourn was, as expected, warm. Jane and Lizzy greeted him like the proverbial long-lost brother, which to them he was. And though he did not arrive on a horse and lacked the self-confidence of a man backed by a successful estate, Kitty and Lydia, and even Mary, were all smiles. “How darkly handsome he has become,” confided Mrs Bennet.

  We slipped easily into the informality of previous days as we gathered for a light supper in the late evening, just a few cold meats and tarts.

  The days of travel seemed to tug gently on John’s eyelids through the evening, but he did his best to satisfy the good-natured curiosity of the girls.

  “Do tell us about Florence, Mr Barton—is it as beautiful as they say?” Kitty, in particular, was eager to engage his attention.

  “Bella Firenze?” he replied.

  “Bella Firenze,” repeated Kitty. “How romantic—a ball in Florence.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Let us strike a deal, Kitty. You shall not speak again this evening, and I will not bring up the topic of your education. That way we may disguise both your ignorance and my failings.”

  John coughed politely. “I should have loved to visit Florence, Miss Catherine, but the war has cut us off from so many pleasures—Paris, Venice, Rome…”

  “Then tell us about Vienna.” Inevitably, it was Jane who sought to move the conversation to safer ground.

  “Oh, please, yes,” added Kitty. “I am sure it must be very pretty.”

  “It is a grand city, though the French were very unkind to it.”

  “And they have forced that poor Archduchess to marry Napoleon,” said Mrs Bennet. “Though at least she is to be married.”

  “Perhaps I can show you how grand.” John had a parcel with him, all string and brown paper, which he now opened. “I should have given this to you earlier when there was still sunlight. It is a small token of the friendship between our families.”

  He held out a painting.

  “You are most kind,” said Mrs Bennet as she took it carefully, then passed it to Lizzy.

  As she placed it near enough to her candle to see, Lizzy’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “It does not bear comparison with the great court painters, but you can at least gain an impression of the Schönbrunn gardens. I painted them in the mornings, when the sun catches the arches of the Gloriette. Father sleeps late, but I have always favoured sunrise. It seems to offer fresh hope that today will be special. A foolish hope, perhaps.”

  I was curious. “Well, Lizzy? Has John talent?”

  “It is wonderful,” she said, finally raising her head to look at John. “It is just as I imagined from all the books. More beautiful even.”

  “Well, John,” I said. “You have already convinced the harshest critic of the family. Perhaps you will now believe the world when it says you are an artist. We should keep you here at Longbourn and have you paint all the girls.” After the squeals had died down, I gave him a look of apology.

  “What a fine idea, husband. I am sure Kitty would like to sit for John, would you not Kitty?”

  The darkness hid Kitty’s probable embarrassment but offered no protection from Lydia’s giggles.

  “Do you attend many balls in Vienna, John?” asked Jane.

  “Some. And…” Here he dropped his voice to almost a whisper and checked to see if any servants were nearby. “I have even seen a waltz!”

  His admission brought forth gasps from all around.

  “I have always said the Austrians are not to be trusted, have I not, husband? Such shocking behaviour. I hope Napoleon truly was very cruel to them.”

  “Well, they say the waltz was a particular favourite of his, and he gave instructions that his officers all learn how to dance it.” I could not be sure, but I thought John winked at Lizzy.

  Mrs Bennet placed her hand on her heart. “It is not to be borne. Imagine if he should ever reach England. He w
ould have us all waltzing and goodness knows what. It would be most—”

  “Vexing, Mama, we know, but I think we may attend the next ball safely for now,” said Lizzy.

  “And I will be sure to inform you if I spy any Frenchmen in Meryton,” I added. “I have my doubts about our wine merchant. He says tea does not agree with him, a sure sign of French perfidy.”

  Lydia had more important issues to discuss. “But what of the fashions? How do they wear their sleeves in Vienna? What of their bonnets?”

  John’s mouth hung open like an embarrassed trout, his awkwardness broken by the girls bursting into laughter.

  “Did you see the Emperor?”

  “I did, Mrs Bennet, but not to speak to. And a good thing, too, for I would not know how to address him. When he enters a room, the list of his titles takes a full five minutes to announce.”

  “Though I think Napoleon is doing his best to ease that particular burden.” Laughter travelled around the table, skipping those who did not understand my meaning, then we slipped into a short, but contented, silence.

  “Why have you returned, John, after all this time?” Lizzy’s tone was serious. “We have missed you.”

  I could not read John’s face in the shadows. “My father has enjoyed the diversions of a foreign home, as far as possible from Gloucestershire but with a steady supply of port. And tea.” He looked pointedly at Mrs Bennet. “But diversion has its price, and our estate needs a guiding hand. Our steward has done his best largely unsupervised, but I am here to take a firmer grip. It offers me little pleasure—I am no businessman, but an only child has little choice in this matter. And, of course, it does give me an excuse to visit old friends.” He raised his glass to us.