Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (22 page)

A man may shoot the man who invades his character, as he may shoot him who attempts to break into his house.

—SAMUEL JOHNSON

My wife thinks that with her sweet note all will be forgiven and we will resume life as a married couple. She thinks that to present me with her unborn child will make amends for her behaviour. She thinks to pass off this latest child as mine. She is wrong on all counts. I have not forgiven her. Nor will I ever forget the humiliation heaped upon me when, in Bath, she tore herself from my grasp and raced after that bounder, leaving me to stand in the middle of the path, a figure of scorn should anyone venture past, a husband abandoned in a public place by a wife whose contumely knew no bounds. Unsuccessful in her attempt to throw herself into the arms of her lover, did she then return
with me to Mrs. Littleworth's of her own free will? No. Was she successful in her attempt to seduce me into allowing her to stay in Bath? No. Did she return with me at that moment to her rightful home? No. And so, at the end of my encounter during which I attempted to show her the folly of her ways, I had no recourse but to leave the premises and make the sad and dreary journey back to Longbourn.

I had been shown to be a man without honour, a cuckold, a worthless appendage to a woman who had abandoned her husband and her children and her place as a respectable woman in society. What could I possibly do to repair such damage?

I had not held a firearm since my youth. My father, thinking to teach me manly habits, took me often into the woods where we sought to flush out a few grouse. He showed me his gun, how to load it, and where to fire it. I did so, though without much enthusiasm, for I had no quarrel with birds and small animals, and grouse was not much good for eating anyway. So I paid as little attention to the workings of firearms as I could get away with, reminding myself to call out “Good shot!” every time I heard the crack of my father's gun.

As for pistols—those instruments integral to dueling now that swords, thanks to the vagary of fashion, had fallen from favour—I was quite unacquainted with them save to look at them in Father's study where they lay side by side upon a bed of velvet within an oaken case.
Fortunately, or so it would seem now, Tom, when only a boy like me, took it upon himself to show me the rudiments of pistol shooting, and together we would borrow the pistols, unloaded, of course, and play at being highwaymen. Great fun as I recall.

The venture I was about to undertake would be not at all amusing nor would it be for sport. I could be killed. I could kill another. What price honour?

And so the duel. If I could not restore Marianne's reputation, I could, with luck, restore mine.

Tom was not at all enthusiastic about being my second. “Surely, sir, there is a less dangerous way to settle a dispute.” I would have none of it, yet he continued his argument. “But, sir, I know nothing about dueling.” I answered that he knew enough about pistols to give me some reassurance that I would not make a fool out of myself. To that, he agreed. I made my way to Northfield, where, only a few days before, the colonel had made his return. Heedless of his servant's “I will see if the master is at home,” I brushed him aside and stomped into the sitting room. “Millar! Edward Bennet here. I come to call you out!”

Millar drew himself up from the chair he had been sitting in. “Surely you jest,” he said.

I threw my glove on the floor. “There,” I said, “the die is cast. Choose your weapons.”

I had never before seen such insolence as in the way he stood, in the way he looked at me—a veritable curl in his lip—and in the languid way he picked up the glove. “You
cannot be serious,” he said. “I am after all a military man and am accomplished in the way of weapons and, if the truth be known, dueling.”

“I am well aware of your history, all of it,” I said. “Choose your weapons. Our seconds will agree on a time and place.”

“Now, hold on, my man. If you are set upon shooting someone, you might turn your attention to that idiot woman who is your wife. She is a silly creature, a mere trifle, surely not so worthy as to warrant our discommoding ourselves in so dramatic a fashion.” He bowed slightly. “Be assured that I return her to you with the same alacrity with which she left you. You have my sympathy.”

I repeated, “Choose your weapons.”

He smiled, again the curled lip. “As you wish. Pistols.”

“Pistols it shall be. Good morning to you.”

And thus it was that on an overcast morning, the light of day just beginning to show through the forest, we two found ourselves selecting pistols, readying ourselves for what could be the last hour of our lives. Our seconds stood nearby. Tom looked wary. The colonel's second, a lowly private—could he find no one of his class friendly to his cause?—looked terrified.

As for the colonel, he had dressed himself in full military regalia no doubt to intimidate me into withdrawing from an exercise that he considered beneath him. “'Tis not too late, Bennet, to save ourselves this trouble and return to our warm beds.”

“It is too late. You have impugned my honour and sullied the reputation of my wife.”

“I know nothing of your honour, but the reputation of your wife, such as you put it, is her own doing. And yours, if I may be so bold. A husband who cannot control his wife has only himself to blame for her excursions into questionable territory. I have nothing to do with any of this foolishness.”

“You are a coward, Millar. All your talk is nothing but an attempt to save your own hide, but this time your slick tongue will not protect you. I will have my satisfaction. Proceed, Tom.”

Tom read out the rules from the pamphlet I had secured from my library, placed there long ago I expect by my father. “You will, after choosing your pistol, walk thirty paces in the direction opposite to the other. You will turn, then, and on my signal, you will fire. Once. Is that agreed?”

We nodded, each took up one of the pistols, and glanced briefly at one another. It gave me great pleasure to see that Colonel Millar was not quite so haughty now; after all, he could not know for certain my level of expertise with firearms, but he could be certain of my seriousness. This, he knew finally, was not a joke.

I turned my back, he turned his, and I walked thirty paces toward the dawn. We turned. Tom tossed his neckerchief onto the ground, our signal to fire. We faced each other and aimed. I felt the shot sting my breast. I fell,
certain that this breath would be my last. As I lay there on the cold grey ground where sunlight would never again show itself, a truth, as if it were a bullet itself, struck me: that honour is a poxy whore, my wife is wicked, the world is wicked, and I am wicked. I took my hand from my chest expecting blood to gush forth and not caring that it would. My life—not an especially distinguished one—was quite over. It was of little matter that my existence ended in such a ridiculous way, a bullet bleeding the life out of me. I readied myself to sigh a final good-bye when just at that moment, Tom reached beneath my torn shirt to ascertain the extent and the site of the wound, and to his amazement and mine, he pulled forth my pocket edition of Montaigne, its cover shot through. “You are saved, sir,” said Tom. “A miracle.”

To the astonishment of my opponent and of the hapless private, I rose unsteadily to my feet and said with all the force of one so nearly dead, “Stand, sir, and be fired upon.” Colonel Millar did as I demanded and in his eyes I read more fear than contempt. He all but turned away entirely, perhaps intending even to run. What a waste of a man, I thought. He is not worth the powder. Nor is she. I have risked my life for a woman who can never love me, nor I her, but to whom I am forever bound. I am about to shoot a man who is of no import to me, who is incidental to the downward spiral of my life, no matter that I stand here unharmed. And with that and out of pure disgust I raised my pistol and fired into the air. What little satisfaction was
to be gained from this ridiculous situation was now mine. Quite amazing how little it mattered. Then, like the wounded man I was expected to be, I fell once more to the ground.

When the smoke cleared, the colonel exclaimed, “My God! What can have happened? I did not mean to wound you.” He stood transfixed, holding the revolver, while the private, now as pale as his commanding officer, raced to aid Tom, who by this time had wrapped his neckerchief about my breast. “The pistol, something must have gone awry with the weapon. It aimed where I would not have it. It is not my fault! I will not have it so!”

“He thinks you are wounded, sir,” Tom whispered. Millar continued from his position sixty paces away: “Please forgive the poor aim,” he shouted. “I never meant to hit you; I meant only to frighten you.” I groaned loudly. Millar babbled on: “We must keep all this a secret; no one must know.” Tom shot him a look far more dangerous than any bullet. “Afraid we can't do that, sir. This man needs medical attention.”

Millar covered his face and his voice shook: “And now my reputation as an officer and a gentleman—and yes, as an excellent shot—is ruined.” I pretended to struggle to stand, then to lose my balance, steadied by Tom and the private. “Good going, sir,” said Tom. “We're with ye,” said the private.

“Private! Stand here with me!” the colonel ordered. The private did not move. “Oh, God,” Millar moaned.
“Good grief, now I am deserted, and soon everyone will know that only I fired at my opponent and that you, you damned commoner, shot into the air. Everyone will believe that you are the gentleman and I the cad.” With that he fell to his knees and, in the presence of his inferiors, began to weep.

Glorious surrender. Satisfaction is mine. My honour is restored. I care not a jot.

Ah yes, of course, at home and with my dutiful wife, another scene: “What has happened?” she shrieked. “You are filthy, your boots muddy to the knee! Oh, what is that hole in your jacket? Why is such a hole . . .” Apparently she realized that a gunshot might do that sort of damage because she began to tear at my coat. “Take it off! Get it away from here! What has happened? No, do not tell me! Who is dead? Do not tell me! Are you hurt?” And on and on. She whirled about the room, shrieking for the servants, plucking first at myself and then at the draperies and the lace coverings on the chairs, all the while dancing further and further away from my disordered appearance. Ah yes, my wife has returned. And as expected, she is of little use. I shrugged off my jacket and proceeded into my library from where I write this entry.

She adds to my household another child, a boy, I hope, but if not, a girl will do. The parentage of such a child will always remain a mystery, at least to me, but she or I hope he will be welcome in my house nonetheless. Whichever its sex, it will always remain a stranger to me; indifference
is preferable to cruelty, and I have no need of the latter. Although still babies, Jane and Elizabeth have become company quite delightful enough, I suppose, in their own though different ways. They scoot about the house, Elizabeth crawling behind Jane as together they sing songs taught them by Mathilda, she who is now mercifully absent.

My intention is to ignore my wife's dalliance. In that, I am certain to be successful, for I no longer care that she may have gone even so far as to give herself to another. She will not have the satisfaction of knowing of the duel; she would of course make herself the heroine of whatever transpired. She may hear of it from others, but as for me, I have lost interest in her, in most everything. As for myself, I have no plans to confess my sins to Mrs. Bennet. After all, I owe her less than what I have already given her. Mrs. Rummidge has no reason to suspect that my behaviour with the serving wench went beyond mere talk, and of course my little girls have quite forgot what they never quite knew. I am safe. It is good to be safe; I shall not risk losing myself again.

I have decided on names for this child. If it is a boy, he shall be called Thomas after my friend, who will be pleased by such an honour. If it is a girl, she shall be called Mary after my wife, by whom I intend to be well pleased, exactly as a husband deserves and whenever he desires. I have discussed these names with Mrs. Rummidge and she has given her blessing. It is time that my household experience
a peacefulness unknown in recent years. It is time that everyone calms down and tends to the duties at hand. I will see to it, mark my words.

And so I set this journal aside, perhaps forever. The need for confession seems to have passed and in its place comes the sort of contentment I have not experienced in these many months. It may be that in the future, should circumstances dictate, I will take up this pen once more. For now, though, my tale is ended. I shall withdraw into the saving graces of my books.

Dear Jane,

I had not been home for even a fortnight when on an early morning my husband burst through the front door looking for all the world as if he had been in a battle! His coat was torn, he wore some sort of bandage around his chest, his trousers and boots were covered with mud; and what is worse, he would not tell me what occurred that would leave him in such disrepair! I did what I could, trying to snatch the doilies from the chairs to clean him as best I could, but he seemed not at all interested in his own well-being or in my concern. He simply walked past me and into his library, where, I am duty-bound to admit, he spends more and more of his time. Thus, I have had to set my curiosity aside, for I know that he will never confide in me. A most private man, my husband.

No matter all that, I am here at Longbourn now a
month and ready to endure—this time without protest—another birth of the child I pray is a boy, my lost Edward's brother. It shall be soon.

Mr. Bennet received me politely despite my long absence and my wrongdoings, such as he understands them. His attentions to me have been cordial, though not as warm as I would wish. In return, I have exerted myself to become the sort of wife who deserves his respect. To wit, I rise with the sun each day, dress without the assistance of a maid, and see to my children even before their nurse is awake. Oh, Jane, they are wonderful, my girls. Elizabeth, about whom you have heard so much, most of it off-putting, has come round and holds out her little hands and says “Mama” so beautifully and then smiles and toddles to me and I lift her into my arms and hold her close. Little Jane comes stumbling after and soon we are entwined, the three of us. Not all the perfume from Arabia could smell as sweet as my children.

For a brief time we play their favourite game, One-Two, Buckle My Shoe, which you surely remember from our own childhood. My babies will learn numbers and counting from me just as they are learning words from all those around them. I do believe that girls need to acquire skills of management, in addition to the sewing and preserving of fruits, which, while taught us by our mother, were neglected while I was away. I find it painful to write the word Bath, for it summons memories I would prefer to forget just as I am trying to forget the girl I pretended to be during
those weeks, my mortification so near at hand that I could not see it. Thus, I think of that time as “when I was away.”

I have given up French. In the early days of my return, Mr. Bennet thought to please me with the little French he knew, although his tone was not at all cheery, more sarcastic, more like what I sometimes heard from the wags in Bath. I have asked him to leave off “ma cherie” and stick to “Mrs. Bennet” and, if he so chooses, “my dear.” Recently he has so chosen. Why anyone would prefer French to English is beyond me, given that the country—France, that is—is in such constant turmoil. They cannot keep a king or even a queen, it seems, and talk is everywhere about some horrific tool of execution the French invented,
la
guillotine
. Fortunately, I have forsworn the language so am not bothered to discover just what it is. I note only that it is female; only the French would be so bold, although surely they would not be so bold as to make use of it.

I have taken over the Family Accounts, you will be pleased to know. Mr. Bennet was at first unsure about my becoming Treasurer but I convinced him that his leisure time would only increase and so he acceded to my pleas, though only for what he calls a trial period. So far I have done a fine job. Even Mr. Bennet agrees, though somewhat distantly. I continue to assist the housekeeper in the making of jellies, comfits, sweetmeats, and cordials and will continue to do so until the child within demands that I give all my attention to him. I have begun to look about me, at
the village and persons there less fortunate than I, and I find that my visits to the sick and the poor are welcome. I shall continue my efforts on their behalf once my lying-in period is behind me.

As if to acknowledge the improvements I have made in myself, Mr. Bennet, during a moment of unexpected intimacy, when it appeared that my about-to-be-born would indeed become born, uttered a somewhat odd promise: that he would accept the child as his be it a girl or a boy. If it is a boy, he wishes to name him Tom. If it is a girl, he wishes to name her Mary, after yours truly. I am quite overcome, though I remain a bit puzzled.

Nonetheless, dear sister, I am making an effort to do my duty. I accept that at eighteen I am a woman, a girl no longer. I acknowledge that I am the mother of two and soon of three. Happily, I am the wife of a virtuous man. I have put my girlish past behind me and find that I do not miss it. But oh, Jane, all this is easier to write than to live. There are moments when a thrill passes through me, when I recall the touch of his hand, of his lips on mine, of the passion that surged from deep within my very being. I have found in myself that which heretofore I believed to simmer only in men and which I know must be stilled. To that end, I have taken to placing a pebble in my shoe. As I walk, it rubs uncomfortably against the heel and serves to remind me of my fall—or should I say falls—from grace. It is a daily, albeit minimal, punishment. However, I shall
keep all that to myself as I see no reason to share with Mr. Bennet the secrets that I must carry to my grave. Little Jane will belong to him always, as will I. 'Tis enough. 'Twill do.

Your devoted sister,
Mrs. Edward Bennet