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

“Well, Lizzy, we must enjoy such family walks while we can. If your mother gets her way, one of you will be firmly settled in Netherfield within the month. Perhaps it will be you?”

  “If Mr Bingley only has an eye for beauty, then I fear dear Jane will take precedence.” This brought a brief blush to the face of my eldest. “But if he is also wise and intelligent, then…” She paused, laughing. It was a sound that still warmed my heart after twenty years. “Then I believe dear Jane will also be his first choice.”

  “Oh, Lizzy, really,” said Jane, smiling—a sight that had warmed my heart for even longer than Lizzy’s laughter.

  “If he does not choose you, Jane, then he has neither taste nor worth,” replied her sister.

  “No worth?” came a familiar voice from behind. “He has over four thousand a year!” My dear wife, ever practical in her thinking.

  “So you see, Papa, you shall not be rid of me quite so soon.” Lizzy linked her arm in mine.

  “I would not wish to lose you.” I gave her hand a pat. “Those two, on the other hand…”

  Kitty and Lydia had run on ahead, eager to put the confinement of church behind them. It was then that Mary, with her usual grasp of good conversation, decided to give the discussion a theological turn. “I am not sure Mr Toke was clear on the importance of patience in our faith. His quoting from Romans was misleading.”

  “There is little need for him to explain the role of patience, Mary. His sermons are an exercise in that virtue for his entire congregation.” I paused to take in the colours of a fine birch, all white bark and golden leaves. “They are not designed to educate or enlighten, otherwise he would pay more attention to their content. No, he is testing our patience and our faith. We are ever under examination. Though, if we are fortunate, he may offer us respite and feel the need to call upon his relatives in Chichester.”

  “I would not consider his absence a boon,” said Mary. “Mr Spigott is a fine gentleman, but he does not have Mr Toke’s way with words.”

  “One of many excellent characteristics possessed by the curate. Where Mr Toke teaches us patience, Mr Spigott condescends to teach us absolutely nothing. His humility is most praiseworthy.”

  “You should not tease Mary so, Papa,” said Lizzy. “Besides, I have heard you talk of one pleasing feature of our good vicar—his fine larder.”

  “Indeed, he does run a most excellent dinner table. If he fed our souls as well as he feeds our stomachs, we would all be assured of a warm welcome in heaven.”

  A past revealed

  As September drew to a close, all the talk at home continued to concern itself with Mr Bingley and John Barton. Unfortunately for our much-anticipated neighbour and much-travelled friend, their true selves could not hope to live up to the romantic expectations of five girls.

  According to my daughters, both gentlemen would be tall, excessively handsome, good riders, and better dancers. Adventurous. Educated. And well-mannered. Most importantly, their words would light fires in the hearts of all young women without attracting the disapproval of their mothers. The girls agreed on all these points. There was, however, some debate as to the most appropriate colour for their horses. Of course, Mr Bingley had two advantages over John: he was a guaranteed bachelor and his immense wealth would make matriarchal approbation somewhat easier. I half hoped to find Netherfield’s tenant a wretched creature with a morbid fear of animals and the manners of a bear, just to see the look on everyone’s faces.

  Poor weather offered no respite from the autumnal tedium, no opportunity for long walks or rides to escape Longbourn and girlish chatter. Such was the rain the heavens chose to bless us with again that Sir William suggested we might soon be hunting with fishing rods. He once declared angling a worthy test of patience, a presumption that ended all interest I had in the sport. I had Toke’s sermons for that.

  A second letter from John brought both relief and trepidation. I valued little in life more than peace (and, possibly, cake), and knew he would likely bring neither. Yet I found myself surprisingly intrigued at the promise of a reunion. The first letter had cast a shaft of sunlight on darkened corners left undisturbed for many a year. Memories stirred. Few of them good, still fewer truly welcome. But I did have warm recollections of sun-filled days in Gloucestershire, and was curious to see whether John retained the good nature of the boy I once knew so well. And if I could help him in some way, then perhaps I might discharge my debt to his family. John’s closing sentence left me somewhat uneasy, though.

  “Lizzy.” She looked up from her book. I held up the letter to her from the other end of the library. “News from John. He writes from his Rudford estate and expects to visit in some ten days’ time.”

  “This is good news.” She placed her book to one side, a pressed flower serving to mark the page. “And does he remove your fears for his family’s welfare…and ours?”

  “He does. More or less. He has completed his estate business and seems in good spirits. The message is most amiable, suggesting his character remains as pleasant as I remember it to be. And it appears he is, as yet, unmarried, though that is a thought we should keep to ourselves for now. Let us not raise any false hopes, especially given his final words. Listen to this, Lizzy: I also beg leave to seek your advice on a personal matter…concerning a lady.”

  Lizzy seemed to struggle to contain a smile. “And this disturbs you, Papa?”

  “It does, though it rather depends on what he means. I hope he does not wish to discuss such matters as her suitability, or how he might set about winning her affection.”

  Lizzy lifted a hand to cover her laughter. “Be at ease, Papa. I do not think he would look to you for advice on such topics.”

  “My dear girl, I am always happy to play the victim for your teasing but here it is entirely misplaced. Such things may not interest me now, but I’ll have you know I was once thought of as a great master of the rituals of courtship. Henry Barton certainly thought so. One or two young men owe their success as suitors as much to my guidance as to their lands and titles. Imagine, Lizzy: I once even believed in romance and the persuasive power of poetry. Still, I daresay all men have the right to be fools for at least part of their lives.”

  “Only a part?”

  “Well, when I consider many of my acquaintances, you may be right.”

  “With such a talent for courtship, Papa, I wonder you took so long to marry yourself.”

  I turned my head so she would not see my face. A careful smile and the scent of lavender flitted at the edge of my memory, kept out by a wall of regret. “As you get older, Lizzy, you will discover that life does not bow easily to the wishes of even the most romantic of souls. Quite the opposite. Life must be mastered with pragmatism and sense, which explains why so few people succeed at it.”

  “Did you help Mr Barton court his wife?”

  “Not directly. My ideals had long since shattered on the anvil of disappointment by the time Henry met Sophia, though I, too, was tempted to seek her affection. This was before I was introduced to your mother, of course. His love was true, and I left the field clear for him. Sophia chose wisely when she married Henry and I envied their joy. It survived the wilting of passion that does for so many arrangements.”

  “It sounds like John should better talk with his father, then.”

  “Let us not get ahead of ourselves, Lizzy. Men may talk of a lady without intending to wed her, whatever Mrs Bennet might believe. But if he does have an eye to marry, John’s father will not speak with him on such matters. Not because he fears the idea of female companionship and affection, but because he mourns the loss of both so deeply. Besides, by the time they exchanged letters on the subject, the lady in question would no doubt be wearing someone else’s ring.”

  Lizzy stood and moved to the window. “For where thou art, there is the world itself, / With every several pleasure in the world, / And where thou art not, desolation.”

  “Suffolk, no? In Henry the Sixth?”

  “Part Two.”r />
  “Yet Suffolk could still find joy that Queen Margaret lived. Henry has not even that consolation. But hush, girl, John’s letter and your questions make me sentimental and that will not do at all, for I have business to attend to in town.”

  “Business?”

  “Of a sort. A lecture from Mr Criswick.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Having missed the previous meeting through my London trip, the prospect of visiting the Meryton Natural History Society again was a joyous one. Unfortunately, the anticipated pleasure only lasted some five minutes into Criswick’s description of his Jamaican travels. His talk proved as long and dull as the sea journey that took him to that storied island. We all feigned excessive enthusiasm, though, in the hope it might encourage him to return to Kingston as soon as possible. All except Jackson, of course, who fell asleep just as Mr Criswick’s ship left Liverpool and woke in time to move to the inn, where we had a room for the meeting of the committee, upstairs and away from the square, assuring us of a little quiet. Mr Tincton never charged us for the space we occupied, knowing how the committee’s prodigious appetite for both food and drink would fill his inn’s coffers equally well.

  With the business of the Society completed, we turned to the prospects for this year’s shooting. The warmth of a brisk fire and the timely arrival of port and cake meant few of us were in any rush to return home.

  “I do so love the smell of cinnamon,” said Jackson, nose deep in his third slice of Mrs Tincton’s baked delights. I merely mumbled an acknowledgement.

  “You seem out of sorts, Bennet,” he continued, with a keenness of eye he normally reserved for spotting pheasants. “Not hungry? All the more for us, then.”

  On another day, I might have kept the reason for my wistful disposition hidden, but the port loosened my tongue. “A letter arrived recently from the son of a friend. You will forgive me for leaving out the particulars, but he asked for advice.”

  Stanhope brushed crumbs from his waistcoat. “Ah, boy not keen on his filial duties?”

  “No, no, it was just, well, he thought I might have some advice on ‘personal matters.’ I rather fear he might even seek my guidance on…” I gave a little cough. “Courting.”

  Stanhope’s pristine moustache rose as his mouth fell open. Eventually, he found his voice. “I am all for love, Bennet, but that is surely a matter for ladies. I am surprised at the suggestion.”

  “Quite,” added Elliston. “A gentleman’s mind is suited to weightier matters, like dogs, horse breeding, or wine. I will pick you out a good pointer any day of the week, but a suitable wife…” He raised his hands in surrender.

  “It is a shame, though, that we leave such matters to the other sex.”

  All heads swivelled as one to see the source of such a contrary opinion (excepting Jackson, who had dozed off again).

  One of the unspoken rules of our society was that committee members had to wear spectacles. They gave us an intellectual air we did not all deserve. Fielding was cleaning his pair with a napkin. “My wife offers her opinion on my business with some regularity. Perhaps we should return the favour?”

  “We could,” said Stanhope. “But why would we want to? There are ladies enough to handle these things without our intervention. Does your friend’s son not trust his mother in these matters?”

  I closed my eyes briefly and, for a moment, saw Henry cupping John’s small hand delicately, as one might hold a butterfly, shoulders heavy and dark rings under his eyes to match the absence of light within them. It had been hard to see a friend suffer such a loss.

  The words of explanation hung in my throat, the silence that followed mercifully broken by Jackson’s timely resumption of consciousness. His eyes focused slowly on the empty plate before him. “Any more cake?”

  “It is of no consequence,” I mumbled. “No doubt he means to talk about some other matter. Now, let us see about feeding Jackson. Pass over that tray, Elliston, if you would.”

  Life always has more cake. It is one of its few redeeming features.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Jackson was right,” said Fielding as we sat alone a little later. Used plates, dirty glasses, and a last forlorn slice of cake were all that remained of our colleagues.

  “Right about what?”

  “You are out of sorts. I cannot imagine you so alarmed by the possibility of a conversation on courtship.”

  “Truth is, well, it is not just the conversation that bothers me.” The chair creaked as I shifted position.

  “No?”

  “The young man in question—John—will visit. That is something I welcome in principle, yet I worry it might remind me of certain events. Events that are perhaps better left in the past. Added to which, I really do doubt my suitability as a source of advice on matters of the heart, if that is what he seeks from me.”

  “Ah.” Fielding steepled his fingers and pursed his lips. After a minute of silence, he exhaled deeply. “You once had a talent with the ladies, though. You cannot deny it.”

  I failed to hide a smile. “I did, as I reminded Lizzy only today. But a talent employed most successfully by everyone except myself. The one time I might have enjoyed the fruits of my abilities…” I gripped my glass, the smile fading. “Forgive me, Fielding. Pay me no attention. All I have from my youthful adventures in love and war are regrets, disappointments, and a handful of unpleasant memories. And perhaps a little wisdom.”

  “That is as may be, but do you want to help this young man?”

  “In principle, yes. I owe it to his father. Besides, all he perhaps wishes for is a mere hint or two to set him on the right road. Even I can manage that.”

  “Then I do not understand why you are so disturbed.”

  “You will not stop, will you, Fielding? It was ever so with you, poking around into our souls. Then let me lay bare my faults to you so you may leave me in peace.” I leant forward and held his gaze. “It is my selfishness. I am very comfortable as I am now. My friend’s son may bring reminders of who I once was, who I might have become. But do not worry, I will not shirk my obligations and my concerns will pass.”

  “Very well. I have no wish to lure you into melancholy with my questions. I say only that not all memories need be kept locked away. Not after so long. But I shall hold back my curiosity and give in, instead, to greed.” Fielding reached down and held up the last of the cake.

  “If only our pasts were as easily disposed of,” I said.

  Bachelors abroad

  “He is here!” Such were the words that greeted me at the breakfast table.

  I settled into my chair and began contemplating the day’s most important decision—eggs or ham. There was no cake.

  “Who is ‘here,’ my dear?” I was rather pleased with the rhyme, though only Lizzy and Jane smiled.

  “Mr Bingley! He is at Netherfield. Cook heard from the boy who brought the tea and coffee this morning, and she told Hill, and Hill, of course, told me. Such a good housekeeper!” All roads led to Mrs Bennet.

  I chose the eggs.

  “Mama, shall we walk to Netherfield this morning? I can wear my new bonnet. Perhaps we will meet Mr Bingley, and he will fall in love with me.”

  “Don’t be so silly, Lydia, we cannot meet Mr Bingley until your father has visited.” Forks and mouths ceased movement and six sets of eyes settled in my direction.

  I took a sip of coffee. “Are you all practising for a sitting? It would make a lively painting.”

  The sound of breakfast recommenced, though the ting of metal on crockery seemed a little louder than usual down the other end of the table.

  “Is there something the matter, my dear? Shall I send out for Mr Jones to see to you?”

  “Oh, Mr Bennet!”

  I thought it best to change the subject, hoping a second bachelor might distract them from the first. “I have received another letter from John Barton. Has Lizzy told you?”

  Mrs Bennet snorted, and her glass thumped against the wooden table.

 
; “I hope he is well and not missing his father too much,” said Jane.

  “Does he say if he is married?” asked Lydia. There must have been a reason why there was so great a difference between our first and last girls; the former selfless and sensible, the latter selfish and silly. Perhaps the children were fated to reflect the state of their parents’ marriage at the time of their birth. If so, it was fortunate we stopped at five.

  “It is of no consequence if he is married or not, Lydia.” After a brief pause, my wife continued: “Pray tell, though, husband…did his second letter mention if he was attached?”

  I exchanged glances with Lizzy, then opened the newspaper sharply and let the snap suffice as an answer.

  Mrs Bennet shook her head and sighed deeply. “I often think of his father. Such a tragedy, girls, to lose his wife so. How Henry suffered at the end.”

  “That he did.” I peered over my spectacles. “I am sure there are few men who could be more affected by such a loss. Indeed, I know of some who might even welcome it.” Lizzy gave me a pointed look.

  “A distraught widower—how romantic.” Kitty sighed.

  “Show some respect, please, Kitty.” I was a little louder than intended, so softened my voice and my attitude. “You will all discover everything about John soon enough, for he is to stay Saturday night on his way to London on estate business.” I could not have given the girls a better present.

  “Oh, Papa,” said Lydia. “A gentleman in the house. I feel sure he is single and come to court us. We shall make such a merry party.”

  “Perhaps we should ask Mr Bingley to join him for dinner, dear?” I said.

  “Oh, Mr Bennet. If you will not visit, how can we ask him to dinner? You vex my nerves so!”

  ~ ~ ~

  My wife spent the rest of the day feigning indifference to my disregard for neighbourly duties. She busied herself the way people do when angry with another in the household, tackling the embroidery with such fury I thought the outcome might rival Bayeux by the time the light faded. But she could not stay upset for long, not with the prospect of a Bingley nearby and a possible bachelor soon to stay, however briefly. She sent the girls on missions with all the skill of a seasoned spymaster, seeking news from servants, tradesmen, neighbours, and friends, not to mention Mrs Phillips, the spider at the centre of the town’s web of intrigue. Whenever a new fly landed near Meryton, the vibrations soon reached her parlour and out she scuttled, armed with invitations, coffee, and cake.