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

  Objections and resolutions

  I told the driver to take his time and spare my flesh and bones the worst of the ride back to Longbourn. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the fragrance of lavender seemed still to cling to my clothes. And as the shadows lengthened and the view outside the carriage dwindled into darkness, the steady drumming of hooves lulled me into further introspection.

  Fielding’s words came back to me as we left London. “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.”

  Then the memories returned in full. Sitting in a coach to Bath, nervous but determined, rehearsing the question every man hopes to one day ask, repeating it again and again in my mind. Then hearing her name spoken out loud. “Have you heard? Miss Abigail Spencer. She is newly engaged to a local gentleman of wealth and standing.”

  It was not my choice I regretted, but hers.

  I carried the loss like a stone around my neck, never finding much goodness in the world, often disappointed with a life that could never compete with what might have been. I had still admired, even loved, but the recipients of this admiration or love were few and far between. Lizzy, Jane, Fielding, one or two others. And now also John in all his youthful innocence.

  It was hard to cast off this world-weary mantle, sewn on that journey to Bath and worn for so many years. But, as Longbourn neared, I finally accepted my mistakes, my selfishness, my frustration. And I chose to believe I might find solace and, perhaps, some redemption in the happiness of another. As my carriage finally reached home, I determined to see how I might move beyond obligation and sincerely help my young friend find the joy once denied me.

  Miss Hayter was clearly worth the gamble, even if we had a poor hand. And if John’s affection proved ephemeral or hers illusive, well, at least I would have tried. My first task was to engage again the help of my friends and then write to John with suggestions as to how he might proceed. The thought of his surprise at the news of my bookstore encounter brought an unapologetic grin to my face. It does a young man good to learn that his elders are not always fools.

  This newfound resolve I attributed to one moment: when the Hayters—mother and daughter—both stopped just before the door out to Finsbury Square, turned back to me, and lit up Brecknell’s with the same smile. One reminded me of what I had lost, the other of what I would not let John lose.

  ~ ~ ~

  Those smiles seemed all too far away the next day. I knew not which was darker, the cloud overhead or my mood in the carriage as I rode to Meryton. We rocked from side to side, beaten by wind and rain such that conversation was barely possible. Which was some kind of blessing, since Mr Collins accompanied me on my journey.

  It seemed Mrs Bennet had alerted him to my pending visit to the Society and assured him I would be delighted to have him join me. Swift revenge for my London absence.

  Introducing the ignominious Mr Collins to good friends risked the possibility of their no longer being so. Nor could I now discuss John with them; the situation would quickly become unbearable if news of it were to reach the ears of my wife.

  The warmth of the inn was all the more welcoming for the poor weather. The crackle of a hearty fire and the clink of plates filled with cake and pastries helped drown out the pelt of raindrops on the window.

  We were the last to arrive, delayed by Mr Collins’s unerring ability to mislay his hat which, showing admirable judgement, seemed reluctant to stay on his head. I made the necessary introductions, with Mr Collins bowing deeper and deeper at each new name, until I feared he would bang his head on the floor.

  “The natural world is most dear to me. My garden at Hunsford is a source of considerable pleasure, small though it is, and dwarfed in both size and magnificence by the extensive gardens of my neighbour. Mr Bennet has perhaps not informed you, but I am lucky enough to enjoy the patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” Mr Collins paused, clearly waiting for a reaction.

  Fielding was aware enough to murmur his appreciation of such a good position, but then there was a bemused silence.

  “De Bourgh? Of Rosings Park?” Jackson put an end to the embarrassment.

  “Indeed.” My guest stood like a child before an unopened gift. “Are you, sir, familiar with that great estate and that most elegant and condescending of ladies?”

  “Visited with my uncle. Was only a young lad. Lots of paths and forest walks and such. Remember throwing stones at the parsonage. Awful little building. Got chased away by the parson.”

  Mr Collins’s smile trembled a little at the edge. I intervened before it could collapse entirely. “Well, gentlemen, let us proceed with the meeting, shall we?”

  There was little for us to discuss. Plans to invite a Mr Hayward to give a talk on potatoes, and a brief review of the accounts.

  Then we came to “other business”, which of late meant “Barton business.” I held my breath.

  “Any news on John Barton, Bennet? Is he of good spirits?” I would normally have welcomed Jackson’s questions, but not on this occasion.

  “Oh, my dear Mr Bennet,” said Mr Collins, turning to me and clasping his hands. “Is someone in need of help? I would be most happy to offer spiritual guidance in any way possible. It is my duty to offer succour to those less fortunate than myself, of which there are many.”

  “You might pray for divine intervention, Mr Collins,” said Stanhope, “Mr Barton has fallen for a lady, but a lack of prospects means, well…”

  “Objections from the lady’s family?” said Mr Collins.

  “That is for Mr Bennet to say,” said Stanhope, looking at me with a hint of embarrassment.

  “There is nothing further to be discussed on that subject.” I folded my arms.

  “Very wise, Mr Bennet, very wise indeed.” Mr Collins’s head bobbed up and down as he spoke. “An excellent decision.”

  To ensure my guest learnt nothing more, I took advantage of the Hertfordshire weather. “Gentlemen, look out the window. The weather worsens and we must all find our way home while there is still light enough to do so safely. Let us end our happy gathering early.”

  John would have to wait.

  Balls and other trials

  “Mr Collins!” Lizzy’s tone was somewhere between admonishment and desperation. Beside her, our guest twisted like a kite in a tempest.

  “The joy of our heart is ceased; our dance is turned into mourning.” Mr Murden appeared at my shoulder in smart regimental attire, looking across to where Mr Collins struggled to master his feet.

  “Lamentations 5:15,” I said. “You surprise me, Mr Murden. I did not believe you a religious man.”

  “I have prayed to God enough times, like any soldier. Mr Collins is very attentive to Miss Elizabeth tonight.”

  “You are an observer, as well as a soldier, Mr Murden? Let us walk a while together. Perhaps we might observe the spectacle that is the Netherfield ball, and you can tell me what you see?”

  “A test, Mr Bennet?” A hint of a smile formed across his face. “You wish, perhaps, to use my observations to make your own as to my character. I can well understand it; officers are a disreputable lot.”

  “If that were so, then you will surely make those observations that give the best impression of that character.”

  “And so we are at an impasse.”

  Mr Bingley had transformed Netherfield into a fairy tale for the ball. Coloured foliage twisted through its staircases, over doorways and across ceilings, silk flowers adding bursts of colour to the autumnal reds and greens. Hundreds of candles lit bright paths through the interior, drawing us around tables heaving with sweet delights, past ladies encased in glowing jewels that caught the light and begged for attention.

  We stopped before a room filled with guests at leisure. The dancers sat with their chairs pulled back from the tables, legs extended and drinks in hand. The others sat in clusters, heads bobbing forward and back with the tide of conversation. Raised
fans hid whispered insults, and the chink of glasses masked the passage of gossip.

  Mr Murden viewed the scene before him as if surveying the terrain before battle. Or perhaps he searched for bodies with the greatest promise of loot.

  He turned to me. “I see many fine folk of Meryton enjoying the generosity of a charming host.”

  “Most diplomatic, Mr Murden.”

  “If you will excuse me, Mr Bennet, one of your daughters promised me the next dance and I must away before she gives her affections to a less deserving officer.”

  “Lydia or Kitty, I presume?”

  “Miss Jane Bennet. Mr Bingley is as generous with his time as he is with his food and drink. He must dance with many a guest tonight. I hate to think of your daughter left unattended while he sees to his duties.”

  “I thank you, sir,” was all I could manage as he departed. I hoped my wife was otherwise engaged. She did not take kindly to anyone dancing with Jane who was not old, ugly, or Mr Bingley.

  Mr Murden and Jane were not the only unexpected couple that evening. It seemed someone shamed Mr Darcy and Lizzy into dancing. I could not imagine either would have volunteered for the task and the dance seemed to delight neither of them. Even at a distance I could see Lizzy haughty with aggression; it must have tried her patience to keep the conversation pleasant.

  After they finished, I was about to ask her what they talked about when Mary took it upon herself to sing at the piano. Her performance was industrious, but hardly suited to the Netherfield stage. She would have continued had I not intervened, even though several ladies stood near her, waiting their turn to impress the crowd. Lizzy seemed to think I had committed some grievous sin by interrupting her sister’s singing. If so, then I sacrificed my honour for the good of all present. I spared their ears. In return, perhaps they could spare my reputation.

  ~ ~ ~

  At the breakfast table next day, the Netherfield punch took revenge for its mistreatment by Mrs Bennet. Happily lacking in conversation, she sat with a pale face and a paler liquid, poured from a suspiciously small bottle. She clearly hoped the mixture might reverse the damage of the night before. It did not, so she banished it to the shelf of nerve tonics in the parlour, the ones that reduced my wealth but, sadly, not the afflictions they claimed to assuage.

  “I see Mr Murden stood up with you, Jane?” Kitty’s head whipped round at my question. “Is his dancing as careful as his conversation?”

  “He was a considerate partner, very polite, but he saved his enthusiasm for others.” Her eyes flicked briefly at Kitty.

  “Did he pay you much attention, Kitty? I would hardly think him your sort of man, what with his scar.” Nor did she strike me as his kind of woman.

  “His scar is quite dashing. And he tells such wonderful stories.” She rested her head on her hands and stared into the distance.

  “I am sure he does. Some of them may even be true. Well, if we are to hear reports from each of the girls—Lydia, do tell us who you danced with.”

  Lydia looked up and yawned deeply. “I danced with every officer, at least all the ones worth dancing with. Including Mr Murden.” She stuck her tongue out at Kitty. “Though I was disappointed Wickham was not there.”

  “Wickham?” I said.

  “An officer whose acquaintance we made just the other day, Papa,” said Jane.

  “Another one? There are so many. Now, what about you, Lizzy. I saw you stand up with Mr Darcy. Could it be you have revised your opinion of the man?”

  Lizzy continued buttering a roll. “Not at all. I was simply being polite. I would hardly dance with him out of choice.” She shuddered and stuffed a piece of bread into her mouth.

  I returned my attention to my plate, adding another slice of ham and an apple, not yet wrinkled by the passage of winter.

  “Does nobody want to know who I danced with?” said Mary.

  We all looked at each other. “Of course,” I said. “Which officers were kind enough to stand up with you?”

  Mary’s back stiffened and she held her hands tightly on her lap. “I did not dance with any officers. They are brutish. I did, however, dance with Mr Spigott.”

  “My dear Mary,” I said. “Did I notice a coquettish turn of the head as you spoke? How astonishing. Tell me, did Mr Spigott regale you with stories as well?”

  “Only parables, but they are the very best sort of stories. He dances better than Mr Toke.”

  “Mary! You surprise us all,” I said. “With practice, you may become as silly as your younger sisters.”

  “I find Mr Spigott improves with acquaintance, Papa.”

  “How fortunate. The alternative does not bear thinking about. See, my dear, there is hope for all the girls. It will soon be just the two of us here in Longbourn. Now there’s a thought, eh? What say you?”

  The silence was marred only by the soft groans emanating from Mrs Bennet’s end of the table.

  ~ ~ ~

  The following day began ominously. The rain got in and ruined my copy of the Chronicle. Then Peggy took ill and Froggat spent all morning nursing her. Presumably it was something she ate, since our pig would eat anything and everything. The time she got hold of some rum cake was still a fresh memory for us all. We pursued her across the meadows all the way to Meryton, where she put a small gathering of officers to flight. Discretion appeared to be the better part of their valour when confronted with two hundred pounds of drunk sow.

  Then Mr Collins proposed to Lizzy.

  I was not privileged to hear the exact words he used, but he likely managed to mention the name of his patron and express his affection in as insulting a manner as possible. Lizzy turned him down, of course.

  Such a marriage would have solved many problems. But Mr Collins as a son-in-law? I would rather have dined with Peggy, who at least would be silent on the topic of Lady Catherine and fireplaces.

  Naturally, Mrs Bennet saw the proposal differently. Once I refused to intercede on Mr Collins’s behalf, I knew the future would soon contain the words “my nerves” and “vexing.” The study seemed the best place to retreat to.

  Lizzy found me there, hunched over my desk, gripping a pinned dragonfly. She rested her hands on my shoulders and leant down to whisper, “Thank you.”

  I stared up at her, all deep brown eyes and high cheekbones. She had much of Mrs Bennet in her looks, but, fortunately, less in her character. “Today has not been an easy one for us all, especially your mother.”

  “And you seek refuge from her anger in your collections?”

  “Some men flee their cares through drink or a mistress, but for me there is nothing better than sending colours cascading across a set of wings as they turn in the sunlight. Insects interest me far more than any loosed cork or looser woman. Also, your mother does not like the smell in here.”

  Lizzy nodded and then moved to leave. Before she reached the door, she turned. “May I ask why you said no?”

  “I could not imagine you having to listen to descriptions of fireplaces every night for the rest of your life.”

  She smiled, waiting for more.

  “My dear, there are so many rational reasons why a match with Mr Collins would be advantageous and I will not question your sensibility by listing them.” My new resolve, forged in the fire of the Hayters’ smiles in London, pulled more words from me, though I hesitated before continuing, glancing at the wings of the dragonfly in my hand. “I have seen what it is to live with someone you neither love nor respect. I wish such a fate for none, least of all a favourite daughter. Some say that love can grow with time. Respect, too. This may be so, but not between two people so unequal in intelligence and character as you and Mr Collins.”

  “I could not learn to love Mr Collins.” It was half a question.

  “Love needs a foundation to prosper, good soil to plant its roots. Mr Collins is rock and sand—love will never grow there, excepting his own love for himself.”

  “Does a marriage need love to succeed?”

 
“No, but a marriage without love cannot bring true happiness. And I would wish such happiness for you, Lizzy. Your mother is fond of saying that Jane’s beauty cannot be for nothing. I believe the same of your intelligence. It will find its reward, though it will take a special kind of man, of that I have no doubt. Mr Collins is certainly special, but not in that way.” I returned her smile. “And there, now you have witnessed my romantic side. Let us not talk of it again. I have a reputation to keep and it will do no good to expose myself so.”

  She nodded and left, passing her mother on the way out. The two did not acknowledge each other. I sat back in my chair and took a deep breath.

  Mrs Bennet’s head shook from side to side, her hands clasped in supplication. There was no anger in her face, though I suspected it was in her heart. “Oh, Mr Bennet!”

  Seeing my silence, she continued: “It is so very cruel! We shall all be thrown on the generosity of my brother before you are cold in your grave. Why can you not accept Mr Collins’s offer?”

  “I cannot have Lizzy marry Mr Collins. The happiness of others, however great, could not compensate for the misery that would bring her. That is all. Besides, my dear, I am convinced your good efforts will soon bear fruit. Mr Bingley is sure to make an offer, and both Kitty and Mary look to have admirers. You may be rescued from the gutter yet, should I die soon.”

  “Mr Bingley, indeed.” Her forced laugh seemed to echo around the room. “Mr Bingley has gone to London and is not expected back. You will get no help from Mr Bingley!”

  ~ ~ ~

  The misgivings of Mrs Bennet on the inconstancy of men dominated the evening conversation. She spared nobody. Even John was accused of unfaithfulness. “He has not visited. And he promised to paint Kitty and all the girls. But what are promises to men? They hand them out like ribbons at a fair. But do they keep them? It is most vexing.”

  Jane remained in good spirits. If she had been stranded Crusoe-like on an island, she would have blessed the shipwreck that sent her to such a delightful beach.