Chapter 5: Day Five
Committee for Literary Fairness v. Mr. B
Mr. B contemplated the table’s glossy wood finish, following a long grain in the wood with his eyes over and over and over again.
He heard Lonquist and Leslie Quinn enter the courtroom, chattering about a novel with a governess heroine. It wasn’t Herland, so he wasn’t interested.
Deborah came in, and Mr. B motioned to her. She pressed her hand to her bosom in surprise, then neared him, grinning.
“Hi, Mr. B.”
“Hello, Deborah. Yesterday—the novel my wife is in—yesterday, you said something about the characters there controlling their pregnancies.”
“Yeah. Gilman, the author, didn’t have the greatest experience with pregnancy. Herland makes it all very idyllic—no pain, no fuss, no accidents.”
Mr. B said slowly, “Pamela and I have three children.”
“I know,” Deborah said. She studied his creased brow, then patted his arm. “Your wife loves children.”
She did. But Mr. B didn’t doubt Pamela would welcome more control in that area. Pregnancy—the idea of pregnancy—had always made her nervous.
Simply not having sex was unthinkable. He could hardly handle sleeping alone. And Pamela was an eager participant in the marriage bed whatever his detractors might think.
They were an odd people, these twenty-first century inhabitants—far more obsessed with sex than most libertines, but strangely repressive and easily shocked. Only this idealistic young girl, who reminded him of his oldest daughter, seemed to take him at face value.
Deborah said, “Don’t worry. Herland isn’t your wife’s type of novel. She likes flirting with men too much. In a totally platonic way,” she added quickly, and Mr. B had to chuckle.
Mr. Shorter came in, carrying his cup of coffee. He nodded to Deborah and sat down. Today, he also had a donut. Mr. B tore off a piece and chewed it absently.
Mr. Shorter said, “There’s another editorial about Pamela in this morning’s newspaper.”
Deborah said, “I read it. It addresses the CLF’s negative attitude towards religion. Whoever is writing these editorials has definitely seen the hearing transcripts.”
From her bench across the aisle, Leslie Quinn called, “Judge Hardcastle will be annoyed. Religion clouding the road to judgment, that sort of thing.”
Beside her, Lonquist said, “I have to agree with him. Eighteenth-century Anglicanism was a fairly engrained concept. It shouldn’t be an issue, just an underlying point of view.”
Leslie Quinn shook her head. “If Pamela was a Dissenter, she would have been appalled by the apathy and amorality of supposed churchmen.”
“She is,” Mr. B said.
Lonquist said, “A Victorian lady before Victoria was born. A prude without the accompanying antiseptic obsessions.”
“Actually,” Deborah said, “Victorians were pretty earthy.”
“True. True. It’s only us moderns with our one-bedroom-per-child, anti-bacterial everythings that see sex as something rather naughty.”
Mr. B glanced at him, at the women’s good-humored faces. He opened his mouth.
“Of course,” Lonquist said, “they were far more obsessed with issues of paternity than us. You could mess around but only if you gave your husband an heir first!”
He laughed. So did the women.
Mr. B closed his mouth. They were right about husbands needing bona fide heirs. Still, he didn’t think the limerick he’d thought up would go over well. He’d save it to make Pamela blush.
When she came home.
* * *
Judge Hardcastle wanted to wrap up the hearing. It had already taken up a week. He could review the transcripts over the weekend and render a decision on Monday.As he sat at his desk, he said, “We appeared to have covered most of the material. Does the Committee for Literary Fairness wish to continue with its petition?”
Dr. Matchel rose. “Yes. In fact, we would like to expand it.”
Of course they did. The judge sighed and waved a hand.
“The marriage should be ended not only due to physical and mental abuse, but for its inequality. Pamela was hurt socially by this marriage.”
Astonished, Leslie Quinn said, “By any standards, Pamela did very well for herself in marrying Mr. B.”
Dr. Matchel glanced at Mr. Hatch. He said, “Pamela was psychologically injured by marrying a man above her in rank.”
Everyone except Mr. B gasped.
“You wanted us to argue context,” Gary said to Lonquist. “So that’s what we’re doing.”
“Sure, Fielding’s Shamela argument—beware servants who aim too high. Not a terribly democratic perspective.”
Mr. Hatch was standing now. “It is clear from my sessions with Pamela that she worries constantly about her position as lady of the manor.”
Mr. Shorter looked ready to protest, but Mr. B—white-faced—tapped him lightly on the arm and shook his head.
“She does worry,” he said, “and suffer.”
The judge said, “In what way?”
Mr. B said, “In the first years of our marriage, Pamela became more proper and dignified, more just and magisterial than any lady of the manor has ever been or needed to be. Even towards me.”
“While still suffering discrimination and maltreatment,” Gary said.
The judge looked from the CLF’s triumphant faces to Mr. B’s strained one. The CLF had finally struck a nerve. He sighed and leaned back in his chair:
“I think, Mr. B., you had better tell us about it.”
Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Mr. B and Pamela’s Marriage
Week 1
Pamela did suffer for marrying me. The first, and worst, occasion came a week after our wedding.
I received news on Monday that a friend of mind, Carlton, was dying. I had a mortgage on part of his estate and was also his executor. I needed to attend his deathbed in case he wished to change his will.
Pamela and I had arranged to dine at the Darnfords on Tuesday. I told her to go on without me. They knew by then about our marriage, and I wanted Pamela to confirm her place in society as my wife.
Carlton died from acute pneumonia early Tuesday morning. I left his deathbed as soon as I could suitably do so. I desperately wanted to see Pamela. Carlton was not an old man, only a decade or so my senior. I’d been reminded how quickly death comes—how easily a person could be drowned by water. I got to the Darnfords at four, tired and unhappy.
Pamela wasn’t there.
To say I was annoyed would understate the matter. The Darnfords were our neighbors and had been impressively supportive of our marriage. They deserved Pamela’s patronage; I thought she understood that.
“Something kept her,” said Miss Darnford, dimpling at me. “She’ll be here. She hardly likes to be apart from you.”
“She will arrive soon,” Lady Darnford said, adding pacifically, “Come, join my husband at cards.”
I went into the washroom to bath my face. I told myself I was angry because Pamela was behaving high-handedly, but the truth was I’d counted on her being there; I’d counted on being able to tell her about Carlton, on being calmed by her presence.
 |
| Cards from 1750. |
I thought about sending a message, then decided it was beneath me to beg my wife’s company. In retrospect, I should have sent a message plus a few footmen.
About an hour into the game, Miss Darnford called, “Here she is,” and ran out. I played a hand, put down my cards, and followed, pretending I was merely curious. I didn’t fool Sir Simon for a second.
In the front hall, Pamela sat on the cushioned bench by the door book-ended by Miss Darnford and Lady Darnford. She looked up at me, breathing quickly.
“Don’t be annoyed,” she said, seeing my expression. “I tried to get here for dinner.”
“I told you,” Lady Darnford said to me, and Miss Darnford said, “Oh, men.”
They all frowned at me, so, “What happened?” I said.
Pamela said, “Your sister and her nephew arrived.”
Damn it to hell.
I sat beside Pamela on the bench and put my arm around her. “You should have sent for me.”
“She kept me prisoner,” Pamela said, and even allowing for Pamela’s dramatic flair, I didn’t doubt the tremble that went through her. She tucked herself against me more tightly and let out a long sigh. Her breathing had begun to settle.
“My sister is an insolent woman,” I said as levelly as I could.
“It is only because she believes we are not married,” Pamela said, but I didn’t believe that for an instant. My sister hunts for quarrels, even quarreling with her maids (though she also rewards them handsomely for their services).
“How did you get away?”
“I jumped out the parlor window,” my extraordinary bride said, “and ran to the carriage—Robert kept it waiting at the elms. Mr. Colbrand prevented Lady Davers’s servants from stopping me. He was very fierce.”
I couldn’t help but look at our listeners. Miss Darnford had covered her mouth with her hand; over it, her eyes twinkled. Lady Darnford was shaking her head bemusedly.
“We should join the company,” I said. I didn’t want to. I wanted to go home and put my sister and her obnoxious nephew in their places. I wanted to order my sister’s servants out of the house. I wanted, in fact, to yell at someone.
But we were in company, so I stood. Pamela slid her arm through mine, and we followed the others into the creamy white parlor.
“I’m sorry I misjudged you,” I told Pamela. “My family has caused you nothing but trouble,” and she smiled at me from her seat at the card table. I began to relax. I told myself that things would be alright. I hoped.
Cross-Examination
Judge Hardcastle interrupted. “Did you sister really lock up Pamela?”
“Yes. Pamela has been subjected to multiple imprisonments, including her current one.”
The CLF was noisily offended, but the judge, still focused on Lady Davers’s outrageous behavior, ignored them, saying, “I don’t understand what she hoped to accomplish.”
Mr. B sighed. “It was pure spite. She hoped I hadn’t married, and she wanted Pamela to say as much, only Pamela very rightly wouldn’t. Barbara was mostly just angry that I’d married without her input. That’s what brought her rushing to Lincolnshire. She would have been equally angry if I’d married a countess, but she wouldn’t have been able to show her outrage so obviously.”
“It’s a pity your wife couldn’t send her away.”
Mr. B grimaced. “The Bedfordshire estate is our family home. My sister was born there.” He hesitated. “Even if Pamela had felt confident enough to claim the house, she wouldn’t have refused Barbara access. I resented Pamela’s restraint at the time, but my wife sees further than I do. Barbara is my only sister, and she was my confidant during my youth. I wouldn’t want to ever truly break with her. In retrospect, Pamela handled her as best she could.”
The judge nodded and made a note. “Then the problem resolved itself.”
Mr. B said reluctantly, “It actually got worse before it got better.”
The judge leaned back in this chair and gestured Mr. B to continue.
