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

  I looked at Mary. She rolled her eyes, but rose and left to fetch Jenny again. The latter’s arrival a few minutes later proved a double blessing. There was more wine for the officers and a message from Fielding that the committee awaited John and me in another room. We made our excuses immediately, and to the obvious relief of everybody. The officers liked any audience, but preferred a female one, and the girls could now sigh and swoon without risking fatherly censure.

  My friends greeted John like the return of a comrade believed lost at sea. For his part, John was clearly surprised at the generosity of the welcome. Of course, he had no knowledge of the Society’s involvement in his affairs.

  “John, these gentlemen have been greatly supportive of my endeavours on your behalf. Mr Jackson alerted me to Miss Hayter’s presence in London, for example, and Mr Fielding here is the architect of our forthcoming Bath adventure.”

  I watched John closely, unsure how he would take to the inclusion of my friends in his amorous tale. I had meant what I had written to him about friendship and honesty, but openness is not always rewarded with approval.

  “Mr Bennet has been most discreet in his reports. Nevertheless, I hope you do not object to our interventions. They are all well-meant,” said Fielding.

  “I must thank you all for your kindness,” said John, to my relief. “I am glad to find support in a country where I am a stranger.”

  This led to numerous enquiries about his Caribbean and other travels, John dealing as best he could with questions on fish, insects, and the finer aspects of Imperial garden architecture.

  “This butterfly lady of yours, Mr Barton—” said Stanhope.

  “She is not mine, Mr Stanhope, but please do continue.”

  “She must be a lovely creature…”

  “More than you can imagine.” John closed his eyes briefly, then walked over to where Stanhope sat and bent down to look him in the eye. “Mr Stanhope, her skin is as soft as, well, as soft as a Swallowtail’s wings.”

  “Goodness me.”

  John straightened and stepped behind Stanhope’s chair. Placing both hands on its back, he looked directly across at Jackson. “She has all the grace of a Glanville Fritillary.”

  “My,” said Jackson.

  John lifted his arm, turned to face Elliston, then waved his hand gently across my friend’s view, like a conductor demanding tenderness from the violins. “Her movements are as delicate as a Small Tortoiseshell.”

  “Tortoiseshell,” repeated Elliston, as if hypnotised.

  “And yet, gentlemen, she is possessed of the rare majesty of a Purple Emperor.”

  They all sat open-mouthed for a moment, then broke into riotous applause.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sitting with John in the library that evening, I scolded my young friend. “You have never revealed any knowledge of butterflies.”

  “Alas, I possess none. But foreign travel has taught me many things, Mr Bennet. First and foremost, the importance of learning the local language. I took the liberty of borrowing a ‘dictionary’ last night.” He pointed to the shelf where I kept my books on butterflies. It was only then I noticed the gap.

  ~ ~ ~

  John intended to leave for his estate mid-morning, so we all rose early, keen to make the most of his company before his departure.

  “Are you in discomfort, dear Lydia?” I asked. She had been squirming in her seat all through breakfast.

  “No, Papa, I am simply aggrieved that Mr Barton is leaving.”

  “That is kind of you to say, Miss Lydia,” said John.

  “Oh, I do not mind you going, just that you have not painted me. I do not see why Kitty should be the only one to enjoy such a privilege. Mama, tell John he must stay until he has kept his promise to us.”

  Mrs Bennet’s mouth seemed fully occupied with a resilient piece of cold pork.

  “Lydia, mind your manners,” I said. “John is here as a friend and guest, not a tradesman.”

  “Sorry, Papa.” She nodded in apology to John, who merely smiled.

  “I must attend to business at home. Perhaps I might visit again after your return from Bath?”

  “But that will not be for at least another month,” wailed Lydia. “It is so unfair.”

  “I cannot help it if Mr Barton prefers me,” said Kitty. “He simply has an eye for beauty.”

  “Papa?” said Lizzy. “Might John not join us in Bath? You said yourself our lodgings are ample enough for two families. And it is not so far from Gloucestershire as Longbourn. John, would that not please you, too? Please do say yes.”

  The thought had not crossed my mind, but seemed obvious in hindsight. “John, we would be glad of your company on our expedition. You could join us after we have had a day or two to settle, seen the lay of the land, perhaps made a few acquaintances.” I hoped he understood my meaning.

  “I would not wish to intrude on such a family occasion.” I rolled my eyes at the triumph of manners over need.

  “Please say yes,” said Kitty. “Mama, persuade him.”

  The pork having surrendered, my wife entered the conversation. “Of course you must join us, John. But you must bring your easel. And introduce us all to other young men.”

  “Very well, I shall look forward to it, though I cannot promise to meet all your expectations, Mrs Bennet.” He clapped his hands. “I have many pleasant memories of Bath.”

  “As does Mr Bennet, do you not, husband?” It seemed an honest question; there was no hint of guile in my wife’s expression.

  “It has been so long, my dear, I have quite forgot the place. And the people.”

  Back to the past

  The days before Bath passed slowly, but, as long as there were insects, books, and port, I was rarely short of something to do.

  On this day, though, as the house echoed to the renewed assault of rain clouds, I chose to review the estate books with Mrs Bennet, a task made all the more urgent by our impending trip. Before we left, I wanted to know just how much I dared let the girls spend in Bath’s stores.

  The matter of finances set my wife off on a long tirade against inheritance laws and the English justice system. Her diatribe wound its way through its emotional hills and valleys to land at the feet of the chief object of her anger.

  “To think Mr Collins has married Charlotte Lucas,” she said, wringing her hands.

  “I kept an eye out for locusts and seven-headed beasts outside the church. None appeared. It seems the world is not yet to end just because Lizzie refused her cousin.”

  “Wedlock is a fine thing for Mrs Collins. Oh, Lady Lucas was very happy. And did she not show it?”

  “Well you can hardly blame her, my dear. Charlotte has ensured a home of her own, wealth, the approval of society, relief for her family, a view of Rosings Park, dinners with the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh and, of course, the companionship of a spouse. Though you know my thoughts—all the former is inadequate compensation for the chatter of that particular spouse.”

  “Oh, you delight in vexing me, husband. I will not have it. Let us read the accounts and then see how you feel.”

  All men are equal in battle and bookkeeping. It does not matter how rich or poor you are, but only whether your income exceeds your outgoings. Our finances were not so extremely parlous, but I still feared the task before us. It would reveal all too much about the nature of our expenditures.

  “How many ribbons does a family need? Does cook use them in baking?”

  Mrs Bennet assumed her usual stance when conversing on household matters with me, arms folded, head shaking gently from side to side, each sentence preceded by a weary sigh. “Do not talk such nonsense, Mr Bennet. The girls must look their best if they are to get husbands, and so their ribbons must always match the latest fashions.”

  “And the subscription to La Belle Assembleé?”

  “We cannot know the latest fashions from Meryton gossip alone.”

  “A wonder, since there is so much of it. What about the muslin?”
I waved a fistful of invoices at my dear companion.

  “Mr Bennet, you know very well that the muslin is for your butterfly nets.”

  “I might concur with you, dear, if butterflies were the size of whales.”

  “There may have been a yard or two for the girls.”

  “And how is our tapestry business going? Given the length of thread ordered in the last three months alone, I can only assume we intend to embroider the very walls of Versailles.”

  “Do not be silly, husband. And besides…” Her haughty look foretold unpleasantness.

  “Besides what, dear?” My courage held.

  She pointed at the boxes alongside my desk. “Will I ever understand what you need all those pins for?”

  “Of course not, you are not a collector.”

  “And you have never sewn. Do not suppose to understand embroidery.”

  My hand circled over a morass of papers before falling on one particular sheet. “And what, pray, is White Imperial Powder and why do we purchase so much of it?”

  “With five daughters, Mr Bennet, I hardly need explain why.”

  “No?”

  “No.” The shape of her lips indicated there would be no more information on that subject. “Is that Hill calling? I hope she has not ruined the drapes. I must go and see.”

  ~ ~ ~

  A week later and the memories came cascading back. My delight at discovering a Bennet Street. The sumptuous buns I used to buy by the dozen, their fragrance tormenting me until I reached my lodgings. The bookstores on Bond Street. The young ladies taking walks across the Crescent Fields and on through Cow Lane to Weston. I wondered if they would remember me, some twenty years later. That young man so in love with life and with Abigail, when one smile would send me tumbling into breathlessness.

  We were in Bath, safely arrived at the house on Gay Street, perfectly placed to reach all the establishments the girls wished to see and be seen in.

  I hoped to find some time to visit old haunts, since there would be entertainment enough to keep the rest of the family occupied. Bath offered all the benefits of London, but with less dirt, danger, and damage to your purse. Although, like in any English city, the best comedy, tragedy, and romance was always found among the audience, not on the stage or dance floor. Here, the ladies grazed on scandal and hearsay, while young bucks clashed horns in pursuit of bonnet-clad does. What connections might be made at a Haydn recital. What prospects ruined by a misplaced word or hasty gesture.

  It was only as we first saw the city, spread out before us like an Italian landscape painting, that I truly knew how I felt at returning. My fears faded. I was happy, an emotion I found surprising.

  ~ ~ ~

  As a servant of Cupid, my initial task was to prepare the ground for a meeting between Lizzy and Miss Hayter. Despite the chill wind, we took our first turn about the town the very day we arrived. And so my campaign began.

  Memories truly were everywhere in the city. They clung like ivy, drawing my gaze to what was and, less pleasurably, what might have been. I stood on the same corner I used to wait at again and again, all trembling impatience, hoping for a glimpse of a pretty face edged in dark curls. I could still see where my nervous fingers had worn a patch in the brickwork all those years ago.

  “I thought I might visit Tavistock’s tomorrow. I understand he expects a large delivery of books. Perhaps I shall find something new on Prussia. I know so little of that country, an ignorance I fully intend to remedy.” I resisted the urge to look directly at Lizzy as we walked along Quiet Street, her arm linked in mine.

  “Might I join you, Papa?” said Lizzy. “Perhaps there is something new from Parses. His stories from Sicily were a treat.” I smiled at my immediate success.

  “But Lizzy, we were going to visit the shops on Milsom Street? Maria says they are quite the best for new fashions and I do so need your advice. You did promise.” The Gods had sent Lydia to punish me for my hubris.

  Books could not beat bonnets and the promise of an admiring look from a young man, but I knew of something that might.

  “There is a teashop opposite Tavistock’s that makes the most delightful sponge cakes. I am of a mind to call in there first and still the rumblings of my stomach before finding nourishment for my mind.” This time I did look pointedly at Lizzy. Cake is a powerful weapon in the hands of the wise.

  “Books and sponge cake. You would spoil me so, Papa. I am grievously tempted to break my promise to Lydia.”

  “Did we not say we would take tea afterwards at Curran’s?” said the tool of the Gods. “Maria says their scones are to die for.” It was a shame that was only a turn of phrase. Maria Lucas’s advice was becoming quite unwelcome.

  Army life, fortunately, had taught me to turn my enemy’s tactics against them. “I am quite partial to scones myself. What say I treat you all to tea there tomorrow? Lizzy and I can meet you in the afternoon, after you have enjoyed all that Milsom Street has to offer young ladies with less sense than money.” Lydia pouted but made no objection. “There, Lizzy, it is decided. You shall dine on sponge cake in the morning, scones in the afternoon. Can we not persuade you to join us, Lydia? Tavistock has a wonderful selection of philosophical treatises.”

  As we came out of New Bond Street, the tip of the Abbey came into view and I whispered a prayer that He might bless my endeavours. If my plan failed, then my only other option was to enter the seventh circle of Hell that was society to track down Miss Hayter. No doubt Mrs Bennet would have had all details of the young lady’s movements within hours. But this task was mine alone for the time being. I resolved to keep my wife and girls in reserve, ready for deployment as a last resort should the battle appear hopeless. Besides, the longer they remained ignorant of the former identity of Mrs Hayter, the better.

  Chance encounters

  Lizzy and I sat in the teashop among the maiden aunts, all seeking safety in numbers for the nieces in their charge. The chink of spoons and teacups accompanied the steady hum of gossip.

  We sat near a window, well-placed to keep an eye on the street and the entrance to Tavistock’s.

  “You seem distracted, Papa, are you well?”

  “Quite well, thank you. I merely delight in observation. The ladies flit from one shop to the next, drinking in the nectar of fashion. They never stop long unless caught in the net of company. It feels like watching a meadow of butterflies. A most enlivening experience. More tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “More cake, perhaps?” I pointed at the plate in front of us.

  She fixed me with a stare. “Might we visit the bookstore now? Mama will fret if we take too long.”

  There was still no sign of Miss Hayter and too much tea was having an unwelcome, but inevitable, effect on me. Then, with an exquisite timing that had my legs skipping with delight beneath the table, a figure appeared beyond the window with a grace of movement I recognised from London. “Heaven forbid your mother should fret. It will only lead her down the rocky path to vexation and unpleasantness. Let us be away, Lizzy, and leave the teashop to the unmarried and the hopeful.”

  Tavistock’s reminded me of Brecknell’s. A place of dark corners that revealed its mysteries slowly, wrapped in the promising perfume of leather, glue, and expectation. I was happier here than in the cold orderliness of a typical circulating library. The smells called forth memories of winter evenings, feet warmed by slippers, imagination fired by Simpson, Raleigh, and my other favourite authors.

  “Miss Hayter?” I was rather pleased with the note of surprise in my voice.

  She lifted her head. Confusion turned into a smile of warmth I would have walked any street fifty times for three decades ago.

  “Mama!” she called deeper into the shop. “Imagine, it is your old friend, Mr Bennet. Who we met in Brecknell’s. The hero who saved me from the ignorance of Smythe.” I ignored Lizzy’s questioning glance, busy as I was trying to relax various parts of my body while clenching one part in particular.

>   “You flatter me, Miss Hayter. But I am delighted to see you again. And in a bookstore. If travel broadens the mind, then a bookshop is its own ship, is it not? Or carriage.” Fumbling, foolish words, yet I received another smile for my trouble. It was difficult to stay sensible, hopping from foot to foot, regretting that last cup of tea, aware of the impending presence of Abigail.

  Then she appeared.

  I wanted to be resolute and steady of purpose, even believed myself master of my own mind and thoughts. But, just as in London, I was a lost man the moment I saw her.

  If Abigail was troubled by our meeting, there was no sign of it. “James Bennet,” she said, after introductions were over. “Almost thirty years apart, yet our paths cross twice in two months. I might almost suspect you are following me. What would your wife say?”

  Lizzy saved me. “Mama knows Papa’s eye falls only on beetles and butterflies. Though sometimes I think she is a little jealous of both in summer.”

  “Ah, yes, as I recall he was always one for pursuing butterflies across the fields here in Bath. But with little success.” Abigail lowered her voice. “I believe he enjoyed the chase most.”

  “Is that so, Papa?”

  I felt an urge to be somewhere else, and not just because of the tea.

  “Do you enjoy travel books, Miss Bennet?” Miss Hayter’s words were a timely distraction.

  “I do. I find a journey in the mind as refreshing as one in the world. I am certainly enjoying Bath more than I anticipated after reading Mr Craven’s guide. I am not convinced he has ever been to the city.”

  “Then he has much in common with Mr Smythe. It is your first time here?” said Miss Hayter.

  “It is,” said Lizzy.

  “Then I hope your father allows you to visit more than just the bookstores.”

  “He does, but every corner reminds him of his own memories, leaving me little time to collect some of my own.”

  At this, Miss Hayter turned to her mother. “Mama, may I invite Miss Bennet to join us tomorrow? We might show her the Circus and I feel sure she would enjoy seeing the river.”