Cross-Examination
“Her return must have been a pleasant surprise,” Judge Hardcastle said, and the laugh lines creased around Mr. B’s eyes.
Dr. Matchel said, “She was confused,” and Gary added, magnanimously, “I suppose it is hardly Mr. B’s fault that women of that era just did what men told them.”
Mr. B set his jaw and stared fixedly towards the courtroom windows while Leslie Quinn huffed in annoyance at Gary’s dismissal of eighteenth-century women as brainless automatons. Before she could turn her huff into a more verbal objection, Mr. Shorter stood, grasping sheets of heavily creased, brownish paper.
“We have the letters Mr. B sent to Pamela and Monsieur Colbrand through Thomas. They indicate Mr. B’s state of mind at this point in the novel.” Mr. Shorter read in a staccato manner: “Spare me, my dearest girl, the confusion of following you to your father’s which I must do if you persist in going on, for I find I cannot live a day without you. Mr. B’s affections and intentions are clear, Judge. Pamela was free to continue her journey—”
“Knowing she would be hunted,” Mr. Hatch pointed out, and Gary said, “He manipulated her by playing up his illness.”
The judge beckoned and the clerk collected the letters from Mr. Shorter. The judge read them over, then glanced at Mr. B’s taut, lanky form.
“Your letter to Pamela is quite eloquent. Was she appreciative?”
A faint look of amusement eased the tension in Mr. B’s face. “I believe so.”
“No use of force is mentioned.”
Mr. Hatch stood. “Force is implied. Pamela was clearly horrified at the thought of further pursuit. She felt she had no choice. Like many sufferers of paradoxical identification shift, she did what she needed to survive.”
“Her own record indicates a state of eagerness.”
“After seven weeks imprisonment, she hardly knew her own mind. She was desperate to avoid more threats.”
“I never threatened her,” Mr. B said, adding quickly, “Not after she returned. We were like any engaged couple.”
Gary snorted. Mr. Hatch shook his head. Dr. Matchel said, “An enslaved couple.”
“I think,” the judge said, “you should describe your engagement, Mr. B.”
Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to The Engagement
We went for a drive the next morning in the carriage. Once seated, I put an arm around Pamela. She leaned against me and even lifted her chin to receive a kiss on the mouth, which disarmed me.
We discussed Pamela’s future as my wife. If my sister’s letter was any indication of how Pamela would be received by our set, Pamela would never be visited or invited to parties. I could always go hunting with my friends, but Pamela, as neither servant nor lady, would have no one.
“What will you do?” I said.
“Take care of your accounts, visit the poor, assist your housekeeper.” She paused, considering. “Miss you when you are gone,” she said, giving me one of her sideways glances. I smiled and slid my hand under her cap to rub her hair.
“Write.”
I laughed, bent, and kissed her shoulder.
“Pray for you and myself. I am resourceful.”
I never doubted that. I said, “All worries are in the past. We are secure now in each other’s good opinion.”
 |
| Although it is possible that Pamela's |
| "gypsy" was an actual Rom, the term |
| also referred to tinkers. |
She pulled a letter from her pocket. It was from Somebody warning Pamela about the sham marriage I’d considered. I groaned. “How did you get this?”
From a gypsy, who told fortunes at the back gate and left the letter in a clump of dirt.
“A thousand dragons are not enough to watch a woman,” I said. “I rejected the idea, Pamela. I knew it was wrong.” I tapped the letter. “You should have asked me about this directly.”
“You wouldn’t listen.”
“You could have written.”
Her lips twitched. “I came back very quickly,” she pointed out, and I hugged her, and she was there again, present in my arms. “I could never hate you,” she said to my shoulder.
Pamela said it. Who am I, who is anyone, to disagree?
Thomas returned the next afternoon. He’d gone on to the Andrews when Pamela came back to me. He’d taken them a letter from Pamela, explaining her decision and requesting her first packet of letters.
Her parents refused to send them. Apparently, they believed their daughter had written under compulsion. From Thomas’s expression, I gathered the interview had been rather trying.
Pamela looked perturbed, so I quelled my annoyance. We would both write letters and send them to Mr. Atkins who lived near Pamela’s parents. He would make a worthy ambassador.
I drove out alone later that day. There is a meadow—a park-like place—near my Lincolnshire estate, and I went to walk along the footpath and consider the enormous step I was taking.
I’d brought Pamela’s most recent letters with me. I was pulling them out when I saw Williams. He was strolling about with a book, though he might have been reading upside down for all the attention he paid it. He obviously hoped to meet me.
He did depend on me for a living. I sighed and made myself address him. “What are you reading?”
“Sir,” he stammered, “it is Louis Aragon’s Telemachus.” A French novel filled with moral commentary. “I am perfecting myself in the French tongue.”
I didn’t roll my eyes. We made small-talk. When I got tired of comments about the weather, I said, “You should congratulate me on my engagement to Miss Andrews.”
“Yes, yes, absolutely,” he gabbled.
So much for Pamela’s chivalrous knight.
I dropped him at his lodgings and went home to tell Pamela about our meeting.
“Poor man,” she said.
I gave her a narrow stare. “I’d rather he was perfecting his French tongue with Telemachus than perfecting you with it.” Despite her bent head, I caught the glimmer of Pamela’s smile and went out, grinning to myself.
Cross-Examination
Dr. Matchel said, “What an offensive remark!”
“Is it?” Judge Hardcastle said, confused.
“Mr. B was referring to French kissing,” Deborah said. “I think it’s funny. Mr. B is a really funny guy.”
Mr. B turned to grin at her from his seat.
The judge was doubtful. “Was ribald humor unusual in the eighteenth century?” he said and scowled when Mr. B choked on a laugh.
Dr. Matchel had to admit that ribald humor was a staple of eighteenth-century English life, but, “Pamela was likely insulted.”
“Why?”
“Her religious feelings.” Dr. Matchel looked proud at being able to use Pamela’s religious feelings to make an argument.
“Religion doesn’t make people humorless,” Mr. Shorter said. Mr. B just sighed.
“Dirty jokes—” Dr. Matchel said. “Pamela was obviously upset by bodily humor.”
“Bodily humor is not the same as insulting humor,” Mr. B said before the judge could say it. “Not in our world. Pamela gets her hackles up about smutty stories and boorish behavior. She never minds me calling things by their proper names.”
“How refreshing,” the judge said, and since half the court agreed, Mr. B was told to continue.
