Chapter 18 Bennet discovers some eavesdropping and remembers young love.
Bennet discovers some eavesdropping and remembers young love.
Longbourn
Bennet was returning to Longbourn with his steward after resolving a tenant dispute when Mr. Akuete decided to speak on a matter that had been agitating him for several days.
“Mr. Bennet, the other day, Mrs. Akuete and I were walking past the house, and we noticed Miss Lucas outside your library. At first I thought nothing of it, but Mrs. Akuete admitted to me yesterday that she thought it odd that Miss Lucas was there without one of your daughters accompanying her.”
“What day was this, Akuete?”
“I think it was the day after you spoke with me about commencing our experiments on explosive chemistry. Was it Monday?”
Bennet was concerned because that was the day he had exposed Jane’s and Elizabeth’s fortunes. He had known the Akuetes were near, but they had passed by before he disclosed his own secret identity. How much could Maria Lucas have heard?
“Did you confront her?”
“No, sir, we were preoccupied by our own concerns. Mrs. Akuete had just informed me that we are to expect a grandchild in the next few months. You can imagine that the joy caused me not to pay as much attention as I normally would.”
“Congratulations, Akuete!” Bennet cried out, grinning and shaking Akuete’s hand and slapping his steward on the back.
“Thank you, sir!”
Bennet became serious. “We were having a rather important discussion regarding Lady Jane’s and Lady Elizabeth’s inheritances. Do you think she was spying on us?”
“I cannot know for sure. It appeared as though she was coming out of the shrubbery as we passed by, but it may have been an innocent coincidence. If I see her listening by a window at Longbourn again, I shall speak with her rather than just passing her by.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you for informing me.”
“I wish I had thought of it sooner. You have Mrs. Akuete to thank, as she encouraged me to tell you. She was disconcerted that Miss Lucas was so close to that window. What reason can she have?”
“As you say, it may just be a coincidence, though I hope she will not talk about our private affairs. Her mother is a gossip.”
Bennet was concerned. The world would know soon enough of his daughters’ circumstances, whether by gossip from the Lucases or from the impending announcement of the engagements in the London papers.
But what of his own identity? Had Maria Lucas heard that disclosure? Even though the Akuetes had passed by before he had told his daughters about his true identity, he knew not how long Maria had lingered. And he could not ask without raising suspicions. His brow furrowed with anxiety.
And he had other worries on his mind. He would have to deal with the headache of every father regarding suitors: ensuring a strict chaperon for the two betrothed couples.
He chuckled when he thought of Bingley’s courtship of Jane.
Bingley was so eager to please that he would not disappoint Bennet with improper behaviour prior to the wedding.
Jane had a similar disposition and was averse to being displeased with others while equally desirous to gratify their wishes.
They would happily comply with his expectations; he would not even have to feign a stern approach.
He grimaced as he thought of the other couple.
Darcy and Elizabeth were the ones he had to watch.
Bennet knew that his friend was loyal and respectful, but he had witnessed their fiery exchanges and knew that the two shared a magnetic attraction that would be hard to contain should they find any time to themselves.
Elizabeth was much like her birth mother, and Bennet recalled the lusty ardour that accompanied his betrothal to Lady Olivia, of her enthusiastic response to his amorous advances, of the kissing and touching and rubbing and liberties that fell only slightly short of total deflowering.
It had been so different with Fanny. Bennet smiled wistfully as he recalled his history with her.
1793
Hamilton, Bermuda
When I first met Fanny Bennet, she was as quiet as a church mouse and clung to her husband as if he were a lifeline.
She rarely raised her eyes to me, but when she did, I was fascinated with her.
I believed she was subdued because of the loss of her parents and also thought she was naturally incredibly shy.
But I later learned that her spirit had been broken by the brutal sexual assault of Lord Malcolm.
It explained why she was always guarded with me and why her reactions to strangers on the ship demonstrated her fear of men.
My friendship with the real Bennet, and hers with my daughters, warmed her a little towards me.
Yet, when we first married, she treated me with wariness until she was convinced that I was sincere about the marriage being one of convenience and I would not impose upon her.
I was determined to show her that I could be her friend and not a man who would take advantage of her youth and na?veté.
It had taken me some time to draw her out of her shell, but once she gained confidence, her lively character blossomed before my eyes.
Even though her intelligence was no match for my own, she was a good companion.
Somewhat energetic when excited, she sometimes broke into fits of nerves when overwhelmed, but fortunately I learned how to sooth her back into a sense of contentment.
Fanny had a love for fashion, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of a new gown.
She was still shy with strangers and would never completely be without caution with other men, but she was able to become an exceptionally good lady of the house for one who seemed so meek.
Her sweet disposition brought her the love of not only my daughters, but also of the servants.
While I had been drawn to Fanny, I was also mourning my daughters’ mother, whom I loved achingly, infinitely and undoubtedly. It was a long time before I stopped losing tears over the loss of my Olivia, especially when the girls reminded me of her.
Both marriages were supposed to be of convenience.
My marriage to Lady Olivia was arranged by our parents, but I had loved her from early in our youth and proposed to her upon my return from Oxford.
She was a good mother, but as with other women of her station, she left most of the day-to-day interaction with the children to the nurse.
As the long-anticipated second child, Olivia had been spoiled not only by her parents, but also by her sister, who was nine years her senior.
It left her vain, proud, and demanding of attention.
Sometimes she could be like a petulant child, but she was a strong and vibrant woman, and I loved pampering her.
My marriage to Fanny was to protect her from sceptical whisperings in her widowhood after a questionably quick wedding followed by a child born too early, and to give me a new life and leave the sadness and anger of my past behind me.
Fanny had a special relationship with Jane and Elizabeth from the first day she met them on our fateful voyage.
She sang to them and doted on them. She spent as much time, no, more time than the nurse did with my children.
I found it wondrous how little Jenny had taken to Fanny so easily.
She reached out to be picked up and comforted whenever she saw Fanny, and Fanny obliged her every time, but just long enough to satisfy the child’s need for a mother, then putting her down and encouraging her independence by asking her to retrieve objects.
She would ask Jenny simple questions, encouraging the shy child to open up and learn to speak with others.
Fanny delighted the child by playing silly games and indulging Jane’s need for repetitive actions that would have frustrated most gently born women, leading them to abandon the activity and retreat to the drawing room away from childish folly.
She was a natural mother and held wee Elizabeth and cooed to her, played finger games with her, and urged her to learn to crawl.
When her baby was born, I watched Fanny nurse both Mary and Baby Beth, a task shared with Mrs. Jones, so that she could have that special bond with both girls.
As the girls grew older, she nurtured them but also helped them to embrace their independence.
We never spoke of Mary’s natural father or the horror that preceded her conception.
Mary Rose, loved as well as her sisters, had been named after her Gardiner and Bennet grandmothers, just as Jane Elinor and Elizabeth Anne had each been named after one of theirs, with their middle names coming from their godmothers.
Mary started to walk and talk at a young age, just like her sisters.
As they grew, all three girls showed signs of remarkable intelligence.
Fanny and I became friends that year. We had the children and our newness in this odd country and culture in common.
We built a home, with servants added to those I had brought from England.
I hated the heat, and ice was almost non-existent and very dear, but the housekeeper, a local woman named Mrs. Akuete, taught Fanny to lay wet cloths on my forehead and chest in my chambers when it was most unbearable.
I saw to the business interests that sustained our finances, and Fanny saw to the household.
She had very little education beyond that to recommend her as a wife and felt herself to have a weak mind.
But I was convinced that even a simple, sweet creature like Fanny Bennet should be educated beyond drawing room manners.
Although Fanny was reluctant to question information, she had proven capable of learning and became more than just a woman who could keep a good table and well-run house.
I read books to her every evening, improving her mind, and tried to teach her a little French and Italian.