Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say

  “Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say is, like its author, uproarious and savvy and wild. If Jane Austen had been allowed to write about sex, I’d like to think this is how she would have done it: with irreverence and wit, showing us how sexual politics might set not just a marriage, but an entire family, on an irreversible course. A delight on every level.”

  —Rebecca Makkai, author of The Borrower and The Hundred-Year House

  “As we have come to expect, Jane Juska’s wit and insight once again show us our foibles and humanity while entertaining us on every page.”

  —Kelly Corrigan, New York Times bestselling author of The Middle Place and Glitter and Glue

  “Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say is the witty and ribald mother-from-hell prequel that fans of Jane Austen have been waiting for.”

  —Mark Haskell Smith author of Raw: A Love Story

  “Funny and irreverent (a trademark of Jane Juska). Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say is an intimate look into the marriage of literature’s most mismatched couple. I loved it! A lot! If it goes to series, I want in. I’ll learn the accent.”

  —Sharon Gless

  PRAISE FOR

  A Round-Heeled Woman

  “Feisty, charming, moving, and wise, this page-turner of a memoir proves that life for a woman—sexual and otherwise—hardly stops at thirty-nine.”

  —Cathi Hanauer, editor of The Bitch in the House

  “Juska writes well about the sex . . . but even better about the seductions, which take on the luster of years served. Expressive and touching: Readers will be rooting for Juska to get all that she wants.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “There’s something universal in [Juska’s] love affair with the written word.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[A] thoroughly engaging memoir . . . Refreshingly honest, remarkably candid.”

  —Booklist

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  This book is an original publication of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Copyright © 2015 by Jane Juska.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® and the “B” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18391-9

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Juska, Jane.

  Mrs. Bennet has her say / Jane Juska. — Berkley trade paperback edition.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-425-27843-7 (softcover)

  1. Young women—England—Fiction. 2. England—Social life and customs— 18th century—Fiction. I. Austen, Jane, 1775–1817. Pride and prejudice. II. Title.

  PS3610.U875M77 2015 2014048297

  813'.6—dc23

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley trade paperback edition / August 2015

  Cover art by Andrew Bannecker.

  Cover design by Judith Lagerman.

  Interior hat ornaments © venimo / Shutterstock.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Version_1

  To William

  Contents

  Praise for Jane Juska

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Afterword

  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 ove
r 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 int
o 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.