Cross-Examination
Judge Hardcastle said abruptly, “How old were you at this time, Mr. B?”
“Twenty-four, twenty-five. Why?”
“You had a rather cynical attitude for such a young man.”
“We lived in cynical times.”
“I always thought the eighteenth century was a genteel period: stronger public morals, a more solid sense of propriety.”
“As compared to the Dark Ages?” Mr. B said, looking confused.
Leslie Quinn said, “I think it fair to say, Judge, that eighteenth-century England had stronger—and clearer—social expectations for its class members than our own age but no greater expectation of morality.”
“Well, then, if Pamela knew her, um, virtue wasn’t safe, why didn’t she just leave?”
The CLF members clucked in collective reproach. “Blaming the woman—” Gary began.
He was interrupted by Mr. B. “She would need a carriage to take her home.”
“There wouldn’t have been any downtown buses,” Lonquist said.
The judge scowled. “I realize that, but I gather people did walk places in the eighteenth century. Unlike today. No—?” in exasperation; Mr. B was shaking his head.
“It wouldn’t have been safe,” Mr. B said. “A female peasant could possibly walk unmolested but not a girl in Pamela’s situation.”
“Was the countryside so dangerous?” The judge was shaken. Eighteenth-century literature was proving more treacherous than twentieth-century “Golden Age” mysteries by those masterly writers of the unexpected, Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, and Ngaoi Marsh.
“It was not un-dangerous, and Pamela was no longer a part of that environment. She couldn’t have moved through it without attracting notice.” Mr. B’s brow creased. “I wouldn’t have let her,” he said levelly. “Things were still, more or less, under control.”
The judge said, “When did they become less?” and Mr. B resumed his testimony.
Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Letters XVII-XXIV
The servants learned about my rift with Pamela. In truth, it was my fault. I ran into Pamela in the front hall and asked why she hadn’t finished my waistcoat.
“You spend more time with your pen than your needle,” I said. “I don’t want slackers in my house.”
The butler, Mr. Jonathan, overheard me. Once he knew I was displeased with Pamela, my steward Longman learned of it, and after that, the entire countryside. I held a dinner party the next afternoon, and the guests teased me about my pretty maid servant. The lady guests even insisted on trooping up to Mrs. Jervis’s parlor off the first-floor landing to inspect Pamela—to comfort themselves she wasn’t a temptation to their husbands, I suppose. Mrs. Brooks dropped numerous hints about mine and Pamela’s relationship, but Lady Towers said quietly, “She’s got a roguish air. Has she resisted you?”
“She wants to be Lucretia,” I said, and Lady Towers laughed.
Pamela had to go. I was starting to look foolish to my servants and my neighbors. I held off giving the final word, only to discover that Pamela was already preparing for country life.
I’d stopped by Mrs. Jervis’s parlor to tell her my travel plans to Lincolnshire where our family’s original estate is located. She was interviewing a farmer’s daughter; I didn’t want to disturb them, so I went to the back parlor and rang for Mrs. Jervis.
“Is your visitor Farmer Nichols or Farmer Brady’s daughter?” I asked when she arrived.
She laughed. “If your honor won’t be angry, I will introduce her, for I think she outdoes our Pamela.”
And she brought in Pamela dressed in plain muslin with a black silk kerchief and a straw hat on her head.
A country miss, in fact. Pamela is no fool; she knows clothes make the station.
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| Peasant dress circa 1700s. Clothes=station. For a comparison, see a middle-class woman in everyday dress below. |
I got up and came around the oak writing desk. “You are far prettier than your sister Pamela,” I said.
“I am Pamela,” she told me with a quick upwards glance.
“Impossible,” I said. “I can be free with you,” and I kissed her lightly on the lips.
She bolted out of the room. Mrs. Jervis clucked.
“What’s she up to?” I said.
“It’s her new wardrobe. She’s been collecting odds and ends over the last week or so.”
Damn Pamela and her pragmatism.
“Get in here,” I yelled towards the door, and Pamela sidled in, scowling. “This is pure hypocrisy,” I said, waving my hand at her outfit. Pamela didn’t want the life that dress represented.
“I’ve been in disguise ever since your mother brought me here. These clothes are more suitable to my degree.”
I was leaning against the desk, my face almost level with Pamela’s. We studied each other, and I noted her set lips and dark, unhappy eyes.
“Oh, Pamela,” I said and tugged her into my arms.
She didn’t struggle—not this time. “You have to leave,” I said to her hair, “only I don’t want that.” She tensed instantly, but I strengthened my hold, and she relaxed again, her cheek against my waistcoat. Poor Pamela sent off in disgrace to a life that would sap her dry.
I let her go and addressed Mrs. Jervis. “I’ll submit myself to this hussy for a fortnight and then send her to my sister. Do you hear what I say, statue?”
And Pamela muttered, “I might be in danger from her ladyship’s nephew.”
Never imagine that Pamela’s memory is bad.
“Damned impertinence,” I said.
“What have I done that you treat me worse than if I robbed you?”
I almost laughed then because whatever was between me and Pamela was very much like being robbed—of sense or self-preservation.
She wasn’t done. “Why should you demean yourself to notice me? Why should I suffer more than others?”
“You have distinguished yourself above the common servant,” I said. She couldn’t have it both ways—she couldn’t write and read and befriend Mrs. Jervis and then want me to treat her like a scullery maid. “Didn’t my good mother desire I take care of you?”
She muttered. I took her chin and forced it up, and she said, nearly spitting, “My good lady did not desire your care to extend to the summer-house and dressing room.”
I nearly smacked her. She darted backwards out of the room.
“Oh, sir,” Mrs. Jervis said, “don’t be angry. She praises you when you’re not around.”
“Does she?” I said, studying my desk. I didn’t want Mrs. Jervis to see how much her words pleased me.
“If you could only hear her—”
“Very well,” I said. “Hide me where I can listen to Pamela speak freely.”
Cross-Examination
“In other words, he planned to spy on her.” Dr. Matchel said.
“Is this true?” Judge Hardcastle said, gazing at an embarrassed Mr. B.
“It was a harmless deception.”
“Huh. As implausible as that sounds, we’ve covered as much material as we can today.”
The judge nodded to his clerk, who typed a few more lines and closed his laptop. “Transcripts of each day’s testimony will be couriered to the various parties every evening. Yes, Leslie Quinn, you too.”
Mr. Shorter, nudged by Mr. B, stood. “Your honor, may Mr. B see his wife now?”
“Absolutely not,” Dr. Matchel said. “I think we have at least demonstrated that Mr. B is not in full control of his behavior. In accordance with the Order for Protection, Pamela has been moved to Herland. Once—ah, if—our petition is granted, she will be settled there permanently.”
Mr. B said, “If you return her to our novel, I give you my word of honor, I will stay away until this hearing concludes.”
Gary looked like he wanted to snicker at the idea of Mr. B's honor. but refrained. Wisely, in the judge’s opinion. Mr. B’s tone was grim and absolutely sincere.
Mr. B continued, “Her children will wish to see her.”
The judge said, “Don’t they have nursemaids?”
“Yes, but Pamela spends a great deal of time with them. She is not a typical parent of the gentry.”
Mr. Hatch excitedly made a note and leaned across the aisle between the tables. He might have asked Mr. B a question, but the judge forestalled him.
“The Order remains in place until this hearing is concluded.” Perhaps Mr. B would keep his word, but the judge didn’t want to give either party reason to complain. This hearing would be carried out with complete procedural accuracy. “The hearing will resume tomorrow at nine a.m.”
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| Mary Edwards by Hogarth. |
Mary Edwards was a very wealthy woman. Her clothes, and demeanor, reflect her upper middle-class position in society.
