Notes on Jane Austen and Her Time Period

My historical novels include two tributes to Austen's novels and a tribute to Samuel Richardson's Pamela.

Austen Tributes
Persuadable, my tribute to Austen's Persuasion, is told from the point of view of the "villains," Mr. Elliot and Mrs. Clay. They view the protagonists and antagonists of Austen's last novel with wry appraisal and insightful commentary. 

A Man of Few Words is my tribute to Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice. It is told from the highly reserved Darcy's point of view and seeks to explain WHY this uncommunicative man does the things he does.

Pamela Tribute
In my omnibus volume, The Gentleman & the Rake, the "rake" refers to Mr. B from Samuel Richardson's Pamela (the "gentleman" is Darcy). Mr. B's novella, Mr. B Speaks! begins the omnibus and details his defense for seducing the novel's heroine. 

Each of these works involved research into the social environment of eighteenth and nineteenth century England. Notes regarding issues such as pregnancy, traveling, and scandal have been grouped into three categories. Links to these notes are listed below and to the right of the page:

Notes for Mr. B Speaks! (Eighteenth Century)

Notes for A Man of Few Words (Nineteenth Century)

Notes for Persuadable (Nineteenth Century)

Mr. B Speaks! 20th and Last Installment

Chapter 6: Day Six

Judge Hardcastle Renders His Decision

Monday morning, Judge Hardcastle stalked into the courtroom, threw a newspaper onto his desk, and glared at the hearing’s attendees, real and fictional. He said, “Editorials by poorly informed reporters are one thing. This is something else entirely.”

The City Gazette

Letters to the Editor

To the Editor:

I write to protest the ignoble treatment of my husband, Mr. B. No husband could be more just in his judgments, more forthcoming in his apologies, or more generous to his dependents. He has accepted my faults and corrected his own, all without bringing public reproach upon my person. I beg the court to reunite husband and wife and return us to our private lives.

MRS. PAMELA B.
Pamela

To the Editor:

We the undersigned feel duty-bound to publicly denounce a custom which keeps a woman from her desired future. We neither subscribe to nor deride the familial and marital duties to which Pamela B has applied her talents, but we rebuke a state of civilization that denies her those duties without her consent.

SOMEL, ZAVA, MOADINE
Herland

The judge said, “How did these letters get published? Well?”

At the CLF table, Dr. Matchel and Gary glared at Mr. Hatch. Mr. Hatch said reluctantly, “Pamela sent them during our last session.”

“Sent them?”

“From my Blackberry.”

“Your Blackberry?”

“I left it on the table. I saw her play with it. I didn’t realize—I had no idea she would—she’s from the eighteenth century!”

“My wife is very clever,” Mr. B said. He sprawled in his chair, his eyes lit with amusement.

“And the previous editorials?”

Mr. Hatch sagged lower in his chair. “She sent them. I checked this morning. I didn’t know!”

“I should hope not,” the judge snapped. “Who are Somel, Zava, and Moadine?”

Lonquist said, “They are characters from Herland. In the novel, they mentor the main male characters who arrive unexpectedly in their country. Apparently, they’ve been mentoring Pamela since her arrival.”

“I see.” The judge straightened from his accusatory stoop.

“A new hearing?” Dr. Matchel said without much hope.

“If media involvement had been caused by the actions of the Respondent, I might consider a fresh hearing. Under the circumstances, however, I feel no need to force another judge to listen to these wrangling over historical context.”

The judge didn’t mention that he wanted to go back to the Agatha Christie hearings, where he could focus on which literary murders should be allowed and which prevented in accordance with the established rules of “Golden Age” detective fiction.

Instead, he turned to Mr. B and his voice was no longer peevish but stately and quiet. “I have considered all the testimony presented this week, applying the standard for literature hearings: customs of both a novel’s time period and its genre are legally permissible. Of the complaints made by the Committee for Literary Fairness, I recognize two main points against the marriage: one, the kidnapping of Pamela before the marriage; second, the possibility of emotional abuse in the first days of the marriage.

“Regarding the first point, although a kidnapping did occur, I do not believe Pamela has suffered from post-traumatic stress or whatever the current popular malady is. Moreover, it is clear that many romantic heroines suffer similar adventures with no ill side-effects.”

Deborah clapped silently, and the judge dipped his head to her.

“Personally,” he added, “I deem the idea of kidnapping for romantic reasons unnecessary and ridiculous. Your wife, Mr. B, could easily have been wooed without recourse to such extremes.”

Mr. B nodded gravely.

“However, you seem to have a propensity for complications, not to mention a positive delight in debate.”

Mr. B protested, “I don’t like quarrels.”

“You provoke them, sir; you create little waves of chaos wherever you go. Your wife seems equally inclined towards drama. She also seems more than capable at handling you, not to mention every other human being who gets in her way.”

The judge glared at the CLF table before continuing.

“I am concerned about the difference in age and background although I do not doubt that Pamela is Mr. B’s equal in intelligence and aptitude. Your wife, Mr. B, has a remarkable capacity for acclimatization. I believe this capacity is inherent, rather than culturally produced.”

Of course, Mr. B’s smile seemed to say.

“This is not to say that differences of age and background  may not produce unhealthy domestic conflicts. Any man who would consider leaving his wife only five days after their wedding—however, I appreciate that Mr. B avoided such a drastic step. I also appreciate his attempts to keep his temper in check, both in the novel and in this courtroom. I would advise, sir, that you remain self-vigilant in this regard.”

The judge waited for Mr. B’s acknowledgement—a dignified nod—then cleared his throat.

“Finally, I note that although Mr. B’s acts appear autocratic by modern, non-narrative standards, his actual behavior—in the novel and in this courtroom—indicate a frank and self-reflective mindset. Both his demeanor and testimony have demonstrated those qualities of honesty, wit, and consideration that Pamela attributes to him in her own text. I believe, Mr. B, that you respect and love your wife. I also believe you intend to treat her accordingly.”

He pounded his gavel. “The CLF’s petition is denied. Pamela should be returned immediately to her novel of origin and to her husband.”

He nodded to his clerk and swept out, the wrinkled robe wafting in the doorway. And if he heard the claps and cheers from Deborah, Leslie Quinn, and Lonquist, he didn’t smile until he’d reached his office.

After the Hearing

Mr. B waited for his wife in the courthouse rotunda. Mr. Shorter had stopped beside the coffee stand, saying, “I’ll see you back in the novel.”

Mr. B hardly heard him or anyone. Once he’d read Pamela’s editorial—shoved under his nose that morning by Mr. Shorter—he’d known they would win. No one could stop Pamela once she put pen to paper. He would be seeing her soon—in a moment, second, minute.

Leslie Quinn, Lonquist, and Deborah passed him and waved. He waved absently back. He should thank them. He should be gracious. He always remembered to thank retainers. He always remembered to be the squire. But now all he could concentrate on was: When is she coming?

A slim young woman in a straight, white tunic and close-fitting breeches entered the rotunda ahead of Mr. Hatch. She paused and looked about her, gravely, carefully, and Mr. B had to stop himself from laughing. Typical Pamela—to assess her surroundings, to not let herself be hurried or bullied.

She saw him. She walked towards him, chin lifted, eyes grave, and he recognized the signs. She was furious. For the first time, he felt vaguely sorry for the CLF.

She stopped before him and said levelly, “I want to go home.”

Mr. B laughed. He laughed so loud, the sound bounced off the domed rotunda. People turned to stare. But people always stared at him and Pamela. They were always surprised; over and over, no one believed the marriage would work.

Pamela’s mouth quirked, and Mr. B took her in his arms. She didn’t resist. She slid her arms around his neck and pressed her face to his neck.

“I missed you,” she whispered to his throat.

People were clapping, even Mr. Hatch. At the coffee cart, Mr. Shorter turned and lifted his cup in a toast as Mr. B picked up his wife and carried her back into Pamela.

* * *

They came out on the packed dirt road that stretched between the Bedfordshire estate and the local church. Pamela kept her arms around her husband’s neck, and he kissed away her shivers.

Selecting a Scottish tutor indicates

Pamela's devotion to education. Due to the

Scottish Enlightenment, which produced Scottish

philosophers like Adam Smith, the Scots were

known as literate and intellectual.

She calmed quickly. He’d had practice soothing her. She leaned her cheek against his shoulder and said, “I was thinking it might be time to get Billy a tutor. A Scottish tutor—what do you think?”

“I think you should give me time to get used to having you back.”

She grinned and swung her legs to the ground. Mr. B helped her stand, then took her chin and tilted it towards him.

“You did want to come back?”

“Of course. Didn’t you read my letter to that newspaper?”

“I have a fragile ego, Pamela. I need reassurance.”

She gave him one of her half-smiles. “I hated being away. I badgered people incessantly. I was very—saucy.”

“Good girl.”

She ducked her head suddenly and blushed. “I promise to be less magisterial.”

He gave her a startled look, then, “You saw the transcripts,” he said, stricken.

“You read my letters,” she reminded him.

“And fell in love.”

“Yes.” She slid her arms around his waist. “I read your thoughts, and now I love you more.”

He kissed her—with relief, with gratitude, with the unending good-humor that tinged their marriage. Keeping her hand in his, he started down the road.

It was good to be home

Mr. B Speaks! 19th Installment

Week 1 (continued)

I truly disliked seeing Pamela cowed. She needed a break from me. I sent her into the house and took Barbara and Jackey on an airing. Barbara was in high good humor as she usually is after a fight.

I am not so inclined.

“Oh, you are so stiff,” she said, laughing at me.

We ended up stopping to see Lady Jones who was dining with the Darnfords. I sent a note to Pamela that we would return later than expected. I wanted the Lincolnshire families to learn first-hand that Barbara was reconciled to my marriage. The Davers’ name carries some weight, after all.

Barbara put on a great show of amazement at hearing the Darnfords praise Pamela, but she did it mostly to tease me. I wasn’t in the mood, and she then teased me for behaving like a stately married man.

“I couldn’t be a tolerable husband to anyone but Pamela,” I said, wishing I was home, so I could discuss what had happened with Pamela.

But Barbara loves company, so we stayed until ten. Pamela was talking with Mrs. Jewkes and Beck in the back parlor when we returned. She looked up guardedly as we entered, and I went and kissed her.

“My sister has been hearing your praises, Pamela,” I said and grinned crookedly at her.

She nodded solemnly. My heart ached.

Later, in our bedchamber, I told her, “When I get angry, it is best to leave me alone. I always come to myself and am sorry! But when I’m in such a mood, it is better to be a reed than an oak—to bend with the hurricane rather than try to resist it.”

To let me work out the problem myself rather than fix it for me, in fact.

“I’ll try,” she said.

We’d dressed for bed. I sat against the paneled headboard, my arms around Pamela. She snuggled against me, and I sighed in relief.

“My sister and I had terrible upbringings,” I said. “My father was a stern, humorless man, but he ignored my willfulness towards others because we were gentlemen. My mother was a fine woman, but even she saw society—her own marriage—as a game to be won.”

Pamela protested. She had liked my mother.

“Their unhappiness was more his doing than hers, but my mother still preferred to establish a separate life for herself than reach an understanding through compromise. Unfortunately, marriages of our class are often entered into by two headstrong and arrogant people. The gentleman has never been controlled, the lady never contradicted. Their expectations are wildly at variance with reality. They quarrel, appeal to parents and friends, end up in separate beds—” Pamela made a soft noise of disgust and I hugged her more tightly. “—finally settling into either indifference or aversion.”

I didn’t want that. I couldn’t bear the idea.

“And should I never challenge you?” Pamela said, running a finger down my arm.

“Yes,” I said, “but not for contradiction’s sake. I want us to behave reasonably, Pamela. I don’t want you taking part in quarrels against me, especially when my quarrel is not with you.”

She nodded, and I raised her hand to my lips.

“It isn’t that you’ve done anything so bad,” I said, “or anything at all, really, but I don’t want divided loyalties in my household.”

She turned then and studied my face. I let her look, let her see my uneasiness—that my sister, however much I loved her, reminded me of worse scenes, scenes I never wanted to see repeated.

Pamela brushed my hair out of my eyes, leaned forward, and kissed me.

I honestly do not know, even now, what I did to deserve her.

Cross-Examination

“Hmm,” said Judge Hardcastle.

Deborah said, “This kind of spat is typical in romance novels.”

The judge gave her a friendly smile, so she continued. “After the hero and heroine marry, there’s always some sort of problem that has to be resolved before true marital bliss can be achieved.”

“We still have arguments,” Mr. B said sotto voce. The judge heard and might have asked a question (there were normal, spousal debates and then there were ugly, gut-wrenching rages), but Mr. Shorter stood.

“At the time of their marriage, Mr. B gave Pamela fifty guineas to send to her parents and a hundred to distribute amongst the Lincolnshire servants. Gifts to servants are customary when a gentleman marries. He later gave Pamela money to distribute amongst the Bedfordshire servants. Pamela’s total household budget is two hundred per year.”

“An allowance,” Gary said disgustedly. “Typical chauvinism.”

Leslie Quinn said, “Better than not giving her money at all,” and Dr. Matchel murmured, “It isn’t as if she could work, Gary.”

“Not work?” Mr. B said. “My wife has to manage the servants plus her charities. She is excellent at both jobs. She also recently began sponsoring a local school.” He caught the judge’s eye and said, “Pamela has strong views on education.”

“He gives her two hundred a year,” Mr. Shorter said in the kind of voice that indicated his listeners might be weak in the head. “That is, uh—”

“—almost thirty thousand dollars in modern money,” Leslie Quinn said, “recognizing that money doesn’t really translate between then and now. What a pound would buy in the eighteenth century isn’t the same as what it can buy today. Services that could be had for cheap in the eighteenth century are extremely expensive now.”

“This is all financial,” Gary said in a dismissive tone of voice.

Mr. Shorter said, “Upon arriving in Bedfordshire, Mr. B wrote a will, providing independence for Pamela and her parents should he predecease his wife. He is an accommodating husband.”

“Fiscally,” Mr. Hatch said. “What about emotionally?”

Gary said, “Mr. B has admitted Pamela thought she had to be the perfect wife.”

“That doesn’t make the marriage bad,” Lonquist pointed out. “Lots of spouses feel that way.”

“But he admits he caused her anxiety by lifting her out of the servant class.”

“He was supposed to leave her there? I thought you CLF folks were equal-opportunists.”

“So when we argue context, you argue universal principles?”

Mr. B interjected, "Some things are universal. Cheating is always wrong.”

Leslie Quinn said, “People apply universal emotions and moralities to contexts. Women in the past didn’t perceive themselves as more or less victimized than us. They perceived themselves as more or less victimized than other women in their own cultures.”

“Of course, you would defend a system built on rank,” Gary said, forgetting that the CLF just had. Dr. Matchel actually looked embarrassed.

Gary didn’t pause to parse his own contradictions. He simply flipped positions. “What about honesty?” he said to Mr. B. “Isn’t that a universal concept? You didn’t tell Pamela about your out-of-wedlock daughter. Your sister did.”

“I planned to.”

“Oh, sure, you say that now. You had plenty of time before the wedding.”

“My daughter’s status is well-protected. I had an obligation to wait.”

“How convenient.”

“I took Pamela to see little Sally as soon as we returned to Bedfordshire.”

This time, Mr. B didn’t wait for the judge’s permission.

Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to The Marriage

Week 3

We returned to the Bedfordshire estate a week after we married. I’d reinstated the upper servants who were thrilled to see Pamela, especially Mrs. Jervis. Pamela met the neighbors in the capacity of my wife. We went to church. I took her to visit little Sally.

Little Sally’s school was six miles away near a farmhouse, which also functioned as an eatery. The school sent its pupils to the farmhouse on outings, and I had arranged for Sally’s governess to bring her there.

We were already seated at an outside table when the boarding-house chaise pulled up under alder trees. Little Sally and the other students scurried inside the house, chattering avidly as girls of six tend to do. Pamela went after them, and I heard her asking their names and what they were studying. I followed and leaned in the doorway.

Little Sally has my eyes and hair and her mother’s chin. She knows me as her uncle since she knows my sister as her aunt. When the girls bounced up to visit the farm’s beehives, she curtsied to me, and Pamela turned to study me gravely. She followed the girls to the door but stopped beside me and to my surprise, slipped her arms around my waist.

I said, “She goes by Miss Goodwin. The name was her mother’s choice.”

“How can her mother bear to be apart from her?”

The question was sincere but also deliberate. I bent to look into Pamela’s face. She gave me one of her sideways glances, and I realized that in my story of Sally Godfrey, I might not have mentioned what happened to my erstwhile lover.

I held Pamela a little tighter and smiled over her head.

“She lives in Jamaica,” I said. “She left soon after the child’s birth, passing herself off as a young widow. She married, three years ago now. Her husband knows there is a child; he believes little Sally is being raised by friends.”

“Poor lady,” Pamela said. “I am glad she is so happy.”

“And that she is so far off,” I said, and Pamela nudged me with her fist.

“Does the child visit you?”

“Occasionally.” I bent my head again. “She believes the story her mother created.”

I didn’t say I wished I could claim the child. What is the point of wanting what would only cause damage and pain? It would do little Sally no favors to be known as illegitimate, and she should not have to bear the knowledge of her stigma.

Man-made beehives have been

around for thousands of years.

Beehives woven from grass or straw are skeps.

Skeps were used in the 1700s.

Pamela hugged me tighter as if she guessed my feelings, then detached herself and went into the garden. She knelt beside Sally, and they watched the beehives together.

“Will you let me be your aunt?” Pamela was saying as I neared, and Sally, looking up, waved at me cheerily.

“Hullo,” she said. “I haven’t seen you for ages.”

Pure exaggeration. I saw her before I went to the Hargraves.

“Would you like to live with us?” Pamela said, and I actually gasped.

“Can I?” Sally said. “Can I go with you now?”

An ability to seize opportunities as they present themselves is a family trait.

“In the next vacation,” I said.

She agreed readily. She liked her school—I’d made sure of that—and her friends. There was no reason to burden Pamela with several households and a child in the course of three weeks. Not to mention her moody husband.

But I was light-hearted when we returned to the carriage. I had not hoped to bring my daughter home. I had anticipated Pamela’s kindness but never such magnanimity.

“Little Sally’s mother could have been me,” Pamela explained.

“I was stopped by your virtues,” I told her.

She gave me a skeptical glance, one eyebrow raised, and I laughed, but it is more or less the truth. Miss Godfrey was compliant and affectionate at a time in my life when I badly needed affection. But we were never more than lovers.

Compliance would never have been enough for me any more than antagonism attracts me. I wanted my wife to want to be my friend—that’s the best way I can explain it. And Pamela did.

Cross-Examination

“And I would like my friend back,” Mr. B said.

“She isn’t your property.”

“She is my wife. She wants to return to me, doesn’t she?” His voice contained a curious mix of challenge and entreaty.

No one answered. Judge Hardcastle coughed. “Does the CLF wish to continue its petition?”

Dr. Matchel stood. “Although some of us are impressed by Mr. B’s love for his wife, we concur that the relationship was entered into precipitately. Both the courtship and marriage have caused Pamela great emotional and psychological harm. We recommend the marriage be annulled, and Pamela settled permanently in Herland.”

The judge cocked an eyebrow at Mr. Shorter. Mr. Shorter said, “Uh, we still object. Pamela should be returned to the novel that bears her name.”

He’d clearly been saving that line all week.

The judge sighed. “Although I agree that Mr. B loves his wife, I confess I am concerned by the age and class differences.” He gathered up his papers. “I will render my decision when this hearing reconvenes Monday morning at nine a.m.”

Mr. B jerked to his feet. “Won’t you decide now?”

The judge looked pained but his voice was firm. “No, sir. I need time to review all the documents as well as the transcripts.”

“But you’ve heard how I've reformed. You’ve heard Pamela loves me. This isn’t a complicated issue.”

The judge sighed. “Unfortunately, Mr. B, literary issues are rarely uncomplicated. My decision must reflect all the material presented.”

Mr. B bent over the table, hands pressed to the table top.

Mr. Hatch murmured, “If Mr. B needs counseling—”

Mr. B didn’t respond. Mr. Shorter gave Mr. Hatch a look of utter loathing the judge hoped wasn’t reflected in his own face.

Deborah called to Mr. B, “It’s another obstacle, that’s all. The hero and heroine are always reunited.”

Hearings aren’t romance novels, but the judge didn’t rebuke her as he left the courtroom.

Mr. B Speaks! 18th Installment

Week 1 (continued)

My sister was already in bed when Pamela and I got home from the Darnfords. Mrs. Jewkes, however, wanted to tell us all about my sister’s behavior after Pamela got away. She followed us up to Pamela’s chamber where I was beginning to keep clothes and papers.

“She called me to the parlor,” Mrs. Jewkes said while I was stripping off my frock coat and Pamela was unbuckling her damask shoes, “after the young lady escaped. She said she had a question to ask me, and I was only to answer yes if I dared. I said I’d go ahead and answer no before she asked.”

I laughed. Pamela looked troubled.

“She asked me, Will the young harlot lie with my brother tonight?”

I didn’t laugh at that, and Pamela stared at the floor.

“She wanted to sleep in here,” Mrs. Jewkes continued, “but I wouldn’t let her since you have the key, sir.”

“Quite right,” I said.

Mrs. Jewkes left us with cheery encouragement to Pamela, and I dropped onto the bed. Pamela stripped to her shift and sat beside me, wrapping her arms around my neck and settling her cheek against mine.

“I’m sorry about your friend. Did he die?”

“Yes,” I said, sliding my arms around her. “What a tiresome world this is, Pamela. Everything was going so well.”

“It still will,” she said, brushing back my hair and smiling when her fingers got tangled. “I am already very happy.”

I crawled under the covers, she settled beside me, and I fell into a haven of pure contented sleep.

I was woken by repetitive thudding and piercing shrieks. Pamela clutched me, saying, “Don’t let her in.”

It was my sister at the chamber door, and she was shrieking loud enough to waken the household. Based on the light outside the sash window, it was not much past six. I cursed and got out of bed, groping for my dressing gown.

“Don’t,” Pamela said.

“If she wants proof we’re married, she might as well get it,” I said and stomped to the door.

My sister, Barbara, barreled in. “Witness this,” she cried to her nephew, Jackey, and her waiting woman, Beck, who stood in the corridor. “The creature is in his bed.”

“Get out of here,” I roared at Jackey before he could witness anything, and he slinked away. I stomped back to the bed and put my arm around Pamela. “Come closer, Beck,” I said, “if you wish to see my dear wife.”

Beck intelligently remained in the corridor.

Barbara chortled. “Look at him,” she said. “The master of the house with his personal strumpet.”

I got up, grabbing her arm to force her out of the room. She clung to the curtains like a little girl rather than a woman in her thirties. And suddenly, Pamela was between me and Barbara, which was not wise.

“Don’t,” she said, “don’t be unkind to your own sister.”

“That’s enough, Pamela,” I said. I let my sister go and marched Pamela into her closet/study. She was crying, and if I’d been less angry, I would have comforted her. But I couldn’t bear her to take my sister’s part against me.

Barbara called after me, “Suppose I’d married father’s groom: what do you say to that?”

I turned back, folding my arms. “Does your pride see no difference? A man ennobles the woman he takes, whoever she is. He adopts her into his rank, whatever that is. But a woman, though nobly born, debases herself by a mean marriage, descending to the rank of the man.”

I suppose the members of this democratic hearing will find that appalling. But it is the reality of my existence. And my sister’s. And Pamela’s. The man is the head of his household, the wife a member of that household.

“Excuses,” Barbara said but half-heartedly. “Should all young men marry their serving wenches?”

“If they are all like Pamela,” I said, “why not? She’s better than either of us.”

“Oh, you make a wonderful idolater.” She was back to sneering. She strode into the closet. I didn’t stop her but followed closely.

“Well, Pamela,” she said to my wife, “you have made my rake brother a preacher. But don’t you dare call me sister.”

Pamela didn’t answer. She was no longer crying, and her chin was set, but I saw how her hands gripped her writing desk. If I had been less angry, I would have sent my sister out and spent time reassuring Pamela, but I wasn’t thinking entirely rationally.

And then my sister said, “Poor Sally Godfrey never got him as far as this.”

I had not wanted Pamela to hear about my ex-lover this way—thrown at her head in the middle of an argument.

It wasn’t a charge that could stand unanswered whatever the circumstances. I told Pamela about my ex-lover and my daughter, ending, “That’s all the bad my sister can tell you. I planned to tell you at the appropriate time.”

Both Barbara and Pamela were silent. I looked straight at Pamela who met my eyes and gave me a small half-smile; ordinarily, I would have relaxed from her support, but I was still fuming over Barbara’s indiscretion.

Barbara knew she’d gone too far. “Oh, brother,” she said in a pleading voice, her hand on my sleeve. “Stay to hear me beg your pardon.”

It was always the same—she would rage and destroy and then act the innocent. I broke away and fumed downstairs to the stable yard.

“Get my carriage ready,” I said to Colbrand. I needed to get away, to be somewhere other than that house. I stomped from the stable yard to the terrace. I saw Barbara and Pamela come out and turned away from them. I didn’t want to speak to anyone. I didn’t want Pamela to see me so angry.

Cross-Examination

The judge makes a number of references

to Golden Age mysteries. These include

not only Dorothy Sayers but

Agatha Christie, Ngaoi Marsh,

and Margery Allingham, among others.

Judge Hardcastle interrupted: “Is all this necessary? I have to tell you, Mr. B, I don’t care for domestic quarrels.”

Mr. B’s face shuttered.

Bewildered, Dr. Matchel said, “But the entire novel is a domestic quarrel.”

“It’s been rather action-oriented up to now,” the judge said. “This is—” The Twisted Tales of Bleak Expectations “—rather modern,” he concluded grumpily.

“The sibling quarrel is there in the original text.”

Lonquist said, “I don’t think Mr. B can leave this part out, Judge.”

“Hmm.” The judge was beginning to appreciate the restraint and good taste of Golden Age murder mysteries. He’d take a clean murder—or clean kidnapping—any day over screeching siblings. He flapped a hand. “Go on.”

Week 1 (continued)

Barbara and Pamela cornered me near the pond.

“Stop,” Barbara called, rushing towards me, “I have asked Pamela to be my advocate. That should pacify you.”

It didn’t. She had co-opted Pamela like she tried to co-opt everything in my life. And Pamela had agreed. Pamela was urging her on.

“If you’ll forgive me, I’ll forgive you,” Barbara said.

Typical. Typical of my sister to cause an upheaval and then try to pass around the blame.

“We should no longer associate,” I said. “I’m going to Bedfordshire.”

“Without me?” Pamela said uncertainly, and there were tears in her eyes.

“You’ll break her spirit,” Barbara said, shaking her head.

She was ranging herself on Pamela’s side—as she would do when I quarreled with anyone other than herself. I wish I could say I pushed her towards Pamela on purpose. I didn’t. I was furious with both of them, more so since I knew my anger at Pamela was irrational.

Barbara threw up her hands. “I only said what I did because I love you.”

“It was spite,” I told her.

“Very well. I own it. And now I will go.” She turned to Pamela. “God bless you,” she said and kissed her.

She’d gone from “creaturing” to “God blessing” Pamela in less than twenty-four hours. I groaned.

“Women are the devil,” I said. I looked at Pamela’s white, stunned face. I thought: Welcome to the family, Pamela.

I went and put my arms around her and Barbara’s waists.

“You see how he behaves when offended,” Barbara said to Pamela. “Though I’ve never known him make up so soon.”

“I’ll take care how I behave in the future,” Pamela said shakily.

Cross-Examination

Judge Hardcastle had abandoned grumpiness for outrage. He hunched across the desk and scowled at Mr. B. “Poor family history does not excuse unkindness towards one’s wife.” He glanced towards the CLF table. “This behavior doesn’t bother you?”

The CLF team looked surprised. “Of course, of course,” Dr. Matchel said quickly.

Leslie Quinn started to say, “Physical and verbal abuse were more common in the eighteenth—” but stopped when Mr. B jerked his head in a negative.

Mr. Hatch broke the silence. “In all honesty, Judge, the release of emotion between estranged parties is necessary to the healing process. Mr. B obviously comes from a dysfunctional background.”

Mr. Shorter snorted, “Doesn’t everybody?” and Mr. B grinned, releasing a careful breath.

Mr. Hatch continued, “I am concerned about Mr. B’s temper and would recommend anger management. I would recommend it for his sister as well.”

Mr. B strangled a snort that turned into a cough.

“However, to be frank, few spouses in my experience are as upfront as Mr. B about their pasts.”

Gary said, “He talks a good talk.”

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Hatch remembered whose side he was supposed to be taking. “I am not opposed to Mr. B seeing his wife under supervision, but I would not suggest cohabitation. Not yet anyway.”

Mr. B said, “We did make up. We fixed the problem.”

After a long pause, the judge motioned him to continue.

Mr. B Speaks! 17th Installment

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 went out and joined the card table where Sir Simon joshed me about missing my bride. “A wife should attend when commanded,” I said bitterly, and he just laughed and slapped my shoulder.

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.

Mr. B Speaks! 16th Installment

The Wedding Day (continued)

We returned home—the chapel lies opposite the pasture along a stone path—and went to our respective rooms to change. I was planning to spend the afternoon with Pamela when a messenger arrived.

Charles Hargrave was bringing two of his friends to dine. It is a sign of how much I’d reformed that I didn’t kill the messenger.

Instead, I stomped into the back parlor where Pamela was sitting with Mrs. Jewkes. “Charles and his friends are like huge snowballs,” I complained, “rolling up companions as they gallop about the countryside.”

Pamela produced a half-smile. She was pale again, and I frowned. When we were together, she was comfortable and relaxed. Apart, I couldn’t imagine what she was dreading or envisioning.

“Stay here,” I said. “I’ll get rid of them.”

I heard Charles and his companions before I saw them. They blew a bugle at the gate and then again in the courtyard while snapping their whips.

“Hullo, hullo, hullo,” Charles said. “All better from your accident, eh? I told your sister you’d be fine!” He was off his horse by then, slapping my back and motioning to his friends to dismount.

“I have an engagement this evening,” I said. “You can’t stay long.”

“We only wanted to see you before going on to Nottingham. Oh,” Charles said, slapping his forehead, “I know what I wanted to ask you—Did you kidnap one of your maids?”

I scowled at him. “No—that is, who told you that?”

“Your sister.”

My sister. My sister was doing my reputation more damage than Williams had ever done.

Charles and his companions—Sedley and Floyd—were in the long parlor by then. Floyd said, “Let’s fetch the fair prisoner,” and Sedley said, “We’ll search the house!”

“You’ll do no such thing,” I barked, and they stared at me, great-eyed.

“If you sit,” I said, “I’ll arrange for some food.”

They were more subdued after that, but I could only get them away by agreeing to drive with them as far as Thorney.

The trip was tedious, to say the least. Charles and the others circled the carriage, hallooing and hooting at each other’s riding tricks. I felt incredibly old and wished they would all break their necks in a ditch.

“I think you must be serious about this serving wench,” Charles said when we parted at Thorney and I'd refused (several times) to go on with them to Nottingham.

“She isn’t a serving wench,” I said brusquely and left them.

I was glad to head home, but I found myself growing uneasy. During our engagement, Pamela had never, I swear, complained about my kisses or caresses. Our wedding night was, admittedly, different and for Pamela, entirely new.

I confess, Mrs. Jewkes is not the best person to put an innocent at ease.

As the carriage entered the road leading to the house, I saw Pamela and Mrs. Jewkes standing at the stile to the pasture. I rapped on the roof, got out, and sent the carriage on. When I turned back, Pamela was alone. I went and put my arms around her, and she relaxed against me with a little sigh.

“How can I deserve all this?” she said, and I remembered what she’d said in the chapel about her unworthiness.

“If I set my riches against your fine qualities, Pamela, I would owe you.”

She laughed into my shoulder. “I will be less serious,” she said, leaning back to look into my face, and I kissed her.

We entered the house together.

We ate supper and talked, then Pamela went to her room—to write, I assumed. I was grateful since writing usually calmed her. Near eleven, I sent a message that I would attend her shortly. She asked me to come in a quarter of an hour. And I went.

Cross-Examination

Mr. B stopped speaking. There was a long silence.

Gary said pettishly, “Well? Aren’t you going to regale us with a detailed description of your wedding night?”

“What’s your prurient interest?” Lonquist said, and Gary bristled.

Mr. Hatch said, “I would like reassurances that Pamela’s wedding night was a non-traumatic event.”

“If he told you so, would you believe him?”

“If she is as sincerely religious as Mr. B claims,” Gary proclaimed, “I can’t imagine it was anything but traumatic.”

Mr. B and Mr. Shorter looked confused. Leslie Quinn threw up her hands, and Lonquist sighed.

Judge Hardcastle said, “Are you suggesting that religious people do not enjoy good sexual relations with their spouses?”

Mr. B actually sniggered, then coughed when the judge raised his brows. He said, “My wife is a righteous woman, not a dead one.”

“Augustine,” Lonquist said. “Separation of body and spirit. Bad body. Good spirit. That’s where they are coming from.”

“I know, but Pamela was no Augustinian.”

“She had Puritanical attitudes,” Dr. Matchel said, trying to make the most of Gary’s assertion. “She was very conservative.”

“Puritans actually had good sex,” Leslie Quinn said. “As do many modern-day fundamentalists.”

Mr. B waved a hand. “Pamela was modest. But once we married, sexual congress was no longer a disgrace. It really is that simple.”

“She enjoyed her wedding night, in fact?” the judge queried.

“Yes. So did I, by the way.”

“I do not want a chapter out of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, but I am afraid that some detail will be necessary. Can you oblige?”

Mr. B sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I can provide more detail than Pamela does. There are twenty-four hours missing from her account. But not enough to satisfy the prurient moralists,” jerking his head towards the CLF table.

“I am not a prurient moralist, Mr. B. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to The Wedding Night

Pamela's dressing gown.

I confess I was nervous when I entered Pamela’s bedchamber. The associations with that room were not pleasant ones, and I wondered if I should have moved the wedding night to my chamber. However, it is customary for the man to wait on the woman at this time.

Pamela was seated on the edge of the bed in a grey moiré dressing gown. I stood by the door and watched her. She’d let down her hair; it had been cut where she was struck by the bricks, and the short strands fluttered about her face, which was serene, remote, wholly contemplative.

I said, “I would rather not put off this evening, Pamela, but if you need time—”

She looked up, focusing on me, and I waited, hardly breathing. She smiled then, shyly, and I went to her and took her hands.

“Are you thinking of the night I tried to ravish you?” I said.

She looked surprised. “No,” she said. “I was considering what a strange path I’ve taken that has deposited me here.”

“Not an entirely happy path.”

“I suppose not. But I don’t remember it with reluctance. Only,” she studied me gravely, “I wonder if I will please you.”

I laughed and sat beside her. “I am not the libertine you have imagined, Pamela. There were indiscretions, a few liaisons, and some poor behavior, but I was never profligate. Wild behavior in young men does not always follow the same path. I have no diseases.”

She nodded, her head against my shoulder.

“You’ve enjoyed my kisses,” I pointed out; in the dim candlelight, I saw her blush.

“Even in my mother’s house,” I added boldly and waited for expostulation.

She slid off the bed then and faced me.

“You were very naughty there,” she said, and her lips twitched.

I pulled her between my knees and gave her a kiss, not the type of kiss I’d given her before but a kiss more frank and full. The tip of my tongue ended on the inside of her bottom lip. I settled my hands on the faint swell beneath the dip in her tailbone. There was a brief moment when Pamela neither approached nor retreated—she must considered everything—and then she was there, in my arms, all of her with no restraint.

There is no need to detail our lovemaking. I know Pamela was grateful for my lack of ribaldry. It frankly never occurred to me to make jokes. I was wholly concentrated on her body, her expressions, her curiosity.

For she returned my fascination. Once the laws of man, God, and society permitted her full expression, Pamela expressed herself. Anyone who has read her writings should know how easily that would come to her.

I woke towards morning. Faint light from the sash windows showed me Pamela’s outline. She was seated cross-legged beside me, her back against my thigh. I wondered for a moment if she was writing her parents about our wedding night and if they would thank her for such a letter, but the room was too dark for writing.

I reached out and touched her arm. “Do you have any pain?”

She turned and groped for my hand. “No. I was thinking about the marriage service.”

Trust Pamela to revert to theological considerations after a bout of more than satisfying sex.

She said. “A man is supposed to love his wife like his own body.”

“‘With my body, I thee worship.’“

“Yes. We are one flesh.”

“Like my goods.” I yawned.

“Yes. Which means,” Pamela said, “that your body is my property.”

That woke me up.

“And,” she went on with legal precision, “I have rights to it.”

Quod erat demonstrandum.

Which she did.

Cross-Examination

Mr. B stopped and looked at Judge Hardcastle, brows lifted.

“That seems enough.” The judge glanced at the CLF table.

Gary sniffed. “You want us to believe she was really that assertive?”

“Pamela’s own words bear me out. She was embarrassed the next morning but not uneasy. We were sleeping in the same room by Saturday night. I’ve rarely slept apart from her since—until now. When may I see her?”

The judge harrumphed. “More patience, Mr. B.”

“I’ve defended my courtship of Pamela and my marriage. Within the context of the novel, the romance, whatever you want to call it, we are happy.”

“A marriage built on kidnapping and near rape.”

“We’ve covered all of that,” Mr. B shouted at Dr. Matchel.

The judge snapped, “No shouting,” and Mr. B retreated, pressing a hand to his head. “Stupid, stupid,” he muttered.

Mr. Hatch said, “She is adjusting remarkably well to Herland. The question is what is best for her.”

“You think Pamela would be better away from me?”

“I think that possibility should be explored.”

Mr. B scowled at the windows. “She wants to come back to me.”

“You wish,” Gary muttered.

“I think she probably does,” Deborah said. “It’s not like the Herland characters hate men.”

Leslie Quinn said, “I thought the Herland women poured scorn on the idea of heterosexual marriage.”

“You’re probably thinking of that Russ short story about the planet with no men and lesbian marriages. Gilman had a different objective from Russ. Herland women worry more about being pregnant all the time than male-female relationships. I mean, Gilman invented birth control before birth control really existed.”

Mr. Shorter looked bewildered. Mr. B laid his head on the table. The judge glanced at him, at the clock, and sighed.

“I think we should break for today. Tomorrow, nine a.m.”

Mr. B Speaks! 15th Installment

The Engagement (continued)

In the letter, Lord Davers reproved me for thinking to marry below my station. I was a foolish man who did not know his own mind. I should leave Lincolnshire immediately and join my sister in London where I would regain my senses. I should remember my past follies—

The words were my sister’s, not his. Barbara has tried to manage me since the day I was born. I am younger by seven years, and although I am the heir, she has always believed she knows best how I should behave, who I should associate with, how I should handle the family’s estates. She will use any past mistake, any indiscretion of mine to gain her ends.

I was furious, and I didn’t want Pamela to see me in that state. She knew by then that I had a temper, but she’d never had to endure a full-blown rage. I got a horse and rode out. I rode the horse hard, harder than I should have, to the meadows. I stopped at a stream, so the horse could drink, dismounted and leaned against its side.

My sister and I inherited our father’s temper, if not his lack of humor, though I am more generous—in my better moments, at least. But then I had our mother’s influence. She and Barbara never got on. My sister saw our mother as compliant and dreamy while I marveled at her steadiness and good will.

I found those qualities in Pamela. Pamela is occasionally obstructive, even saucy, acerbic, but no screamer and certainly no bully. She retreats into herself—sometimes too much—but when she speaks up, you had better listen. She was and is a far better person than I.

I got home late, near supper time. Pamela had been worried by my absence, and I told her about the letter. I didn’t know who was sending information to my sister, so I suggested we let everyone, even my servants, believe our marriage would be in two Thursdays while marrying that coming Thursday. Only Williams, who would perform the ceremony, and Parson Peters, who would assist, would know the truth.

Pamela agreed. I never pressured her.

It is true that Wednesday night, she was pale and jittery. We ate together in the parlor. Rather, I ate while Pamela fidgeted. Finally, I rang for the plates to be taken away and pulled Pamela onto my lap.

“I thought all doubts had been dealt with,” I said against her hair.

She pressed her face to my arm, her fingers kneading the cuff of my white shirt; I’d removed my frock coat.

“I am just being foolish,” she said. “I don’t know why.”

I smoothed her hair and sighed. “We can choose another day if you think your fears will abate.”

“Whatever day we choose, I will feel the same beforehand. I just wish I had a woman to confide in.”

I felt the unfairness of her position then. Sexual education for men is largely predicated on exposure to their peers. Sexual education for women, on the other hand, seems to depend mostly on their mothers.

Cross-Examination

“Not that your almost-rape had anything to do with Pamela’s fears,” Gary said sarcastically.

Mr. B lowered his head, brows furrowed. Judge Hardcastle reckoned Mr. B did make the connection. Unfortunately, Gary—however inappropriately—had a point.

Deborah said, “Uncertainty before marriage is customary in romance novels.”

That tickled the judge. “Pre-wedding jitters!”

“When people don’t know the facts of life—” Gary began.

“People in the eighteenth century knew the facts of life,” Leslie Quinn said. She sounded rather tired, but then the CLF consistently refused to acknowledge that people before the CLF came along knew anything about anything.

“Sometimes,” Deborah said, ignoring the seething assumptions around her. “Sometimes, the heroines know the facts of life; sometimes, they don’t. But they are always concerned they won’t satisfy their rake husbands.”

Mr. B began to protest, then shut his mouth.

“Of course, they always do satisfy them,” Deborah said blithely, and the judge saw Mr. B smirk at the table top. “Personally,” she continued, “I think the wedding was perfect: intimate and heartfelt.”

Gary rolled his eyes. “And, of course, romance novels always have perfect weddings.”

“Of course.”

“This whole novel is nothing but trite and shallow pandering,” Gary declaimed. “What about death, disease, poverty, slavery, racism—all the terrible issues of the eighteenth century? Hmm? I mean women couldn’t even vote! But no, we’re fixated on watching an inconsequential couple tie the knot.”

The judge glanced towards the characters’ table. Mr. B was still smiling faintly. He hadn’t flinched at being called “inconsequential.” Presumably, people of the eighteenth century were less obsessed with getting their “day in court” than people of the twenty-first.

The judge reminded himself not to chuckle at his own pun.

“People hid their heads in the sand,” Gary was still declaiming. “Just like they do today.”

Deborah said, “That sounds like the end of a lecture,” and Gary reddened.

She was probably right—the man certainly loved to carp about stuff—but the judge didn’t want audience members giving the CLF any (more) reason to complain.

He said pacifically, “Different novels cover different topics.”

Leslie Quinn agreed, “People in the eighteenth century still had to work, love, have children, get along. Those topics never go away.”

Dr. Matchel said, “But romance novels don’t deal with real domestic problems. They end with the wedding, giving readers the false impression that married life will be eternally happy. Escapist literature!”

“This novel doesn’t end with the wedding,” Lonquist said.

Mr. Shorter muttered, “What’s wrong with escapism?”

Deborah added, “Dark and depressing isn’t automatically profound.”

“Let’s hear about the wedding,” the judge said.

Testimony of Mr. B Corresponding to The Wedding Day

The morning was something of a blur. I remember speaking to Pamela, who was even jumpier than she’d been the night before. She says I told her to cheer up or the parsons would think she wanted to marry someone else.

I don’t remember saying that. I do remember eating breakfast with Williams and Peters, then arranging to visit the chapel, so Peters could see the restorations (part of our subterfuge).

I remember standing at the altar with Pamela. We were both rather solemn until Williams said, “If either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye should confess it.”

I murmured, “Do you?” to Pamela, and she blushed and said, “No, sir, only my great unworthiness.”

That startled me—she was perfectly serious—but then Williams asked, “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?” and I said, “I will” since, “Of course, you idiot” would have been rude.

I held my breath when he asked Pamela if she would have me and begged Providence to dampen her doubts. She curtsied and pressed my hand. Williams faltered, but Peters nodded to him to continue.

This chapel is French, not English;

however, like Mr. B's chapel,

it lies on a private estate.

Pamela spoke up when it came to the actual vows, agreeing “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey” on which words, she raised her eyes to me and smiled.

And all uncertainties left me.

“You curtsied when I gave you the ring,” I told her later in the carriage after we had drunk a celebratory toast and sent the parsons on their way.

“I don’t remember.”

“I hope you remember giving Mrs. Jewkes a hug.” She’d done it on the church steps after the ceremony, startling Mrs. Jewkes.

“She was a great comfort last night,” she said, “if a little crude.”

Cross-Examination

Dr. Matchel said, “Our earlier point stands. Mr. B cared so little for his fiancée’s state of mind, he exposed her to a bawdy, callous women—”

Mr. B said, “Pamela was grateful to Mrs. Jewkes. She was the only servant who knew we were marrying, and she helped Pamela through a difficult time.”

“You’d like to think that.”

“Pamela doesn’t lie.”

Gary said sarcastically, “Oh, I’m sure she always tells you the truth.”

Mr. B spread his hands, looking bewildered and, for a rare moment, very young. Apparently, the judge thought, he thinks she does.

Dr. Matchel said, “Mr. B should have put off the wedding until Pamela could be joined by her mother.”

“He explained that,” Lonquist said. “He was afraid his sister would interfere—”

“Exactly. He was afraid of another woman who might have helped Pamela.” Dr. Matchel had the grace not to look directly at anyone. From what the judge had heard, Lady Davers was the least helpful person in the entire novel. “Pamela was in a state of extreme anxiety.”

Mr. B said desperately, “She got over it,” and the judge motioned for him to continue.

Mr. B Speaks! 14th Installment

The Engagement (continued)

Williams agreed to officiate at our wedding. Nobody bore anyone any hard feelings in that relationship.

Cross-Examination

“In fact,” Mr. Shorter interrupted, “Mr. B forgave Williams’s bond of money.”

Judge Hardcastle made a note.

Gary snorted. “He should have apologized to the man.”

Mr. B’s response was mild. “Williams was good-hearted but imprudent.”

Mr. Shorter said, “Pamela’s account records Mr. B’s many gracious acts to Williams and later to her parents.”

“Oh, sure,” Gary said. “That makes everything okay.”

“Well, yes,” Mr. Shorter said.

“He was putting on an act.”

“An act with results,” Lonquist pointed out. “Williams did eventually get the living he wanted with a generous income.”

“A show. Mr. B hadn’t really, uh, repented.”

Mr. B said, “But I could only demonstrate my repentance by a show. How else would anyone, especially Pamela, know that I’d changed?”

Lonquist said, “You weren’t supposed to do things, Mr. B. You were supposed to declaim, My patriarchal ideology was clearly the error upon which hegemonic and unequal subservience was created in my household.”

Mr. Shorter said, “Huh?” and the judge wished he could. He got rather tired of academics using English to do everything but communicate.

Mr. B, however, shrugged. “I’m not sorry for being male or for being the head of my household. Saying ridiculous things won’t change that.”

“I thought you valued language.” Gary was red-faced.

“I value communication,” Mr. B said, unconsciously echoing the judge’s reaction.

“Even if it conflicts with your behavior? You must admit, you are hardly a good man.”

“By the standards of his world, he is,” Leslie Quinn said, looking up from her laptop. “He takes care of his land and servants. He serves his government as required. He doesn’t smuggle, set things on fire, steal, or kill—not on English soil anyway. He pays for everything he uses. And he doesn’t interfere with his neighbors.”

“That’s hardly a morality—” Gary began.

“If more people practiced it, this world would be a better place,” the judge said tartly.

Deborah said, “Yeah, like it would be nice if people would stop interfering with this story.”

The judge agreed, so Mr. B was allowed to continue.

The Engagement (continued)

The next few days of our engagement went smoothly. The Darnfords did not snub Pamela nor did the Peters. I am the wealthiest of the landowners in that area of Lincolnshire. Power has its privileges. It was obvious that with me as her husband, Pamela would have no problems “fitting in.”

Pamela’s father showed up the same day the Darnfords dropped by to meet Pamela officially. Mrs. Jewkes told me an old man wanted to see me in the parlor. And there was Mr. Andrews, looking surprisingly presentable with a shaved chin and clean shirt despite his copious tears.

“I must have my child,” he cried with Pamela-like fervor.

I went forward, took his hand, and got him to sit. “She has written you that she is happy. I am her prisoner now and about to put on the most agreeable fetters a man ever wore.”

“Is she virtuous?” he said and tears aside, if I’d answered no, I doubt I would be here telling this tale.

“Yes,” I said, giving him a direct look.

As you might imagine, reunion between father and daughter was suitably touching. I confess, I arranged for it to take place before my neighbors. They liked Pamela already, but I wanted to ensure her entry amongst them as well as her reputation. Right or wrong, fair or unfair, in our world, a woman’s wholesome reputation can smooth her path to a respectable and stable future, while a damaged reputation can block that path for a lifetime. I would become the villain of our story to ensure Pamela’s role as heroine.

In retrospect, it is possible I sold my part too well.

When Pamela saw her father, she rushed to him, overturning a table. “Daddy,” she cried, then sagged. The ladies got her water while her father picked her up. I decided I’d given the Andrews family as much dramatic license as it could bear and escorted Pamela and her father to the back parlor.

In the long parlor, the ladies dabbed their eyes and even Sir Simon blew his nose. I smiled to myself. There’s nothing like a reunion to overwhelm people’s sensibilities.

The Andrews family was much calmer when I went to check on them. They sat in the window seat overlooking the terraced garden, heads close together, and I felt a sudden pang for the parent I had lost not so long ago.

“Make this your home,” I told the old man. “The longer you stay, the more welcome you’ll be.”

“You see what goodness there is in my once naughty master,” Pamela said as I was leaving, and I winked at her.

Pamela and her father joined us later while the guests were at cards. Her father had brought her first packet of letters, and she handed them over to me with a pretty bow. I read them after the party broke up, and Pamela and her father had gone to their beds.

It was not pleasant reading. These were the letters Pamela wrote immediately after arriving in Lincolnshire. She had turned down Williams’s marriage proposal but was uncertain whether she’d made the right decision, especially since her parents were not averse to the match.

Dutch garden: rectangle garden space

often enclosed by hedges, using

symmetrical designs.

“You could be Williams’s wife by now,” I told her the next morning. Pamela and her father were strolling in the Dutch garden.

“I had no notion of being anybody’s.”

“It would have been inevitable, and your father was for it.”

“I little thought of the honor you would bring her,” Mr. Andrews said. “When I discovered she didn’t want to marry the man, I didn’t urge her.”

“Yes, yes,” I said shortly. “Everyone was sincere, honest, and open.”

They gazed at me, and I realized—with some annoyance—that they were being sincere, honest, and open. I sighed.

“She is a blameless daughter and a witty writer,” I said and took Pamela’s hand. “Williams has agreed to officiate at the wedding. I will order my little chapel cleared.”

Cross-Examination

“To satisfy Pamela’s ineffectual religious feelings, I suppose,” Gary said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Dr. Matchel looked uncomfortable at Gary’s tone, but she gamely added, “She could hardly care so much for religion if she agreed to marry a man who rarely went to church.”

Mr. B’s voice was harsh. “My wife’s religious beliefs are sincerely held. She has never clung uselessly to anything except, possibly, my good self.” He began to rise, but Mr. Shorter pressed his shoulder. “Does this court encourage the denigration of a woman’s soul and values?”

The courtroom was breathless. Mr. Hatch glared at his compatriots. Deborah shook her head. Lonquist smiled faintly. Leslie Quinn made a note.

Judge Hardcastle said, “Excellent point, Mr. B. We will continue without attacking anyone’s religious beliefs, people.”

“We weren’t—” Dr. Matchel said, but the judge waved an impatient hand, and she sucked in her lips, looking put-out.

The judge said affably to Mr. B, “Did Pamela’s father stay for the wedding?”

Mr. B wiggled his shoulders loose and took a breath. “I didn’t get the license until after he left. We married the next week.”

Dr. Matchel said stiffly, “If I might interject—it is a fact that Pamela didn’t want to get married so quickly.”

The judge glanced at Mr. B who nodded reluctantly and ran a hand across his face. “I may have urged Pamela to marry me before she was ready. But my sister was already causing problems in Bedfordshire. I was afraid she might cause problems in Lincolnshire.”

“She couldn’t stop the marriage, could she?”

“She could have made things difficult. The Davers’ name has some sway; my neighbors may have withdrawn their support. Barbara bullied her husband into writing me a scolding letter three days before the wedding.”

Mr. B Speaks! 13th Installment

Cross-Examination

“Her return must have been a pleasant surprise,” Judge Hardcastle said, and the laugh lines creased around Mr. B’s eyes.

Dr. Matchel said, “She was confused,” and Gary added, magnanimously, “I suppose it is hardly Mr. B’s fault that women of that era just did what men told them.”

Mr. B set his jaw and stared fixedly towards the courtroom windows while Leslie Quinn huffed in annoyance at Gary’s dismissal of eighteenth-century women as brainless automatons. Before she could turn her huff into a more verbal objection, Mr. Shorter stood, grasping sheets of heavily creased, brownish paper.

“We have the letters Mr. B sent to Pamela and Monsieur Colbrand through Thomas. They indicate Mr. B’s state of mind at this point in the novel.” Mr. Shorter read in a staccato manner: “Spare me, my dearest girl, the confusion of following you to your father’s which I must do if you persist in going on, for I find I cannot live a day without you. Mr. B’s affections and intentions are clear, Judge. Pamela was free to continue her journey—”

“Knowing she would be hunted,” Mr. Hatch pointed out, and Gary said, “He manipulated her by playing up his illness.”

The judge beckoned and the clerk collected the letters from Mr. Shorter. The judge read them over, then glanced at Mr. B’s taut, lanky form.

“Your letter to Pamela is quite eloquent. Was she appreciative?”

A faint look of amusement eased the tension in Mr. B’s face. “I believe so.”

“No use of force is mentioned.”

Mr. Hatch stood. “Force is implied. Pamela was clearly horrified at the thought of further pursuit. She felt she had no choice. Like many sufferers of paradoxical identification shift, she did what she needed to survive.”

“Her own record indicates a state of eagerness.”

“After seven weeks imprisonment, she hardly knew her own mind. She was desperate to avoid more threats.”

“I never threatened her,” Mr. B said, adding quickly, “Not after she returned. We were like any engaged couple.”

Gary snorted. Mr. Hatch shook his head. Dr. Matchel said, “An enslaved couple.”

“I think,” the judge said, “you should describe your engagement, Mr. B.”

Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to The Engagement

We went for a drive the next morning in the carriage. Once seated, I put an arm around Pamela. She leaned against me and even lifted her chin to receive a kiss on the mouth, which disarmed me.

We discussed Pamela’s future as my wife. If my sister’s letter was any indication of how Pamela would be received by our set, Pamela would never be visited or invited to parties. I could always go hunting with my friends, but Pamela, as neither servant nor lady, would have no one.

“What will you do?” I said.

“Take care of your accounts, visit the poor, assist your housekeeper.” She paused, considering. “Miss you when you are gone,” she said, giving me one of her sideways glances. I smiled and slid my hand under her cap to rub her hair.

“Write.”

I laughed, bent, and kissed her shoulder.

“Pray for you and myself. I am resourceful.”

I never doubted that. I said, “All worries are in the past. We are secure now in each other’s good opinion.”

Although it is possible that Pamela's

"gypsy" was an actual Rom, the term

also referred to tinkers.

And Pamela detached herself—not physically but in that slight, guarded way she has. She said, “In the garden, I wanted to tell you about this—”

She pulled a letter from her pocket. It was from Somebody warning Pamela about the sham marriage I’d considered. I groaned. “How did you get this?”

From a gypsy, who told fortunes at the back gate and left the letter in a clump of dirt.

“A thousand dragons are not enough to watch a woman,” I said. “I rejected the idea, Pamela. I knew it was wrong.” I tapped the letter. “You should have asked me about this directly.”

“You wouldn’t listen.”

“You could have written.”

Her lips twitched. “I came back very quickly,” she pointed out, and I hugged her, and she was there again, present in my arms. “I could never hate you,” she said to my shoulder.

Pamela said it. Who am I, who is anyone, to disagree?

Thomas returned the next afternoon. He’d gone on to the Andrews when Pamela came back to me. He’d taken them a letter from Pamela, explaining her decision and requesting her first packet of letters.

Her parents refused to send them. Apparently, they believed their daughter had written under compulsion. From Thomas’s expression, I gathered the interview had been rather trying.

Pamela looked perturbed, so I quelled my annoyance. We would both write letters and send them to Mr. Atkins who lived near Pamela’s parents. He would make a worthy ambassador.

I drove out alone later that day. There is a meadow—a park-like place—near my Lincolnshire estate, and I went to walk along the footpath and consider the enormous step I was taking.

I’d brought Pamela’s most recent letters with me. I was pulling them out when I saw Williams. He was strolling about with a book, though he might have been reading upside down for all the attention he paid it. He obviously hoped to meet me.

He did depend on me for a living. I sighed and made myself address him. “What are you reading?”

“Sir,” he stammered, “it is Louis Aragon’s Telemachus.” A French novel filled with moral commentary. “I am perfecting myself in the French tongue.”

I didn’t roll my eyes. We made small-talk. When I got tired of comments about the weather, I said, “You should congratulate me on my engagement to Miss Andrews.”

“Yes, yes, absolutely,” he gabbled.

So much for Pamela’s chivalrous knight.

I dropped him at his lodgings and went home to tell Pamela about our meeting.

“Poor man,” she said.

I gave her a narrow stare. “I’d rather he was perfecting his French tongue with Telemachus than perfecting you with it.” Despite her bent head, I caught the glimmer of Pamela’s smile and went out, grinning to myself.

Cross-Examination

Dr. Matchel said, “What an offensive remark!”

“Is it?” Judge Hardcastle said, confused.

“Mr. B was referring to French kissing,” Deborah said. “I think it’s funny. Mr. B is a really funny guy.”

Mr. B turned to grin at her from his seat.

The judge was doubtful. “Was ribald humor unusual in the eighteenth century?” he said and scowled when Mr. B choked on a laugh.

Dr. Matchel had to admit that ribald humor was a staple of eighteenth-century English life, but, “Pamela was likely insulted.”

“Why?”

“Her religious feelings.” Dr. Matchel looked proud at being able to use Pamela’s religious feelings to make an argument.

“Religion doesn’t make people humorless,” Mr. Shorter said. Mr. B just sighed.

“Dirty jokes—” Dr. Matchel said. “Pamela was obviously upset by bodily humor.”

“Bodily humor is not the same as insulting humor,” Mr. B said before the judge could say it. “Not in our world. Pamela gets her hackles up about smutty stories and boorish behavior. She never minds me calling things by their proper names.”

“How refreshing,” the judge said, and since half the court agreed, Mr. B was told to continue.