Cake and Courtship (Mr Bennet's Memoirs #1) Page 4

  “Well said. It is a shame your father did not return with you,” said Lizzy.

  “He is not inclined to travel to destinations that remind him of…of the past.” In the quiet that followed, all we could hear was Mrs Bennet’s jaw worrying a piece of cold beef.

  “What is a waltz?” Shrieks of glee at Mary’s question chased away the memories.

  After a few hours of his company, I began to see more of the man that had emerged from the child. John laughed with the girls, but not as readily, or as long, as during those happy days in Gloucestershire. He certainly dressed like a gentleman, but with a studied disregard for any final touch that would distinguish him from his peers. His mind often seemed lost to weightier matters, though whether these were his father’s finances, his love of art, or his love of something—or someone—else, I could not say. The enthusiasm of Lydia and Kitty at least suggested Mrs Bennet’s assessment of his changed appearance was a correct one.

  He reminded me a little of Lizzy in his manner. He was a great observer. But, unlike Lizzy, he kept whatever he might have learned to himself and was kind to everyone, even those undeserving of his praise. In that, he was much like Jane. He would have a made a fine son-in-law had his affections not lain elsewhere.

  The foolishness of men

  While my study and library were both adequate sanctuaries, neither had a door thick enough to keep curious ears at bay. True privacy at Longbourn was only possible in the exposed, open spaces of nature.

  The two of us would have made a fine scene in one of the novels the girls were fond of, wind tugging at the tails of our coats and catching at John’s hair as he walked, hat in hand, his shoulders weighed down by matters of the heart and hearth.

  I had followed those paths many times after church, most often with Lizzy and Jane. They would take delight in everything new I could point out—the scrapings where a badger had made its burrow, now long abandoned, or the beech mast the pigs so enjoyed in autumn. The nuts littered the ground that day, cracking as two pairs of boots marched across the edge of the woodland, sending pigeons into the sky as we passed.

  It was a pleasure to walk with young John. He had a painter’s appreciation for the world around him and there were no dainty young girls to wait for.

  “Forgive me for broaching the matter, John, but are you serious about this Miss Hayter? You spoke most earnestly of her yesterday, but it seems you barely know her. I was a young man once and fancied myself in love several times.” I broke off a twig to twist as I spoke. “I did not know which one was true until much later.” A pair of azure eyes swept across my memory before I could push them back into the darkness.

  John was silent for a while as we continued toward the bottom stream, patches of gold and shadow guiding our way alongside the trees.

  Finally, he stopped, turning to face me directly. “Can anything be certain where love is concerned?” It was not a question I felt able to answer. “As I learnt to paint, I learnt to see how the light changes across a church façade, how a cat moves as it crosses a narrow ledge.” He looked down. “To pick out the shapes and shades that beech nuts make, strewn across a forest floor.” Then a smile creased his face, bringing a glow to his cheeks that the wind alone could not account for. “I have watched her. The way she moves. The way she pulls aside an errant curl. The way she drinks her tea. The way she talks. And listens. Even once, I met her eyes—she held my gaze a moment too long. It was enough.”

  His voice trailed away at the memory, his eyes focused far beyond the border of Longbourn. “I know her intimately as only a painter can know a person. She holds my heart, though she does not realise it.” He laughed, hiding his face behind his hat. “You must think me a fool.”

  “Not at all.” At least, no more than I had been in the same city so many years ago. Perhaps even in the same teashop. “Who can say when an affection is foolish? Or when foolish affection makes a man a fool? You would not be the first to fall for fine eyes. Nor will you be the last.”

  “Perhaps I am a fool. Perhaps if I spoke to her I would soon discover my folly. But to have the chance…”

  “And there really is no common acquaintance that might allow an introduction? You cannot be so lacking in connections? There was family?”

  “Only distant cousins in Yorkshire. Business folk. I would not even know where to write. Much was lost after Mama…when we left England.”

  “What of your father’s army days, then? Connections of acquaintance may fade with time, but bonds of friendship and duty do not.”

  “There was his commanding officer. A General Tilney. I visited him at his home; it is not far from us. All understanding he may have had faded once he knew of my financial situation. It seems a gentleman may drink, gamble, and fight with impudence, but to sell land is a sin against society that cannot be forgiven.”

  “I served with General Tilney, too. Do not be too quick to judge him. War can make a man harsh, or take away his softness. I believe he, too, knows what it is to lose a wife. Have sympathy with him, but expect little in return. He carries his own burdens. But what about Bath’s balls and assemblies? Simply spend time there and build your own connections? You are not so shy.”

  John merely grimaced. “I frequented one or two dances in the hope of seeing her again in the short time available to me, but to no avail. It seems she keeps herself apart. Perhaps I could have made more effort, but I have been away so long I am practically a foreigner in this land. It is hard for me to play the game when I am not familiar with the rules. Besides, Bath is…expensive…and I must return to the estate and ensure our future finances do not require the loss of any more acreage. That is why I would welcome advice from any quarter. My father once said I might trust you as if you were his brother. Yesterday you claimed no special insight on such matters, but Papa often told me of your—”

  “Your father exaggerated.” I turned away and continued our walk. We passed a bank of ruby ivy, stretched across an old stone wall put up by my grandfather. I used to walk across its top as a young boy, never concerned about losing my balance.

  “I bet there is a good view there.” John pulled himself up and began to follow in my childhood footsteps. A stick helped him balance; it swayed from side to side like a sword anticipating an attack. I walked beside him, like my father once did before me, hands half raised as if expecting him to fall. Ghosts of the past were everywhere.

  I stopped to sigh. “Like you in Gloucestershire, we are quite isolated in this part of Hertfordshire, but I will give the matter thought, John. Your welfare is important to me, of that you may be certain.” In my mind, I saw again the blade descending toward me, the steel sharp with death’s deadly promise, heard again the scrape and thud as it hit the ground, turned by a sword. By Henry’s sword. “Perhaps there is something we might do, so you may discover if your painter’s eye is an accurate one.”

  For the first time during his visit, hope seemed to settle her wings in John’s expression. “You are the only person in all England I can trust with such matters, Mr Bennet.”

  “Then maybe you are a fool after all, John.” A smile took the edge off my comment. “And you only saw her once, you say? She must have made quite an impression.”

  “Yes. Well, I say once.” He jumped down to stand beside me, cheeks flushed. “You may think me mad if I tell you…” I kept silent. It was always the best way to encourage people to speak. “I passed the Hayters’ townhouse later that night. I was told they rarely stayed there, but that night, well—”

  “Let me guess. You stood in the shadows and watched the windows, hoping for a glimpse of her? And worried you might be taken for a rogue if observed? Do not look at me like that. I am no witch. You think you are the only one? Rare is the young man who has never done such a thing.”

  “Have you?”

  “We are not talking about me. Do continue.”

  “It was only the light of a single candle, but enough to know it was her…”

  “And…?”


  “The Emperor has a menagerie in Vienna, open for public viewing. It is quite a sight with bears, lions, and all manner of exotic creatures. I wish I had my paintings to show you. There is an eagle there, too, magnificent in its beauty. But the way it sits and holds its head…it wants to fly. Miss Hayter, too.”

  “And you saw all that through a moonlit window?” I clapped him on the back. “You have better eyes than I do.”

  That signalled a suitable end to our excursion, so we traced our steps back to the house.

  ~ ~ ~

  “John leaves shortly, so make your farewells. Who knows when we may see him again.” His bags and my carriage were both ready.

  “But he cannot leave. He has not painted us yet,” said Lydia.

  “Mr Barton, will you not stay and paint me?” Kitty twisted a strand of hair and twirled on the spot.

  “This is not some village fair,” I said. “John has far better things to do than paint two silly girls.”

  “It might be rather fun to have our portraits done by an accomplished artist, though,” said Lizzy.

  “Et tu, Lizzy? It seems a father has nothing to say anymore. John may defend himself alone from this female onslaught. I will merely bid him goodbye so I can retire to the library for some sensible conversation.”

  “But there is nobody in the library, Papa,” said Jane.

  “Precisely. I shall be able to talk with myself.”

  “Do not concern yourself, sir; I am quite at ease with the wishes of your daughters. I have no time to paint now, but, if you allow me to return another day, I will paint you all. And Miss Catherine Bennet shall be first.”

  His statement was met with rapturous joy, though Lydia was a little less effusive. No doubt she envied Kitty’s position.

  “You are welcome at any time, John,” I said. “But take care, you will soon receive such praise as is normally reserved for officers and bonnets. It is the highest form of admiration possible from my daughters.”

  His departure left me strangely discontent, though I could not grasp why. My study became a cage and I a wolf, pacing up and down in dissatisfaction, in need of distraction. It was time to visit Mr Bingley.

  Mr Bingley

  I did not announce my intention to the girls or Mrs Bennet when leaving to call on our esteemed neighbour. Instead, I claimed to be viewing another gun with Jackson. Guns are to ladies as bonnets are to gentlemen: a mystery that neither has any wish to investigate further.

  Netherfield was a magnificent sight, embraced by enough woods and copses to keep a shooting man in high spirits and game pies for months. It was as if every aspect was planned to remind the visitor of his own inconsequence, from the scale and majesty of the entrance to the detailed statuettes that graced the façade. A cheeky gargoyle grimaced at my approach. I grimaced back.

  Mr Bingley greeted me with a broad smile and an honest face, one whose features I expected to hear much about in future. He seemed young enough to enjoy the strength of youth but old enough to know not to waste it.

  “You find me quite alone, Mr Bennet, though I intend to travel to London to fetch my sisters and others to join me here. If we can find room for everyone.” Unless he planned to invite the entire court of St James, I felt Netherfield would cope. Its outbuildings alone were bigger than Longbourn.

  He was not shy in revealing his father was in trade, a family history I could not condemn. I had too many daughters to concern myself with the source of a gentleman’s wealth and property. To find an amiable fellow with such agreeable manners and charming conversation was almost a disappointment, for his delightful character would ensure much silliness at home. I fought the urge to make my visit to Netherfield a longer one. There would surely be many gentlemen intent on calling, and I had no wish to keep their wives and daughters waiting.

  Unfortunately, this kindness to others came at a price: I did not see Mr Bingley’s library. My father always told me to judge a man by the company he keeps, but I prefer to measure a man’s worth by the books he keeps for company. Religious volumes, for example, speak of strong morals or hypocrisy, while travel books indicate an open mind. Books on gardens or geology suggest a man of sound, steadfast character, while volumes on natural history are, of course, the possessions of a country gentleman. Should said gentleman own Wilde’s “Butterflies of the Southern Counties,” then he belongs to the truest of all Englishmen.

  Which only leaves poetry.

  Mr Pratt had often insisted on reading from a book of sonnets every evening outside our tents in Virginia. As if we did not suffer enough from the skirmishing! All those verses on flowers, foliage, and the folly of youthful desire did prove useful, though, when we ran out of dry firewood.

  Needless to say, the report of my visit lifted the impending threat of the Apocalypse, returning me to the bosom of Mrs Bennet’s favourable opinion. Indeed, you would have thought I had already arranged an engagement, such was the joy brought about by my news. For a brief moment, they all considered me a good husband and father.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was now no longer a question of whether he would marry one of the girls, but when. At breakfast the following morning, conversation soon sought to clarify which one it would be, with Jane the early favourite. The dogs had Bingley’s scent and Mrs Bennet was the master of foxhounds.

  “Let us hope you inform Mr Bingley of your choice in a timely manner. It would be unfortunate if he got down on bended knee in front of the wrong girl.” My daughters ignored me until they decided to turn speculation about my future son-in-law into hard fact.

  It was Lydia who broached the subject. “Is he very handsome, Papa?”

  “His face is not unpleasant.”

  “Yes, but is he handsome?” she urged, fists clenched.

  “Jane,” I said. “Be a dear and pass the butter.” She smiled as she did so, doubling the pleasure of my morning roll.

  Lydia’s fists beat a staccato on the table as she looked imploringly at her mother, who was thrashing a boiled egg into submission with a spoon.

  Pausing in her dismemberment of that oval delight, my wife sought to reassure my youngest. “Of course Mr Bingley is very handsome, Lydia. Not that it matters with his income.”

  “Money does indeed disguise many a disfigurement, girls,” I said. “Sorry looks may be of no consequence in a marriage, though a poor character may demand a price that twenty thousand a year cannot pay.”

  The clatter of cutlery and glass continued while six minds fought a private battle between curiosity and compliance with a father’s wish for peace. Curiosity won, as it nearly always did.

  “Papa, you must allow us some insight into Mr Bingley. The privilege of your sex allows you to visit him; we merely exercise the privilege of ours to ask questions of his character.”

  “I do not deny you the right to ask, Lizzy; I am merely disinclined to answer.” I emphasised the point by lifting the paper to block my view of the table and, more importantly, the table’s view of me. “Besides, I am not used to describing young men. They are rarely sighted at Longbourn, so what I know of them comes mostly from books. My vocabulary would not do him justice.”

  “Then we must take another approach, Papa,” said Lizzy. “You might simply compare him to other young men of our acquaintance. To John Barton, for example.”

  “Interesting.” I lowered my paper. “Let me think. Well, let’s see. Yes, Mr Bingley’s eyes are decidedly bluer.” I raised the paper again. My statement produced nothing but groans from the table.

  “Papa,” said Jane. “John’s eyes are chestnut.”

  “Precisely,” I said from behind my protective printed wall. “And Mr Bingley’s are blue, so they are indisputably bluer.”

  “Is he taller or shorter than Mr Barton?” said Kitty.

  “He is,” I said.

  “What about his hair?” said Lydia.

  “He certainly had some.” I peered over the paper. “Does that help?” It seemed not, based on the girls’ expres
sions.

  “You might at least say how he was dressed, Papa?” Lydia would not let up.

  As I was old and married, fashion was now as mysterious to me as the supposed movement of the heavens. I resolved to give Lydia’s question more attention at my next meeting with Mr Bingley. “I am pleased to say he was definitely wearing clothes.”

  Kitty and Lydia giggled. I turned down the paper enough to see even Mary raise a half smile. Mrs Bennet was still savaging her egg, which refused to give up its gold and ivory without a struggle.

  “Is he a kind man, Papa?” A question only Jane would ask.

  I folded away the paper and wiped all evidence of the buttered roll from my mouth. “I believe he is, Jane, I believe he is.”

  “It does not matter if he is kind,” mumbled Mrs Bennet through a victorious mouthful of yolk. “When he has—”

  “Four thousand a year,” chorused the girls before erupting into laughter. They knew their mother well.

  ~ ~ ~

  Despite the good humour in the house, I felt an urgent desire for a little solitude. All the talk of Mr Bingley had caused me to think of John and his plight.

  When a man wishes to withdraw from company, he must have somewhere to withdraw to. Somewhere with nothing of interest to those whose company he attempts to avoid.

  My high-walled castle was the library and its keep the armchair, commissioned by my grandfather and worn down by three generations of Bennets into the most comfortable piece of furniture imaginable. I always fell into it like a tired caterpillar, emerging later as a butterfly ready to tackle family, finances, and the whims of life with renewed energy.

  Others travelled to Kathmandu or Cape Town in search of knowledge or enlightenment. I needed only to open a book to broaden my horizons. The smell of the sea and foreign shores bore no comparison to that of the printed page.

  These tomes were better guardians of my sanctuary than any Cerberus. Only Lizzy and Jane would brave them, and their company I usually did not mind.