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

  On that day, however, I picked at my books like a spinster’s cat picks at a tray of titbits, finding satisfaction nowhere and ending the morning perched on the armchair, drumming out an inconsolable rhythm on the arm. Not for the first time, as the worn patch beneath my fingers proved.

  I stood, then moved to the window to lean against the glass, hoping the cold on my forehead might bring some clarity. In the summer, the girls chased each other around the court, but now leaves took their place, twisting and turning in the autumn wind. I thought of John at the window in Meryton.

  It would have been easy, then, to wander down roads of memories long left untraveled. Back to the same Bath that had shattered my young friend with the shock of love. I caught another hint of lavender in the air.

  “No,” I said to myself. “It is no longer who I am.”

  To remember lavender would be to remember everything. Fresh loaves at Curran’s. The rough bark of the great oak in Crescent Fields and her delight at the sight of a sparrow or squirrel. Her smile. Her touch, fleeting, yet full of promise.

  In that moment, I pitied John. Perhaps he would stand in his own library in some thirty years’ time and try to forget the day he considered a pair of fine eyes in Bath.

  Learning the rituals

  I was forewarned of Mr Bingley’s return visit, but not by my sighting of his black horse (considered a perfectly acceptable colour by the girls). No, I was alerted by the flurry of activity that suddenly struck the household. Aprons abandoned, cheeks pinched, and curls pulled and patted dutifully into place, then pulled and patted again.

  “Papa, you will introduce us?” Kitty had the same pleading in her eyes I recalled from picnics when one slice of cake remained. Cake you could divide and share; Mr Bingley you could not.

  If that young man had had sharp enough eyes, he would have seen six noses pressed flat against the window that looked down the path leading to Longbourn. Their curiosity could not have been greater if all the circuses of England had assembled in the garden.

  I received him in the library, in the hope this might encourage a reciprocal meeting place at Netherfield some time in the future.

  “It is so good to see you again, Mr Bennet!” As propriety demanded, I did not introduce him to the girls, whose beauty he dutifully praised during his visit. But I positioned him near the window, so they could all glimpse his coat.

  “A marvellous collection of books!” His head shifted from side to side, seemingly unable to settle on any one bookcase.

  “Do you have any particular interests, Mr Bingley? I admit to a little pride over my travel books and those on entomology. There is little so diverting, or diverse, as insects.”

  His red face suggested he might not be attending the next meeting of the Meryton Natural History Society. It did not matter that he had no liking for insects. After all, most young men are more interested in painted ladies than red admirals, though it would have been unfair to condemn Mr Bingley so. I sensed a little nervousness as he continued to survey the room.

  “Every book I read reminds me of how much I do not know.”

  “Your interests lie outside the library, then? Do you enjoy shooting?”

  We found ourselves on safer ground, for Mr Bingley shared my love of the country. Mrs Bennet was right, as she so often is in matters of matrimony; he would make a perfect son-in-law, even without his four thousand pounds a year. His only failing was a propensity to speak in exclamation marks. The enthusiasm was overwhelming. I feared we would drown in an excess of punctuation if he ever shared a room with Sir William.

  “When we first met, Mr Bingley, you mentioned your family was in trade?” He nodded and, for a moment, his smile seemed a little tighter. “And you are from the northern counties?”

  “From Yorkshire.”

  “I apologise for asking, but I have a gentleman friend with distant family in that very county. Business folk. The Bartons. I wondered if perhaps you knew of them?”

  “Can’t say I do, Mr Bennet, but I am not well informed of our business interests. There are too many numbers in business, you know. Which is not to say I can’t use numbers, but there are rather a lot of them.”

  “My friend has been out of the country for many years and lost touch with them in the chaos of travel. I hoped I might be able to get him an address.”

  The light returned to Mr Bingley’s smile. “Perhaps I might make enquiries, Mr Bennet?”

  “Would you?”

  “It would give me great pleasure to do so! I shall attend to the correspondence as soon as I return to Netherfield.”

  Before he left, I remembered my obligation to Lydia. There was the blue coat, of course, and some kind of breeches. That would not satisfy their curiosity, but I could hardly ask him for an inventory of his attire. He wore his neckcloth with an endearing touch of carelessness that spoke to a lack of arrogance and pride. That was as much fashion as I could reliably describe. It would have to do.

  I never gave much thought to the neckcloth, but was once told London gentlemen could spend hours ensuring the correct shape and style. A city where dinner guests start their preparations before the cook was not for me.

  The journey back to Mr Bingley’s horse took us past the drawing room where I knew the girls were waiting. A little cruelty would exact revenge for disturbing my breakfasts with their never-ending questions. As we passed the closed door, I paused outside. “And, of course, you must meet my daughters, Mr Bingley.” The door moved at my touch, hopefully startling the occupants within. “Perhaps you might come to dinner tomorrow?” I said, before moving on.

  After we bid each other farewell, I turned back toward the house quickly enough to catch the rush of movement behind the window. I put up the collar of my coat, blew briskly on my hands and thought of the welcoming warmth of the study as Mr Bingley disappeared around the thorn hedge. Then, with a final glance behind, I set off to follow him.

  A gaggle of girls denied an introduction could be a fearsome sight. It was best to leave them to cool down while there was still enough light to walk the grounds easily.

  ~ ~ ~

  Mr Bingley was unable to come to dinner as planned, indisposed by some urgent matter of business at Netherfield.

  Mrs Bennet’s look of sorrow at the news reminded me of Toke’s after someone ate the last slice of his apple tart. The general disappointment soon dissipated, though, since there was an assembly to look forward to the following night.

  Meryton assemblies lasted mere hours but always entertained us for many days. First, there was anticipation. Then participation. And, finally, the breakfast table revelations, where the pie was cold and tasteless, but the gossip warm and invigorating.

  As we sat around the candlelight in the early evening, my reading to the girls fell on ears already lost to the prospect of the fiddler’s bow and a gentleman’s offer to dance.

  “You will introduce us to Mr Bingley as early as polite, dear husband? So that he may have enough time to admire Jane.”

  I put down Blundell’s A Journey on Horseback, knowing it could not hope to compete with a bachelor on a stallion. Or even one on foot.

  “Is not one look enough, Mrs Bennet? Do you doubt Jane’s charms?” The object of my flattery smiled.

  “Mr Bennet, you know that Jane is by far the most handsome girl in Meryton. But we must be careful.” She leant forward and lowered her voice—quite why I did not know, as there was no servant present. “Lady Lucas has a most devious nature. She will hope to engage Mr Bingley in conversation so her Charlotte can present herself in a better light. If he were only to see her at a distance, he would pass by without so much as a word. She cannot hope to charm him with her looks, but she may appear more favourably in conversation.”

  “Mama!” said Lizzy, ever protective of her friend.

  Mrs Bennet sat with the knowing contentment of a monk. “It is the truth of it, Lizzy, as you well know.”

  I picked up Blundell’s book again and began thumbing through
the pages. “An introduction will be impossible, my dear because I will not be there.”

  “Not be there! How can that be? You must come with us, Mr Bennet—we shall be lost without you.” Mrs Bennet collapsed in her chair, all semblance of monastic tranquillity gone.

  “The assembly rooms are not large, so you are unlikely to get lost. No, you must rely on others for an introduction. The Lucases, perhaps?”

  “The Lucases…of course,” said Mrs Bennet. “Such a fine family. There is never a bad word to be said about them. I am sure they will oblige.” My wife’s opinions were always as changeable as the Hertfordshire winds.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next evening, I should have been in bed but was too engrossed in Bracegirdle’s Travels in Africa to make the short journey upstairs. When navigating the ivory and gold coasts, exploring dark rivers and darker forests, it is all too easy to forget to put on a night shift. A sputtering candle dragged me back to England.

  I allowed myself the luxury of one more encounter with pirates and parrots when the shrill cries of both suddenly seemed all too real. The family had returned from the assembly, the general clamour suggested an evening rich in gossip. Curiosity chipped away at my normal disdain for such entertainments and led me to wonder whether I should have gone to Meryton with them. It was helped in its task by my promise to John, a promise given fresh urgency by a new letter:

  I am resigned to the toil of estate affairs but hold hope of visiting again before any return to Vienna. I look forward to our continuing correspondence and any advice you might have on the situation we discussed on our walk at Longbourn.

  Though not yet ready to throw myself wholeheartedly into his business, I decided to learn more of the rituals of the assembly dance, particularly the one that continues when the music stops. There is nothing permanent except change, as Heraclitus might have said. My skills that John seemed so determined to rely on were honed in another decade. Society changes slowly, but it does change; I could not be sure my understanding of the nuances of courtship was still as sound as Henry Barton and others seemed to believe. As such, I resolved to learn what I could from those currently engaged in that activity.

  I could already imagine how the actual assembly had proceeded. Within moments, Kitty and Lydia, for example, would have found the liveliest young men in the room and forced them to twirl and pirouette in their wake. Mrs Bennet would have floated through the crowd like a dandelion seed on the breeze, armed herself with a glass of punch, then fallen into the company of other mothers eager to discuss matrimonial ambitions. And Lizzy? Well, she would have crossed the assembly room slowly, taking in the assembled gentlefolk like a doctor examines his patients, reviewing all that is right and wrong in them—with particular attention to the wrong. It is an admirable quality in a doctor, less admirable in a young lady. Even those with Lizzy’s extraordinary intelligence should perhaps enjoy the innocence of youth a little longer, leaving the world-weary comments to their fathers.

  Like shot birds, Mrs Bennet and the girls thumped down into sofas and chairs to sit motionless as they gathered strength for the traditional post-assembly review. Kitty announced their return to life with a giggle, no doubt remembering a touch of a gentleman’s hand on the dance floor. Then she and Lydia fetched cold meats, bread, and wine to provide stronger fare than the titbits of gossip now to be shared. The kitchen table, room bereft of cooks and servants, played host to this feast.

  “Mary danced with Mr Toke,” whispered Lizzy as I tore off a lump of bread.

  “I am sorry to have missed that spectacle,” I whispered back. “Toke dances like an overburdened merchant ship, unable to turn easily and always on the verge of capsizing. It is a most diverting sight. Still, Mary seems to have survived the ordeal well enough. You enjoyed the dance, Mary?” I said, raising my voice.

  “It was tolerable, Papa.”

  “You seem happy, Jane,” I noted. “Perhaps you have taken too much wine?”

  Jane turned her face away. I could not see in the dim candlelight, but I was sure she blushed.

  “Too much wine? Such nonsense,” said Mrs Bennet. She laid her hand on Jane’s arm. “Of course she is happy, for Mr Bingley would not leave her side all evening.”

  Jane shook her head. “Not all evening, Mama.”

  Her mother did not allow anything as trivial as the truth to contain her excitement. “Perhaps he did stand up with some other girls, but his eye was always on Jane. And well it might be, for the others were all very plain.”

  “So tell me, how did you all divine Mr Bingley’s attachment? What did our friend do to inspire such a diagnosis? What makes him so worthy of admiration?” Curiosity crept across Lizzy’s face at my questions.

  No satisfactory answer was to come, since Mrs Bennet and our two youngest took my words as a cue to rattle off a series of compliments on Mr Bingley’s cheekbones, chest, legs, and other favourable features. The girls regarded him as perfect, a declaration that revealed their lack of experience with men. Even Achilles had his heel, though I daresay Mrs Bennet would have forgiven him this blemish given the likely size of his olive plantations.

  “He impresses with his conversation,” said Jane.

  “At last,” I said. “An advantage not explained by his physique alone. And what passes for good conversation between young people these days?”

  “He is—” began my wife.

  “Attentive,” said Jane.

  “He complimented me on my gown,” said Kitty.

  “He is modest,” said Lizzy. “He has his pride, but only that which is due to him through his position and character. And he does not consider himself above others, whatever his station in life might encourage him to think. Unlike others.”

  “Others?” I said.

  “I was thinking of one of Mr Bingley’s companions—Mr Darcy.”

  The shriek from my wife had me half looking for parrots again. “Do not talk of that man, Lizzy. What arrogance! I do not believe he smiled once the whole evening. They say he owns half of Derbyshire and ten thousand a year. But what is Derbyshire to us? It is practically Scotland, no doubt full of pipes and puddles.”

  “He certainly seems better suited to northern moors than Meryton dances.” As she spoke, Lizzy’s kneaded a piece of bread between her fingers until it was flat and flaky, the crumbs tumbling down on to her plate.

  “It seems he has earned your disapproval,” I said.

  “It is of no consequence, Papa. He merely described me as tolerable, yet not handsome enough to tempt him.”

  “Did he indeed? Then he has certainly earned my disapproval.” I took my daughter’s hands in mine and squeezed them gently. “How often we find superior men wanting in essential human qualities. My dear Lizzy, he is a man of poor taste and poorer character. Do not give him a moment’s thought. Let us return to the qualities of Mr Bingley. Modest you say?”

  “Not quite so much as John, but I do not think many men are.”

  Modesty coupled with an acceptable degree of pride. Compliments. Attention. Little seemed to have changed from my day. And John certainly had most of those qualities in good measure.

  “And he danced with Jane.” Mrs Bennet clasped her head between her palms. “Twice!”

  I looked at Lizzy for help, but found none.

  “Twice!” repeated my wife, nodding at me furiously.

  “This is a good thing?” I ventured.

  “Good? Why, it is practically a proposal!” Mrs Bennet rubbed Jane’s arm.

  Whether I had never known this or merely forgotten was neither here nor there; the news sent my mind off to travel through the dances of my youth and discover whether I gave false hopes to any ladies by asking them to join me for a second quadrille. “To think of all the effort we men put into poems and perambulations, late-night trysts, and duels with fellow suitors. All it seems we need do is stand up twice with our beloved.”

  “But we are forgetting Mr Bingley’s most attractive quality,” said Mrs Bennet. She st
ared at each one of us, apparently bemused at our lack of response. “He is excessively rich!”

  And therein lay John’s biggest problem.

  ~ ~ ~

  “You are fond of Mr Bingley, Jane?” I put the question outside the following day, as she and Lizzy cut strands of wild vine, its crimson foliage and blackened fruits the perfect decoration for autumnal dinners.

  Jane stood and fought against the wind to brush strands of golden hair from her eyes. “He is most amiable,” she said, which was as much affection as she would ever admit to in the presence of her father.

  “Mind you, you have nothing bad to say about any man. So perhaps I should have asked if you are fonder of Mr Bingley than of other young gentleman with acceptable manners.”

  I did not expect a reply and Jane did not disappoint.

  “You take a curious interest in Mr Bingley?” said Lizzy, as the two girls continued to snip and tease tendrils off the garden wall.

  “May a father not enjoy simple conversation with his daughters without arousing suspicion?”

  “He may. Though I believe, Papa, you would be equally curious were I to enquire about your fondness for a particular beetle among the many that catch your interest.”

  “Unlike any beetle of my acquaintance, Mr Bingley seems universally admired. I simply wonder what distinguishes him from others. He has money to be sure, but I know that would not influence your or Jane’s judgement. Last night you spoke of modesty, attention, and the provision of compliments, but such qualities are not unique to our friend from Netherfield.”

  After dropping a sprig of leaves and berries into a wicker basket, Lizzy did the same with her knife before arching her back with a groan echoed by the distant caw of a crow.

  “Papa,” she said. “I do not believe there is a recipe for a good man or a prescription for genuine affection. If there were, there would be more of both. You cannot bake a man of worth.”