Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say Read Free

them in Mr. Bennet’s presence. He is not a cruel man, but he is without that which would allow him to apprehend my sadness. I hesitate to say something so harsh about the man who is my husband, but he is without feeling, at least when it comes to me. His sympathies are great for his horses, especially the foals, and for the old dog who follows him everywhere. I cannot recall a single time when he has looked directly into my eyes; his own dart about every which way and light only on my belly where my child grows with each passing day. Often I wonder if he is simply shy in my presence, but I cannot know, for there is no conversation between us. And no smiles. In the evening, after supper, he repairs to his library. I sit by the fire sewing tiny clothes for the baby until the fading of the light.He lights our way upstairs with nary a word or even a nod. Could it be that he regrets his insatiability? That I remind him of his coarser nature? Well, there is no sense in pursuing answers. It is time to dry my tears.
    I will send to the village for the name of a midwife to assist me when my time is nigh. I have decided to keep my expectations from Mr. Bennet for the time being; he could very well question the speediness with which I have become pregnant; after all, it has been not even one month since our marriage. Of course, he would put it up to his potency, and yet one can never be sure of this man. When he is not turning from me, his face dark with concentration on one of his books, he is mercurial: laughing, flailing his extremities, galumphing across the bed (and me), his eyes aglow with lust, a terrifying sight. Even during daylight hours I cannot so much as cross from one side of the room to the other without his grabbing at my petticoat and shoving his hands, which for a man who does no manual labour whatsoever are surprisingly coarse and rough, beneath my chemise. And he seems not to care if his behaviour is witnessed by others! Only the other day, whilst I was consulting with Cook in the pantry, in he stormed and all but tossed me onto the counter, where he lifted up my petticoat and began to rummage. The shame of it seems always to be mine, never his. Also the cleaning up after. Cook refuses to come near.
    When he is not asserting his dominion in the bedchamber or the parlour or even the kitchen, he sulks, is surly inmanner, broods, and spends much time in his library—where, not surprisingly, I am not allowed to go. On the rare occasions that he takes a stroll about his property I do enter the library and have found there many books about the creatures that live nearby, a very fat book called
The Sermons of John Donne
, whose very title puts me off, but also some novels! O la! One such is
Pamela
by a Mr. Samuel Richardson. Although Mother taught us to read when we were but small, she forbade either of us to read that very book; but now that I am a married woman, she could have no objections. Mr. Bennet is fastidious about the arrangement of his books so I have been very careful to tuck the book beneath my skirt so that no servant can notice and then to return it to its proper place before Mr. Bennet returns. O Jane! It affords me such pleasure even for so short a time. Here is her story: Pamela, a young servant girl, is pursued by an older and titled man. Oh, Jane, she is only fifteen years of age—as am I—and she vows to lose her life before her virtue. I will her to succeed; however, I have read only to page 9 of the first folio and cannot imagine her maintaining her purity for another 400 pages! We shall have to see; in the meantime, she brings me great delight. I am her champion on every page. She is my friend.
    I must hush, here he comes.
    Yrs affectly,
Marianne

    Reflections on Married Life
    Natura homo nundum et elgans animal est.
    â€œMan is by nature a clean and delicate creature.”
    â€”SENECA
    I was for a time a happy man. I found my wife much to my liking. Her nether regions were plump