“That all sounds like something I would say.”
“Well, I am your daughter.”
“Do not allow last night to turn you cynical, Lizzy. Men say silly things all the time. Place no weight on Mr Darcy’s unworthy comment.”
“Papa, if you are truly interested in matters of character and courtship, perhaps you might read more poetry—”
“To the devil with you, Jane, for such a suggestion! I would rather pursue a life of ignorance as far as Mr Bingley’s talents go.”
Any further enquiries were blocked by the arrival of the Lucas family, firing off greetings, exultations, and small children in all directions like Mongolian horse archers. Their visit was also perfectly timed to delay my departure to Meryton and a Society meeting.
Sir William’s presence had one saving grace. He brought me a bottle from his recent trip to London, more specifically from those parts of the city home to purveyors of fine spices, wines, and other essentials demanded by the court gentry. His knight’s table could never limit itself to the products of Hertfordshire husbandry alone, though I suspected much of what he bought was no different than our own humble county’s offerings; it simply came in more expensive paper, boxes, and bottles.
A thick cloth bag tied with coarse string enclosed the gift, which was small enough to cup in my hands.
“A little something, Bennet, to warm you up on a cold winter’s night, eh?” Another question mark lost in a forest of grammar.
“Thank you, Sir William, you are very kind. As always.” I began to tear at the string.
“Careful there, Bennet.” He paused to look around the study, as if the packet was contraband and the tell-tale lights of the watch approached. “This is not your usual beverage.”
I pulled back the cloth to reveal a small brown bottle, neatly stoppered with a cork and embossed with the word Madmaidens in a raised circle. “Madmaidens?”
He nodded, leaning back in his chair and tapping his nose as if explanation enough.
“I fear you have me at a disadvantage. It is not a drink I am familiar with.”
“Ah.” Sir William twirled the ends of his moustache. “Keep it safe, keep it hidden—not for the ladies, what? It will warm you from the inside out. There is no drink rarer.”
“I see.” I dropped my voice slightly in the hope of adding the solemnity Sir William seemed to expect.
The ladies then called us back into the drawing room to settle a dispute on court protocol, a subject dear to Sir William’s heart. The Madmaidens would have to wait for another day.
All in a good cause
After seeing Sir William and family depart for Lucas Lodge, I hurried to Meryton for the Society meeting. Another lecture from Mr Criswick led to a relieved retreat to the Flighted Duck afterwards.
Our senses dulled by the inn’s warmth and its proprietor’s port, we settled into a gentle reverie broken only by the dying cries of a burning log and a brief, but robust, debate about the preferred width of a slice of sponge cake.
Although John’s fate still troubled me like a burr in a boot, I was unwilling to revisit it with my companions, unsure as I was of their interest. Then Elliston ended the pleasant silence: “Any news of your young friend, Bennet?” It seemed my previous words had encouraged small shoots of curiosity that now sought the light.
“He visited us at Longbourn.” Elliston pulled himself upright in his chair and I could sense some anticipation in the room. “My ‘fears’ were proven correct, for he believes himself in love. A glance across a tearoom in Bath was all it took.”
Loud laughter filled the room, though none came from Fielding. “How interesting,” he said, all the while looking at me.
“He has yet to even speak with the lady in question. I could give him little advice, of course.” This was met with murmurs of approval. “To be quite honest with you, gentlemen, I am not sure I can offer him anything useful at all, much as I would like to.”
The murmurer-in-chief was Stanhope: “My wife says men are entirely unsuited to courtship. That we have no understanding of the human heart. That we should stick to port and pheasants.”
“A wise woman, Mrs Stanhope,” said Jackson.
“And yet our sex builds carriages, cannons, and the intricate mechanisms in clocks.” Fielding pointed at the mantelpiece above the fireplace. “Surely such minds can master the arts of courtship? Especially minds that were once more than competent in that particular field of endeavour.”
“Clocks and carriages obey laws of regularity. They are predictable.” Stanhope pointed his own finger towards the floor and moved it from side to side like a pendulum. “Tick tock, tick tock.” That was true enough, though anyone seeing Stanhope driving his chaise and four might have argued the point about predictability. “Ladies, however…”
Fielding was not to be deterred. “Why should Bennet not try and offer this young man some help? Why might we not do so? It would make an engaging distraction. It would certainly be time better spent than listening to Criswick describe the geology of the Jamaican coastline. Be a good fellow, Bennet, and tell us more about your friend’s son. Perhaps we can manage courtship by committee.”
The others shuffled in their seats, but paid attention as I spoke. “There is little I can add, Fielding. He saw a lady in Bath, one of wealth and distinction, and he fell in what may be love.” I shrugged.
“Is he a decent fellow? Does he shoot, drink, play cards?” Jackson got straight to the point.
“I am sure he does, but we are not trying to get him into a club.”
Jackson waved away my objection. “A good name and income should solve everything.”
“Alas.”
“Then your young friend should set his aim a little lower, Bennet.”
Jackson meant no insult and his words reflected my own rational opinion, yet they lit a small spark of indignation that grew brighter, stinging me into unprepared action. “Do we give in so easily? Surely we can all remember what it was like to be in love?”
In the silence that followed I could see expressions travel back into the past. Some of my colleagues may even have been thinking of their wives. As for myself, there was a dutiful glimpse of Miss Gardiner, the future Mrs Bennet, all cherry-red gown and amber eyes, a vision quickly replaced by the flash of another lady’s smile.
Fielding’s words after our last meeting rose unbidden: not all memories need be kept locked away. I gave the smile its owner’s name, a name normally saved for days darkened by too much port and self-pity.
Abigail.
“John deserves better of us. He does not seek to capture a lady’s heart with a fashionable coat, a fast phaeton, or a charmed tongue. He does not impress with a title or an income sheet. Nor does he have the good fortune that so many possess of appearing better than he is. But what he is, is a man of intelligence and kindness. Any of us would be proud to call him a son.” My voice faltered a little toward the end.
The speech was somewhat uncharacteristic for me and our little group, but as Shakespeare wrote in Macbeth: I am in blood / Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more, / Returning were as tedious as go o’er.
I waded out a little further.
“He hides himself in a self-effacing shroud of fog and rain. He is Yorkshire, with all that county’s honesty and character. And I feel an obligation to bring him together with Somerset.”
I did not know where my words came from and suspected I might regret them later. But then Abigail’s smile returned in my memory; this time I could not help returning it.
“Why Somerset? And I thought your friend was from Gloucestershire?” Stanhope was a slave to logic.
“I was being metaphorical.” It was lucky I stopped myself before reciting poetry, the last refuge of the romantically unhinged.
A blustery rattle on the windows marked a change in weather.
“You care for this boy?” Jackson’s question was almost a statement.
“I do. His father and I served togeth
er. You know the friendships forged in combat.” They all nodded.
“Beetles and butterflies. Those are my interests.” Jackson held up the much-discussed slice of sponge cake. “But cake and courtship? Well, they are as good a topic as any. Why not, eh?”
“Why not indeed?” Fielding stood and raised his glass. “To cake and courtship.” As the echoes of the toast died away, he leant over to grip me on the shoulder. “We will see what we can do.”
A name revealed
Over the next few days, prompted by the emotion of the Society meeting, John’s position pulled at my mind like an unfinished book. As did his words: I know her intimately as only a painter can know a person. She holds my heart.
Lost in thought in the library, my fingers found their way into the slashes in my footstool, the true Ottoman allegedly once sat upon by the Turkish general Merzifonlu Kara Mustafa Pasha over a hundred years ago.
I remembered the day I made those slashes—the work of a young boy, armed with a kitchen knife, storming the unoccupied library as a heroic dragoon. How I laid waste to the enemies of England with sword and sabre! My mother, ears finely-tuned to the sound of ripping fabric, then caused the rapid retreat of the brave soldier and ensured the footstool’s survival. The reward for my battlefield endeavours? Neither medals, nor glory, but a pinched ear, sore bottom, and a cold bath.
I never knew why they left the cloth ripped. Perhaps it was meant to remind me of the penalties of avoiding your responsibilities. Perhaps it was to remind my parents.
This faithful companion sat by my side, bearing the burden of my feet without and the collected volumes of Flaubert’s Lepidoptery within. It still gave off the age-old scent of my father’s tobacco, and brought back his last words to me, whispered from the pillows of his deathbed. “Give me a grandson.” Alas, I had no son to guide through the travails of life, but perhaps I could do something for John.
~ ~ ~
If I was going to wallow in the past, then it was best done with a friend. Fielding welcomed my surprise visit and immediately enquired about John’s situation. No letter meant no fresh news to offer. Not that I expected to hear of any. He was home on his estate, friendless and isolated from society.
No child dragoon had invaded Fielding’s home, so we sat with our weary feet propped up on undamaged footstools, wine in our hands and replete with the potted fowl and sugared puddings of Mrs Fielding’s excellent cook. Thick cloud outside dulled the room, but the fire added enough light for our needs and punctuated our conversation with the crackle and spit of burning wood.
“I am grateful for everyone’s interest, though one man’s romantic travails are not a topic I would normally associate with the pleasures of our little society.”
Fielding settled himself further into his armchair. “I believe all men have a romantic heart.” He glanced at his desk, where, cloaked in the half-darkness, I knew there was a small portrait of his wife. “But it is society that bids us keep it locked away. There is no place for romance on the battlefields of business, politics, or the Peninsular. So we reject it as the dominion of ladies and dedicate ourselves to those pursuits society has deemed to be male. Like drinking.” We raised our glasses. “And killing birds.”
“And each other,” I added, glancing over to where Fielding’s old sword hung on the wall. I emptied my glass.
He nodded. “But left to our own devices, spared the company of other men, and surrounded by beauty, we would rediscover our hearts I think. Perhaps it is this hidden yearning that drives our committee to attend to your friend’s plight?”
“You may be right, Fielding, though the only hidden yearning Jackson likely possesses is for another slice of tart and a warm bed.”
“You are wrong about Jackson, Bennet. It is not hidden; it is there for all to see. Besides, a man who has witnessed combat first-hand may be entitled to rejoice in the simple pleasures of baking and sleep.”
“Indeed, a sentiment I might share.” We were quiet for a while, both lost in thought and memory.
It was the sounds and smells that always stayed with me. The cries that pierced the miasma of confusion that descended in conflict. Shouted names you did not know, not even your own. The retorts of the enemy muskets. The irrevocable fear that threatened to consume you as you struggled to make order of chaos, clinging to your sword like a raft in a sea of men and trees. Clinging to life. Some men never recover, others are fortunate to escape with nothing but memories to remind them of the fighting.
The creak of Fielding’s chair pulled me back to the present as he turned to face away from me briefly. “Perhaps one of us also regrets his own choices and would see another man joined with the lady he truly loves, to have the pleasure once denied him.”
“Perhaps,” I said, without moving, and Abigail’s smile appeared again at the edges of my memory. “Anyway, this may all be moot. For all our interest, I fail to see quite how we can be of help. Not unless one of us is familiar with the Hayter family of Highcross.” Though I had already written to John asking if I might reveal Miss Hayter’s name to my close friends, he had not yet replied. A brief wave of guilt washed over me.
“The Hayters of Highcross, near Bath?”
“You know them?” The spark of pleasure I got from the hope surprised me.
“Everyone knows them.”
“Everyone? Except for me it seems.”
“Well, when I say ‘know’…not directly. And certainly not personally. The name is on all the crates outside Weintraub’s. Did you never notice? A daughter of that family will have a queue of suitors lined up along the Royal Crescent, all carrying coin, land, and titles.”
I squeezed out a smile. “Perhaps she will fall in love with him. And he is still a gentleman with an estate, albeit a small one.”
Fielding looked at me like a schoolmaster eyes a boy who has just misquoted Ovid. “Even if that were to occur, her family would surely not allow an inappropriate match.”
I found a fingernail to pick at. “Fielding, it was you who suggested we make an effort on John’s behalf, even though I laid out similar reasons for pessimism. Why, if there is no hope?”
“I did not know the lady’s name. If I had, I might have held my tongue.” He poured us more wine, the clink of bottle on glass betraying the tremble of old age in his hands. “Though the world is changing, my friend. We have a regent. There are streets in London lit by burning gas. Who is to say what is possible?”
“Then perhaps we must throw caution to the winds and simply urge John to recite Byron to the lady and Wordsworth to the mother.”
“We have not yet fallen so low. Let us instead turn our minds to more pleasant thoughts. Now, tell me, is your Jane still as pretty as I recall from summer?”
“If Mrs Bennet is to be believed, we may expect a visit from a jealous Aphrodite at any moment. But there are no Greek heroes likely to save us from a Goddess’s wrath. Except perhaps the good Mr Bingley.”
~ ~ ~
Fielding’s good humour left me feeling quite amiable all through the next day, right up until the moment Mr Bingley’s sisters called.
I was quick to invent business that called me away from the Netherfield harpies. They were too ready to expose the ignorance and simplicity of others without the underlying respect that separates teasing from insult.
“Oh, Mr Bennet, how droll to suggest you might have business to conduct, as if a gentleman like yourself has work to attend to. Drink tea with us and leave ‘business’ to your lessers,” said the unmarried one, confirming my opinion of her and hastening my departure.
Their appearance proved that Mrs Bennet’s Bingley campaign continued, with dinners, dances, and games seemingly the main weapons of war.
~ ~ ~
“They have gone, Papa. It is quite safe to return.” Lizzy found me outside in the stables, where I had spent a pleasant hour in conversation with a favourite mare of few words.
“Excellent. And were they as impeccably imperious as ever?”
/> “They were. You and I share the same opinion of them, I believe, though Jane assures me they are quite companionable.”
“That reflects Jane’s character, not theirs.” Lizzy turned to go back to the house. “Tell me, Lizzy, before you go. Do the walls of Netherfield hold firm? Or will the siege be over before winter?”
“Papa?”
“Jane and Mr Bingley.” Lizzy was the only member of the family I could talk to sensibly on the matter. “I have been watching and learning, my dear. The skirmish of the sexes continues at dances and cards. And there you women may call on a range of strategies and tactics far beyond the wit of my unfortunate sex. Hearts may be won and lost during a Cotillion. How fares Mr Bingley in the game of love?”
“Mr Bingley is a fine gentleman and behaves as such. He has become very attached to Jane. Regrettably, not all his party share his affable nature.”
“And since we are on the subject, what plans does your mother have regarding our friend at Netherfield?” Lizzy looked confused. “When I last visited the pigs, Froggat told me Mrs Bennet expressed much interest in his predictions for the weather. He could not say why. Something is afoot.”
“Mama has said nothing to me.”
“She would be wise not to place much stock in Froggat’s advice.” His promises of a dry day had been the ruin of many a bonnet. The weather-beaten face and economy of words gave a false impression of country wisdom. “Your mother would do better to speak with the pigs.”
~ ~ ~
A letter greeted me on my return indoors. Not, to my disappointment, from John, but from a cousin, Mr William Collins. He wished to arrive on some kind of diplomatic mission and end a feud that had existed between our fathers. His sentiments were admirable, so a person less cynical might have greeted the overtures with joy and gratitude. After all, as the heir to Longbourn, his goodwill was likely vital for the future security of the girls. However, the letter seemed designed to communicate his good fortune and character more than his wish to visit. People quick to describe their qualities rarely possess them, but at least I could not accuse him of excessive modesty.
Cake and Courtship (Mr Bennet's Memoirs #1) Page 6
