At first it was like that, her telling me all about whether or not she thought that women’s skirts should become fuller or whether their waistlines should be lowered (she thought that the style of a high waist line now made everyone look as if she were with child) and whether she approved of the current style of dance cards (she did not).
But one day, she said something entirely shocking.
She started out by mentioning things about her husband and brother. “I am told you know about them.”
I was taken aback but responded in the affirmative, that yes, I knew.
“Well, there aren’t a lot of men who do know,” she said. “There are very few people to whom I could trust with this request, you see.”
“Request,” I repeated. “You have a request for me, madam?”
“It is most irregular,” she said. “Entirely improper, of course. If I were not sort of desperate, I suppose I would not make it at all.”
I was not looking forward to owing Caroline a favor. “What is it?”
“I heard, however, that it was down to you that I was told about it at all. If it had not been for your influence, James says, he would simply have never told me, and then I suppose I would not have even known why I was in a marriage with a man who never touches me, and I truly meannever. Not even kissing, you know, and I—”
“I was afraid of this,” I broke in. “You are not satisfied with the marriage.”
“No!” she protested. “No, the marriage itself is quite a good marriage. He is easy to be around and we are fond of each other. I like him. He likes me. It is only…”
Suddenly, I had a terrible notion what this request of hers might be. “Before you make any requests of me, Mrs. Bennet, you should keep in mind that I am not a man who is free, because I have a wife of my own.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, you do, but James says that you were so at odds earlier in the summer that you must likely be at each other’s throats by now, and I thought that perhaps the two of you—”
“We are not at each other’s throats,” I said tersely.
“Oh,” she said.
We walked in silence for several moments.
“Yes, but men don’t care about these sorts of things, and men are unfaithful to their wives all the time, and men are eager for the opportunity if it is simply presented—”
“I am not like most other men.”
She looked me over. “You are not, in fact. You are, however, so very swoonworthy that I had to try.”
That could not really be true.
“So, your answer is no,” she said.
“It is,” I said. “But I see your position, and I told Mr. Bennet, your husband, that it was why he should not propose marriage to you in the first place. I said that it was not fair to you. You should have the chance to know love.”
“Well,” she said, “I do know love, of course. What I wish to experience is the carnal act.”
“Yes, that was clear, Mrs. Bennet,” I muttered.
“Well,” she continued, “only because I suppose it seems monstrous not to ever do it, not for my entire life. I am told that I likely won’t care much for it, and that women do not like it very much—”
“Who tells you this?” I broke in.
She shrugged. “Well, everyone.”
“Everyone?” I said. “You are talking to everyone about this? If it is your husband, you can be quite sure he does not know what he is talking about.”
“True, I suppose,” she said. “But it is not only him. It is also Louisa and several of my maids and a group of women who I was giggling with at an embroidery circle once.”
I stopped walking, thinking that over.
