Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Pamela’s Letters I-VIII
Pamela was my mother’s companion—a country girl, but she charmed my mother with her looks and intelligence. She brought Pamela to live with her on our family’s Bedfordshire estate when Pamela was thirteen years old.
My mother was already ill, though at the time her good days outlasted her bad ones. Whenever I visited, I would find Pamela sitting beside my mother’s chair or bed, reading usually. She would stop and watch us with enchanting avidity.
“Be good,” my mother said when she saw me eyeing Pamela, and I suppose I would have been if she hadn’t died and left Pamela to my care. My father died years before when I was at school, leaving me, his heir, to handle the family’s affairs. After my mother’s death, I moved into the Bedfordshire estate and took responsibility for its servants, including Pamela.
I put her in charge of my linen—my laundry. What else could I do? She wasn’t really a maid—she wasn’t trained, you understand. But she didn’t want to return to her poverty-stricken parents. Believe me.
I gave Pamela access to my late mother’s books. Did I mention she was bored? She got along well with the servants, especially Mrs. Jervis, but she was less busy than they as well as a cut above them. At the time, I considered my mother had been careless, training Pamela to be a person of leisurely activities. Nothing bores Pamela more than housework. She’ll object to that statement, but it’s the truth. She’d rather read to entertain Mrs. Jervis than sew a button.
Nothing absorbs her more than writing. I knew Pamela was a skilled writer before I ever saw her letters. My mother caught me studying Pamela’s reading journal in which Pamela recorded her thoughts on sermons and novels. That was when my mother told me to be good. She knew me well enough to guess that mere good looks were not as tempting to me as good looks accompanied by high spirits and intelligence.
And Pamela went on writing. Shortly after my mother’s death, I walked in on her finishing a letter to her parents. She twitched—wary as a cat—but I got a look at the letter, which was lively plus full of references to me. I warned her to be careful what she wrote, and she accepted my rebuke.
All good cats leave the cream alone. Until you’re out of the room.
I began seeking Pamela out—in my mother’s dressing room, Mrs. Jervis’s parlor—whenever I was on the estate.
Cross-Examination
“Are you telling us,” interrupted Judge Hardcastle, “that you pursued a thirteen-year-old?”
The CLF team looked smugly outraged. Mr. Shorter said, “She was fifteen when Mr. B first made his advances.”
“Fifteen is not that much older than thirteen.”
Leslie Quinn said, “Your honor?”
“Ah, yes, Ms. Quinn.” The judge peered into the audience. Leslie Quinn was the author of several non-fiction books on the eighteenth-century. The judge hadn’t read any of them, but his wife’s book club had which, as far as the judge was concerned, more than established Ms. Quinn’s credentials. “What can you tell us?”
“Twelve was the legal age for marriage in the 1700s—for women, at least.”
The judge harrumphed. Mr. B opened his mouth, then shut it. There was an awkward pause. Mr. B said carefully, “Pamela was young—unready for the world. I didn’t realize how much until later. She had an air of confidence, of self-possession, that placed her beyond her years.”
“Many a pedophile has claimed the same thing,” Gary declared.
Mr. B and Mr. Shorter looked confused. Lonquist, the librarian, said sharply, “That’s out of context.”
“Oh, you’re in favor of sexual predators, are you?”
The judge sighed. Agatha Christie hearings never got this nasty. He said, “The standard of lawfulness for literature hearings is the generally established customs of a character’s time period and genre. Otherwise,” he pointed out, “all those un-chaperoned children in adventure stories would never get into the wardrobe.”
Everyone in the courtroom looked puzzled, and the judge shook his head. Nobody read jolly, good adventure yarns anymore. “Legal age or not, was it unusual for women to marry at fifteen?”
Lonquist and Leslie Quinn said, “No.”
“Then Mr. B should continue.”
Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Letters IX-XIII
I did protect Pamela. My sister, Lady Davers, wanted Pamela to come work in her household, but her husband’s nephew, who stays with them often, is a boar and a bore, and Pamela wouldn’t have been safe. I suppose you’ll say she wasn’t safe with me—that’s what my sister thought—but there are degrees and qualities of interference.
Cross-Examination
“If your sister is a lady, does that mean you are a lord?” Judge Hardcastle asked.
Mr. B said, “I’m a squire.”
“Not a lord,” Leslie Quinn supplemented.
“Mr. B has three estates,” Mr. Shorter interpolated.
“Summer cabin? Winter getaway?”
Mr. Shorter gaped at the judge. “Mr. B’s estates bring in an income of over ten thousand a year!”
“Ten thousand?”
“Pounds!”
“It means,” said Leslie Quinn, “that Mr. B is worth several million dollars.”
“Unearned wealth,” Gary spat.
“Mr. B doubled the income from his estates by his own initiative,” Mr. Shorter said indignantly. Mr. B put his hand on Mr. Shorter’s arm.
“Capitalist,” Gary said in the same tone as before.
“I don’t see the relevance,” the judge said. “I’m sure Mr. B’s wealth is very satisfactory for him, but how does it relate to his sister?”
Mr. B forestalled Mr. Shorter: “The relevance, your honor, is that backed by our family’s wealth, name, and my status as a gentleman, my sister Barbara could marry just about anyone she wanted. She married a lord. He’s not a bad man. A little vague, a little stupid. Barbara tends to overwhelm people. She tried to overwhelm me into sending her Pamela. I refused.”
“You wanted to control her,” Gary said.
“I think Mr. B should tell us the reasons himself.”
Letters IX-XIII (continued)
I had every intention of doing right by Pamela, especially as I got to know her better. I even considered making her my mistress. That’s quite a leap, you understand—country girl to mistress—but Pamela was worth the investment.
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| Summer-house |
“Don’t run off,” I said; she’d been tiresomely skittish the last few days, especially for a servant.
“My sister wants you to live with her,” I said. “Wouldn’t you rather stay with me?”
She eyed me through half-closed lids and said carefully, “Your honor will forgive me, but you have no lady for me to wait upon. I had rather go to Lady Davers because—”
“Because you are a little fool,” I said. My sister, Barbara, is a generous employee but high-strung. Pamela would weary of her. “I will make a gentlewoman of you.”
Paramour, I meant. And, honestly, what else could Pamela do? She wasn’t fit for hard work; it would bore her to tears. It wouldn’t be kind to throw her back into poverty, even genteel poverty. But to be a kept woman—books to read and occasions to show off her figure—was immensely suitable. I would settle money on her; if she were wise, she would save enough to last until she found a new protector. Though there was no reason to suppose I would tire of her.
I kissed her there in the summer-house. And Pamela responded curiously, the faintest curling of her lips against mine, before she panicked. She would have bolted if I hadn’t shut the door.
“I won’t harm you,” I said.
“I won’t stay,” she said sharply. Pamela can be downright curt when cornered. Don’t let her deferential airs fool you.
“You forget to whom you speak,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” she snapped. “And you forget how a master should behave,” which annoyed me, but she started crying, which was disconcerting. Between sobs, she said, “I am honest though poor, and if you were a prince, I would not choose otherwise.”
I rolled my eyes. I considered all that “virtuous woman above rubies” stuff so much balderdash. People did what they needed to do to survive.
At that moment, I needed to protect my reputation. If Pamela had gone back to the house with a tale of humiliation and ripped bodices, I would have been a laughing stock. I told her to walk under the beeches until she stopped blubbering and to keep the matter to herself. I did offer her money—why not?—which she refused.
She went down the steps and disappeared amongst the trees. The summer-house sits on a slight rise, and a few minutes later I saw Pamela emerge from the trees and head into the house. I followed. Pamela was already in my mother’s dressing room, scribbling a letter.
I stole it later. She’d hidden the letter behind the vanity mirror, so it wasn’t hard to find. The letter could not have been more ashamed or alarmed or abashed or contemptuous of my good self. Pamela can be quite incredibly articulate.
I couldn’t allow the letter to leave the house: her parents could do nothing, but there was no reason my private affairs should be recounted across the countryside. I told Mrs. Jervis to give Pamela something to mend to keep her hands busy and instructed John Arnold, who delivered Pamela’s letters on his errands, to show me all her letters before delivering them.
Cross-Examination
Judge Hardcastle said, “Reading a person’s correspondence is a gross invasion of privacy.” The CLF team clucked in vigorous agreement.
“Servants have no right to privacy,” Mr. B said.
The judge frowned. Leslie Quinn said quickly, “The American concept of rights, specifically the right to free speech, wasn't a norm in Mr. B's culture. It certainly never would have occurred to the young lady to sue Mr. B or to involve the police.”
“I was the police,” said Mr. B.
“Barbaric,” Gary declared. “He belittled her right to privacy and her right to her own sexual identity.”
The judge had no idea what the CLF professor was babbling about until Lonquist said, “Are you actually going to argue that Pamela is a lesbian?”
The CLF psychologist, Mr. Hatch, said, “I don’t think that’s very plausible, Gary.”
“Bisexual,” Gary said weakly.
The judge glanced at Mr. B, anticipating outrage or, at least, befuddlement. Mr. B had shifted to stare up at the courtroom windows where noontime light sparkled off the panes.
Lonquist said, “I don’t imagine lesbianism was a generally established custom—”
“Not as a cultural trend,” Mr. B said to the windows. His mouth twitched.
Gary said sullenly, “I would think some contemporary standards would be accepted as givens—in a civilized courtroom, at least.”
“Which contemporary standards?” Lonquist said. “Based on twenty-first century Western culture, Mr. B can hardly be faulted for wanting no-strings-attached sex.”
That did startle Mr. B. Mr. Shorter clucked.
The judge barked, “We will use the standard of customs as established in the eighteenth century. Was lesbianism a discussed topic in the literature of the day?”
Dr. Matchel said, “It was a forbidden topic that nevertheless underscored most women’s writings.”
Leslie Quinn said, “No.”
Dr. Matchel bridled. “Of course, popular non-fiction ignores such crucial subtexts.”
Leslie Quinn said good-humoredly, “Oh, I’m not saying that homosexuality wasn’t an aspect of eighteenth-century England or that people never discussed it. There isn’t a sexual topic that wasn’t discussed in the eighteenth century. I just don’t think all literature everywhere is imbued with hidden messages about the love that dare not speak its name. People do write about other things, you know.”
“They were prejudiced,” Gary said.
“So you’ll use eighteenth-century culture to promote your position, then attack it to defend your position?”
The CLF team glared at Lonquist. Mr. B turned back to the windows.
The judge waved a hand. “I’m not concerned with critical theory relativism. I want to know how Mr. B behaved. Please continue, sir.”
