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

  Cake and Courtship

  A tale of love, regret and the occasional nerve tonic

  Mark Brownlow

  Lost Opinions e.U.

  Cake and Courtship

  © 2017 Mark Brownlow

  All rights reserved, US Copyright Office Reg: TX 8-482-459

  Electronic Edition

  ISBN: 978-3-903230-00-2 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-3-903230-01-9 (print)

  Author: Mark Brownlow

  Cover design: Aimee Coveney of Bookollective

  Editing: Sarah Pesce, Lopt & Cropt Editing Services

  Formatting: Polgarus Studio

  Publisher: Lost Opinions e.U.

  Paschinggasse 8/28

  1170 Vienna

  Austria

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, the product of Jane Austen’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. With the exception of passing references to well-known historical personalities or events, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For more Austenesque creations, see:

  Web: lostopinions.com

  Twitter: @markbrownlow

  Facebook: facebook.com/lostopinions/

  For Renate

  Table of Contents

  An unpaid debt

  A new arrival

  A past revealed

  Bachelors abroad

  The foolishness of men

  Mr Bingley

  Learning the rituals

  All in a good cause

  A name revealed

  A promise

  Introducing Mr Murden

  A path to Miss Hayter?

  A welcome illness

  An unwelcome guest

  In search of refuge

  Decisions

  A familiar scent

  Objections and resolutions

  Balls and other trials

  War and peace

  Travel plans

  The joys of the arena

  A change in year

  John’s return

  Back to the past

  Chance encounters

  On pride and prejudice

  A clash of conversation

  A return to the dance floor

  Departures and revelations

  Back to Longbourn

  A coming together

  An unwanted reunion

  The misery of men

  The meaning of affection

  Conflict and conversation

  A drink of convenience

  Into the field

  In pursuit of the post

  Epilogue

  Fiction by Mark Brownlow

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  An unpaid debt

  A letter awaited my late return from London.

  “Is it from a relative?” They only ever wanted money or sympathy, and I had little of either to spare.

  Mrs Bennet shook her head. “No, husband, it is not.”

  I took the missive from her outstretched hand, held it to a candle, then turned it over like the final card at the whist table. “From John Barton. Goodness.” My fingertip rubbed at a scuffed and ragged edge. “This has been on quite a journey.”

  My first inclination was to leave it for the morning sunlight, but there are few powers stronger than curiosity and few pleasures greater than the breaking of a seal. John’s penmanship was crisp and strong, each sentence ending with a flourish of ink.

  “What does it say? Does he talk of his father?”

  “He does.” I folded away the letter, holding it in hands clasped behind my back.

  “Oh, do not tease me so, Mr Bennet!”

  I cleared my throat. “Well, my dear, it seems Henry is back from the Caribbean and now enjoys the rather colder embrace of the Austrian Empire.”

  “Has he no plans to return home?”

  “Apparently not. The two Bartons spent the last year in Vienna, no doubt indulging Henry’s love of music. He has swapped the sun for sonatas.”

  “John must be a young man by now. Is he well? Is he married?”

  “Those are questions, my dear, you may ask him yourself.” My smile did little for her look of confusion. “He intends to visit us next month.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The following morning, I tried not to think of the cost while presenting the girls with their gifts from the capital’s bookstores. A new collection of moral essays drew a rare sigh of contentment from Mary. Lydia and Kitty were less enthused at their books on etiquette for young ladies.

  “For you, Jane,” I said, handing her a thin volume. “You should find these preferable to those indifferent verses that suitor once gave you. Brecknell himself assured me of their quality. He has never let me down, so I must trust his judgement on this. You know my thoughts on poetry.” My eldest daughter’s gentle kiss brought warmth to my cheek. “And for you, Lizzy, tales of Moscow and St Petersburg. If a mind as sharp as yours cannot travel to the great cities of Russia, then these great cities will have to come to you. Or at least to our library.”

  “But the expense, Papa. You should not be so generous,” said Lizzy.

  “Books are the one luxury I deem a necessity. If my purchases lead us into poverty, then at least we will be well-read paupers. Now, run along all of you and allow your father some peace to enjoy his own gift to himself.” I patted the smooth surface of Scopoli’s Hortus Blattae.

  I soon left the library for my study, so Kitty and Lydia could return their gifts to a bookshelf unobserved. Once inside, my eyes were drawn to John’s letter. It lay on the desk, untouched since last night.

  “Papa?” Lizzy stood in the doorway to the hall, brow a little more furrowed than usual.

  “Lizzy, dear. You are not happy with your present?”

  “Quite content and very grateful. More so than Lydia and Kitty, certainly.”

  “Ah, yes. I do not expect them to read their new books, but the threat of having to do so may at least encourage more moderate behaviour.”

  “Is all well, Papa? There was a quietness about you earlier in the library.”

  “I could not be better, child…just a little distracted.” I picked up the letter, then waved it at her. “You remember the Bartons, of course?”

  Lizzy slipped into the room. “You have news? Is this what distracts you?”

  I dropped the letter on the desk, sending glistening motes of dust into the air. “John has written from Vienna.” Her expression prompted my best impression of a gallic shrug. “You may well ask why they remain overseas, even now. It seems time will not diminish the memory that keeps Henry away from us and England. But it does not keep his son away. In fact, he may already be in Gloucestershire; the letter took uncommonly long to reach us.”

  “John is returning to England?”

  “Temporarily.”

  “Will he visit us?”

  “I believe so.”

  “How wonderful, but—”

  “That is not what troubles me, although the thought of a young man in the house makes me a trifle uneasy. You girls will descend on him like crows on a battlefield corpse.”

  “I wonder if he has forgiven Jane and me for all our teasing.”

  “I daresay he will not hold it against you since he bore a whole summer of it with commendable fortitude. He could not have been much more than twelve the last time we saw him here with his father…and his mother. All so content together.” I turned away from Lizzy to dab at my eyes with a handkerchief. “This dust gets everywhere; I must have a word with Mrs Bennet.”

&nb
sp; “It is all the books.”

  “You think so? Anyway, John may be much changed, and not just with age; travel leaves its mark on a man. But it is the reason for his journey that worries me. He does not reveal it, which has sent my imagination down unpleasant paths.”

  “Perhaps it is simply for his education or a matter of personal interest.”

  “You may be right.” I glanced at Henry’s box, perched on a high shelf. “His father was…is…a fine man, the very best of men. However, estate management was never a strength of his, and years of travelling cannot have been easy for the family finances. I fear John may be here out of necessity, to raise funds.”

  “From us?”

  “Possibly. When young men visit older acquaintances, it is usually in search of a loan or a wife. Of course, if it is funds he needs, he may be in England to sell land.” I took a deep breath. “And where land departs, name and rank are sure to follow.”

  “You read too much into a simple visit, Papa. Besides, the Barton finances are surely none of our concern.”

  “Everything about the Bartons is our concern…my concern.” Lizzy took a step back as my gaze wandered again to the box and its contents.

  “Papa?”

  I did not respond immediately, but my daughter was wise enough to keep silent.

  “Forgive my sharpness, Lizzy. With regard to the Barton family, there are memories. And debts. Debts of honour. John’s letter reminds me of them.”

  “You speak of your time in the army?”

  “Among other things. But, yes, those days in particular.” Lizzy knew me well enough not to pry further. “Suffice to say there is no debt greater than the one I owe Henry Barton and, by extension, his family. There is little I would not do for him or his son.” My eyes closed as the memories of a slick forest floor threatened to overwhelm me.

  The soft touch of Lizzy’s hand on my arm brought me back to Longbourn. “Likely I worry for nought. Let us wait for John’s next communication. Perhaps he misses English rhubarb. Or simply wants to play hide and seek with you and Jane again.” My smile was almost genuine.

  “Hide and seek? That would be most improper at our age. Shall Jane and I still call him John? Or will he be the very serious Mr Barton?”

  “For me, he will always be John, however gentlemanly and refined he may now be.”

  “I wonder if a man so well-travelled can even enjoy our quiet English manor?”

  “Quiet? My dear Lizzy, he is a gentleman and likely unmarried. His arrival is certain to cause considerable agitation among your sisters and mother. Quiet it will most certainly not be. There will be even more silliness than usual, and I shall have no peace at all.”

  Lizzy took my hand in hers. “Then, Papa, you must lock yourself away in the study and leave John to us.”

  I looked down into those dark eyes of hers and, with my free hand, pushed back the stray curl that always infuriated Mrs Bennet. “That would be very cruel to John, to sacrifice his peace for mine.”

  Once she left, I picked up the letter again, twisting it round and round in my fingers, echoes of the past clamouring for the attention I was unwilling to give.

  A new arrival

  The cut of the wind across the open carriage banished all further thoughts of the Bartons as I travelled into Meryton to meet with Jackson. The new guns in Blackman’s demanded our attention and his blustery enthusiasm left no space for introspection. I had almost forgotten John’s letter by the time we retired to the Flighted Duck for a little refreshment.

  An observer might have described my demeanour as ‘sprightly’ when I left the inn. It was hard to feel anything but optimism with a stomach full of tart and gingerbread. Then I saw Sir William. Unfortunately, and despite my best efforts to hide behind the convenient frame of my cake-filled companion, he also saw me. And so our newly-knighted neighbour came bounding across the old square, seemingly determined to engage me in conversation.

  “There is news, Mr Bennet. Great news! Netherfield Park is to be let to a single gentleman with a significant income.” The words came between great gasps of air, his arms flapping and cheeks puffing like a blacksmith’s bellows. “His name is Mr Bingley. A capital name, is it not?”

  “It is indeed.” I suspected it would appear somewhat less so if its owner were not both rich and unattached.

  “The name speaks of fine manners and good breeding, no?” I did not respond. Sir William always took a rather generous view of grammar, so some of his question marks were little more than vivacious full stops. “I should be happy to welcome him to our little part of Hertfordshire,” he added.

  “You will not be alone in doing so. Once this Bingley’s presence and income are widely known, the mothers of Meryton will descend like cats, spitting and mewling as they jostle for a chance to pounce. I almost pity him.”

  “No doubt Mrs Bennet will be glad of the news, too. Who knows how many other young gentlemen may accompany him? Perhaps there will be enough for each of your daughters.” All that was missing to complete his joy was a tail to wag.

  “The good Lord has been kind enough to send us one bachelor in Mr Bingley,” I replied. “Let us not be greedy and ask for five.” A few pleasantries later and it was into the carriage and back to Longbourn before the approaching rain spoiled both road and view.

  There would be no escape from talk of balls and bachelors, not with two new arrivals to anticipate.

  ~ ~ ~

  At home, Mrs Bennet was nowhere to be seen.

  “She is in bed, Papa, resting after taking her nerve tonic. It is a new concoction, prescribed by Mr Jones on the recommendation of a physician who once attended the Prince Regent.” Lizzy’s face suggested she did not believe the claim.

  “I presume it came in a very garish, expensive bottle, then?”

  She ignored my cynicism. “Did Mr Jackson purchase his gun?”

  “Of course not. He never buys a new gun, but we enjoy the pretence that he might do so one day.”

  “And is there news from town? Idle talk may be the tonic Mama requires most.”

  “None of any import.”

  They would find out about Mr Bingley soon enough without my intervention. Besides, a gentleman should never appear better informed of such matters than his spouse or daughters, lest they think he has an interest. I passed the evening with a glass of port and the rare self-satisfaction of a husband in possession of precious gossip before his wife.

  ~ ~ ~

  The rain departed overnight, leaving a cloudless morning and sufficient light to spend the time in my study labelling the last of the summer’s catch.

  I always enjoyed bringing order to the chaos of creation, particularly when every beetle and butterfly held memories of warm evenings in my flower-filled gardens. Each year, while the girls sought daisies and dandelions, I set traps for the winged and unwary. That summer my nets had caught sixteen Silver-washed Fritillaries, almost as many as Stanhope found, and double the catch of Fielding. These delightful creatures had become decidedly rare in our neighbourhood, though I could not understand why.

  It was a scene that never ceased to give me pleasure: my old oak desk, set beneath the bay window to catch the sun through to the afternoon. On one side, the box of recent finds and the relaxing chamber. On the other side, the pins, labels, tweezers, and display trays, the latter all dark polished oak and bright brass fittings.

  With a smile and a sigh, I held up the first beetle to the window. A fine specimen, wing cases of dark green that revealed a ring of argent in a stray sunbeam. I was at peace with the world in that moment but, regrettably, the world refused to reciprocate. A brief knock provided insufficient warning as the door crashed open, the draught sending pins and labels scattering like the bugs they were intended for.

  “Papa! Papa!”

  My practised look of fatherly despair had no effect on Lydia. She was too busy bobbing up and down to notice, apron strings hanging loosely to the side, hands clasped to stop them shaking.


  “You must come, Papa—there is such news!”

  “Indeed? Has Napoleon surrendered? Are we to have a new parliament?”

  Lydia stopped bobbing and frowned. “No, Papa, proper news! We are all so merry at the thought. Imagine!” She turned and ran out, leaving a trail of giggles to follow her by. I returned the scattered items to the desk, replaced the stopper on the ink, and then said a silent goodbye to my insect companions.

  Mrs Bennet had finally learned of our prospective neighbour at Netherfield. The information had the girls flustered and fretful as if a wasp was in the room. Even Jane and Lizzy were barely able to contain themselves.

  “You must visit him when he arrives, Mr Bennet,” said my wife. “And before anyone else. We must show him the girls as soon as possible. He will be sure to fall in love with one of them.”

  “Show him?” I said. “Are they artefacts to be handed around a drawing room?”

  “You know very well what I mean, husband.”

  Inevitably, the only topic of conversation for the rest of the day was the pending appearance of two young men, though most of the speculation concerned Mr Bingley. A possible bachelor passing through on his way abroad was merely a distraction. An actual bachelor living nearby was an opportunity.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday morning offered the chance to reflect on the benevolence of the Lord for sending Mr Bingley. At least this was the general opinion whispered behind church pews as Mr Toke held forth on the evils of gluttony and other sins. His warnings might have enjoyed a better response had the pulpit not creaked so under his weight. Toke’s sermons were the Russian winters of ecclesiastical discourse—rather unpleasant, far too long, and likely to darken the spirits of all who survived them.

  Still, the walk back to Longbourn was pleasing enough. The oranges and russets of the turning foliage delighted the eye. There was certainly more to marvel at in nature than in the cold walls of Toke’s church.