Week 6 (continued)
Pamela stayed in bed the next day. She tensed under the bedclothes when I entered the room, and I stopped just inside the door.
“I don’t want Mrs. Jewkes,” she said, and I promised Mrs. Jewkes would stay away. I instructed Nan to wait on Pamela.
I didn’t see Pamela again until the following day. She came down to the long parlor withdrawn and tense, not the Pamela I knew. In Bedfordshire, she’d been formal—too formal—but always ready to respond, interact, argue. That day, she was gone from me, absent.
My fault. I own it, most remorsefully.
“I will not try to force you again,” I told her.
“Send me away.”
I couldn’t do it. I was sorry, I truly was. I never thought Pamela could be so frightened. But to send her away would leave me to the water and the dark, and I couldn’t do it.
I would coax her back to happiness and ease.
“Your confinement will get easier,” I said.
“For how long? To what end?”
“Give me a fortnight,” I said, “and try to forgive Mrs. Jewkes,” who’d been justifying herself vociferously for the last two days. “She was only being obedient to me.”
Pamela’s jaw set, and I saw the woman I knew again.
“She is unwomanly and wicked and vile,” she said fiercely, and I half-smiled which seemed to calm her a little. She knitted her brow. “I will submit to anything except where my virtue is at stake.”
I didn’t believe her for a moment. Everything placed Pamela’s virtue at stake, which gave her, apparently, the right to protest everything I did.
Partial consent was better than nothing. “Good girl,” I said and kissed her. She assented, studying me through half-lids. I wasn’t sure I’d gained anything, but I called Mrs. Jewkes and bid her and Pamela be friends.
We ate dinner together or, rather, Mrs. Jewkes ate. I sat in a chair, legs stretched out, and watched Pamela play with her food.
“My mother used to praise your carving, Pamela,” I said finally. I pushed a chicken towards her. “Cut that up.”
She did with intense concentration. When she was done, I took a wing and placed it on her plate. “Eat. For me.”
She ate neatly. “I’ll be in the garden,” I said when she was done. “I’d like you to attend me there.”
Mrs. Jewkes followed me into the hall. “You’re too kind,” she told me.
“I began wrong,” I told her. “Pamela may be thawed by kindness, melted by love rather than frozen by fear.”
I went out to the fish pond. I half expected Pamela to send Mrs. Jewkes with a devastating rebuff, but Pamela came. I took her hand and pulled her close.
Cross-Examination
The CLF team was giving off increasingly noisy cries and snorts. Finally, Judge Hardcastle threw up his hands and glared at them. “What is the problem now?”
“Pamela would never have recovered that fast from an attempted rape!” Dr. Matchel said.
Mr. Hatch said, “Women who are attacked, your honor, usually suffer some form of PTSD. Every time she went near Mr. B, she would suffer a reoccurrence, such as fainting.”
“Does fictional rape have the same effects as real—?”
Dr. Matchel cried, “You can’t separate them so neatly. Fictional rape can distort a woman’s perceptions of power, of her own rights; it can confuse her about sexuality and real male-female relationships.”
Lonquist said, “Most literature can distort people’s perceptions. Anna Karenina committed adultery, then suicide. Should married women refuse to read it?”
“That’s a completely different context.”
“Since Anna was punished?”
“People,” Gary said, eyeballing Lonquist, “people shouldn’t pontificate about literature until they know the difference between literal meaning and metaphorical meaning.”
Leslie Quinn said, “People used to think women shouldn’t read fiction at all because their brains would rot.”
Dr. Matchel sighed and looked worried.
Gary waved a hand. “Of course, that was wrong. But you have to admit, most members of our culture are only exposed to the kinds of shallow images and trite metaphors available on television. They aren’t ready for literary works.”
“I don’t think the professor watches much television,” Deborah said, not very quietly.
Lonquist said, “So books shouldn’t be read by the unprepared masses?”
“Not unless some professor instructs them first,” Deborah said, again not very quietly. Gary looked pleased, but the judge doubted Deborah was being complimentary.
Mr. B said in a tired voice, “I think the masses already know about adultery and suicide.”
The judge agreed. “What did you tell Pamela at the pond, Mr. B?”
Week 6 (continued)
I told Pamela the truth: “You are possessed of a frank and generous mind plus a lovely appearance. I do not want to marry—”
 |
| Though this mansion is in Somerset, not Lincolnshire, |
| Mr. B's estates would be graced by similar |
| constructed and natural structures. |
“Yet I must have you,” I continued. “I cannot bear the thought of another man supplanting me in your affections. I have been candid. Tell me honestly what you think I should do.”
She blushed several times as I spoke and retreated from my arms when I finished. “Let me go. Once I am gone, you will meet worthier women. You will overcome your regard for me.”
I shook my head at her. I’d suffered far too many conversations with so-called worthier women to believe that.
“If I were a countess or a duchess, I would tell you—” she broke off. I tried hard not to smile. Pamela made a confused gesture and sat on the damp grass. I knelt beside her.
She said, “I overheard what you said to Mrs. Jewkes. I think I am in more danger now than ever in my life.”
I pondered this. I couldn’t imagine what I’d said to Mrs. Jewkes that could alarm Pamela so much unless, of course, she meant my decision to thaw her with kindness.
I supposed, on reflection, that Pamela was right to be nervous.
“I tried being patient,” I said, “and you gave your heart to Williams.”
She looked annoyed. “That poor man—”
“Oh, shut up.”
She glared at the cattails on the edge of the pond. I groaned and clasped my hands behind my head.
“You really never intended to marry him?” I said finally.
“I didn’t know how else to get away. I asked him to apply to the gentry for my sake. They all refused. Then he decided we should marry. I declined. Luckily, he still agreed to assist me. For God’s sake.”
I thought about this and tried not to laugh. Pamela couldn’t have found a less competent Knight Errant if she’d tried. A more subtle and intelligent man could have saved Pamela. Williams was neither.
“So you do prefer me?”
She glanced up at me under half-lids. To my wonderment, she pushed up, pressing her face to my shoulder. I put my arms around her and smiled into her neck. I was happy then.
She echoed me, saying, “I’d be so happy if—”
“I won’t marry, Pamela,” I said.
It was the wrong thing to say. She recoiled. “I am not so presumptuous,” she said stiffly. “I would wish you happily married to a lady of suitable degree.”
I didn’t believe her.
I considered luring Pamela into a sham marriage. I knew a man who knew a man who would do the ceremony. Pamela and I would live together, happy and content, for many months before Pamela discovered the truth.
I know the idea was unworthy of me. Anyone who knows me knows how loathsome I consider that type of subterfuge. But there were so few solutions left to Pamela and me.
Except marriage. Except that.
Cross-Examination
Judge Hardcastle said to Deborah, “I suppose romance accounts for this Romeo and Juliet nonsense: star-crossed lovers, family feuds.”
“Oh, sure, that happens a lot in romance novels. There has to be an external obstacle to the match plus an internal obstacle. Lots of times, the external obstacle is about class: social ramifications if the hero marries the wrong person.”
“Pamela sounds like an educated, intelligent, well-mannered young lady. What possible social ramifications could there be?”
Mr. B beamed at the judge. “My thoughts exactly,” he said.
Deborah said to Leslie Quinn, “Isn’t he adorable?”
Leslie Quinn apparently agreed: “It was highly atypical for a gentleman of Mr. B’s class to marry a servant-girl.”
“That didn’t give Mr. B the right to abuse her,” Gary said.
To his astonishment, Mr. B said, “I agree.”
“And was there an internal obstacle?” the judge asked Deborah.
She motioned to Mr. B. who said hesitantly, “I was blessed with a loving mother, a distant father, and a hectoring sister. The combination does not enchant one with the pleasures of family and marital life.”
Mr. Hatch scribbled a note.
“Ah, yes, well,” Judge Hardcastle said. He hoped Pamela wasn’t going to turn into one of those dreadful modern suburban novels where each family member had multiple dysfunctions.
“My sister certainly tried to end our attachment,” Mr. B said, and the judge stifled a groan as he leaned back in his chair. Mr. B continued his testimony.
Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Pamela’s Abduction
Week 7
My sister sent me one of her lecturing letters. She’d learned about the kidnapping from my Bedfordshire servants, who’d hauled her into my affairs. In the letter, she harangued me for seducing Pamela on the one hand and wanting to marry her on the other. I had no intention of marrying although I knew I should for the family line. In any case, if—when—I did marry, I’d marry whomever I damned well pleased.
I had to let the scheming servants go; you cannot have servants forming plots against you, especially servants idiotic enough to involve my sister. The scheming servants included the bulk of Bedfordshire’s upper table or better paid servants: Longman, Mr. Jonathan, and Mrs. Jervis. Plus John Arnold, who’d delivered their messages to my sister.
It bothered me that I would lose such fine servants. In fact, the whole matter was getting out of hand. I needed to send Pamela home. I knew it, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
I was expected at a wedding ball for the daughter of a Lincolnshire family. I instructed Mrs. Jewkes to watch Pamela closely. Since my sister had gotten involved, I was sure various schemes to free Pamela had been put in motion. I didn’t want others interfering in what was essentially a private matter between two people.
The ball was tedious. I don’t usually mind social occasions, but my ribs still ached, and my fever came and went. The only highlight was talking to Lady Darnford, wife of Sir Simon, a placid, level-headed woman.
“Are you in love with your guest?” she asked me kindly, not salaciously.
“I guess I must be,” I told her.
I went to Stamford the next day and freed Mr. Williams from gaol. He didn’t mention Pamela. The Knight Errant had been brought to heel.
I mentioned her. I said, “You will leave Miss Andrews alone, is that understood?” and he gulped and nodded.
Pamela said me she wasn’t interested in him, but I had doubts. Pamela will claim she was always honest . . . except for the occasional fib, the occasional untruth, the occasional downright lie. After all, she will say, I imprisoned her.
I knew, even at the time, that Pamela would do what she needed to do in order to protect herself. She might have lied to me about Williams, hoping he would return and carry her off. Face to face with Williams, who is handsome enough if dull, I couldn’t help but wonder.
Cross-Examination
“Extreme jealousy is characteristic of abusive relationships,” Mr. Hatch said.
“It’s also part of the human condition,” Lonquist said.
Mr. B said softly, “So full of artless jealousy is guilt/It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.”
Judge Hardcastle looked pleased. “You know your Hamlet.”
“Mr. B is widely read,” Mr. Shorter began, but Mr. B shushed him. “The only writing I truly care for is my wife’s.”
Deborah said, “That is so cute.”
The judge said, “Yes, you used to steal her letters.”
“I stole the early letters. Pamela gave me all her later writings.”
“When coerced!” Gary had been silent for awhile. He must have decided it was time to be offended about something.
“No,” Mr. B said to Gary. “I asked. Pamela has never been afraid of showing me her mind.”
