Mr. B Speaks!

Mr. B Speaks! 9th Installment

2012-02-24T08:52:00.017-05:00

Cross-Examination

Dr. Matchel was becoming more and more agitated. She slammed her hands on the table. “I cannot believe you are allowing this testimony,” she told Judge Hardcastle. “This man admits he planned a rape. There is no way, by any standards, that this is acceptable fiction.”

“I don’t agree,” blurted the dark-haired young woman in the audience benches.

Everybody looked at her. She blushed at the attention but grinned and waved a hand.

The judge said, “Ah, Ms. Walsh? My clerk gave you a pass this morning?”

“Miss. Deborah. Yes.”

“I’m afraid you have no expert standing in this hearing.”

“I review romance novels,” Deborah said hopefully.

Gary and Dr. Matchel looked pained, but the judge set down a folder and said, “Really? Would you call this novel a romance?”

“Sort of,” Deborah said. “It’s really more a polemic about education and servants and stuff. But it has a lot of the same material you’d find in a romance novel.”

“Such as?”

Dr. Matchel objected: “A discussion of romance novels is hardly appropriate.”

“We are looking for established literary customs,” the judge said briskly. “What are the romantic components in Pamela, Miss Walsh?”

“There’s a heroine, first of all, and she’s good--you know, virtuous. And there’s a hero, and he’s a rake. And he pursues her and gets her into bed, but he backs off at the last moment, and then they reconcile, and then they marry.”

Dr. Matchel cried, “These romance novels have done more to undermine women’s rights than any other type of literature.”

“Oh, that’s old-school,” Deborah said. “Like people who think women should only have supported Hillary in 2008.”

The judge said, “Do other eighteenth-century novels share these components?”

“No!” Dr. Matchel said, but Leslie Quinn said, “Yes. Novels for the middle-class. Broadsheets. The romantic romance isn’t new. Everyone likes a juicy story.”

The judge glanced at Mr. B who looked rather shell-shocked. The judge couldn’t blame him. Mr. B was being depicted as either a lecher or a champion. Personally, the judge thought both roles would prove uncomfortable.

“Did you back off?” he said.

“In a sense,” Mr. B said, still looking guarded. He continued his testimony.

Week 6 (continued)

Towards evening, I went to my room to change and from there to Pamela’s square bedroom with its canopied bed and large French chest. She and Mrs. Jewkes were in the back parlor downstairs. I sat in the elbow-chair in the darkest corner and covered my face with an apron and my legs with a petticoat as if I were the maid. I dozed off and on until I heard Mrs. Jewkes and Pamela come upstairs.

Mrs. Jewkes was teasing Pamela about her writing. Pamela was complaining about me. She ignored the “maid,” whom she obviously thought was drunk, but she checked the closet--I smiled to myself--and finally went to bed, still talking rapidly. Pamela is no fool. She knew something wasn’t right.

They doused the candles and after a few minutes, I got up and undressed. I sat down on the edge of the bed closest to Pamela. I slid under the covers.

“Are you alright?” she said, thinking I was the maid.

I suppose no red-blooded gentleman will believe me, but for a long moment, I just wanted to sleep--there, next to Pamela with my arm across her middle. Sleep away dreams, sleep away thoughts of drowning. I suppose I was already drowning, and Pamela was the only way out, the only way up. I slid closer until her arm was under my shoulders and clasped her around the waist.

I kissed her full on the mouth before she could scream, and then I came up for air, and she did scream. Mrs. Jewkes was somewhere on the periphery, shouting, “Don’t dilly-dally, sir.”

Cross-Examination

“Mrs. Jewkes encouraged you to violate the girl?” Judge Hardcastle said, dumbfounded. He was beginning to think he’d stumbled into a cross between Charles Dickens and Married with Children.

“Mrs. Jewkes has an uncomplicated approach to problems,” Mr. B said.

“She hates her own gender,” proclaimed Dr. Matchel.

“She’s a damned good housekeeper,” Mr. B said.

Dr. Matchel blanched. Gary sputtered. The judge couldn’t blame them. For a man claiming to be in love, Mr. B’s matter-of-fact attitude was a trifle chilling.

Leslie Quinn said, “Sex was a less private matter in eighteenth-century households than in our modern world.”

Mr. B said, “I did not have sex with Pamela in front of Mrs. Jewkes.”

“You almost did,” Gary said. “That woman’s a voyeur.”

The judge had to agree. “Surely, a servant would have more propriety—”

“Most servants are sluts,” Mr. Shorter muttered; Mr. B kicked him.

“What?” the judge said sharply.

Leslie Quinn said, “Servant women were considered more, ah, earthy than women of the upper classes.”

The judge had been right: this was definitely Married with Children meets Twisted Tales of Bleak Expectations.

Mr. B said wearily, “I did not have sex in front of Mrs. Jewkes.”

“What did happen?” the judge said.

Week 6 (continued)

Pamela was still screaming, and I was trying to explain that this was it, she might as well accept my proposals, and then she went limp, completely limp, like something dead.

“She’s had a fit,” I said, getting up.

“Ah, she’s faking, sir,” Mrs. Jewkes said.

“No, she isn’t,” I said and lit a candle. Pamela lay on the bed, white and motionless. Mrs. Jewkes leaned over her.

“She’s breathing,” she said while I pulled on my gown and slippers. I brought another candle to the bed and sat on the free side.

“Can you wake her?” I said.

Ah! The smell of ammonia!

If you want to revive yourself

after a swoon, smelling salts

can be purchased at most drugstores.

Mrs. Jewkes waved smelling-salts under Pamela’s nose, and Pamela jerked awake. She looked at me, and I knew that look, I read it from my own experience.

She was terrified of drowning.

She sat up, edging backwards until she struck the headboard.

“Pamela,” I said gently. “Pamela.”

She watched me warily like something wild and injured. I leaned forward, speaking softly, and she put her hand on my mouth. We gazed at each other over her fingers.

She said, “Did I suffer any distress?”

“No,” I said. “I promise you I did nothing.”

“Well, you could now, seeing as she’s well,” Mrs. Jewkes said stolidly.

Pamela’s eyes rolled back in her head. She was pressed sideways against the bed’s headboard and would have fallen to the floor if I hadn’t caught her.

“Get out of here,” I said to Mrs. Jewkes. “Send the maid in.”

Cross-Examination

“He sent Mrs. Jewkes away,” Gary said. “He arranged to be alone in order to—”

“I did not violate her,” Mr. B shouted, and Judge Hardcastle banged his gavel.

“None of that,” he said sternly, and Mr. B slumped in his chair, a hand to his face. The judge eyed the man’s tight lips and closed eyes.

Dr. Matchel said, “Pamela was unconscious. Whatever isn’t stated in the text directly—”

The judge interrupted: “Does the text suggest in any way that Pamela was violated at this time?”

“No,” Lonquist said, and Leslie Quinn said, “I think Pamela would have known. She only asked Mr. B out of innocence. If she’d really been, uh, deflowered, she would have written about it.”

The judge glanced at Mr. Hatch who nodded reluctant agreement.

“Then she wasn’t raped.” There would be no deconstructionism in Judge Hardcastle’s court. Texts thrived on their own and all that, but meaning was meaning, and some things just happened and some things just did not.

“She must have been very frightened,” he said gently, and Mr. B, eyes still closed, said, “Yes.”

Mr. Hatch said, “It’s obvious Pamela suffered a dissociative fugue.”

Lonquist said, “She swooned. Everybody in eighteenth-century literature swooned. Even men swooned.”

Leslie Quinn said, “Swooning was a recognized reaction to emotional upheaval during this time period. Emotions are universal, but expressions of emotions are not. Swooning was an acceptable form of expression.”

“So—Pamela would swoon whenever she was upset,” the judge said.

“Whenever she needed to protect her future,” Leslie Quinn said.

“Whenever I was being an idiot,” Mr. B said. He was sitting up now, hands splayed on the table. “I stopped being one.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the judge said. “If you can refrain from shouting, I suggest you continue your testimony.”

Week 6 (continued)

I laid Pamela flat on the bed; she was light, too light. She hadn’t been eating as Mrs. Jewkes claimed. I touched her cheek, and it was cold. There was a scar along her hairline I didn’t remember from Bedfordshire.

The maid showed up, blinking confusedly.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Nan, sir.”

“Sit down there, Nan.”

Nan agreed, wide-eyed. I waited, holding Pamela’s hand, watching her face as Nan waved the smelling salts.

Pamela entered consciousness slowly. Her eyes fixed on me.

“Nan will sleep here tonight,” I said. “I sent Mrs. Jewkes to her room.”

“Won’t the same thing happen again? Only this time with Nan to encourage you?”

“No,” I said. “I will not come in again tonight. Say you forgive me, Pamela,” and I kissed her hand.

“God forgive you, sir,” she said.

I had to be content with that.

Cross-Examination

Judge Hardcastle sighed, clasped his hands, and studied Mr. B. “Did you try again?”

“No,” Mr. B said. “Absolutely not.”

Gary said, “Your presence in the house was violation enough.”

Dr. Matchel said, “The mere possibility of rape would traumatize Pamela for years to come.”

Deborah didn’t hesitant to speak up this time. “But this wasn’t a real rape attempt,” she said, and everyone looked at her, including Mr. B.

“I suppose,” Dr. Matchel said icily, “you are one of those Katie Roiphe-type girls who think women ask for rape.”

“Sure, I read The Morning After. That’s not the point.” When no one stopped her, Deborah continued, “Romance rape is never really rape. Some scholars think the hero actually represents the dark side of the female psyche—the whole thing is sort of Jungian—”

The judge disliked overextended metaphors and must have looked it because Deborah said, “Yes, I know. I think it’s farfetched too. But the point is, the heroine is never completely at odds with the hero.”

“I can’t believe we are belittling the worst thing that could happen to a woman,” Gary sputtered.

“It isn’t the worse thing that could happen to Pamela the character. Anything Mr. B does to her will never be the worst thing because he is the hero, and he ultimately means well.”

Gary threw up his arms. “Talk about moral relativism. Why are we even here?!”

Everyone turned to stare at Gary.

“Gary!” Dr. Matchel said.

He folded his arms and tried to look belligerent. “I have to question things.”

“I think it’s a great question,” Lonquist said, looking amused.

But the judge wasn’t about to have the entire hearing put in jeopardy with more deconstructionist nonsense.

He said, “We are here to discover if Pamela has or will suffer beyond the scope of her time-period or genre. Even poor Tess of the D’Urbervilles was released from that terrible existence—” to a moderately less depressing novel (she wouldn’t, it was argued, be able to comprehend an entirely happy one).

“Pamela has and will suffer,” Dr. Matchel said sharply, still glaring at Gary.

“But not from Mr. B,” Deborah said. “The worst thing that could happen to Pamela would be if Lady Davers’s nephew tried to rape her. Or if she had to marry Williams.”

There was a brief pause, and then Mr. B laughed without restraint, lines creasing about his eyes.

Mr. Hatch said quickly, “None of this alters that Pamela was upset.”

“Yes,” the judge agreed, “but it does mean we can move on.”

Mr. B Speaks! 8th Installment

2012-02-17T23:02:00.000-05:00

Week 6 (continued)

Pamela refused my proposal. I suppose you aren’t surprised. I no longer knew what to expect. I will say her answer to my proposal was the most straightforward she had been with me in weeks:

“I will not trifle with you nor act like a person doubtful of her own mind,” she wrote. She assured me she had not encouraged Williams. She disdained my offers of money, proclaiming her “honest parents” would never agree to any proposal that involved the “prostitution of their poor daughter.” I wondered if her parents would be similarly high-handed if approached directly.

Remembering her father, I thought perhaps they would be.

She ended by pointing out that if she did become my paramour for a year, at the end of it, she would hardly merit marriage with a gentleman. This was true. A young woman who hopes to achieve a respectable life cannot afford any liaisons, no matter how brief.

There is, as I stated previously, a great deal of the barrister about Pamela.

One passage gave me pause. “There is no man breathing I wish to marry,” Pamela wrote, “except one and that is the gentleman who, above all others, seeks my everlasting dishonor.”

She wanted me. Her refusal was pointless. God would hardly hold her accountable for merely trying to better herself. A liaison with me would seriously damage her future, but she had no great future anyway. Her parents would hardly complain because their daughter put their comfort above her misguided morality. I stomped around my study, head throbbing.

“It’s your own fault for being so tender,” Mrs. Jewkes said, and I was beginning to think she was right. Pamela needed a fait accompli. The issue needed to be resolved.

“I’ll bed her tomorrow,” I said and instructed Mrs. Jewkes to keep Pamela from escaping.

“She got as far as the garden pond last time.”

“See it doesn’t happen again,” I snapped, and she bustled out. I heard her and Pamela yelling at each other in Pamela’s bedroom. Pamela wanted the keys to the room; Mrs. Jewkes wouldn’t give them up.

I went to bed and didn’t sleep.

Cross-Examination

Cries from the CLF team interrupted Mr. B’s testimony.

“He admits he decided to rape her,” Gary said.

Mr. B said, “Rape is your parlance, not mine.”

“So no one in the eighteenth century was raped?”

“Of course they were. That wasn’t the issue. Pamela was more concerned with her virginity than her rights.”

Leslie Quinn said mildly, “I doubt she saw a difference. Holding out for a decent marriage was more or less her purpose in life. Rape would have ruined her forever.”

“I did repent the decision,” Mr. B said. “I’m no Lovelace. He was a cad. From Clarissa,” he snapped at Judge Hardcastle, who was looking puzzled.

The judge looked hurt. “There’s no need to snarl,” he said.

Lonquist drew the judge’s attention away from Mr. B. “Clarissa is a novel, also by Richardson, about a young woman pursued by a deceitful gentleman named Lovelace. She is eventually seduced—”

“Raped!” Gary said.

“Ravished by Lovelace. She dies, and Lovelace is killed in a duel.”

“Another Lucretia!”

“But not another Pamela.” Mr. B faced the judge, shoulders braced. “I’m being asked to justify an action I long ago regretted. Pamela was my servant, she was female, she had no prospects, and little protection. I was the god of my estates. Didn’t Eros kidnap and seduce Psyche?”

Lonquist said gently, “Psyche accepted her seduction.”

“I was convinced Pamela would as well. Let us grant I was wrong. But I honestly believed I was right.”

The judge looked at the taut, unhappy faces. Only Leslie Quinn and the nondescript clerk seemed unruffled.

He sighed. “I find I am suddenly fed up with history. We’ll end early today. Yes, yes, the transcripts will be couriered to you all this evening. Mr. B’s testimony will resume tomorrow morning, nine a.m. Good day.”

Chapter 3: Day Three

Committee for Literary Fairness v. Mr. B

Mr. B found he was tapping his feet and leaned forward, pressing his arms against his knees.

Of course, the CLF had brought up the attempted rape. It was not the biggest problem he and Pamela had ever faced, but he understood how it appeared to the outside world.

He knew, without Mr. Shorter’s advice, that he needed to tread carefully. Pleading age and inexperience would not impress the judge—or bring Pamela back to him. Pleading incompetence would offend even his supporters.

Mr. Shorter came in, carrying a bagel and cup of coffee. He received a small stipend in courthouse dollars for his work as a “legal aid,” which he spent on modern “delicacies.” Mr. B would bet Mr. Shorter was already wondering who else he could represent from the novel in this so-called “real life.”

“There’s a letter about us in a non-fictional newspaper,” Mr. Shorter said.

Mr. B is referring to broadsheets,

like this one from the late 1700s,

which printed news about murder & divorce.

Mr. B already knew that. Before Mr. Shorter arrived, he’d heard the librarian, Lonquist, and the historian, Leslie Quinn, gleefully discussing it. Apparently, it castigated the CLF as “citizens of low repute who deign to disrupt the holy sacrament of marriage.”

Mr. B said, “I don’t like scandal sheets.”

“If the newspapers are on our side—”

“Neither does Pamela.”

Mr. Shorter shrugged.

A dark-haired young woman wearing a press pass entered the courtroom and sat behind Leslie Quinn. Mr. B glanced at her disinterestedly.

“Hi,” he heard her say to the historian, “I’m Deborah. I just learned about the Pamela hearings. Oh, there’s Mr. B. Is she here?”

“The CLF stuck her in Herland.”

“Wow—why?”

“Isn’t it the ultimate feminist training ground?” Lonquist the librarian said. “Perhaps, Pamela will want to stay there.”

Mr. B crossed his arms and glared at the table top.

“Oh, no,” Deborah said blithely. “She and Mr. B are soul mates.”

“The young lady reviews romance novels,” Mr. Shorter told Mr. B. “Stories about love—not stories about knights.”

“I don’t live in a love novel,” Mr. B said, but he hoped Deborah was right about him and Pamela.

* * *

The CLF team had read the editorial in the City Gazette and was righteously appalled.

“The media has been co-opted by reactionaries,” Gary cried.

Judge Hardcastle ignored him. He also turned down Dr. Matchel’s request for a media blackout. He had no problems with the First Amendment. Media commentary was irritating but rarely intrusive. If it did become intrusive it was only because other people wouldn’t shut up about it.

He wanted to deal with the rape or seduction or whatever it was. He turned to Mr. B and Mr. Shorter. “I can’t ignore this part of the novel—unless rape was an established custom in eighteenth-century literature?”

Both men hesitated.

“Not as an acceptable action,” Mr. B said, and Mr. Shorter concurred.

“Then we need to address the event. Mr. B—?”

Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Pamela’s Abduction

Week 6 (continued)

I went to church the next morning with a prayer message sent to me by Pamela through Mrs. Jewkes: “The prayers of this congregation are earnestly desired for a gentleman of great worth and honor who labors to ruin a poor, distressed, worthless maiden,” it read.

Typical Pamela and clever, but I was tired of the game. “Tell her the reckoning is not far off,” I said and left the house. As I got into the carriage, I saw Pamela’s solemn face at an upstairs window. Our eyes met. She tilted her head and raised her chin the way she would before passing judgment. I jerked my chin back at her and got into the carriage.

Church was exasperating. Parson Peters came up after the sermon to plead with me for Williams’s release: Williams didn’t realize he owed me money; he thought the sum I gave him was in anticipation of his living, et cetera, et cetera.

“It was a bit much putting the fella in gaol,” Sir Simon chimed in.

“I’ll resolve the matter,” I said and left them.

Dealing with Williams was good cover for what I had planned. I sent the carriage home with a letter to Mrs. Jewkes telling her to tell Pamela I’d gone to Stamford town where Williams was imprisoned to confront my erstwhile cleric. I then walked home, cutting across the pasture, so I could enter through the rear.

I ran into Colbrand in the stable yard and used him to send a second message to Mrs. Jewkes, after which I rested on the terraced garden watching the sky mellow and getting my breath back.

The stage was set. By that same time the next day, Pamela’s fate would be decided. Finally.

Mr. B Speaks! 7th Installment

2012-02-10T14:49:00.001-05:00

Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Pamela’s Abduction

Week 4

Williams is not an intelligent financial manager. He’s a good man who does his duties (usually) faithfully (usually). But he’d borrowed money from me nearly a year before and never repaid it. It was a good enough reason to throw him in gaol, an excellent way to bring him to heel.

I should have done it and let the issue drop, but I wanted to know how far Pamela had confided in him. I could not believe Pamela might be attracted to his bland personality or labored conversation or lack of wit. What I did next was beneath me, but I did it: I sent a letter to Williams offering him a living plus Pamela’s hand in marriage.

Mrs. Jewkes confirmed my suspicions. Upon receiving my offer, Williams confessed to her that he and Pamela already planned to marry. They’d been secreting notes to each other for several weeks.

I’ve never been so angry. All those protestations about needing her parents’ approval “and yet,” I wrote Pamela, “you could enter into an intrigue with a man you barely know,” especially when the ridiculous man’s livelihood depended on me. So I sent instructions to Mr. Shorter to have Williams arrested for his debt.

I decided to visit Lincolnshire even without Pamela’s permission but to wait a few weeks to regain my sangfroid. A bad temper runs in our family. My sister’s is worse, believe it or not. Instead of leaving immediately for Lincolnshire, I went to the Hargraves in Hertfordshire, and there, I nearly died.

Cross-Examination

Judge Hardcastle was now upset with Mr. Shorter: “You had Mr. Williams arrested?”

Mr. Shorter shrugged. “The debt was owed.”

“And you just do what you’re told,” Gary said derisively.

“Yes,” Mr. Shorter said without any defensiveness.

“Servitude creates mindlessness.”

Mr. Shorter blinked at that. “Hey!”

Mr. B said, “Mr. Shorter is a diligent attorney.”

“Meaning, he does what you want.”

“Meaning, he carries out his duties.” Mr. B paused, then said, “A servant or retainer should remonstrate his employer if he thinks that employer has behaved wrongly. Williams, you understand, never came to me, never verified Pamela’s story, never used his position to resolve the issue directly.”

“Would you have listened?”

“I don’t know, but he sabotaged the chance.”

Mr. Hatch said curiously, “Are you even friends with your, uh, employees?”

Mr. Shorter and Mr. B looked blankly at each other. Mr. Shorter shrugged as if to say: Ignore them.

The judge thought the conversation was getting off course. “Jailed for debt?” he said.

Leslie Quinn started to say something about “debtor’s prison” and “no such thing as overdraft protection,” but the judge threw up his hands and nodded to Mr. B.

Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Pamela’s Abduction

Week 5

I visited my daughter before I went on to the Hargraves. Little Sally was in good health and as lively as ever. She’s an intelligent child who takes after her papa. Of course, she doesn’t know me by that title.

I planned to spend several weeks with the Hargraves. That Wednesday, I went hunting with Charles, the son of the family. We were fording a stream on the estate when the damned horse shied. I felt myself falling and swore; my right foot was still caught in the stirrup. I shook it loose and went into the water. The horse fell towards me. I rolled sideways. The horse didn’t strike me, but its collapse sent up a wave. I was tossed over, my face scrapping the gravel bed. I gasped like a fool and water flowed into my lungs. I pushed desperately upwards with my hands, met another wave of water, and everything went dark.

I woke from a nightmare. I didn’t remember it then, but I know what it was now because I dreamed it later over and over: the sensation of choking, large falling shapes that loomed towards me no matter which direction I twisted.

People were speaking in the room where I woke. I recognized my sister, Lady Davers’s voice: “Is he going to die?” I didn’t recognize the soothing voice that replied, but I praised it silently: “No, Lady Davers, the water is out of his lungs.” And then I heard Charles’s voice: “Only bumps and bruises, Lady Davers. He’ll be fine.”

“But fever—”

“Let him rest. He will be well.”

The voices faded. I slept and dreamed and woke, pushing frantically at the sheets. I was alone. I got up slowly and peeled off my nightshirt. My left side was a mass of dark bruises. I winced as I stood but lurched to the wardrobe. I was half-dressed when Sir Hargrave’s valet entered.

“Sir,” he said and looked uncomfortable. “Lady Davers will not be pleased you are up.”

“My sister does not rule me,” I said. “Come here.”

We managed to dress me, but I had to sit down when we finished. Breathing was more difficult than I’d anticipated. My ribs didn’t seem broken, but the throbbing on my left side was beginning to creep across my chest.

I groaned. “What time is it?”

“Friday evening, sir.”

I’d been in bed two days.

“Has the family supped?”

“Yes, sir.”

That was a boon. I’d never be able to sit through a meal.

“I’ll visit with the ladies and gentlemen,” I said.

There was much exclaiming when I appeared in the brightly lit parlor. My sister began to lecture me for rising but stopped when I turned away. Charles said, “I knew he would be fine! Hunting tomorrow?”

I smiled stiffly and sat beside Sir Hargrave. He pressed a drink into my hand and started a conversation with Charles about hounds. Intelligent man. I sipped my drink and retreated upstairs before my sister could maneuver me into a one-on-one diatribe.

She would insist on such an encounter eventually. Barbara, my sister, is more persistent than Pamela and far more obnoxious. Besides, Charles kept proclaiming that another hunting trip would set me up “good ’n proper.”

I was being suffocated by well-meaning people. I decided on Monday to leave for Lincolnshire where I would put an end to the problem of Pamela.

I started on Wednesday. Lincolnshire is less than a day’s ride from Hertfordshire, but I could only manage a few hours in the carriage. On Thursday, I lasted four hours before collapsing in a Cambridge Inn. I made it to the Lincolnshire estate the next evening.

Cross-Examination

Mr. Shorter spoke up: “I would like it on record that my client’s accident at the Hargraves resulted in weakness to his lungs. He was unwell for several weeks which made him light-headed and irrational.”

Even Mr. B looked doubtful at this defense but turned blank when Judge Hardcastle glanced at him.

The judge said dryly, “What a terribly modern attorney you are, Mr. Shorter, to blame your client’s shortcomings on his circumstances. I acknowledge Mr. B’s medical condition. Let’s move on. Mr. B—?”

Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Pamela’s Abduction

Week 6

I sat in the shadowed parlor of the Lincolnshire estate while Mrs. Jewkes complained. She was full of tales of Pamela’s intransigence: how Pamela tried to escape, how Pamela had secrets, how Pamela called her names. I rested my head on my fists. I wanted sleep, except sleep brought dreams. I wanted rest from pain, but I didn’t want to get drunk. Loss of control has never appealed to me.

“Bring Pamela down,” I said.

I heard Mrs. Jewkes and Pamela on the stairs. “Come along,” Mrs. Jewkes was saying with brash good-humor. “Beg his honor’s forgiveness for all your faults.”

I rubbed my temples and considered that perhaps John Arnold was right: Mrs. Jewkes was not the best person to attend Pamela.

Pamela entered the long, gloomy room, looking belligerent, and I almost smiled at her until I remembered her conspiracy with Williams.

“Mrs. Jewkes,” I said, “you tell me Pamela remains sullen and eats nothing. I suppose she lives upon love. Her plots with sweet Mr. Williams keep her well.”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Jewkes said. “She’s slippery as an eel.”

Finally, Pamela spoke: “Hear me concerning this wicked woman’s usage—”

“I am satisfied she has done her duty,” I said. “You, however, are a wicked girl to tempt the parson to undo himself.”

“I have a strange tribunal to plead before,” Pamela said acidly. “The poor sheep in the fable was tried before the vulture on the accusation of the wolf.”

I was a little surprised I wasn’t cast as the wolf, but I tried to follow Pamela’s line of reasoning: “So, Mrs. Jewkes,” I said, “I am a vulture, and here is a poor innocent lamb.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Jewkes snorted. “That is nothing to what she has called me: Jezebel, London prostitute—”

I grinned as Pamela burst out, “I wasn’t comparing—”

“Don’t quibble, girl,” I said, and Mrs. Jewkes agreed.

Pamela said, “I appeal to the righteous judge who knows the secrets of all hearts.”

Calling down the fire of heaven on us, in fact, and Pamela looked fit to strike something. If we ever did have children, I pitied them their tempers.

Even tearful, she looked beautiful if too thin. The inquisitive glance was still there, the mocking quirk to the lips, and I wondered what had led Williams to think he could handle Pamela in the first place. But then, she can be quite persuasive when she wants to be.

“It’s no wonder the poor parson was infatuated,” I said. “I blame him less than I do her.”

And Pamela’s expression changed, became bewildered, helpless. For the first time, I wondered if she had encouraged Williams. Had she endowed my chaplain with the scruples of a Galahad?

She turned and pressed her face against the parlor’s paneled wall. I got up and slipped an arm around her shoulders. “How can I forgive you?” I said. She had caused disturbances in my households, corrupted my servants, conspired with Williams. I kissed her hair.

She broke away then. “I will die before I will be used thus,” she said, and the indignation was back.

“Consider where you are, Pamela,” I said. “Don’t be a fool.”

She wouldn’t meet my eyes, so I sent her upstairs with Mrs. Jewkes.

I collapsed then. Monsieur Colbrand, my Swiss servant, heaved me to bed. “You have fever, sir,” he said, and I said, “I’ll be better in the morning.”

I didn’t sleep, and the next morning, I was still warm, but I dressed without help. Sir Simon came to welcome me to the county. “Can I see the chippy?” he asked, and I said, “No” shortly.

He obviously expected to stay for dinner, so while he strode in the garden, I pulled out my proposal and had Mrs. Jewkes take it up to Pamela.

I’d begun the proposal before I packed Pamela off to Lincolnshire. Once Pamela became my paramour, I would give her the immediate gift of five-hundred guineas, the income from my property in Kent with her father as manager, a promise to care for any of her relations (I hoped there weren’t many; she’d never suggested she came from a large family), four sets of clothes plus several pieces of high quality jewelry, and the right to command my servants. Lastly, I promised to marry her in a year.

I doubted Pamela would care about the last provision once she had exposure to the rest. It was a generous settlement.

Cross-Examination

“Very generous,” Judge Hardcastle said. “Was this comparable to a pre-nuptial agreement?”

“More like wages for a hooker,” Gary said.

Mr. B turned white. “I never perceived Pamela as a street-walker,” he said, teeth gritted.

Dr. Matchel said, “Really, Gary!”

“That was uncalled for,” Mr. Hatch added.

Leslie Quinn said, “The position Mr. B was offering Pamela was something closer to, ah, a geisha.”

The judge, who only oversaw trials of Western literature, looked doubtful.

“Tarted-up analogy,” Gary muttered, twitching when Mr. B glowered at him.

Leslie Quinn said, “Watch out, Professor. Mr. B might challenge you to a duel.”

Everyone looked startled except Mr. B, who looked vaguely embarrassed.

The "Italian Duel" that Mr. B

fought (and won) would have

been with swords, not pistols.

The judge said quickly, “That would be most inappropriate.”

Technically, a duel—as an established eighteenth-century custom—would be allowable, but it would also be messy and time-consuming.

Mr. B’s smile was understanding. “I don’t fight duels anymore,” he told the judge pacifically.

“Anymore? You did fight duels?” Gary sounded rather awe-struck.

“Once abroad. I won. I was much younger, of course. I wouldn’t fight a duel now. Taking people to court,” Mr. B said, “is much more civilized.” He winked at Leslie Quinn.

The judge glanced around the court. Mr. B had finally rendered even the CLF speechless. It was time to move on.

“How did Pamela react to your proposal?”

Mr. B Speaks! 6th Installment

2012-02-03T13:22:00.001-05:00

Cross-Examination

“Sexual harassment creates an unequal and unsafe environment,” said Dr. Matchel.

Leslie Quinn said, “The eighteenth century didn’t have harassment laws.”

“People discussed the issue,” Dr. Matchel countered. “People were aware that masters pressured their servants,” and Leslie Quinn nodded. (“True. True.”)

“She was obviously repulsed,” Gary said.

Lonquist hooted. “Are you still going with the Pamela-as-lesbian theory?” he said, and Gary looked cross.

Mr. B said without rancor, “We only exchanged kisses. Pamela rather enjoyed them when she wasn’t remembering to be coy.”

“Says you,” Gary muttered.

To Judge Hardcastle’s surprise, out of all Gary’s remarks, this one earned a glare from Mr. B.

Mr. B snapped, “Pamela’s quite good at kissing,”

Leslie Quinn laughed. “Such noblesse oblige.”

“Which apparently extends to defending Pamela’s amatory proficiencies,” Judge Hardcastle said, feeling a little amused and a great deal nonplussed.

Mr. B shrugged and grimaced at the windows.

Dr. Matchel said, “Pamela’s ability in this area isn’t the point,” and the judge told Mr. B to continue.

Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Letters XXVIII-XXXI

The ructions in my household continued. Longman, my steward, got wind of my threat to let Mrs. Jervis go and cornered me with homages to her housekeeping. This led to another meeting between me, Mrs. Jervis, and Pamela, this time with Longman hovering in the background. I’d never intended to let Mrs. Jervis go, but I made a point of telling her she could stay.

“Pamela needs to return home,” I said.

Pamela put on her demure routine, and Longman, who is a bit of an old fool about girls, praised her delicate behavior. That annoyed me. I goaded Pamela until she snapped at me, sending Longman into a dither. Pamela instantly put on a performance worthy of the most honest of Roman matrons, declaiming she had been “faulty and ungrateful to the very best of masters.”

I seemed to be the only one who heard the sarcasm.

“It’s a hard thing you’re doing,” Mrs. Jervis told me when I stopped by her parlor afterwards. “The girl tried scouring a pewter plate this morning and made a mess of it. She’s not made for hard-labor.”

“She was never taught it,” I said. “Pamela is quick. She’ll learn.”

But Mrs. Jervis still hoped to soften my heart towards Pamela. She invited me to sit in her closet again with some snacks while she and Pamela discussed Pamela’s packing. Pamela planned to leave behind all gifts to her from me and my mother. She didn’t want to be beholden to our family in any way.

A guinea circa 1700.

4 guineas = £500-£5,000 (money

values pre-1900s are extremely

difficult to figure). Pamela would never

be able to pay it back.

She was especially worried about four guineas I’d given her when my mother died. She had already sent them to her parents, who had spent them. Pamela pointed out to Mrs. Jervis that she’d had no wages while living on the Bedfordshire estate and although she couldn’t repay my mother’s kindness, the education she’d received from my mother would do her little good in her parents’ cottage.

I leaned my head in my hands and listened to Pamela arguing, mostly with herself, that her work was worth four guineas, she didn’t need to repay the money, only she didn’t want anyone to think she’d taken what wasn’t hers, and so on and so on—so much mingled worry and fear and belligerence over so minor an issue.

I hatched a new plan.

The next day, I directed Pamela to come to my library where I tried once more to argue good sense into Pamela's head.

“Stay a fortnight longer while John carries word to your father that I wish to see him.”

I would employ her father or settle money on him, demonstrating to Pamela the benefits of my patronage. Once those benefits became real, she would see the wisdom of becoming my paramour.

Pamela shook her head. “Let me go tomorrow.”

“I intend no harm,” I told her. This was mostly true. Kindness was a better weapon with Pamela than harassment and a promise to mitigate her worst fears would go a long way towards overcoming her scruples.

I even promised to marry her off to a clergyman if she stayed.

I suppose it is no shock to you that she turned me down.

So I went ahead and kidnapped her.

Cross-Examination

Dr. Matchel rose. “Mr. B’s testimony confirms our worst fears. He admits he spied on Pamela, planned to kidnap her—”

Mr. Shorter came to his feet. “He is not excusing his conduct. He is placing events in context.”

“His so-called context engendered an environment of fear. Within such an environment, any decision on Pamela’s part to marry is suspect. The marriage should be annulled, and Pamela permanently placed in a more female-affirmative novel.”

Lonquist said, “She didn’t agree to marry him until almost seven weeks later.”

“After he imprisoned and thoroughly demoralized her!”

Judge Hardcastle banged his gavel. He said to Mr. B, “Did you really skulk about in a closet, eavesdropping on Pamela and Mrs. Jervis?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Knocking your head against the hangers?”

Mr. B looked blank. Leslie Quinn said, “A closet was a small room, Judge, like, uh, a breakfast nook. With a door. It often contained books and a desk.”

“I see. Of course, Mr. B, you were much younger.”

Mr. B smiled ruefully. “And far more foolish.”

“Yes. Please continue.” The judge waved down the objecting Dr. Matchel. “The subject of this hearing is the marriage, which has not yet occurred. Please wait until it does before you start demanding a decision.”

Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Pamela’s Abduction

Weeks 1-3

I put my plan in motion that Thursday. Please remember, Pamela was my servant, not my peer. I had the right to arrange her place and type of employment.

I had my coachman convey Pamela to my Lincolnshire estate. My servants in Lincolnshire were less inclined to independent action; they would not be susceptible to Pamela’s appeals for advocacy.

I’d kept back Pamela’s last three letters detailing my latest overtures; I’d warned her not to cross the line into gossip. In lieu of her letters, I wrote her father, advising him that Pamela was betrothed to my chaplain and that she was safe. There was no reason her parents should be worried when she failed to appear at their door.

I didn’t expect her father to appear at my door.

More precisely, he appeared in Mrs. Jervis’s parlor. He was about fifty and terribly poor: the grooms mistook him for a beggar. I leaned against the parlor wall and studied him. He was a big man. If he’d walked all night, he would have plenty of stamina. His hands were calloused, his neck darkly bronzed. A hard worker.

I said, “Your daughter is well cared for.”

“How can I be sure?” he said, scowling sideways at me. It was a look I recognized. I also recognized the steely voice. Pamela comes fairly by her barrister’s mind.

“Recollect who I am,” I said. “Why ask me questions if you won’t believe my answers?”

“I wish only to know her whereabouts, sir.”

“She’ll write you,” I said, “unless she’s negligent. I can’t answer for that.”

I had no doubt Pamela would write. Whether I would let anyone see her letters was a separate issue.
He seemed assuaged, and I instructed Mrs. Jervis to feed him and give him money before he left. I sent a letter to Pamela, asking her to copy an innocuous message I’d enclosed which I would send on to her parents. I truly didn’t want the rustics to suffer.

Pamela sent the copied message back with a belligerent missive to me. Kidnapping hadn’t quelled her spirit. She even annotated the message, adding phrases like “vilely tricked” but the content was more or less the same, so I handed it over to Mrs. Jervis to send to Mr. and Mrs. Andrews.

Young John Arnold, who brought the mail from Lincolnshire, approached me diffidently. “Pamela’s not safe, sir, if you pardon me mentioning it. Mrs. Jewkes doesn’t treat her well.”

Mrs. Jewkes is the Lincolnshire housekeeper, a somewhat crass but loyal woman.

“Pamela’s used to being treated better than her station,” I pointed out, and he nodded glumly and went away.

I considered his complaint, however. Mrs. Jewkes is a hard woman, harder than Mrs. Jervis, being more cynical and more exacting. Pamela would be chafing under her eagle eye.

I wrote Pamela, assuring her that Mrs. Jewkes was meant to treat her well. I also promised not to visit until Pamela invited me to Lincolnshire—as if she were truly mistress of my house there.

I did not know then what schemes were being hatched between Pamela and my chaplain.

That’s right—my chaplain, a man dependent on me for a living, entered into a conspiracy with Pamela. She began it. Mr. Williams isn’t clever or cool-headed enough to “save” a kidnapped girl, but once Pamela incited him, he did plenty of damage.

I first learned of the conspiracy when Sir Simon, whose estate is near mine in Lincolnshire, visited me in Bedfordshire. “Did you know,” he said, “your chaplain fella is spreading all kinds of rumors about you in our county?”

Williams didn’t have the imagination to spread rumors about me. I nearly said so until a qualm struck.

“What rumors?” I said warily.

“Something about you keeping some chippy locked up in your house. I told him he was out of bounds, engaging in a scheme against his friend and patron.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t care if you have ten chippies locked up in your house—it’s got nothing to do with me. I told him so. But you might want to bring him to heel.”

“Yes,” I said, and I knew how to do it.

Cross-Examination

“Why on earth,” Judge Hardcastle said, “would this priest, Williams, answer to you for his behavior?”

“He wasn’t a priest—” Mr. B began.

Leslie Quinn interrupted. “Mr. Williams would have taken orders—been ordained—but until he was given a parish, he would not be known as a priest.”

The judge gnawed on that. “If he didn’t have a parish, why does Mr. B speak of him as if he were an employee?”

“It would be in Mr. B’s power to give Mr. Williams a living—that is, a parish.”

Gary muttered, “CEO arrogance,” and Leslie Quinn atypically snapped, “It’s not that type of relationship at all.”

Mr. B said, “I planned to offer Williams a specific living when its current incumbent died. The post is a good one, about three hundred per year, enough to establish Williams as a gentleman of some leisure.”

“That sounds rather like a CEO-employee relationship,” the judge said, and Leslie Quinn looked resigned.

Mr. Hatch muttered, “Not exactly separation of church and state.”

“You understand what that means?” Gary said to Mr. B, as if addressing a dim college freshman.

“I have encountered the idea.”

“The American Revolution will begin while Mr. B is still alive,” Leslie Quinn said. “He might even be a supporter.”

Mr. B shrugged. “The colonies are too closely regulated. But I’m not really interested in foreign affairs. I think Englishmen and women spend too much time abroad.”

“Provincialism,” Gary said weakly. Mr. B’s sanguine attitude regarding possible revolution clearly surprised him.

The judge, on the other hand, was beginning to wonder if Mr. B was the best educated person in the room. Unfortunately, exploring American history from an eighteenth-century English point of view, however fascinating, wasn’t going to get them through the story any faster.

“What did you do with Mr. Williams?”

Mr. B Speaks! 5th Installment

2012-01-27T10:49:00.001-05:00

Chapter 2: Day Two
Committee for Literary Fairness v. Mr. B

Mr. B entered the court, deliberately ignoring the interfering busybodies from the Committee for Literary Fairness.

He still couldn’t grasp why he was here. He had never excused or dismissed his mistakes with Pamela. Settling at the fictionals’ table, he said to Mr. Shorter, “I encouraged Pamela to publish her account of my misdeeds. She forgave me everything.” She’d married him. “Aren’t any of these people Christians?”

Mr. Shorter shrugged. “I don’t think it matters.”

It mattered to Pamela. Mr. B didn’t see who else it should matter to.

But then, he wasn’t always sure the people in this hearing were talking about his and Pamela’s novel. His testimony followed Pamela’s account: he’d read and reread her letters so often, he knew the order she gave to events. Her writing style was a tad effusive, but she and Mr. B concurred on who said what when, where, and even why.

But the people in this courtroom—more precisely, the people at the opposite table—seemed to think Pamela’s writing said something other than it did, that Pamela was not honest when she spoke of softening towards him, of loving him.

Perhaps, these non-fictionals wouldn’t leave Odysseus alone.

“Do you think they hate novels?” he said to Mr. Shorter.

“I’m not a huge fan of them myself.”

“Because they endanger society’s morals?” Mr. B said, surprised. Mr. Shorter had never struck Mr. B as an alarmist.

“What? No. I just prefer reading news.”

“They seem frightened,” Mr. B said, glancing towards the CLF table. “Like they don’t want novels to exist.”

Like they didn’t want Pamela to have ever been.

Under the table, Mr. B clenched his hands.

* * *

At the opposite table, Dr. Matchel murmured to the CLF psychologist, Mr. Hatch, “I thought we agreed to leave Pamela in Herland.”

“We did. She’s there now.”

“But you extracted her yesterday.”

“Our therapy sessions have to take place in the courthouse.”

“She doesn’t need therapy,” said Professor Gary. “She needs to get away from her bullying husband.”

“She doesn’t behave like an abused wife,” Mr. Hatch said.

Dr. Matchel said, “Women in these situations don’t always know they need help, Mr. Hatch.”

“That’s why I have to interview her.” Mr. Hatch was annoyed. His was the awesome responsibility of acquainting Pamela with non-repressive forms of self-expression. “Last night, I used yesterday’s transcripts to point out patriarchal assumptions in Mr. B’s testimony.”

“How did Pamela respond?”

Mr. Hatch twitched defensively. “She demanded to see her husband.”

“You see!”

“I’ll get through to her eventually.”

* * *

Leslie Quinn and Lonquist strolled into the courtroom together. They'd met at the coffee stand in the rotunda where they’d shared a pastry and discussed Wilkie Collins’s Woman in White.

“Our judge would be more comfortable with a murder mystery,” Lonquist said.

“Oh, he’ll find his legs. The eighteenth century is a lot to take on.”

“You’re just pleased he’s giving you access to the transcripts.”

“I’ve fleshed out two chapters in my next book.”

“So Pamela is simply a resource on eighteenth-century conditions?”

She twinkled. “I confess, I confess. The context matters more to me than the story. But then I don’t pretend anything else.”

“An honest scholar.”

“Oh, sure, there’s a few of us.”

“A voice crying in the wilderness.”

“Now, now,” Leslie Quinn scolded. “Don’t go using Biblical references. People will start thinking you’re a fictional character who actually reads the standard works of Western civilization.”

“I do, I do,” Lonquist admitted.

* * *

Judge Hardcastle’s robes bunched around his thighs as he sat down. The audience members were in place—Leslie Quinn with her notebook; Lonquist, the librarian, with his jaundiced gaze. At the character table, Mr. B sat, hands folded, beside Mr. Shorter, who had added an official looking pile of papers and a cup of coffee to his area.

Fictional lawyers always adjusted quickly to real life.

The CLF team members were also seated. They looked ready to make objections about yesterday’s testimony, particularly Gary the professor.

The judge preferred to get on with the story. He’d been tempted to read Pamela the night before, but during hearings, he tried to treat each text as a fresh experience—like meeting new friends or eating a new dish (the judge's wife liked to experiment with unusual recipes). Characters never failed to leave their own distinct impressions on the court.

He said, “We will proceed with Mr. B’s testimony. However, I must tell you, Mr. B, I am of the opinion that you should have helped Pamela get home to her parents.”

“I was enamored. I knew I should let her go. I wanted her to stay. Pamela liked talking to me.” A soft, reflective look crossed Mr. B’s face. “She’s careful around most people. A caustic wit isn’t always appreciated. I went back for more. And she liked being able to say what she thought to me. She will claim she tried to avoid me, but I managed to see a lot of her during those weeks.”

“You stalked her,” Gary said.

Mr. B directed his gaze at the courthouse windows.

Mr. Shorter said, “It is in Mr. B’s nature to form passionate attachments.”

“I think we’d better tackle this stalking charge,” the judge said. “You wanted to overhear Pamela talking about you—is that right?”

Mr. B nodded and began.

Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Letters XXV-XXVII

Closet in Ham House

Treasure Hunt

National Trust Collection

I hid in Mrs. Jervis’s room. I went there while the servants were at supper and sat in her closet. I had to wait a while, so I read Robinson Crusoe—the tale of a resourceful hero. Quite appropriate to my situation.

Pamela and Mrs. Jervis came in. Pamela was sleeping with Mrs. Jervis by then. They were arguing. Apparently, Pamela hadn’t wanted me to see her in her peasant clothes; she accused Mrs. Jervis of deliberately exposing her. The motherly woman tried to soothe Pamela’s feelings, but Pamela wouldn’t listen. So much wrath and self-pity over so much ordinary human fallibility—Pamela was quite young at the time.

“There’s something in the closet,” she said, and Mrs. Jervis said, “Perhaps the cat” and tried to get Pamela to talk about me, but Pamela kept claiming to hear noises and the next thing I knew, we were face to face. For a moment, she looked bemused, and then she took in my silk dressing gown and bare feet and rushed for the bed.

I honestly hadn’t planned a seduction. I’d wanted to hear Pamela’s opinion of me, to discover what lurked behind her clutched-after front of propriety. But we’d suddenly become participants in a French farce with Pamela huddled under the covers and Mrs. Jervis trying to shoo me out.

I got fed up. “I can always dismiss you,” I told her, an unworthy threat. She’s a good housekeeper, Mrs. Jervis. She wasn’t impressed by my bluster anyway and told me to go to the other side of the room.

“Pamela’s fainted,” she said then.

“Hell’s bells,” I said.

“You’d better go.”

I left, feeling a fool.

The next morning, I went out hunting with two of my neighbors. I desperately wanted to shoot something. When I returned home, I found my entire household discussing the conflict between me and Pamela. This was intolerable. One cannot have servants making bets over a maid’s virtue.

I called Pamela to my dressing room. “Last night,” I said, “you frightened me as much as I frightened you.”

“You ought to be more afraid of God Almighty.”

I grinned. “Nicely urged, my pretty preacher! When my Lincolnshire chaplain dies, I’ll put thee in a gown and cassock and thou’lt make a good figure in his place.”

She glowered. I was trying on my court dress, and she studied my silver-laced waistcoat, head tilted. She came forward, smoothed out a wrinkle, then backed away, head still tilted.

“I’m considering a wife suitable to my station,” I told her, which was a lie. My sister wanted me to marry Lady Betty, but I’d refused to contemplate the match. Lady Betty is one of those aggressive teasers; I prefer my lovers to take me somewhat seriously.

Still, the lie was a handy way to distance myself.

“I’m glad for you,” Pamela said, but her voice shook.

“You should look more cheerful,” I told her, “or people will think you regret leaving me.”

“I will smile and laugh more.”

“A noteworthy moment,” I said. “This is the first time you’ve taken my advice.”

She pulled a face. “It is the first good advice you’ve given.”

Touché. “I wish you were as quick with your kisses as you are with your answers.”

She blushed and bolted. Naturally.

Mr. B Speaks! 4th Installment

2012-01-20T13:12:00.003-05:00

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.

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.”

Mary Edwards by Hogarth.

Mary Edwards was a very wealthy woman. Her clothes, and demeanor, reflect her upper middle-class position in society.

Mr. B Speaks! 3rd Installment

2012-01-13T10:46:00.002-05:00

Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Letters XIV-XV

I was away from the Bedfordshire estate for two weeks—I had business to conduct in Kent and London—but I was still annoyed with Pamela when I returned from visiting my daughter.

Cross-Examination

Mr. Hatch, exclaimed, “Your daughter!?” and started flipping through his notes.

Mr. B waited patiently. Mr. Shorter said, “Miss Goodwin, Judge. She has been Mr. B’s ward since birth. The mother lives in Jamaica.”

“I take it the child was born out of wedlock.”

“Yes,” Mr. B snapped, straightening from his easy slump.

Judge Hardcastle turned to him, affronted. “Is there any reason not to mention her?”

“There’s no need to make her illegitimate status generally known. I met my daughter’s mother when I was in college. We had an affair. She was sorry for it and left, placing our daughter in my care. My daughter has the potential to grow up untainted by her parents’ mistakes.”

The judge still looked piqued. “Your daughter is not on trial, Mr. B. Your worries are unwarranted.”

Mr. B glowered. Behind him, Lonquist murmured, “Illegitimacy is not a disgrace here,” and some of the tension left Mr. B’s face and body.

Leaning nearly out of his seat, Mr. Hatch said, “How old was she at the time? How often did you visit her?”

“Mr. B’s paternal duties are not relevant to this hearing,” the judge said.

“They were relevant to Pamela,” Mr. B said. “Sally, my daughter, was six when I began courting Pamela. She stayed at a boarding-house run by a trustworthy governess.”

“Abandonment,” muttered Gary, but Mr. Hatch beamed almost kindly on Mr. B.

The judge rapped lightly with his gavel. “Let’s focus on the courtship. If you would continue, sir—” and Mr. B did.

Letters XIV-XV (continued)

I spoke to Mrs. Jervis, my housekeeper about sending Pamela back to her parents.

“She’s an artful minx,” I complained, and Mrs. Jervis looked understandably doubtful. Pamela is shrewd enough to manipulate events as they arise, but she’s never possessed the kind of calculation that pre-arranges events to her benefit.

Mrs. Jervis said, “Your honor frightened her in the summer-house.”

Of course Pamela told her.

I stomped off to find Pamela scribbling in my mother’s dressing room. She folded the letter and tucked it in her bodice. She didn’t say anything or curtsy, only watched me, remote and guarded.

“You’ve been spreading rumors about me,” I said—true rumors but rumors nonetheless.

“I talk to hardly anyone.”

“You little equivocator,” I said. “What do you mean by hardly?” Mrs. Jervis was a great deal of very.

“Why should you care what I tell Mrs. Jervis—if you intend no harm?”

Pamela could be a barrister.

She continued: “I told her about the summer-house because my heart was broken, but I told no one else.”

“You wrote a letter, Pamela,” I said.

“Did you take it?”

“I should let you expose me?”

“It isn’t exposure if I write the truth.”

At that point, I realized I was exchanging extremely heated words with my mother’s companion in the middle of my mother’s dressing room.

“Insolence,” I said. “Should I let a servant question me?”

Pamela retreated. It’s what she does when she panics. She becomes instantaneously demure.

“I don’t wish to lose my employment.”

“How can you work for me unless you willingly follow my commands?”

“Should I follow your commands at the expense of my principles?”

I rolled my eyes. “If that’s what you fear, I might as well give you real cause,” I said and took her on my knee. She stilled, eyes slewing towards me.

“Be easy,” I said. “Let the worst happen. You will have the merit, I the blame, and then you can write a very interesting letter.”

Her lips curved into a half-smile. She stared hard at the parquet floor.

“Nobody blamed Lucretia,” I pointed out and fondled her neck.

She lifted her chin to frown at me, and I tongued her lips.

“Should I kill myself like Lucretia did?”

Trust Pamela to start a literary argument in the middle of a seduction.

“We could create as pretty a romance,” I said and cupped one breast.

She bolted, and this time, I wasn’t in a state to do more than grab the tail of her dress. She got away.

I sat there awhile, Pamela’s willingness—when she got caught up in argument—to be caressed. After which, I reminded myself that Pamela was fairly young and given to hyperbole and could be imagining herself as Lucretia at that moment. English women supposedly know better than to commit suicide in the house of their employers, but Pamela is absurdly literal.

Cross-Examination

“Who the hell is Lucretia?” Gary said.

Judge Hardcastle didn’t know either but glared at Gary anyway.

Leslie Quinn said, “I thought you academics were chock full of scholarly knowledge.”

“I focus on modern problems,” Gary said.

Lonquist said, “Academics aren’t supposed to know facts, Leslie. They’re supposed to know how to use the right language to discuss intangibles: liminal, hegemonic, Marxist.”

Mr. B said abruptly, “Lucretia was a woman from Roman legend—she was raped by a king’s son when he threatened to destroy her reputation unless she slept with him. She complied, then denounced the son and killed herself.”

“Good heavens,” the judge said.

At the CLF table, Dr. Matchel pursed her lips while Mr. Hatch scribbled a note.

“And did the Romans excuse the rape?” Gary said and looked triumphant when Mr. B said No. “Well, then,” Gary continued, “Pamela is Lucretia.”

Mr. B shook his head. “Pamela is not given to pointless martyrdom.”

The judge harrumphed. “I don’t care for martyr complexes myself,” he said. “Please continue, Mr. B.”

Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Letter XVI

I told Mrs. Jervis to check on Pamela but to ignore any hysterics, and for both of them to see me the next day in my private library on the ground floor. They came there together after dinner, the mid-day meal. Pamela hung back by the door until I frowned at her. Mrs. Jervis stood before the desk, her honest face puzzled. She wasn’t used to so much drama.

“What has Pamela been telling you?” I asked Mrs. Jervis.

“Only that you pulled her on your knee and kissed her,” she said uneasily.

“Only!” Pamela said, stepping further into the room. “Your honor did more than that. You talked of Lucretia’s hard fate.”

In retrospect, referencing Juliet might have been wiser.

Maybe not.

Cross-Examination

Mr. B said, “Juliet is from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.”

Judge Hardcastle said, “Thank you, Mr. B.” He wasn’t sure Mr. B wasn’t being snide, but at least the man was well-informed.

Letter XVI (continued)

The meeting between me, Pamela, and Mrs. Jervis was floundering. The gentlemanly thing to do was to smooth the matter over.

I said, “I should never have allowed myself to joke with a servant. What can I say? I was bewitched. I had no intention of carrying the jest further.”

A good piece of diplomacy, I think you’ll grant, placing no blame and bringing the matter to a close. Except Pamela hasn’t a diplomatic bone in her body.

She said, “It was not an appropriate jest between a master and servant.”

I gave Mrs. Jervis a see-what-I-put-up-with look, and she sighed.

“She is truly unnerved.”

I groaned. So much for diplomacy. “Pamela should return home,” I said.

That didn’t please her. Home was distress and poverty—why should she wish to return there? But I couldn’t have a servant spreading rumors, no matter how true, about my conduct.

Whatever Pamela’s little hypocrisies, she has poise. She took a deep breath, then, "I am happy to return home," she said, "and I thank you for the opportunities and favors you have heaped upon me."

It is never clear how consciously Pamela practices her sense of irony.

“What is the parents’ situation?” I asked Mrs. Jervis when Pamela left the room.

“The father is educated. He tried to open a country-school at one time, but it failed. Now, he labors for the Mumfords. Her mother spins though her eyesight is failing.”

“Pamela will be a burden to them.”

She sighed again. “She could do needlework.”

“She’s an odd girl,” I said, and Mrs. Jervis went away.

I knew that sending Pamela home was a death sentence. She would fade into one of those tired women who sit on their stoops, plaiting wool. She could hardly have arguments about Lucretia with the local sheep herder.

Waistcoat with butterflies.
It is really quite lovely, but
my Mr. B has more austere tastes.

But she couldn’t stay. I was aware of her, sensitive to her every movement. I found myself waiting in rooms for her voice on the stairs or in the hall—unrepentantly impatient to glimpse her, exchange barbs with her.

I told Mrs. Jervis that Pamela could stay until she finished embroidering my waistcoat. It was a fairly hideous garment of entwined butterflies and roses, but there was nothing else of mine Pamela was working on.

“You care for her, sir,” Mrs. Jervis said, and I shrugged in agreement.

The Complete Ensemble (Different Waistcoat)

“She’s fearfully religious,” Mrs. Jervis added.

“People usually are until they want something,” I said. She clucked her tongue. But she didn’t disagree. Mrs. Jervis is a realist.

Mr. B Speaks! 2nd Installment

2012-01-06T10:01:00.004-05:00

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.

Summer-house

I tracked her down in the octagonal summer-house above the arboretum. Two of the windows faced the house, but the panes were streaked from humidity, affording us some privacy.

“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.”

Mr. B Speaks! The Beginning

2011-12-30T08:29:00.002-05:00

Chapter 1: Day One

Committee for Literary Fairness v. Mr. B

“Where’s Pamela?”

Mr. B looked about the oak-paneled courtroom. Mellow spring sunlight streamed through the high windows, brightening the varnished oak walls, floor, and tables. Despite the informal arrangement—two curved tables facing a slightly raised desk—Mr. B didn’t feel dislocated, even though he was standing in a non-fictional courtroom three hundred years later than his own fictional time.

Except he was here without his wife.

“Are they seizing Pamela from the novel as well?” he asked Mr. Shorter.

Mr. Shorter, his attorney, sat at the left-hand table. Mr. B had asked for Mr. Shorter, even though he was an attorney, not a barrister, and unaccustomed to arguing before judges. Mr. Shorter was the right choice, however, being absolutely loyal to Mr. B’s interests.

Mr. Shorter shrugged.

Mr. B also shrugged and slumped into the chair beside Mr. Shorter, shifting his lanky body into a comfortable position. He’d heard—all fictional characters had heard—about these hearings. Characters were yanked out of novels into non-fictional courthouses, where they were questioned regarding various literary crimes. After judgment, they were returned to their novels or banished to new ones: Mr. B wondered if Malory’s whiny Launcelot was shivering on Crusoe’s island; if Bunyan’s bad giants were being needled by Lilliputians in Gulliver’s Travels.

“I hope they’ve left Odysseus alone,” he muttered.

“What?” Mr. Shorter said.

Mr. B shook his head. He’d never imagined he would be snatched from his novel. He was a loving husband, reasonable father, responsible landowner, plausible diplomat, and a damned good money manager. He’d committed no crimes. Perhaps he was here as a witness for Tom Jones.

* * *

At the right-hand table, members from the Committee for Literary Fairness glowered at Mr. B and Mr. Shorter.

The Committee for Literary Fairness boasted of its worthy goals to cleanse literature of bad role models, social apathy, defective marriages, and wrongful deaths—all social injustice, in fact. Mr. Rochester, the bigamist, would be transported to Nero Wolfe’s world and jailed; Fanny from Mansfield Park would get a much-needed infusion of self-esteem in a Toni Morrison novel; Scrooge would give up his money-grubbing ways and take a trip in something by Jack Kerouac.

Today, the CLF planned to save the heroine of Pamela from her chauvinistic and brutal husband. The CLF legal team included a psychologist, a CLF director, and a college professor.

The psychologist, Jerome Hatch, said, “He looks like a banker!”

Mr. B, despite his unruly dark hair, could pass for an unusually mellow trader from the New York Stock Exchange.

“When did they extract him from the novel?” Mr. Hatch said.

The CLF director, Dr. Naomi Matchel, said, “The fourth year of the marriage. Pamela recently gave birth to their third child; the family was planning a trip abroad.”

“Three children in four years!" exclaimed the college professor, Gary Trame. "Couldn’t they have extracted her sooner?”

“I’m afraid literature judges frown on that, Mr. Trame.”

“Call me Gary. All my students do.”

“Gary. Even though we know what’s going to happen, they say we have to let the characters commit the wrongful acts before being judged.”

Dr. Matchel and Gary shook their heads at the absurdity of applying due process and the rule of law to situations best decided by professionally-trained literary analysts. Dr. Matchel said sententiously, “Oh, well, it’s the only system we have.”

Mr. Hatch said, “People have to air their grievances.”

“Yes,” Dr. Matchel said archly, “I’ve noticed how much you enjoy . . . testifying, Mr. Hatch. You aren’t Dr. Phil, you know.”

Mr. Hatch shrank into his chair and peered at his notes.

“Thank goodness,” Gary said, and Dr. Matchel agreed.

“Luckily, Pamela hasn’t been infected by Walmart-like mass-production.”

“The Pride & Prejudice hearings have to be held in the largest courtrooms,” Gary said, shaking his head. Both he and Dr. Matchel sniffed and glanced around the courtroom. Only two other people sat on the audience benches.

Gary jerked his head at them. “Isn’t this hearing closed?”

“They have press passes.”

* * *

The two audience members with press passes weren’t members of the press. They were an eighteenth-century aficionado and a representative from Readers for Authorial Intent. The aficionado, Leslie Quinn, was a writer of popular non-fiction (bestseller: What Frances Burney Wore and Daniel Defoe Traded). She had a doctorate in British literature but preferred writing to teaching. The RAI representative, Rupert Lonquist, was a volunteer at his local library.

Lonquist was surprised at being called in. “I always considered this novel rather innocuous,” he told Leslie Quinn.

The judicial committee had assigned Leslie Quinn and Lonquist to the hearing at the request of the presiding judge, The Honorable Judge Arthur Hardcastle. Judge Hardcastle usually handled twentieth-century murder mysteries. Agatha Christie was one of his favorites. However, the CLF had lately gotten obsessed with eighteenth and nineteenth-century characters, and judges were being reassigned to hearings.

“Fine, fine,” Judge Hardcastle had said when asked. “But I want some non-academics there—you know, people who actually read.”

He got them.

* * *

Judge Hardcastle arrived in the courtroom in a sweep of wrinkled robes, followed by his clerk. He motioned the clerk to a seat at the end of the right-hand table and sat at the raised desk that operated as his bench.

He noticed the characters from Pamela had stood immediately as he entered, the others slowly following suit, and reminded himself not to form favorable judgments too early.

“Let’s hear from the Petitioners,” he said when everyone sat down.

Dr. Matchel did the honors:

“Pamela, Or Virtue Rewarded by Samuel Richardson is an eighteenth-century novel told in letters from the eponymous heroine’s point of view. She begins the story as a maid in the house of the Respondent. During the course of the story, he sexually harasses, kidnaps, and assaults her. He then forces her to marry him. Based on Mr. B’s actions both before and after the marriage, the CLF petitions to have Pamela moved permanently to Herland by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.”

At the Respondent’s table, Mr. B slowly unslouched.

The judge said, “Mr. Shorter?”

Mr. Shorter stood. An eighteenth-century attorney to an English gentleman, he mostly managed land deeds. But he was more than game to take on a trial. “The court should reject this petition. Mr. and Mrs. B have a comfortable, happy marriage.”

The judge said, “Is Mrs. B in the courtroom?”

“No,” said Dr. Matchel. “We received an Order for Protection on Pamela’s behalf from Judge Kline.”

Judge Hardcastle nodded absently, but Mr. B leaned forward, shoulders taut. His eyes darted from the judge to Dr. Matchel. He called out, “Protection from what?”

“As stated in our petition, Pamela needs protection from the emotional and physical damage caused by her relationship with Mr. B.”

“Damage?” Mr. B said. “My wife is not damaged. She’s happy. Satisfied. She just gave birth to our third child.”

Dr. Matchel didn’t respond. At the CLF table, Gary rolled his eyes and Mr. Hatch shook his head.

The judge leaned back in his leather chair and studied Mr. B. Literature hearings were generally informal for the very good reason that fictional characters—ranging from King Lear (accusations of parental abuse) to the Cheshire Cat (accusations of enigmatic obnoxiousness)—were generally unfamiliar with contemporary standards of jurisprudence.

The judge said, “Did you kidnap her?”

A faint flush crept across Mr. B’s cheekbones, but he looked more amused than embarrassed.

“My courtship of Pamela was rather—active. But I did not force her to marry me. She accepted my proposal.”

“After you brainwashed her,” cried Gary. The judge scowled warningly at the college professor and other CLF members. Character defendants might not understand court etiquette, but the real people there certainly did.

“I think,” the judge said when the CLF team had sniffed itself into put-upon quiescence, “we had better start from the beginning. How did your courtship start, Mr. B?”

Mr. B’s shoulders relaxed. He sat back, propping one foot against the table crossbar. “I would like to clarify: I may have tried to seduce Pamela, but I never lied to her. Never very much, anyway.”