Cake and Courtship (Mr Bennet's Memoirs #1) Page 19

  Now it was my turn to storm inside the house. The study door mimicked that of Kitty’s room as it slammed shut behind me. Then I just stood there with my fists clenched, chest heaving. Anger and despair make poor companions, but they would keep me company for the rest of the day.

  The meaning of affection

  Dinner was a joyless occasion. John remained in his room, pleading a poor stomach. I had neither the courage nor the countenance to go up and talk to him. Understandably, Kitty also kept to her room. Lydia stayed in town with Mrs Forster and an importune storm prevented Lizzy and Miss Hayter’s return. Mrs Philips kindly kept them safe and dry, though the same could not be said of the unfortunate boy who delivered the information to us. Mrs Bennet did not make it past the soup before her nerves forced her to retire early.

  Dinner for one, then, and plenty of time to reflect on my failures. Eating alone gave me little peace, as the distant sound of crying accompanied each mouthful. Afterwards, I did what all good Englishmen would do. A bottle of fine red wine eventually dulled the pain of the day and the prospect of pain to come. But it did not silence Kitty’s wailing.

  ~ ~ ~

  If dinner yesterday had been uncomfortable, breakfast the next morning was almost intolerable. We all sat together in a silence interrupted only by Kitty’s whimpers.

  Eventually, I could bear it no longer. “Kitty, I will thank you to end this ceaseless noise. It is not appropriate behaviour.” Her whimpering ceased, though the tears did not. Nobody spoke.

  After some minutes, John put down his cutlery, then leant toward my wife.

  “Mrs Bennet, it seems I have been the cause of much distress and injury through my behaviour, albeit inadvertent and with the best of intentions. My apologies, madam.” He looked across to me. “And to avoid further discontent I intend to leave this morning for Gloucestershire.”

  I spoke before my wife had a chance to. “You have done no harm in this household, John, taken no action, spoken no words that require an apology. Kitty is young, impressionable, and the victim of a deep misunderstanding, one for which you carry no blame. But it is her youth that will allow her to recover with speed from her disappointment.” There were enough officers in town to provide the necessary distraction. I turned to Kitty. “We have another guest returning soon, and I do not wish her unduly disturbed by what has passed. Is that clear?” Kitty nodded. “As to your wish to leave, John, I implore you to reconsider. At least do me the favour of speaking with me after breakfast. I believe you misled in apportioning blame for recent events and wish to speak with you about them.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Soon after breakfast, John joined me in the study. He stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of him, his head at an angle. Lizzy often had the same look, a mixture of resolve and defiance. The box in my hands gave me the strength missing in my tired old bones.

  “Sit down, John. Please.” He walked over to perch on the edge of a chair. I held out the box to him with all the reverence it deserved. He took it, then let his hand run along the dark grain of the rosewood. “Go on,” I said.

  He opened the box and sat silent for a moment, face confused. “What…”

  “Take it out.”

  The steel blade sent shafts of sunlight spinning across the far wall. He rubbed the broken end with his thumb. “What is it?” he said.

  “That, dear John, is the reason why I could never do or say anything against the wishes of the son of Mr Henry Barton.” I sat down in my chair and poured myself a drink from the decanter on the desk. “It is a little early, but still…” I held up an empty glass to John, but he shook his head.

  “The sixteenth of October 1782, in woods whose name will not trouble the history books. Hostilities were more or less over, or so we are all told. True, there were no battles, no incidents deserving the word ‘major’ placed before them. But there were skirmishes, encounters, little conflicts barely worthy of the title. Forgotten by all but the unfortunate few who witnessed them.” I paused to take a sip. The liquid ran slowly down my throat, burning its way back to the past. “I was knocked aside by a musket, left on my back like an upturned beetle. Never was much of a swordsman.” I closed my eyes. I could smell the stale sweat of the man standing over me, weapon thrusting down, his face wreathed in terror. “They say time stops still in such moments, but I only remember how fast it all was. No time to think. No time to move, to react, to resist. I would have died if not for your father.” I opened my eyes and put down my glass. “He turned the blow. The bayonet pierced only my sleeve and broke, left that piece stuck in the ground.” John stared at me, the steel loose in his hand.

  “And your assailant?”

  “Your father dispatched him with his upstroke.” John put the blade back in the box as I spoke. “Do you think I could ever sport with the son of the man who saved my life?”

  “But then why did Miss Catherine…?”

  “A misunderstanding, and there I must take some blame. As you know, I did not take Mrs Bennet into my confidence concerning Miss Hayter. I did not wish to put her in a difficult position. Single men are all potential sons-in-law for her. Unfortunately, she heard a misleading report from an acquaintance who himself misunderstood a comment or two, and then gave Kitty the wrong impression. The fault lies with me, though. I forgot my wife would follow her instincts, as is her right, and failed to recognise the signs. Will you forgive me, John? Will you stay?”

  He rubbed his chin, again. “Of course. But only if you will forgive me for the unwarranted condemnation of your honour and word. It was foolish and unworthy.”

  “Nonsense,” I replied. “It was merely the natural reaction of someone presented with the terrifying prospect of a lifetime with Kitty.”

  He was trying not to laugh; the tension was gone. “You are most hard on your daughters.”

  “When you have five daughters like mine, you may understand that I am all too soft.”

  After he left the room, I finished my glass, closed the box, and returned it to its resting place. My hands did not stop trembling until much later.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next morning sat on the border between the chill of winter and the warmth of spring, when the leaves on the ash trees begin escaping their tight black prisons.

  Mrs Bennet had the younger girls sorting dried herbs, while Lizzy and Miss Hayter looked through the former’s clothes with an eye to sunnier days and changing fashions. I took John off into the gardens and down to the bottom stream. I felt sure he would enjoy the shy yellows and greens of the willows and daffodil buds.

  We stood in silence a little while, watching birds skit on the light breeze. I fought the impulse to ask if the wind helped him feel alive.

  “Your conversation with Miss Hayter has lost much of its previous harshness. I do believe there may be one or two subjects on which you actually agree.” They had both stated that the breakfast ham was more than usually succulent and been equally of one mind in their praise of the cake.

  “You jest with me, I think. We still argue, but at least she does not dismiss me like she did all those gentlemen in Bath. For that I must be grateful. Yet neither does she flatter or indulge in polite irrelevancies, breakfast fare notwithstanding. You have the wisdom of years, Mr Bennet. How am I to understand the lady?”

  “As a friend of our family, perhaps you enjoy a unique status among the men she meets. It is no surprise, then, if she treats you differently.”

  “Her words give no indication of affection.”

  “Ah, I believe that is a topic we covered adequately in Bath. For my part, affection is evident in gestures and deeds: a blush, a glance, in all those ways we reveal ourselves when we act from instinct, when we act from the heart. Reveal a little more of yourself to her. Perhaps she simply needs encouragement.”

  Miss Hayter’s voice called after us as we reached the bottom of a meadow. Though I looked behind her, I could catch no sight of Lizzy.

  “I am gl
ad to find you. Mrs Bennet said you would be here.” She caught her breath and looked around at the view. “There is something about willow branches trailing in a stream, like a painting come to life. Don’t you think, Mr Barton? All we need is a stray heifer, a cowherd, and a good sunrise and we shall have our landscape.”

  “Is Lizzy not following?” I said.

  “She has taken to her bed.”

  “Is she unwell?” said John. “Should we return?”

  “She complains of a headache and wishes to be left alone for a short while. It is not serious, I think. I had hoped to help Mrs Bennet with the herbs, but she was at a loss to find work for me. And so she suggested you might like female company. You do not mind? I have no wish to come between men discussing matters of great import.”

  I sensed a trap. John, too, seemed to be learning, as we both merely mumbled general approval of her presence.

  “Perhaps you can help us, Miss Hayter,” said John. “We were again discussing how one might recognise affection in another. Mr Bennet believes in gestures and deeds. You would agree with him, I think?”

  She thought for a moment before replying. “I hear many sweet phrases in Bath and few move me. Some are said to tease, others out of politeness. Still others are out of affection for my mother or my wealth. Perhaps some are truly meant earnestly. But I would need more than words to know the honesty of the feelings so expressed. Is it not what we do that defines us best?”

  “I would argue it is what we feel,” said John. “And feelings provoke actions, except where one might fear the consequences of such feelings, however honourable they may be.”

  I could sense the conversation taking a familiar and unwanted turn.

  “I know Elizabeth would be disappointed were we to leave her alone too long,” I said. “My feelings of concern certainly require action. Let us walk back to the house.”

  The conversation moved to safer ground as Miss Hayter collected early spring flowers to give to Lizzy. She gave a little exclamation of joy each time she discovered a new bloom, delighting in the freshness of the season. I could not help but smile. It felt almost like walking with Abigail.

  We found Lizzy waiting in the back garden with Mrs Bennet, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia.

  “Are you recovered?” I said, as we all sat on the grass. It had long lost its morning dampness, despite the weakness of the sun.

  “Yes, Papa. A little solitude and darkness does more for a headache than any of Mr Jones’s concoctions. Did you enjoy your walk?”

  “Mr Barton and I had another argument,” said Miss Hayter.

  “John,” said Lizzy. “I am disappointed. Why this great interest in picking arguments with young ladies?”

  “I do not wish to contradict Miss Hayter, but it was a debate, not an argument. One leads to enlightenment, the other to a grievance.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” said Lizzy. “Do tell me, though, what did you ‘debate’?”

  “How words alone are not enough to properly express affection for another,” said Miss Hayter.

  “Oh, yes,” said Mrs Bennet. “I lost count of how many men made declarations of affection when I was young. I did not believe any of them.” My wife wore her youthful popularity like a blanket, to keep her warm as she aged.

  “Do tell us, Mama,” said Lizzy. “What did Papa do to make his affection more worthy?”

  “Yes, tell us, my dear, so we might warn young men.”

  “He showed me Longbourn.”

  “Mama!” chorused the girls.

  “If a man is to declare his affection to me, then it should be in full regimentals while seated on a white charger, and in front of everyone so they know I have bewitched him.” As Lydia spoke, Kitty nodded with enthusiasm. It seemed she had recovered quickly from her recent disappointment.

  “He must not bring me flowers,” said Mary. “It shows a lack of inspiration and an affinity for the ephemeral. He must bring me books.”

  “Books. A fine idea,” I said.

  “Thank you, Papa. Ecclesiastical tomes and moral lectures would be most suitable.”

  “How romantic,” muttered Lydia.

  “How about you, Lizzy?” I looked at her intently.

  She sat back on the grass. “I cannot separate affection from respect. With all his words and actions, he must show I am more than some prize to be won at a fair. He must value my companionship and my opinion. His conduct must be to my wellbeing, but with no hope that I may discover his kindness, with no intention of seeking advantage through his behaviour. Then I can believe his actions selfless and anchored in true affection. And once assured of my affections in such a manner, he may then express his feelings through the giving of numerous presents. Volumes of poetry, exotic jewels and invitations to travel the world.” She laughed.

  “Well said, Lizzy. I wish you a man able to offer such affection. But we have not heard from Miss Hayter on this matter.” I turned to her. “What do you require as a sign of affection? Surely you owe an explanation to Mr Barton?”

  “Why me, sir?” said John, half rising from the ground.

  “If Miss Hayter disagrees with your view, then she must present her alternative,” I said.

  “Of course.” He settled back down.

  “A grand gesture,” said Miss Hayter. “That is all.”

  “I am surprised,” said Lizzy. “I cannot see you waiting for some proud officer on a great stallion.”

  “That is not what I mean. He must do something out of character, something he is uncomfortable with, but with the hope of impressing me. The proud officer must come down from his stallion and bake a cake.”

  “And the baker?” I said.

  “Must ride a white charger, of course.”

  “But what should a lawyer do, Miss Hayter? Or a doctor? Or an artist?” I did not think Lydia meant to embarrass John, though he froze at her final words.

  “That is for them to decide,” came the answer.

  Conflict and conversation

  As so often when guests were at Longbourn, Mrs Bennet had felt the need to invite officers for dinner. I was not overjoyed. As their stay in Meryton had continued, their stories had lost much of their novelty.

  The usual tales of drink and daring soon bored me and left John on the periphery of the conversation. He sat patiently, like a wolf cub waiting for his elders to finish eating.

  “Gentlemen,” I said. “Have you seen Mr Barton’s painting of Kitty? He has talent, no?”

  “Mr Barton is clearly a man of great skill,” said Mr Murden. “I envy him. Not least for the hours he must have spent admiring your daughter.” Neither John or Kitty smiled at the comment. “But I cannot be too jealous. After all, we military men prefer to seek adventure in the real world, not hidden behind a canvas.” Mr Wickham and Mr Denny chuckled.

  Both Lizzy and Miss Hayter glanced at John, but he showed no outward reaction. Instead, it was Lydia who spoke. “Do tell, Murden. Have you more stories for us?”

  I sighed. “Now, now, Lydia, let us not burden Mr Murden with all the responsibility of conversation.”

  “I thank you, sir, both for your consideration and your fine wine, but what use would it be to endure the hot sweat of battle if I could not boast of doing so?” Mr Murden paused to refill his glass, then cleared his throat with unnecessary drama. “Let me think. Ah, yes, here is one I have yet to tell…

  “It was the summer of 1809 and a small group of us were cut off from the main army. We were too late to join Wellesley at Talavera. Thousands of Frenchmen lay between us, with no means of circling round before battle commenced. It seemed we would have to sit this one out.”

  “How unfortunate,” I murmured, attracting a “shush” from Mrs Bennet.

  “Desperate to offer aid to our fellows, I set upon a plan. Had us all dress in peasants’ clothes, shove fruit down our fronts, and march straight through the French lines disguised as Spanish washerwomen. We were too ugly to attract unwanted attention. An hour later, we were back in un
iform and showing the French the wrong end of a bayonet.”

  “You are not serious, Mr Murden?” said Miss Hayter once the laughter had died down.

  “Madam, I am always serious.”

  Miss Hayter smiled. “Such bravery. It is a wonder you were not promoted on the strength of that incident alone.”

  Mr Murden sighed. “Alas, Miss Hayter, bravery alone is insufficient qualification for a higher rank.”

  No,” said Mr Wickham. “For that you need to consume large quantities of wine, thrash your fellow officers at cards, and compliment the colonel on the elegance of his wife.”

  After more laughter passed, Mr Murden continued. “As to the first, Wickham …” He drained his glass, then waved the empty vessel at the table before helping himself to more wine. “Your debts in my favour speak to the second point.” Mr Wickham raised his hands in mock surrender. “And for the third, anyone who has seen Mrs Forster can have no reluctance to express such admiration. She is a beauty.”

  Lydia put her hand to her mouth. “Mr Murden!”

  “Though the same might be said of all the ladies present.” Mr Murden gave each a brief nod, lingering a little too long on Miss Hayter for my liking.

  “Mr Murden, I always say regimentals are a sign of great character,” said Mrs Bennet.

  “They are certainly a sign of a character,” said Miss Hayter. “Though we should not judge a book by its cover. Perhaps by its words. Or actions.” She looked across at John. “But we shall not bore the table with old disagreements.”

  A slight blush tinged my friend’s cheeks. He seemed about to reply when Mr Murden, perhaps importuned by half a minute of conversation without his involvement, spoke up. “Wickham, you and I will never impress the ladies with modesty and mystery. Unlike our painter from Gloucester, we are fond of good, honest conversation and they must take us as we are.” Again, John showed no reaction.