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

by Mark Brownlow

  A visit would mean yet another bachelor beneath the eaves of my house, though I doubted this one would be welcomed quite as well as John or the amiable Mr Bingley. Mrs Bennet still blamed Mr Collins for standing higher in the line of inheritance for my estate than her own daughters. The terms of the entail were hardly his fault, though.

  My cousin was not blessed with the same kind of happy home I enjoyed as a child. An accident of birth denied his father wealth and security, leading him down a path to misanthropy. From what I understood, he would constantly berate the young Mr Collins, happy to announce his son’s failures and poor prospects to any passing soul.

  Those prospects had since improved, thanks to my failure to bear a son. I hoped Mr Collins had blossomed in the absence of his late father, even if his letter suggested otherwise.

  A promise

  After lying empty for so long, the list of bachelors now seemed to grow daily. It began with Barton, Bingley, and Collins and found its temporary end in a whole troupe of officers. Or “OFFICERS!” to give them their formal title, according to Lydia and Kitty.

  We were all in Meryton—the girls to see the arriving soldiers and me to see my daughters came to no harm from them. The men marched in from the north road and through the square, buttons and buckles gleaming in the autumn sun, turning heads with the clip of boots on cobbles, turning hearts with the purpose in their stride.

  We were next to the vintners, whose crates and barrels helped the local children see over the heads of their elders. Everyone had stopped for the spectacle, the men casting nervous looks at their wives and daughters, the wives and daughters casting admiring glances at the soldiers.

  The officers carried swords of bright steel, as pristine as if they had never been used. I suspected they had not. The jackets carried no dust, the fabric bright as fresh blood.

  “I do love their red uniforms,” said Kitty.

  “Yes,” I said. “The colour will serve the soldiers well should they ever need to surprise the enemy in a field full of poppies.”

  The colonel certainly knew how to put on a show. No doubt they started nearby so the journey to town would not ruin clean boots and uniforms.

  As they marched, the officers stared straight ahead and fought to keep the knowing smirks from their faces. All except one, a tall fellow with a scar down the right side of his face. His smirk was there for all to see.

  Even Mary could not help but show an interest. “Why are they here, Papa?”

  “To eat, drink, dance, play cards, and find wives.”

  “How jolly,” said Lydia, standing on tiptoe to get a better view, or more likely to give a better one of herself.

  “I was being…never mind. They are here to maintain the peace, Mary. A peace we have enjoyed without their help for many a year. The last riot in Meryton was in 1798, when Mr Tincton’s father announced ale was half price.”

  “Perhaps our spies have unearthed Napoleon’s secret plans for Meryton,” said Lizzy.

  “Goodness, do you think so, Lizzy?” Kitty’s eyes widened at the thought. “I shall improve my French, just in case…Bonjour officier. Mais, merci, j’apprécierais certainement la prochaine danse. J’aime votre chapeau. Aimez-vous mon bonnet?”

  Lizzy and I shook our heads in mutual resignation. “Still,” I said. “The townsfolk can now sleep easier in their beds. At least those without daughters.”

  There would be no avoiding dinners with at least some of the officers, accompanied by stories of daring and bravery in the face of the enemy, even if that was likely a few dozen drunk mill workers in Lancashire.

  “They will provide plenty of distraction for you girls, relieving me of that responsibility. I may pursue my own interests in peace. And if that is the only peace they manage to maintain, I will be most grateful.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The constant talk of officers through the week soon sapped my willpower, but the company of the Society brought some relief. We were all once officers, so had no need to talk of them.

  It was Fielding who, again, broached the subject that seemed to edge closer to our hearts with each passing meeting. “So, gentlemen, have any of us given any thought to Bennet’s young friend and how he might capture the lady?”

  I was still surprised at the interest John’s story had stirred among my fellow committee members. None had ever struck me as romantically-minded.

  “A net, ether and a killing jar,” muttered Jackson. He opened one eye to scan his bemused audience. “Best way with beetles. Best way.”

  “Let us apply military principles to the problem.” Mugs, plates, and cutlery clattered as Fielding swept them to one side, then folded over the cloth to expose a piece of bare table, pitted and scarred like a northern landscape.

  “This is our young gentleman.” He placed a decanter in the centre of the exposed area. “And this glass is the lady in question. Our task is to bring the two together. How?”

  Silence.

  As I feared, the assembled gentlemen had little to say. Most had stumbled into marriage by accident or arrangement.

  “Does this lady have strong feelings about parsnips?” Elliston looked at me hopefully. “Or artichokes?” He, at least, had wooed his way to a wedding through a shared interest in vegetable growing.

  Poetry was mentioned, of course, demonstrating once again man’s inability to separate myth from reality. I began to understand why the ladies always left us out of their marital plans. Without their help, we would soon become a nation of bachelors.

  Fielding tapped the ‘Hayter’ glass to get attention. “We are perhaps putting the cart before the horse, gentlemen. Mr Barton has spent the best part of his life abroad. He has no connections beyond our esteemed Mr Bennet, and only a small estate to his name. His character, we are assured, is most praiseworthy. His chances, poor at best. But if there is to be a sliver of hope in our story, then our two protagonists must at least meet.” He looked up at me and I nodded—a letter from John had arrived that morning. “Does anyone know a Miss Anne Hayter of the Highcross estate, near Bath?”

  Jackson opened both eyes this time. “The wine traders?”

  “That is the family,” I said.

  Jackson nodded, then rubbed his chins. “I believe I can help.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Jackson promised intelligence on the Hayters within a few days, a merry thought I passed on to John by letter, taking the opportunity to reassure him of our earnest wish that he visit again. The girls wanted their portraits and I had no objection to male company at home, whatever memories such company might call forth. Since I was at my desk, I also wrote to Mr Collins, welcoming him to Longbourn. The sentiments he had expressed were honourable ones and so deserved an equivalent response from me. I only needed to break the joyous news to Mrs Bennet. The thought left me a little cold, a brief shudder sending my gaze across the room to a pocket-sized bottle sitting innocently on a shelf.

  …warm you from the inside out.

  It seemed an appropriate time to fortify myself with a small glass of courage.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was late the next morning before my vision cleared and I was able to walk properly again. Mrs Bennet placed the Madmaidens under lock and key in our medicine cabinet, and I developed a new respect for Sir William’s stomach. But I still did not have the strength to talk with my wife about Mr Collins.

  Introducing Mr Murden

  The camaraderie and jesting of the militia now guarding Meryton from threats unknown woke a better kind of memory in me than the smell of burning poetry or crimson trails of blood along a forest floor.

  “Are you looking forward to today’s company, Papa?” said Jane. We were shortly to entertain the Colonel and three of his officers: Mr Denny, Mr Carter, and—on his first visit to us—Mr Murden, the man with the scar I saw the day the regiment arrived.

  “I enjoy their conversation. Though, like a good port, it is best consumed in small doses, with periods of abstinence to ensure a full appreciation of the flavou
r.”

  “I think they are very brave to choose army life.”

  “You confuse the militia with the regulars, my dear. Militia lives are not difficult—most of the orders they give are to tailors and wine merchants. The only army they must face is one of admirers, not Frenchmen; the only danger to their comfort is an impatient creditor.”

  ~ ~ ~

  At tea, none of the three junior officers paid much attention to Jane, just as fishermen ignore a trout that has already been caught. But the younger girls in particular allowed red jackets to bring a blush to their faces. Much was spoken, little was said. Though sometimes words were unnecessary, replaced by a shy glance or a timely turn of the head.

  “Any news, Colonel Forster, on when you may be obliged to leave Meryton?” I said.

  “Nothing official as yet, Mr Bennet, but they do not like us to stay in one town for long, just in case we become too friendly with the locals.”

  “I fear we have already failed in our duty on that account. Be merciful, sir, for friendship is inevitable in such company as this.” Mr Murden swept his hand around the table, taking in all the girls and even Mrs Bennet.

  “Then we must promise not to riot or otherwise cause trouble,” said Lizzy. “So your loyalties are not tested.”

  “And I shall hold you to that promise, Miss Elizabeth. I would hate to have to lay hands on you.” Mr Murden’s eyes fell briefly to Lizzy’s chest.

  She lifted her jaw slightly as she leant forward over the table. “A sentiment I cannot disagree with.” Mr Murden smiled and scratched his scar.

  “I should so love to see you fight,” said Lydia. “You might all be frightfully injured and we could nurse you back to health here at Longbourn.”

  “Let us hope that does not happen, for all our sakes,” I said.

  Mr Murden turned to Lydia. “Six months in Portugal is quite enough fighting for me. Now I merely wish to battle with Denny for the last of this splendid cake.” He was a man of indefatigable charm and wit, and thus worthy of immediate suspicion.

  Men with experience of the regular army sometimes carry a burden greater than mine. They are scarred by more than a few poor memories. Some are vicious, turned sour by battle. Others are excessively gentle or withdrawn, as if to compensate for the horrors they have seen or caused. Some are eager to experience all that life offers, knowing how it can be lost so easily. I saw a scar on Mr Murden’s face, but was unsure if one lay underneath.

  “Do tell us more about Portugal. Did you see the French?” Lydia’s cup trembled in her hands.

  “Too much of the French, and not enough of their wine.” Mr Murden nudged Mr Denny as laughter coursed through the room, only broken by Lydia’s shriek as spots of hot tea fell on her dress. One of us, though, did not join in the merriment.

  “Our new acquaintance is quite the wit, is he not, Lizzy?” I did not like to see her downcast.

  “He is.”

  “But?” said Mr Murden.

  “I meant no offence. It is just I find little humour in war.”

  Mr Murden nodded, his hand wandering toward his scar again. “Nor should you. But a smile is often the companion of hope. And hope is always the weapon of choice for the reluctant soldier. It keeps him as safe as any sword or musket.”

  “And were you a reluctant soldier, Mr Murden?” said Lizzy.

  “At times. It would reflect badly on me were it otherwise.”

  “Well spoken, Mr Murden,” said Colonel Forster. “The enthusiastic ones are the worst, rushing to their deaths at the first glint of the enemy’s steel. You can measure the ease of victory by how many of them remain at the end. There are no enthusiastic old soldiers.”

  “You are right, sir, but I fear we may scare the ladies with such talk. Let us leave war behind and charge into more pleasant conversation. Your hairpins, Mrs Bennet. They remind me of those worn by a Baroness of my acquaintance. Are they a family heirloom?”

  And so, at a stroke, Mr Murden won the battle for Mrs Bennet’s approval.

  ~ ~ ~

  Later, sitting alone with Lizzy in the library, I sought her opinion on our new acquaintance.

  “I cannot say I have formed one. His character eludes me and I begin to doubt my understanding. Perhaps men are not as simple as I have often held them to be.” She looked up from her book, frowning.

  “Men are simpletons?”

  “Simple, not simpletons. Well, not all of them. And not you, Papa.” She came over to place a kiss on my forehead. “Not you.”

  “My dearest Lizzy. I could spend every hour of my day talking with you.”

  “No more today, Papa, for I must attend to Mama. We shall renew our analysis of Mr Murden’s elusive character tomorrow.”

  “Or another day,” I said, glancing at a note that had arrived in the morning. “Tomorrow I meet Mr Jackson in Meryton. He has news for me.”

  “News? Of what nature?”

  “If I knew, it would not be news now, would it? Besides, are not fathers allowed some secrets from their daughters?”

  A path to Miss Hayter?

  As a boy, I would walk along the stream that led to Meryton, down to where two old willows arched across the water, their branches a leafy curtain that promised hidden wonders beyond. Stones littered the banks there, dark and flat. I would flip them over, never knowing what lay below: a disappointing canvas of mud or something bright and squirming to delight a young naturalist.

  I felt a little of that boyhood anticipation on my way to meet with Jackson, the early hour dictated by his imminent departure on a short trip out of town.

  A change in weather had thrown a white cloak over the hedgerows that lined the road and stolen the colour from the landscape beyond, shrouding the hills in a dull fog that whispered warnings of the coming winter. There were few people about, the townsfolk likely reluctant to face the early frost until the sun had dulled its bite.

  After leaving the carriage, I kept my hands buried in my coat as I hurried to the Flighted Duck in search of my friend and something warming. And cake, perhaps—I was meeting Jackson, after all.

  The inn was almost empty, but the smell of stale ale spoke of last night’s patrons and the aroma of fresh stew spoke of visitors to come. I found my friend in an alcove half hidden by an oak column. Wisps of steam rose from the mug in front of him.

  “This is quite the place for a secret assignation. If we are discovered, Jackson, our reputations may never recover.” My friend snorted, then poured me some spiced wine. I sat, cupping the drink, letting the warmth seep through into my fingers. “So, tell all. What of the Hayters?”

  He took a sip of wine, staring at me over the lip of his mug. “We are friends, are we not?”

  “Must you even ask?”

  He gave a little cough of apology. “There is a man I buy brandy from. Brandy that has not always passed through…all the proper channels.”

  “But it has passed through—or, rather, across—one channel in particular?” He nodded slowly. “Ah.” I put a finger to my lips to reassure him of my silence, though he could not doubt my loyalty to an old comrade would exceed that to the exchequer.

  “Fellow is in the wine business. Knows everyone. Has dealings with the Highcross people, too. Told me something of the family.” He paused again to drink more deeply. “The widow’s a bit of a handful. Something of a beast, it is said.”

  “A beast? Now there is a word used by men to cover a variety of sins. Perhaps she is truly a medusa. Or perhaps she merely has the temerity to express an opinion. Most likely she is simply adept at identifying unwelcome suitors for her daughter; a man spurned needs someone to blame for his own failure.”

  “If you say so, Bennet. Seems she is unlikely to give up her independence. The daughter has some of the mother’s spirit. Shares her time between Bath and London.”

  “London for the season?”

  “London for the books.”

  “Books?” The word pulled me up in my chair.

  “Excessi
vely fond of reading apparently. Spends November in London. Likely enough she is there now. Purchases books like Stanhope buys casks at a wine merchant. Then back to Bath with them. Before the roads become impossible. Reads her way through the winter.”

  “How unusual. Still, that is one thing in John’s favour. There are two places in this blessed country where strangers may certainly converse without connection: one is a ballroom, the other a bookstore.” It was my turn to taste the wine, hot and sweet.

  “Bookstore seems more likely. My fellow says she is a rare visitor to any assemblies. Or to the Pump Room. She has the grace and conversation for both. But not the preference. Cannot say I like the sound of that.”

  “On the contrary, my dear friend, the more I learn of Miss Hayter, the more I warm to her. No doubt she has her reasons.”

  Keen to write to John without delay, I soon made my excuses after thanking Jackson for his trouble. “Two things, dear friend, before I leave. That brandy?”

  Jackson’s mouth curled up towards his ears. “I shall bring a bottle to the next meeting.”

  I nodded my thanks and turned to go.

  “You said two things.”

  “Ah, yes.” I leant down to rest my hands on the table. “Just out of curiosity, did your man say what Miss Hayter looked like?”

  “I asked him that very question. Thought you might want to know.”

  “And?”

  “He said he could not properly say if she was a beauty. But if he had the words to do justice to her smile, he would sell poetry, not port.”

  A welcome illness

  My spirits rarely settled while autumn and winter tussled for supremacy. This seasonal unease was not helped by watching Lydia and Kitty’s constant squabbles over ribbons, gloves, and other such trinkets of fashion. It was all a matter of principle, rather than need, like England and France fighting over a small and barren island. I found myself swinging like a pendulum between rich contentment and pernicious dissatisfaction.