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

  I raised my eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “What of her mother?”

  “What of her?”

  He stared at me like a mother at an errant child. “I was curious and looked up the family history. Mrs Abigail Hayter was once Mrs Abigail Trott and, before that, a Miss Abigail Spencer. That name is familiar to me. You mentioned it many times when we were younger, nearly always after a considerable amount of port.”

  I shifted in my seat.

  “So, you did see her? I knew there was something missing from your accounts of Bath and London. So, tell me…is she still as engaging? Still as ‘easy to love’ as her daughter?”

  “You go too far.” Outside the window, shouting filled the silence. Two drivers, disputing the right of way. “I am faithful to my wife.”

  “That was never in question, dear friend.” He patted me on the hand. “You know, they say true love never dies.”

  My thoughts wandered back to our trip to Bath, to how she took my arm at the dance, prettier than ever before. I lifted my eyes to catch his. “We can all imagine a better life, Fielding. Yet we may also accept our current one, leave that better life to daydreams tucked away for long walks on winter mornings.” My voice caught in my throat. “You understand?”

  Fielding nodded gently, then filled my glass with wine. “Let us drink to a handsome lady and what might have been.” His eyes softened. “Then you should go home and drink to what must be.”

  A coming together

  “The fish is not to your taste, John?” I said.

  “It is fine. But I am not.” He let his fork fall on his plate.

  “She will be here later this afternoon. It will do no good to mope in this manner; you must give a strong impression of yourself.”

  We ended our conversation as Lydia joined us in the dining room. “I am quite famished. Though it gives me a pale, romantic look, like a heroine from one of Mrs Edgeworth’s novels. Perhaps I should starve myself until Mr Barton paints me.” Her harsh look made no impression on John.

  “What a fine idea, Lydia,” I said. “And if you should starve yourself to death, we will at least have the consolation of one less mouth to feed.” Her frown made no impression on me.

  “You seem glum today, Mr Barton,” she said. “When are you to paint me?”

  “Now, Lydia, John is an artist and you should not hurry them.”

  “My apologies, Miss Lydia, I am somewhat distracted today.” John threw a glance at the window. “Besides, there is too much cloud. It would reflect badly on the painter and his subject if I chose the wrong colours in such poor light.”

  “We cannot have me looking anything other than my best. I shall be patient, then. But not so very patient.”

  “What you need, John, is a spot of fresh air,” I said. “The rain has stopped. Let my man take you shooting. It will focus your mind and make the time pass faster.”

  John sighed. “Perhaps you are right, Mr Bennet.”

  ~ ~ ~

  An hour after John had disappeared into Longbourn’s copses, carriage wheels rattled outside.

  “That will be Miss Hayter, girls,” cried Mrs Bennet from upstairs. “Let us all go and sit quietly in the drawing room. She must not find our country manners wanting.”

  Moments later, Hill announced our visitor. “Mr Jackson for you, sir.”

  “Good day, Bennet!” The call came from the hall, so I went out to meet him. “Thought I would drop in. Bring you that pamphlet.” His breeches were new and his cravat tied in a manner I would have thought beyond a man of his years. He seemed to be on his way to some meeting of import.

  “An unexpected pleasure, Jackson, though I forget this pamphlet you mention.”

  He grabbed my arm. His voice fell to a whisper. “Well, where is she?”

  “Where is who?”

  “Miss H of course.”

  I drew him away into the study, then closed the door behind us. Once inside, I turned to him. “Jackson, am I to surmise that the sole reason for your visit is to spy on Miss Hayter?”

  “Lay of the land and all that, Bennet.” He tapped his nose, then settled into the armchair nearest the drinks table. “Wars are won with information.”

  “Right, yes, thank you.” I found it impossible to blame the fellow for his interest, having encouraged it these past weeks. “She is not yet here. You know the roads from the west can be a devil in winter.”

  There was a knock at the door. Hill again. “Beg your pardon, sir, but you have another visitor.”

  Jackson stood, adjusting his hair and necktie.

  “Mr Stanhope, sir.”

  “Jackson?” He merely shrugged at me as he sat down again.

  “Bennet, so pleased I caught you,” said Stanhope, entering the room. “I was close to Longbourn and thought about that book you promised to lend me.”

  “What book?” I said.

  “Jackson! What a surprise.” Stanhope’s voice suggested quite the opposite was true.

  “Sit yourself down, Stanhope. Is that a new jacket? Bennet here was about to offer us a drink.” Jackson tipped his head at the bottles next to him.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll organise some tea.”

  I left the study not quite knowing if I should be annoyed or pleased. Mrs Bennet made her own feelings clear outside. “Mr Bennet, Hill is most inconvenienced. Did you not think to warn us your committee would meet here today? As if we do not have enough guests. Still, I am sure we will manage somehow.” She almost collided with our housekeeper coming the other way.

  “Begging your pardon, but another visitor has arrived.”

  “How unexpected.” I strode toward our front door. “I have no more books to lend and no time for pamphlets…oh…Miss Hayter.”

  “Do not mind my husband, Miss Hayter. He has not been himself of late.” My wife gently pushed me to one side. “You are most welcome. Come through to see the girls. Hill, do bring tea.”

  With unmatched timing, Fielding then appeared behind Miss Hayter, shaking drops of fresh rain from his coat. Jackson and Stanhope emerged from the study behind me, their faces a mixture of awe and admiration. After introductions, Stanhope held up a book. “Butterflies,” he stammered.

  “We have heard so much about you,” said Fielding.

  “You have?” Miss Hayter offered him an uncertain smile.

  Hill then coughed in the way of an experienced housekeeper, a noise both loud and discreet. An apparition stood in the doorway, hair decorated with skeletal leaves and mud, clothes dripping water onto the floor to punctuate the open-mouthed silence.

  “John,” I said, “You know everyone, I think.”

  “Mr Barton,” said Miss Hayter. “You continue to surprise me. Were you lifting your spirits in the rain?”

  ~ ~ ~

  While my unfortunate friend went to clean up, my wife led Miss Hayter to the girls. The committee returned to their horses and carriages, satisfied with the promise of a full report at the next meeting. After waving them goodbye, I hurried to the drawing room. The giggling within ceased on my entry.

  John joined us, hair slick from washing, face tinged in red. Almost immediately, the girls—even Mary—collapsed in laughter. To his credit, John faced the humiliation with stoic fortitude, like a soldier who had made peace with his God.

  “I have always wanted to become more familiar with the lakes around Longbourn, but may have taken the acquaintance a little too far.” He held the edge of his palm to his chest. “About four feet too far.”

  “We are cruel,” said Lizzy. “To find pleasure in the misfortune of others is shameful, especially when the burden of that misfortune falls on a much beloved friend. You will forgive us?” He smiled and nodded. “You did scare Miss Hayter, though, John. And that we cannot forgive. Your punishment will be to paint us all as soon as the light allows. Besides, Lydia talks of nothing else and we tire of her complaining.”

  “So you truly are a painter, Mr Barton,” said Miss Hayter.

  “
As you know from Bath, I paint, but would not go so far as to claim to be a true painter.”

  “And why not?”

  I steeled myself for another argument, but it was Lizzy who intervened. “It is certainly modesty.”

  “And you, Miss Hayter, is painting among your accomplishments?” said John.

  “No, though I might call myself a painter.”

  “And how are we to understand that?” said Lizzy.

  “When I was a child, I painted my father. He gave me sixpence for it.”

  John frowned. “You would not define a painter through his work, then, but through his success in selling it?”

  “Can he be a true artist who does not live from his work?”

  “A true painter perhaps lives for his work.” John held Miss Hayter’s gaze briefly before looking away.

  She did not take her eyes off him. “And what do you live for, Mr Barton?”

  He did not have the chance to answer as Mrs Bennet marched into the room, hands waving. “All the gentlemen seem to have left and now we have too much tea. It is all most confusing.”

  “That it is,” I said, looking between John and Miss Hayter.

  An unwanted reunion

  The next afternoon, with the skies clear, Mrs Bennet persuaded Lizzy to take her friend to Meryton. Lydia and Mary she busied with sorting bits and bobs, leaving Kitty to entertain John. As on his last visit, I rescued him as soon as possible. “There is a volume of Italian engravings I would like your opinion of. Perhaps you might join me in the library? Kitty, go help your sisters.” Kitty smiled at John, frowned at me, then skipped off towards the kitchen.

  “Miss Catherine Bennet is a charming companion,” said John, as we settled into the sanctuary of the library. He looked like he meant it.

  “Though we know you would prefer the company of another lady in the house, no?”

  John looked down at his feet. “Every word she speaks improves my opinion. She has a fire in her. But I fear my own words do me little credit.”

  “Do not be disheartened. We have enough time to work on her impression of you.”

  “I am paralysed by my affection. Would that I could talk to beauty as well as I paint it. I did not fear the great gardens of Belvedere nor the majesty of the ocean, but Miss Hayter…”

  “John, as always I say this with the best of intentions.” He looked up. “Are you still sure of your affection? Miss Hayter seems, well…”

  He looked me directly in the eyes. “She is prickly and defensive, but we both know the reason. Those who precede me must share the blame for that. I am not of their ilk. And my heart is still lost.”

  When a young man mentions his heart, then he is lost forever. A knock at the door prevented me responding. “A guest, sir. Mr Collins has been seen approaching and is expected at any moment.”

  “Cannot Mrs Bennet welcome him?”

  “Begging pardon, sir, but Mrs Bennet says she and the girls are terribly indisposed and asks if you might, sir.”

  “Terribly indisposed?” I imagined what that would look like, certain they were hiding behind a locked kitchen door.

  “Very well, send him through when he arrives.” I turned to John and pressed my palms together. “My apologies, John. Imagine an affable gentleman of genuine humility, reserve, good education, and better conversation. Have you done that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now imagine quite the opposite. Whatever you do, do not mention buildings or gardens.”

  Moments later, Hill announced the latest guest to Longbourn.

  “Mr Collins, what a pleasure to see you again.”

  “I found myself nearby on a morning stroll and could not resist paying my compliments.” He made a show of looking around the library. “Your dear wife and daughters?”

  “Indisposed, Mr Collins.”

  “How unfortunate,” he said, shoulders relaxing.

  “Mr Barton is staying with us from Gloucestershire.” The two exchanged greetings. “Mr Collins is the parson at Hunsford and my cousin, lately married.”

  “My congratulations,” said John. Mr Collins gave him the sort of nod that cannot decide if it should become a bow. “Hunsford? Is that near…” Behind Mr Collins’s back, I shook my head vigorously. “…Rosings Park?”

  “Indeed, sir, I am most fortunate to enjoy the patronage of that great estate, which my own humble abode adjoins. You are familiar with Rosings?”

  “I have heard it has magnificent…” He hesitated, like a man unsure if he was taking the right path. “Fireplaces?”

  A Collins enthused is like a foot wart—untreatable and most unpleasant. Yet the expected laudatory for Lady de Bourgh’s architecture never came. Instead, he muttered to himself, head half-cocked to one side. “Barton, Barton, ah!”

  John and I exchanged looks of bemusement.

  “Mr Barton! Now that I recall, Mr Bennet spoke of your friendship not a few weeks ago in Meryton. As did Mrs Bennet. I am most pleased to see you here and in such welcoming circumstances.” He twitched as if he had something in his eye. “But my! Dear Charlotte will worry at the length of my absence. I am blessed to have such a caring wife. It was she who suggested I take a walk alone. And no doubt you have much to discuss yourselves…” Another twitch. It seemed he had picked up some nervous affliction since the wedding. I would have believed it more likely of his wife.

  He left us both somewhat befuddled and, in my case, grateful for the brevity of his visit. A little later, I entered the kitchen to exact my revenge.

  “My dear, I took the liberty of inviting Mr Collins for dinner tonight. He does so look forward to seeing you all again. And I could not help but notice he was carrying a volume of sermons with him. If we are lucky, perhaps he will read to us all.” I let them stew until dinner.

  The misery of men

  The morning heavens held the first promise of spring, the perfect day for fresh garlands of affection to embrace the hearts of young ladies. Unfortunately, it was also a perfect day for a walk to Meryton. Mrs Bennet had again sent Lizzy and Miss Hayter away, this time in search of new fabric for a damaged gown. Lydia accompanied them, though more in search of soldiers than silk.

  “Miss Hayter will soon know the path to town far better than she will ever know you,” I muttered to John in a moment alone.

  My wife busied Mary and Kitty with some task, but rapidly grew irritated with the younger of the two. She insisted John and I take her out for a walk around the grounds, preventing John from following the other girls.

  The constant calls of the crows seemed to mimic my own irritation at the hurdles placed in my friend’s way. We had not gone far when cries of “Papa! Papa!” brought us to a stop.

  “Whatever is the matter, Mary?” She had a coat on over her shift, but seemed uncomfortable in the cold.

  “You are needed at once, Papa.”

  “What has happened?”

  “I cannot say, but Mama insists you return. She is most vexed.” And away she ran.

  “We shall, of course, return as well, Mr Bennet,” said John. “But do not tarry on our behalf.” The urgency in Mary’s voice compelled me to overlook the impropriety of leaving the other two alone, however briefly.

  I set off in earnest, Mary far ahead, John and Kitty following a growing distance behind. On reaching the last bend before the house a shout caused me to stop and look back. Kitty rushed toward me, one hand held to her mouth, the other pressed against her bonnet.

  “Kitty?” She ran on to the house, splashing through puddles without a care for her clothes.

  John then strode past me, his back uncommonly straight. “John! What is all this?”

  He turned back to face me, cheeks red, hands shaking. “Mr Bennet, it is only respect for your family and my father that prevents me from leaving your house immediately. I had always believed your advice was offered in friendship, an honest wish to help the son of an old comrade. Instead, I find this invitation, indeed all your efforts, were but a plan to throw me t
ogether with your daughter.” I was speechless. “Amiable Miss Catherine may be, but she is not Miss Hayter. Can you explain yourself, sir?” My momentary hesitation set him off again. “You cannot. I thank you for at least having the honesty not to deny the charge, and bid you good day.” And away he went, equally dismissive of the puddles.

  The scene at the house was just as perplexing. My wife embraced a tearful Kitty in the doorway, with a distraught Mary nearby. On my arrival, Kitty pulled herself from her mother’s arms to run inside, followed by her sister. Doors banged upstairs.

  “Oh, Mr Bennet, what have you done?” My wife shook her head.

  I had the same question. “My dear, I am at a loss. Why is John under the impression he is the victim of some plot to marry Kitty?”

  “Poor girl, how she suffers. She has been cruelly misled.”

  “Misled? Explain yourself.”

  “I was told only yesterday that an understanding had been reached for a match I have encouraged. You had objections that were now overcome, and John’s current visit was to finalise the engagement.” A vague memory tugged at me like a child wanting a treat. “Was that not so?”

  “This is nonsense!”

  “And now dear Kitty, in her innocence, gave a hint of her own satisfaction with the arrangement to John and was rebuffed most forcibly. It was ill done, leading her on so. Ill done by John and ill done by you. Have you no concern for your daughters? No concern for me?” She wiped away a tear.

  Then I remembered. “Collins!” I shouted.

  “Yes,” whimpered Mrs Bennet, “I met him yesterday, as he was leaving. He congratulated me on such a fine catch.”

  “Where could he have got such a ridiculous notion?”

  “It seems he first learned of John’s interest at one of your committee meetings.”

  “And you never thought to talk with me, first?” I asked.

  “Do not shout at me so, husband. Oh, Mr Bennet!”

  “There has never been a wish on my part to see John married to one of the girls, desirable though such a prospect might seem. His interest lies elsewhere. Mr Collins has the perspicacity of one of the potatoes he so admires. You and Kitty have been misled by him and he has been misled by his own insufferable foolishness.”