Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say

Juska, Jane

ISBN 10: 1494559706 ISBN 13: 9781494559700

Publisher: Tantor Audio, 2015

Synopsis

It is a truth universally acknowledged that every man in possession of a wife must be in want of a son.

1785 was to be the most marvelous year of Marianne's life, until an unfortunate turn of events left her in a compromised state and desperate for a husband to care-or rather cover-for her. Now, she is stuck in an undesirable marriage to Mr. Edward Bennet, a man desperate in his own way for a male heir. But as she is still carrying a smoldering desire for the handsome Colonel Miller, Mrs. Bennet must constantly find new, clever ways to avoid her husband's lascivious advances until she is once again reunited with her dashing Colonel. Except that the best-laid plans of a woman in good standing can so often go awry, especially when her contrary husband has plans and desires of his own . . .

About this title

About the Author:

Jane Juska was a high school English teacher for more than thirty years, in college for five, and in prison for five. Her memoir, A Round-Heeled Woman, about her late-life adventures in love and sex, was a San Francisco Chronicle bestseller and a national sensation. Juska's essays have appeared in Vogue, Good Housekeeping, and the Huffington Post. She lives in California.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Ch. 1

In May by Candlelight at Brighton, 1785

Dear Jane,

O la! If only poor Mother had lived to tell me of the infamy that would be my wedding night. I recall, dear sister, when soon after your own marriage you tried to warn me of what lay in store: We were upstairs in my own dear little room which looked over the town square. Suddenly you pulled me to the window and said, “Look there.” I did as you asked but saw nothing unusual, only a few dogs playing about. “Look at those two,” you said. “What?” I wondered and then—I shudder to recall—my glance fell upon a pair of dogs, one on his hind legs clasping the rear quarters of the other, all a-quiver. Suddenly he ceased his jittering and returned to ground. It was clear from the rigid portion of this agitator that he was a male, the victim female. I hoped never to see such a sight again. Alas, ’twas not to be.

Something of this I knew to be my fate; I have, after all, reached the proper age of fifteen. And so I kept in my mind that the female dog did not die, though she seemed to take no pleasure from the encounter or to have a choice as to whether or not to participate. Still, she continued on her way afterward with no signs of the ravage that had befallen her. Small comfort.

Brighton is a lovely place. Our (that odious pronoun) inn borders the sea and I can see ships far off on the horizon, and on the promenade couples and families on holiday. One couldn’t wish for a prettier place in which to begin one’s life as a married woman, which, forever and a day, is what I am. I could enjoy myself if it weren’t for the man who is my husband and who appears to be a satyr. He seems to believe that I am his to muss and turn this way and that and up-end at will. He seems to believe it his right to do this at any time of the day or night and often both and sometimes twice in one lying! Surely, dear sister, this frequency is unusual; had you suffered as I do surely you would have warned me.

Here—for writing is my only friend at present—is my wedding night. Wedded bliss it was not. He had been watching me from the darkness and now, his breath heavy from wine, he ordered me to unloose my stays (a not altogether unwelcome command, for as you and I know, stays can bind and even cut when worn overlong). I did as I was told and stood silent in my petticoat, feet bare, arms crossed over my bosom. He dropped his trousers and oh, dear sister, you as a married woman would not be surprised I do not think. But, despite the blissful memories of my beloved colonel, memories I have shared with you, such a sight was new to me; indeed, I had scarcely seen or felt the colonel’s entry, so impassioned had I become from the sensation that his voice and his lips and his touch inspired in me. Clearly, marriage does not require such tenderness, although I was ignorant of that as well. And so the little shriek I uttered from surprise and apprehensiveness Mr. Bennet took as my expression of delight because he grinned and advanced, calling out, “Consummate!” Why he should summon the broth that Mother provided us when we were sickly I have no idea, and so I leapt onto the bed and attempted to cover myself with the bedclothes. But he grabbed them, threw them from me, and straddled me, his manhood seeking its inevitable way up and under my underthings, muttering “Consummate” as he did. All night long and into the morning he was at me—it certainly did not take that dog so long—until he fell off me and to sleep. I followed him shortly for I, too, was exhausted.

To be fair, I must say that despite my protestations, I could not help but admire his energy and his determination, at least in retrospect. And I was grateful to him: after such a night no woman could forestall motherhood, and Mr. Bennet’s paternity would never be questioned, because if anyone had ever been consummated it was I.

I did not bleed, dear sister, and my husband promises to make much of that, so I must dissemble so convincingly that he believes that my pleasure exceeded any pain and injury I might have suffered in my virgin state. I will not tell him—I cannot tell him!—that I did indeed bleed but not on this night. No, not on his night, but on the night of my true marriage (albeit without benefit of clergy) to Colonel Millar those many months ago.

All this you know, but it helps me during this time of despair to recall our meeting, how I stood with all the pretty maidens along the road as the militia in all their splendour marched into Meryton. And how, soon after, their leader, beautiful in his military regalia, black hair, flashing eyes, and oh so tall, stood before me. What can he want? I wondered. And he said, “I am a stranger here and lonely. Would you walk with me about the village on this fine day?” Oh yes, I would and I did. We continued to walk until darkness fell. Tired, we fell upon the grass next to the river, where we lay side by side until he leaned over and kissed me, oh so gently, and oh so gently pressed his hand upon my skirts and then beneath them. You know, dear sister, what came next. I was deflowered and blissfully so. I do not recall returning home; I am certain he escorted me there. I do recall the devastation I felt when I learned soon thereafter that his regiment had been called to another town. At least I have the memories and, truth to tell, a bit more.

But ah, how I thought of my dear colonel during this everlasting wedding night and blessed the memory of his kisses and gentle touches that carried me through the misery of my debut as Mrs. Edward Bennet.

Oh dear, I must close, dear Jane, for he is come upon me again.

Your loving sister,
Marianne

Verbis, quae timido quoque possent addere mentem.

“Words which would have inspired the greatest coward.”

—HORACE

I, Edward Bennet, begin this journal in order to record the events of my life such as they occurred in this year of 1785, the year in which I took myself a wife. Such a momentous occasion is deserving of my considered attention, and this journal will bear witness to my efforts in that direction. And, should I choose to continue those efforts beyond this year, this journal will also serve as a history of myself for those of my descendants who wish to delve into their beginnings. And of course they will, if only the boys, my direct heirs.

First, some explanation of my life as it preceded my marriage. I have always been a retiring sort of fellow, more interested in books than in parties, more at home in the country than in the town. I grew into manhood in this very home, Longbourn, a respectable red-brick with a respectable cook and housekeeper and a manservant for myself, in the midst of green meadows, a pretty forest, trails for walking, a brook for fishing, all the beauty the English countryside offers. I was content.

However, not long after reaching my majority, I faced the necessity of finding a wife even though I was perfectly happy in my library and on my ambles about the property. I looked into my future with apprehension. Should I remain single and childless, my property, entailed as it was, would fall to my closest male heir, in this case a cousin, a Mr. Collins. In truth, I came to detest Mr. Collins, and as he grew in years and in health, I lived each day in the fear that should he so choose, in the absence of male heirs, Longbourn would be his and my family cast out. The very thought that Collins might someday stroll about the grounds of this, my home, was intolerable. Action, never my natural inclination, seemed called for, and so reluctantly I left Longbourn, though never for very long, and ventured into nearby Meryton, where, I had been given to understand, marriageable girls waited in every parlour and at every ball. It appeared that I would have to learn to dance.

Ch. 2

A Tuesday in May at Longbourn

Dear Jane,

Do you remember as fondly as I the dancing in the town hall? It is the very hall where your beloved Mr. Phillips proposed to you beneath the trees which lined the path where the two of you wandered. I recall Mother worrying that Mr. Phillips was only a clerk. How pleased you must be that he has become the attorney that our father was, his office occupying the very space as that of our dear papa. Oh, that Father had lived! He might well have warned me off entering into a loveless marriage. Still, I suppose he would have seen Mr. Bennet as upright and as responsible as any suitor could be, the holder of property, a man entirely suitable for his daughter. But of course, were I to confess—as I always do to you, dear sister—I would admit that fortune smiled on me, perhaps in recompense for the terror that struck when my monthly flux ceased. I will not trouble you with the memory of we two in the shameful corner of my little bedroom where I told you my fears. So while I cannot bring myself to think of Mr. Bennet as a godsend, I must admit that he was a bit of luck and came, as they say, “in the nick of time.”

Can you hear my sigh, dear sister?

Until he stumbled against me during the minuet—how anyone could trip over his own feet in such a simple dance is beyond me—I was barely aware of this fellow, who on first glance and first dance was clearly from the country. The word “bumpkin” comes to mind. My attention was absorbed by the presence of Colonel Millar far across the room, who gazed at me with the utmost fondness—surely my due—and whose name was next on my dance card. Taller than Papa, his eyes as black as his moustache, his smile warm and inviting, he bowed slightly in my direction, and my heart beat faster. The dance would be a gavotte, my favourite, particularly so with the colonel, who would be the lead man, of course, and who at the end, as tradition would have it, must kiss his partner. Oh, please let me not stumble or, worse, perspire. Happily, I had brought with me a second pair of gloves, which would replace those which this Mr. Bennet had soiled with the moisture of exertion from his own hands. Mr. Bennet, if I may be so crude, sweats. Colonel Millar, an officer need I remind you, perspires and that only lightly. I prayed to the heavens above that I would do neither.

I like to think that the colonel took notice of my small waist but could not help but note that his eyes fell most often on my neckline, which, allowed by such social occasions, had dipped somewhat, encouraging a wee bit of peeping from those who would be so bold. Do you recall how tightly we laced our stays so that such peeping would be rewarded? Mother urged us to take up the newer style, which she said was not so heavily boned; she even offered to purchase the new corsets for us. She said they would not so distort us as she assured us they did by narrowing our back and widening our front. But we would not risk the newer and more comfortable strapless stays because they did not make the waist small or push the bosom into amplitude but forced us only to stand with our shoulders back. Fashionable, our mother said. More of her advice we did not heed. Such are daughters, I suppose.

As the gavotte ended and I looked up at the colonel, he leaned down and his lips did not graze my cheek or scuff my ear or touch my brow. His lips met my lips quickly, soft and lightly as a butterfly. Just as quickly he straightened and smiled, holding me by my elbow to steady me as he led me back to you and Mother, and as he assisted me to sit—for it was clear that my head was spinning—he whispered in my ear, “You are a love.” Had it not been for Mother’s suspicious frown, I would have followed him then and there. Alas, my dance card announced the next dance and my next partner: Mr. Bennet again. Mr. Bennet took no notice of my waist; his ogling went directly to my bosom, where it remained throughout the minuet. Subtlety, it would seem, is not his forte.

Even now, some weeks into our marriage, I cannot believe that my life is forever tied to him. I take some comfort in the loveliness of the countryside.

Yrs affectionately,
Marianne

Edward Bennet on His Courting

Quem circumcursans huc atque huc saepe Cupido Fulgebat crocina splendidus in tunica.

“When Cupid fluttering round me here and there Shone in his rich purple mantle.”

—CATULLUS

Despite my initial awkwardness on the dance floor, I will confess that I was quite admired by the young ladies present. And so I continued with plans to become the father of sons, the caretakers of my old age and of the property that would naturally fall to them. I found the future Mrs. Bennet, née Gardiner, to my liking, in ways similar to the broodmare of which I was at that time particularly fond. Like the pretty little horse, Miss Gardiner had a sprightly manner and hips that promised the birthing of sleek colts; I imagined this exuberant young girl frolicking in the fields behind the barn, she and the mare, together. I imagined myself gazing fondly at the scene from my library, then turning to my books, which even at my relatively young age numbered, along with those volumes attained by my father, in the hundreds. Ah yes, I could imagine that her 4,000 pounds per annum might serve even to add to my collection. My own 2,000 was barely sufficient to keep a few servants, but Miss Gardiner, I could see, was young and strong and would not require a large household staff. I decided to ask for her hand in marriage.

June, from Longbourn

My dear Jane,

What a fine sister you are! Too late I have come across the little book you handed me when I was but fourteen. As I did all good sense, I set it aside when you offered it to me and now, of course, it is too late. Allow me to point out those Hints, as they are titled in this little book, so that should you have daughters, they will be made aware of pitfalls and so avoid the errors of my recent past. I know that you yourself must have made use of it, as your Mr. Phillips is a living example of the ideal man revealed in those chapters, which guide us, as they say, on our Journey to the Land of Hymen. I need not tell you that guidance of this sort ought be made available to all young women as they are made aware of their future role as wives and mothers. I have copied out some of it for you:

1) If the man have thick, red lips, he will be simple, good-natured, and easily managed.

2) If he speak quick but distinct, and walk firm and erect, he will be ambitious, active, and probably a good husband.

That, my dear sister, describes my colonel, not my husband. The following is more characteristic of Mr. Bennet:

3) If he speak and look with his mouth extended, it is a certain mark of stupidity.

4) If he be beetle-browed, it shows duplicity and fickleness.

Now, I know you are saying that Mr. Bennet is not as repulsive as all that and reluctantly I would have to agree: He is not stupid even though his lips are thin and lacking in colour, with occasional spittle in the corners. He as yet reveals no fickleness; indeed, he is more faithful more frequently than I would have it. I do not yet know about his duplicity, although his calls for repeated lovemaking, as he would call it, would suggest a certain dishonesty. But then, I suppose one could call me duplicitous as well, for I married as a virgin, withholding from him the secret only you and I s...

About this edition

• Publisher: Tantor Audio
• Publication date: 2015
• ISBN 10: 1494559706
• ISBN 13: 9781494559700
• Binding: MP3 CD