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

by Mark Brownlow

  Cook’s plum pudding could have fed the five thousand and spared our Lord the miracle of the bread and fish. But the last piece had disappeared by the time New Year’s Eve had arrived.

  The Gardiners were also no more, having left earlier with our eldest. We had company most every day they were here, and only now could the servants clean the house. Jane would miss our Bath trip, but London would provide its own consolations.

  The rest of us were glad to spend much of the last day of the year in quiet reflection. All except Lydia, of course, who spent most of the time looking quietly at her reflection, admiring every curve and curl.

  Later, as we sat waiting to welcome the new year and say farewell to the old, a rare moment of philosophical enlightenment struck Mrs Bennet: “What shall we wish for in 1812?”

  “Oh, yes, let us all say,” said Lydia, “And now that Jane is in London, she shall not shame us into saying something noble.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Let us rejoice in her absence. We may now express all our selfishness and poor judgement without fear of rebuke.”

  “I would have relief from my nerves. And see all my girls married to gentlemen with large fortunes and great estates. But all nearby, so I may visit often and make Lady Lucas very jealous indeed.”

  “What about you, Lydia?” I said. “Do you wish to improve yourself with extensive reading? Perhaps retire to a life of contemplation in a small Cornish abbey?”

  “Whatever gave you such strange notions, Papa? That might do for Mary, but not for me. I would be happy with an officer to wed. He must enjoy dancing and plays. And travel. Give parties every day when we are home. And buy me new hats and gowns every week. And he must be excessively handsome, of course, so all my sisters die of envy.”

  “I am not sure such a man exists, but, if he does, I hope he finds you,” I said. “And you, Kitty, how will you make your sisters jealous?”

  Kitty cupped her face in her hands and sighed. “I daresay an offer from an officer would be charming, but I would be more than happy with the attentions of any young man. I do declare I would be quite content with another visit from Mr Barton, so…”

  “…he might paint you,” I finished for her.

  “He will paint you all,” said my wife.

  “Yes, but he will paint me so beautifully that every officer will ask, ‘Who is that most beautiful of ladies hanging on your wall?’ I will outshine all my sisters.”

  “Well, yours is one wish that may come true, Kitty. I hope John will visit soon. I wrote to him recently encouraging just that.”

  “I have no wishes for next year. What will come will come. We must accept the fate that God has prepared for us.”

  “Thank you, Mary,” I said. “At least you will not be making anyone jealous. And you, Lizzy, I can rely on you for something more sensible?”

  Lizzy spoke softly, perhaps feeling some sadness at the loss of Jane to London and the loss of Mr Bingley that made that absence necessary. “I would see all your wishes come true, though perhaps John might paint me equally as well as he would Kitty.”

  “But for yourself, Lizzy?” said Lydia. “Just because Jane is gone does not mean you must take her place in conversation.”

  Lizzy looked out the window, seemingly lost in thought beyond the borders of Longbourn. “I would simply like a man who loved me and who I might love back. A man of warmth and compassion, at ease at a ball or in a bookstore. He should have a sad smile, one that only I can turn merry.” She pursed her lips and nodded gently. “And if he is excessively handsome, too, I shall not complain!”

  “And you, Papa,” said Kitty, “You have not yet told us your wishes.”

  “My wishes?” How much I might have said in that moment. That I might wake one day and find I had a son. That Longbourn might be secured for the family, and no wife or daughter need worry for their future. That Miss Hayter might fall irrevocably in love with John. That Abigail might be happy with the match. That I might forgive and forget more easily. That I might once more chance upon the glorious wings of another Silver-washed Fritillary.

  “Papa?” I came to my senses to find them all watching me, concern on their faces.

  “A warm fire and a good book will do me, Kitty, and perhaps less of your silliness.”

  “Oh, Papa!”

  John’s return

  My letter to John received a swift answer. He followed in person only a day or two later.

  As on his last visit, I chose to meet him in Meryton. A pearl blue sky beckoned, so I sent his bags on ahead and we walked back to Longbourn along the banks of the stream, heedless of the muddy reminders of the previous day’s rain. A few weeks in the north had not changed him. He was a little fatter around the cheeks, certainly, but that might apply to almost any gentleman in the days following Christmas.

  “You are not too tired from your journey?”

  “Tired, yes. But happy to stretch my legs again, and happier still to be away from my fellow passengers. Their chatter was my constant companion south of Coventry. There is no escaping gossip in a carriage.”

  “A truer word was never said.” We walked in silence for a few moments. “You are curious, no doubt, as to the details of my encounter with Miss Hayter?”

  “I cannot deny some interest.”

  I began counting on my fingers. John’s eyes narrowed. “Well, by my reckoning, you must have started your journey south some, let me see, five, perhaps as many as six, minutes after receiving my letter.”

  “It was half a day. It took that long to pack and arrange transport.”

  “It is a wonder you did not arrive before your letter. Either your hosts were so abominable that my note gave you an excuse to leave immediately, or you have a little more than ‘some’ interest.”

  “They were gracious hosts. It was not on their account that I left in haste.” I smiled at him but he kept a stern face.

  “I did warn you, John. It takes more than a few miles of road to remove the barbs of affection from a stricken heart. Perhaps you now regret your early departure from London?”

  “Interest and regret are not the same, Mr Bennet. One may lead to the other, but much depends on what you have to say. You lit a candle, but I am still largely in darkness.”

  “If you say so, John, if you say so.”

  Our path took us away from the stream and we crested a small rise to see Longbourn in the distance. I fancied I could hear the girls’ squeals, no doubt having seen an easel emerge from the carriage that bore our guest’s belongings.

  John stood on the ridge, arms folded and coat flapping in the breeze, one boot tapping out an irregular staccato on the ground. We held each other’s stare for a few seconds, then the wind carried our raucous laughter out and across the fields.

  “Very well, John…I will keep you in suspense no longer. She is very handsome indeed.” The response was a snort of disappointment. “Forgive me, dear boy, it has been many years since I last paid attention to a young lady. I do not have the words and, frankly, I was a little distracted at the time.”

  “Tell me simply, how did she make you feel?” He was all earnestness now, like a dog waiting at the door for his master’s return.

  I walked on and called back to him over my shoulder. “When she smiled, she brought summer into Brecknell’s.”

  He caught up with me. “You see it, too? And her conversation? What did she say? How were you even introduced?”

  “Ah,” I said, turning away from him again.

  “My apologies. I ask too many questions.”

  “It is not your questions that trouble me, John, but my answers. Miss Hayter was with her mother, you see. Mrs Hayter as is, Abigail Spencer as was. Perhaps you have heard the name from your father?” He shook his head. “Then Henry was more discreet than necessary with his own kin.” I looked long and hard at him. He was so young. “You see, John, well, I once thought of Abigail Spencer much as you now think of Miss Hayter. She refused me. No, let me be fair to her—she found anothe
r before she had the opportunity to refuse me. As I discovered that day in London, she eventually married the late Mr Hayter.”

  John touched my arm briefly, unexpectedly, concern gracing his face, all sign of his own hopes removed in concern for mine. “I am sorry. Was it not difficult for you?”

  “A little awkward, I grant, particularly as she recognised me, too. But perhaps we can turn this connection to our advantage in some way. As long as you do not oblige me to call on the mother.” I waved a finger at him. “The past is best left undisturbed, especially my past.”

  “Ah,” said John. “I understand. Though a wise man once told me that distance does not allow escape.”

  “I could not possibly say,” I said, avoiding his gaze. Perceptive company does not always make for comfortable conversations. Life is sometimes far easier when surrounded by ignorance. “Now come, let us hurry to Longbourn.” I strode forward, not waiting to see if he caught up. “By the way, I hope you have plenty of paint with you. There are many eager to have you flatter them in a portrait. If you are one of those that paints his subjects with faithful honesty, I would advise against it. Unless you wish to spend your stay shivering in icy stares of disapproval. And no word of the Hayters to anyone. Our hopes rest on the ladies knowing nothing. Absolutely nothing. I will explain all to you later. And that reminds me: if there is time tomorrow, I would like to introduce you to my friends at the Meryton Natural History Society. I hope you like butterflies. Miss Hayter does.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The call of sunlight and impatient girls brought John out early from his bed. He had barely time to breakfast before they dragged him toward the drawing room. There the light was best, even if winter’s long reach dulled its brightness.

  As promised, he painted Kitty first. He treated his canvas kindly, with the light strokes and tender touches of a mother seeing to a bruised child. All the while he kept his subject content with stories of Vienna and Prague, sweetened with regular compliments on her poise and patience.

  When he was done, after but two hours, we all crowded round to praise the results.

  “Such a pretty face, I can barely recognise you, Kitty,” I said.

  “I am not sure I wish for my own portrait now,” said Lizzy.

  “Is my work so shameful?”

  “On the contrary, dearest John, you have captured Kitty’s looks and her character. For my part, I merely fear what you might reveal of my soul.”

  “Goodness knows what he will make of Lydia,” I said.

  “And now it is my turn,” said the subject of my jest, hurrying over to the chair by the window.

  “It is a very pleasing picture, John,” said my wife. “And quite enough for one day, I think. I have errands for the girls in Meryton. The day is dry, but the weather may turn at any time, so they must be off this very moment.” The protestations were both loud and long. “No, you must be off. Now. All of you. Except for Kitty.”

  “Mama?” said Kitty.

  “With your sore ankle, you must remain here. You may look after John, so he is not alone while your sisters are in Meryton.”

  “My sore ankle?”

  “Yes. The left one.” We all followed her outstretched finger.

  I had no wish to condemn our guest to an afternoon entertaining Kitty. “John is otherwise engaged, my dear. If he is not to paint, then he must come with me. I wish to introduce him to the Society. They are eager to meet him.”

  “You cannot leave Kitty alone,” said Mrs Bennet.

  “But she is not alone, is she? What better company can a daughter ask for than that of her mother? There, we are all spoken for now. Let us meet again in the evening. We shall take the carriage, and the girls will walk.”

  When it was not a market day, Meryton had the sleepy countenance of some fairy-tale hamlet. We were a little early for the Society, so I took John for a turn around the town, curious as to what his painter’s eye might discover that lay hidden to me. As we finally entered the square, I saw a familiar group ahead of us: three red coats and the same number of bonnets. The girls had found themselves some officers.

  “Well, John, I had hoped to spare you the formality of too many new acquaintances this afternoon, but it appears you are to meet the militia in the form of—let me see—Messrs Wickham, Denny, and Murden, the trio that have made merry around our dinner table on several occasions.” I hailed the group from a distance to allow Lizzy time to make John’s status and character known to her companions.

  “Well, gentlemen, no riots to quell?” I called as we approached.

  “Not today,” replied Mr Murden. “But we remain ever vigilant.”

  “I should not like you to quell any riots; you might spoil your beautiful jackets,” said Lydia.

  The light of day gave me the first chance to see Mr Murden properly. Candlelight confers a sallow, haunted look, so I did not like to judge people at my dinner table or at an inn. Even without the shako, tucked beneath his arm, he was a tall man, three or four inches taller than John, and broader with it. His high cheekbones put me in mind of classical heroes, a vision supported by his tight curls.

  The officers each greeted John in their own particular way. Mr Wickham was a picture of amiability, his every word meant as much for the audience as his direct opposite. Mr Denny was open and brief, Mr Murden polite, welcoming, and impossible to read.

  “What happy coincidence that we should meet,” said Mr Wickham. “Shall we all retire to the inn? I am growing cold and seek good wine and conversation to bring life to my limbs.”

  Taking up Mr Wickham’s suggestion, we repaired to that fine establishment; John and I had a good hour to pass before the committee would begin to arrive.

  I asked for a private room, where bread—still hot from the ovens—and mulled wine warmed us until the fire found its strength.

  “You know nothing of weather, Wickham, if you think this cold,” said Mr Murden.

  “I must protest,” said his colleague-in-arms. “Derbyshire winters can be harsh and many is the time I have—”

  “But you have no experience of a Russian winter! There your breath freezes in the air and the icy ground steals the very life from your toes.” Mr Murden turned to John. “I imagine you are glad of the Gloucestershire climate, Mr Barton, all sun and rich country harvests.”

  Lizzy answered for him. “Mr Barton lived most recently in Austria. I understand the mountains in winter are very fierce, is that not so?”

  “Colder than home, to be sure,” said John. “But not comparable with Russia, as I think Napoleon will discover should he turn his attention to the Tsar.”

  “Ah, Wickham,” said Mr Murden, clapping his companion on the shoulder. “We are in the presence of a learned man. We must watch ourselves, or he will expose us for the fools we are.”

  “If you are fools, you are very handsome ones.” Lydia’s intervention saved John from the need to respond.

  Mr Wickham’s shiver spilled bright drops of wine from his glass.

  “You are still cold, man? Then we need more fuel. This fire is a disgrace.” Mr Murden turned about himself. “Where is the serving girl?”

  I leant toward Mary and whispered. “Please fetch Jenny and ask her for more firewood. We do not wish our brave officers to face unwarranted hardship.”

  “Are you enjoying Meryton, gentlemen?” said John.

  “We are,” said Mr Wickham. “The townsfolk are generous with their hospitality and have been kind enough to remain peaceful, though I did see two ladies raise their voices over a ribbon at Frederick’s. I almost had to call for the cavalry.” We all laughed dutifully.

  “You have forgotten the chief source of delights in Meryton, Wickham.” Mr Murden, standing, swept his arm around the table. “I have travelled through much of Europe, seen all that the courts of St Petersburg and Stockholm can offer, but nothing can compare with the beauty of the Meryton ladies.” He bowed deeply and the recipients of his flattery rewarded him with generous applause. “I’m sure y
ou would agree, Mr Barton, no?”

  John took a moment to answer. “The ladies I have met do their parents great honour. It must come as a relief to enjoy such a peaceful shire, Mr Murden. Or were your previous assignments equally enviable?”

  “They were not, sir. We were recently in the north, where we taught the local population a few sharp lessons concerning respect for the law.” He lifted the hilt of his sword.

  “Do tell us, Mr Murden,” said Lizzy. “What great battles raged in the moors and vales of the northern counties? What sieges? What desperate actions in the face of a well-armed enemy?” I found it hard not to smirk.

  “Hardly well-armed, Miss Bennet. Sticks and pitchforks make a poor argument against solid steel blades. And we had law and righteousness on our side.”

  “Is that where you got your…” Lydia ran her finger down her cheek.

  “No, for that you can blame a Russian officer, unable to handle his drink or his loss at cards.”

  “I hope you made him pay for his insolence,” said Lydia.

  “Have no fear on that account.”

  “How lacking in diversion you must find Hertfordshire in comparison,” said Lizzy.

  “I am the happier for it. Besides, there is plenty enough to amuse me. Today, for instance, I have made a new acquaintance in Mr Barton.” He turned to my friend. “Tell me, what passes for amusement in Gloucester?”

  “I cannot say for I am rarely there. I have been abroad for most of my life.”

  “A fellow soldier, perhaps, never long in one place?” Mr Murden looked John up and down.

  “No. While you collected fame, fortune and victories, I collected memories. Travelling with my father through the Caribbean and the great cities of the Austrian Empire.”

  “Not a soldier. Yes, as I now recall, a painter, no?”

  “Of sorts,” said John.

  Mr Murden turned back to the rest of our party. “I once knew a countess from Bohemia.”

  “Ah,” said Mr Wickham, “I daresay there is a pretty story to be told there.”

  “Indeed, there is. More wine and I will tell it. Where is that serving girl?”