Cake and Courtship (Mr Bennet's Memoirs #1) Page 12

  “Hah! I am pleased to hear it. But I sense you are not entirely happy.”

  I pulled my horse to a stop. “There is one problem that concerns me.”

  “Go on.”

  “Returning to Bath might unleash a demon or two of regret. I feel trapped between good intentions and certain memories.” He knew of my history with Abigail, but not that she was Mrs Hayter. That was a conversation for another day.

  Fielding pointed further down the trail we rode along. “When I was much younger and at a loss, I used to sit on an old grey stump at the edge of Three Stone Copse. We will pass it. I would watch the wood ants about their work, follow the lines of movement that all led back to a twisted pine and a great pile of needles and litter that was the nest.

  “I always envied the insects their single-minded purpose. And their courage—a passing invader would see them thrust themselves into the fray in selfless sacrifice. For their queen and colony, as you and I might say.

  “My friend, romantic disappointment never bothers an ant when there is work to be done. It is a lesson you should have learned by now. You must not allow a past grievance to cloud the present.”

  We rode on in silence until I could see the copse he mentioned appear above the rise. “You are right, Fielding. Besides, Bath holds pleasant memories, too.”

  “Think only of your motivation to help a young friend. I am sure you can spend time in that city without significant discomfort.”

  “I shall convince myself of it before we leave. All that remains, then, is to enlist the support of my family. And that will require some delicacy.”

  ~ ~ ~

  I did not wish to request Lizzy’s help directly. She was too proud and principled to seek a friendship that was not genuine. Nor could I risk word of the whole business reaching Mrs Bennet’s ears. There would be trouble enough when it did, but the longer I could delay that trouble, the better for us all.

  Passing the kitchen after my return from Fielding’s, I heard the lamentations of the listless within. A peek inside revealed piles of twigs, leaves and berries awaiting transformation into winter decorations. Above each pile was a sullen face. The arrival of rain had trapped the girls inside the house, forcing their mother to find occupation for restless minds and fingers. I gave everyone a smile of encouragement from the doorway.

  Their poor spirits presented a timely opportunity.

  “I saw you all working on arrangements for Christmas. How diligent. I am pleased to find you engaged in such amusements. When will you be finished?” So began the game of verbal chess at dinner.

  “Quite soon, Papa, we are nearly done,” said Jane.

  “And you would all be very much done had Lydia not dragged her feet so!” said Mrs Bennet.

  Lydia’s bored frown migrated into a pout. “We are not a workhouse, Mama. I long for the sun. When can we go to Meryton again?”

  “You must wait for the weather to turn,” I said, “Or until Tuesday. Then the officers will dine with us once more.” Lydia smiled at Kitty, who seemed to avoid her gaze.

  “And do not forget, we expect Mr Collins on Monday, which should provide considerable entertainment for all of you.” To my family’s credit, only Lydia gave any clear sign of disappointment.

  “And to think Mr Collins could have…” Mrs Bennet shook her head and sought consolation in a glass of Portuguese wine.

  “You all seem quite despondent. Perhaps I have some news to lift your mood?” I sipped at my wine to allow curiosity to build.

  “Is John to visit again?” cried Lydia. “I do so want him to paint me. I promised my portrait to Denny so all the other officers would be jealous.”

  “That is not my news.” I dabbed my mouth with the napkin.

  “Papa, do not keep us in suspense.” Jane was the first to speak.

  “I am of a mind to take us away for a week or two.” Had I thrown an apple core into the pig pen I could not have witnessed a greater tumult of excitement. “Now, now, it is but an idea.”

  “Is it to be Brighton? Oh, Papa, might we see the Pavilion?” Lydia appeared to be shaking with excitement.

  “And the Prince?” said Mrs Bennet, winking as she did.

  “It cannot be the seaside. If we are to travel then it must be in January and I am not minded to visit the coast in winter. Besides, Parliament will likely have opened, so Brighton will be empty. I cannot imagine architectural delights compensating for a lack of society. Is that not so, Lydia? Kitty? My dear?” None of them blessed me with an answer, but Lydia’s frown returned.

  “What about Bath, Papa?” said Lizzy. “Society in Bath is said to be pleasant at any time of year and there would be much to amuse all of us.”

  “I am told the book merchants there are second only to London,” said Jane.

  “Are they indeed?” I sat back as if lost in thought. “And Bath is inland enough to assure us of at least reasonable weather.”

  “How right you are, Mr Bennet. We will have so much fun. A friend of my sister’s once visited the Pump Room. She spoke of a very large gathering that included a number of amiable young gentlemen. Imagine, Lydia!”

  “We could simply go to London. It is nearer and offers more diverse entertainments. I should like to visit the churches that Symonds speaks of in his guide,” said Mary, potentially condemning herself to a year without sheet music for her interruption. Lizzy glanced at Jane. Of course, Mr Bingley was in London.

  “Oh, yes!” cried Lydia, “So many balls, we will be quite giddy. And we can—”

  “London is quite out of the question,” I said, before the wild mare of Lydia’s mind could get up a gallop. I hoped the strength of my voice and fatherly authority would suffice, for I had no justification for the statement.

  “But why, Papa?” I determined to check how much Lydia spent on ribbons and halve the amount.

  “Yes, Papa, why?” Kitty’s allowance also hung in the balance.

  “It does not suit me to visit London,” said Mrs Bennet, offering unexpected help. “You are wise, husband, in choosing Bath.” Her folded arms brooked no quarrel. Checkmate.

  It was only later she revealed to me her true objections. “London is full of the likes of the Bingley sisters and the girls will face far too much competition. We may show them to the better in Bath, and there will be plenty enough men there. Of that I have no doubt.”

  Despite the city’s failure to be Brighton or London, the decision pleased the girls and so I basked in that cloak of approval so rarely bestowed on fathers by their daughters.

  The plan was not without flaws. I had to ensure Lizzy met Miss Hayter quickly and then protect any friendship that might blossom from sisterly interference. There was much work ahead.

  The joys of the arena

  Togas may have given way to tailcoats, but that did not stop audiences enjoying a decent fight. In my case, though, the only conflict I enjoyed was verbal in nature—the cut and thrust of conversation where wine flowed freely, not blood.

  Two armies assembled at dinner. Occupying the high ground, the Bennet sisters, sharp of tongue but liable to ill discipline in the ranks. Advancing on their lofty position were Mr Denny, Mr Wickham, and Mr Murden, equally well-armed with conversational bon mots, but reluctant to land a killing blow where ladies were concerned. And in among them, Mr Collins—ever fearful of action without orders from his patron and switching sides like a disloyal Spanish noble.

  “Ave Caesar. Those about to dine salute you,” I said to nobody in particular.

  As expected, my cousin had arrived the previous day. His engagement had improved his position, but not his character. Fortunately, we expected to see little of him during his stay, given his declared wish to spend as much time as possible at Lucas Lodge.

  Approaching the table, there was a general rush to avoid sitting next to Mr Collins, a task made no easier by his own indecision. Certain girls wished to sit near particular officers, and certain officers near particular girls.

  It made for a most
diverting sight, all conducted with the utmost politeness, as men and women bobbed up and down, shuffled left and right, squeezed and pushed. We could have gone on all night, but for Mrs Bennet. “Oh, do be seated, you are giving me the most dreadful headache. Have pity on my poor nerves.”

  There followed many apologies and a last dash for the best seats. Few words accompanied the soup, just an occasional giggle and the inevitable compliment from Mr Collins. “Such an elegant liquid, Mrs Bennet. And possessed of the perfect temperature, being neither too hot as to scald the unprepared tongue nor too cold as to cause unpleasant curling of the lips.”

  He followed that nonsense with that little look he had, where his eyes squeezed tight as he smiled. Like a new-born kitten, but without the charm.

  “It must be a frustrating time for you gentlemen soldiers,” I suggested. “The poor weather prevents much in the way of manoeuvres, and the opportunity for society must be few and far between, what with many families laid low by poor health or trapped within their homes by the cold.”

  “I will concede only in part,” said Mr Wickham. “It may require more effort, but we manage to find ways to entertain ourselves and others. Is not one of our duties to ensure congeniality and relief in dark times?”

  “And keep the wine merchants in business throughout the winter,” said Mr Murden.

  “Yes, they will be excessively disappointed once you depart, as will others no doubt.” None of the officers took advantage of my words to fan the flames of hope in any lady present.

  “Do not say you will leave soon,” said Lydia. “Meryton will be so dull when you do.”

  “And our lives the duller for the loss of your company. All of you,” said Mr Wickham. “But we are here at least through the spring.”

  “There’s a thought to warm us, Wickham,” said Mr Murden.

  “You have been a rarity at Longbourn of late,” said Lizzy. “Have we fallen so far in your favour, or are your duties in winter more onerous than you have admitted?”

  “Life in Meryton is full of distractions,” said Mr Murden.

  “Like Miss Smith, eh?” said Mr Denny, earning himself dark looks from more than one person at the table.

  “And we are most grateful for your reassuring presence, gentlemen,” said Mr Collins. “As I have said to Lady Catherine on more than one occasion, it is to those who bear arms that we may give thanks for that which our arms carry.” I lingered at my glass in the vain hope that getting drunk might help me understand his words. The wine was full-bodied, but left a sour taste. Not unlike Mr Collins. I called for a fresh bottle.

  “Who is Miss Smith?” Kitty’s voice was a little higher than usual. The officers looked at each other. None seemed in a hurry to answer her question. “We hope to receive our friend, John Barton, soon. He has promised to paint me.” She looked at Mr Murden as she spoke.

  “And me.” Lydia would not allow Kitty to claim centre stage alone.

  “He is a fine young man,” said Mrs Bennet. “Most attentive to the girls. I grew to like him very much. It is a shame he does not visit more often.”

  “A painter, you say?” There was the hint of a grin on Mr Murden’s face.

  “It is not a fit occupation for a gentleman, if you ask me,” answered my wife. “And some might question his position, what with his father’s estate being what it is.” She paused to give us a sad smile. “But his manners and conversation endeared him to me. I have no objection to him at all.”

  “How lucky for John,” I mumbled through my napkin.

  “Most generous of you, Mrs Bennet,” said Mr Collins. “To allow his good character to allay your well-founded concerns for the standing of your daughters. As I always say—”

  “Do you paint, Mr Collins?” Lizzy’s question was all innocence.

  “Goodness me, no, I am a man of words, as you will undoubtedly have noticed. Though I do paint a pretty floral portrait with the roses alongside my laurel hedge. You might say I am the Gainsborough of garden art.” Only Mr Denny rewarded him with something approaching a laugh.

  “Never thought much of painters,” said Mr Murden, helping himself to more potatoes. “Happy enough to portray a battle, but not to help win one. They prey on the vanity of the superior officers for work. But I am sure your Mr Barton is a fine character, for he has your approval, Mrs Bennet. And yours, Miss Catherine.”

  “He does.” Kitty lifted her chin.

  “And what do you think of Mr Barton, Miss Elizabeth?” said Mr Wickham, turning to Lizzy. “I would trust your judgement above all others.”

  “I like John very much indeed, as a sister might like a brother.”

  “How fortunate,” said Mr Collins.

  “He is reliable in his constancy of character,” continued Lizzy.

  “Reliable?” laughed Mr Murden. “That is a compliment indeed. What more can you want from a man than reliability?”

  “Do not underestimate reliability as a virtue,” said Lizzy. “What use is love, loyalty or liveliness, if they cannot be relied on?”

  “In that case, perhaps he would make a good soldier after all. If we ever meet, I shall invite him to exchange his brush for a blade.”

  Mr Collins broke the silence that then descended. “What excellent parsnips…”

  ~ ~ ~

  My cousin’s departure from Longbourn was as welcome as spring or a new volume of Papilio Litterae. Shortly after, I received a more agreeable arrival in the form of Christmas wishes from John, together with a reliable address to send correspondence to. His spirits seemed as damp and dull as the northern climate. Whether they remained so would depend on how he regarded my reply, particularly the following lines:

  It was army life that forged my friendship with your father. It taught us that honesty trumps propriety when the only judges are God and the enemy. This friendship and honesty I extend to you as his son. In so doing, I now ask that you do not abandon hope as regards Miss Hayter.

  I met the lady and her mother in Brecknell’s, the very day you left for the north, and urge you to visit us as soon as possible. Plans are afoot that may bring Miss Hayter to Longbourn. If you would prefer silence on this matter, you will find no reproach from me. But I believe your cause may not yet be lost.

  I left out further detail to save paper, but also in the hope that curiosity might help drive him south again.

  A change in year

  The Gardiners’ Christmas visit brought laughter and comfort to our home. Mrs Gardiner was a Hertfordshire Bifröst, a bridge between the realms of the young and old. She was young enough to chatter away with the girls, but old enough to talk as an equal with their mother. If only we could have persuaded her to leave her children behind in London. They behaved well enough for their age, but not well enough for mine.

  Mr Gardiner’s presence in the house was a particular pleasure. We walked parts of the estate on Christmas Eve, enjoying a few hours of quiet before the coming entertainments.

  The first bites of wind were painful, but its bluster soon dulled to playful nips. The further we went, the more at peace we seemed to become.

  “Our exertions have earned us an extra slice of goose at tomorrow’s table,” I said as we reached the top of a small hill. “Froggat was fattening the beast for years, but it has finally met its seasonal—and well-seasoned—end. You should see its size. We will be eating goose in one form or another for weeks to come.”

  I led my brother-in-law behind the old spinney so he might see some of the new tenant buildings. The trees were all dull browns and greys, branches bare and extended in supplication to a pale-yellow sun. Only an orange-red flash broke the monotony, a robin who paid us little heed.

  Mr Gardiner talked of machines and other inventions that seemed set to change our world, though there was little sign of it in Hertfordshire.

  “Your land looks well set for the future, too, brother.” My guest pointed with his hat down to the outhouse by Boulder farm, the fresh stones yet to suffer the sharp caress of a fu
ll winter. “And your girls also seem in good health.”

  “In good health, but still unmarried.”

  “My wife tells me there were hopes of a young man and Jane. Is this no longer so?”

  “He is lost to us and his departure gave Jane’s heart quite a beating. It is unfortunate, for the gentleman in question was a good sort and I cannot say that of many men.”

  “And the other girls?”

  “Hints and sighs and dances, but nothing close to certain. Mrs Bennet is vexed. You heard of the incident with Mr Collins?” My guest was kind enough not to venture an opinion and merely nodded.

  “I always find travel a useful distraction in times of disappointment.” Gardiner stopped walking and turned to me. “Should we invite Jane to London? There are enough distractions there for a hundred broken hearts.”

  “That is a kind offer, brother. Let it come from your wife, though. It will fall on more willing ears that way.”

  “Mrs Gardiner would enjoy Jane’s conversation of an evening. Varied company is good for the soul. Indeed, my sister has been most kind in arranging so many guests and amusements for our visit.”

  “I fear you will see more officers in the coming days than in a London gambling club.”

  “Such fine gentlemen. Excellent manners.” He paused. “Always telling interesting stories.”

  “Yes, they are full of good tales, particularly when full of my best port. The Meryton officers are harmless enough; Colonel Forster is a credit to Whitehall.”

  “There is much talk among the ladies of a Mr Murden. A lively fellow apparently.”

  “If they say so.”

  “You have no opinion of the man?”

  “Not for lack of trying. He plays a game with all of us. But what kind of game?” I pulled my coat tighter around me as the wind picked up. “He is certainly engaging company. You will like him. Everyone seems to.”

  ~ ~ ~