Posted on Tuesday, 18 November 2003

NEWSFLASH: We have the best mama ever. Not many people would care to be Mrs. Bennet, but our mother chose to be and could not be dissuaded, though we did try. But we now know that she truly is the perfect Mrs. Bennet and we would have it no other way. Sarah Hoyt we love you, and this is for you on your very special day. Your daughters, A.M., A.L., C.C., R.H., S & our faithful friend J.H. Enjoy! And leave all the Tizzies for the real Mrs. B!

Mrs. Bennet woke with a start and grabbed hold of her husband's shoulder frantically, shaking it with more force than one would have expected from such a delicate female.

"Oh Mr. Bennet! Daniel! How could you sleep like such a log while my nerves are in a state? We could all be murdered in our beds with such protection. Oh wake up, do! I need my salts!"

"What? Have we been attacked? All men on deck . . . oh! Mrs. Bennet! I thought I was upon a frigate under siege for a moment. What is so earth shatteringly important that you would wake me from my dreams?"

"Your dreams have been to better purpose than mine, I see. I am so ill-used, even whilst I sleep. I swear if I do not get my salts right now I shall faint dead away."

"Then at least I should be able to sleep," muttered her sympathetic husband.

"Mr. Bennet! Have you not the least compassion?"

"Not only have I no compassion when I am awoken from deepest slumber, but I have not the foggiest notion where your precious salts are kept. Ring for Hill." He turned his back to her and attempted to snuggle down into his feathery pillow again.

"Ring for Hill? I never want to set eyes on that . . . that . . . when I think for how long I have been harbouring a viper to my bosom! Hill is the proverbial snake in the grass. I want her out of the house before breakfast!"

"Whatever has she done? You know we cannot possibly manage without her. If she has broken your favourite Dresden shepherdess I'm sure it can be overlooked again."

"Would it were as simple as that!" shrieked Mrs. Bennet, foam like spume flying from the corners of her mouth. "But she has stolen our eldest daughters!"

"Nonsense! They are asleep in their beds just as any sensible member of this household should be."

"Of course they are asleep in their beds! She has not removed them from the premises, she has pulled them from my very womb and given birth to them herself!"

Mr. Bennet gave his wife a look somewhere between disbelief and awe. "Sounds rather a messy business."

"Mr. Bennet! Don't you feel the least bit disturbed to discover than your darling Lizzie is not your own daughter?"

"My dear, are you trying to tell me something?"

"You know very well what I am trying to tell you and it certainly is not that!" cried Mrs. Bennet, outraged. "Hill is our Jane and Lizzie's mother!"

"I think I would have remembered an indiscretion of that nature," said Mr. Bennet.

"Don't think for one minute you are their father!" cried Mrs. Bennet, her sobs changing to hysterical laughter. "He is none other than the Earl of Matlock - though he does not know it himself."

"He does not know he is the Earl of Matlock?"

"You are being purposefully obtuse! Oh! Burn me some feathers!"

"I think I would rather tickle you with them," whispered Mr. Bennet playfully. He put his arm about his wife and pulled her to him, allowing her to wet his night-shirt with her tears. "My dear - it was nothing but a dream. I remember sitting downstairs while you laboured to birth each and every one of our darling daughters. Hill was not even in our employ at the time. I would think from the screams and groans I heard emanating from your bedchamber that you could not have forgotten the event so easily."

"Then Jane and Lizzie really are our own?"

"Yes you sweet, daft thing."

"I would not have minded so much about Lizzie, but my beautiful Jane . . . I could not bear the thought of her not being my own flesh and blood."

"How could you have doubted? She is the spitting image of you." Mr. Bennet stroked his wife's head until she drifted off to sleep and he was able to extricate himself from under her blissfully snoring form, roll over and pull his eiderdown about his ears, and attempt to return to the high seas again.

In the morning his wife acted as if there had been no middle of the night disturbance.

"How could I have slept so late?" she cried, "I have so much to do. I must rush into Meryton to buy lace for Lydia. She has also expressed the intent of visiting her uncle's offices - most unusual. She says it is a young clerk who has caught her interest, but how could that be when clerks do not wear red coats? I even caught her perusing legal briefs on one occasion."

"Our youngest is quite an enigma," said Mr. Bennet. "One of the silliest enigmas in England, might I add."

"Lydia is just what every young girl should be," cried her mother in defence. "This interest in her uncle's papers is just a passing fancy. Now, stop distracting me - I'm making a list."

"What good are your many lists when you are always misplacing them?"

"Aggravating man! I shall not listen to you. Now where was I? Ah yes - bonnet trimmings for Kitty. The girl goes through so many bonnets I swear she eats them! Now why have I written swaddling? How very strange. Why on earth would Kitty be in need of swaddling? I suppose I cannot make out my own writing - I will have to ask the shop clerk to decipher it for me."

As they made their way downstairs to the breakfast parlour, Mrs. Bennet kept up her recitation of all her various errands, stopping at the landing to jot things down. Mr. Bennet more than obligingly carried her ink-well. Hill placed steaming plates before them as they seated themselves in their customary places at the table and Mrs. Bennet batted not an eyelash at her presence.

"Waffles! How delightful. And chocolate sauce too. Hill - you are a ministering angel."

"You may thank my young lads, Ma'am," said Hill with a proud smile. "Robert and Eric are such a blessing to me. Their performance in the kitchen is amazing. If they weren't such bright young lads and destined for Oxford, I'd apprentice them off to a chef. But their tutor would not forgive me. I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Bennet for providing my sons with the best education . . ."

"Yes, yes, Hill," cried Mrs. Bennet. "We have heard it all before. Your sons are paragons and I have none. Thank you for the timely reminder."

"Oh Mrs. Bennet! I meant no disrespect." Hill backed from the room, mortified.

"Really it is quite unfair that she should have sons and I not, and then to boast about it to my face so constantly," cried Mrs. Bennet.

"Eat your waffles, my dear," said Mr. Bennet, patting her hand. "They will make up for every slight you have suffered."

"Truly delicious," moaned Mrs. Bennet between mouthfuls, as she dolloped on more Devon cream. "Simply superb. Now I must have one with strawberries."

"How is your list coming?" asked Mr. Bennet, intent on keeping her attention diverted.

"Let me see. Ah! I have written down pianoforte music for Mary. None of that dreary stuff she is so used to playing. Something that she can show her voice off with. She has such a fine voice. And as you informed me she has completed Fordyce's Sermons I was thinking of some new reading material - how does the London Times strike you?"

"A very good notion my dear. First sermons, and then newspapers, we may yet get her to read something of value at this stage of progression."

"Before too long I shall have her reading romantic novels," promised Mrs. Bennet.

"That's the spirit my dear!"

"I have put down hair ribbons for Lizzie. What colour should you think?"

"Do not ask me of ribbon colour, or lace, or any such fripperies, but I do think my Lizzie would appreciate some writing materials."

"Oh, very well. I will include a packet of parchment. That should do for her."

"Vellum," said Mr. Bennet in a firm voice.

"Have your way! You always spoil her so. She will be thinking herself above everybody and refusing the hand of the most eligible of suitors, but vellum it will be! Nothing is too good for your Lizzie."

"I am happy you see it my way," said Mr. Bennet, retreating behind his newspaper.

"Just for that I will buy a roll of that lovely blue silk for Jane. Lizzie can help Hill whip her up a new gown before the next assembly. Such a soft blue - it matches her eyes to perfection. She will sweep the new tenant of Netherfield off his feet. He will never know what hit him. Speaking of which - when are you going to visit the gentleman?"

"Must I? Cannot I just send Jane over with a note giving him permission to marry her and be done with it?"

"Do you know nothing about marrying off your daughters? There is yet another thing I will have to add to my book! You realise the proposal is due at the publishers this evening? I will have to amend it now and send it express. I had once thought to title it, How to Marry Your Daughters off to Rich, Handsome Gentlemen in Five Easy Steps, but no. You continue to complicate things with your obtuseness. Now I must insert a warning on how to manage obtuse husbands so they co-operate with one's schemes. And I will also have to add . . ." Mrs. Bennet began to count on her fingers. "You are worse than my agent! Between the two of you it is up to TEN steps now. How shall I ever manage in time? Do you know what it is like to work with a deadline? All you do is sit in your study all day pondering mathematical equations, developing your beautiful mind. Well it takes more than a beautiful mind to marry off daughters. It takes blood, sweat, and tears!"

"The tears you utilise aplenty, my dear, but don't you think the blood and sweat are a trifle unladylike?"

"Oh! You delight in vexing me! Hill, Hill! My salts!" Mrs. Bennet fanned herself with her list again and then gave it another perusal. "Why have I written keyboard for Jane? She has no need of a board for keys. You and Hill are the ones who mind the keys. Were either of you in need of a board?"

"Not to my knowledge, Dear."

"Oh! I should not have been writing whilst descending a staircase - this is what becomes of it. Now what else was I after? Oh yes - that dear freckled thing, Miss King. I could buy her some Gowlands, but I really don't want her to steal the march on any of my daughters. Hmm. The latest edition of How to Reform a Rogue might come in handy for a girl like her with a tidy inheritance, and if all else fails, chalkboard erasers."

"What would she need those for?" asked Mr. Bennet momentarily diverted.

"Why, throwing of course!" 'And I am supposed to be the dim one?' Mrs. Bennet thought. "Well, I had best be off if I am to meet my sister Phillips for tea. Hill! Hill! Wherever can that woman be? Hill - I need help with my pelisse and a sniff of hartshorn while you are about it."

Mr. Bennet enjoyed a relaxing afternoon in his study contemplating a most interesting array of logarithms. His quest was eventually disturbed, however, when Mrs. Bennet descended upon him like a whirlwind.

"Oh Mr. Bennet we are undone!" she cried. "I have just heard the most terrible news from my sister. When you are dead and gone I shall be thrown from the house and that horrible Mr. Collins, your distant cousin, will lord it over the neighbourhood. And who do you think will take my place? All the bookies on High Street are giving ten to one odds in favour of Charlotte Lucas over any of my own daughters, who of course would not expel me to the hedgerows. And worse yet, Mr. Bennet, much worse indeed! Their daughter, a cabbage wearing nobody named Sylvie, will most likely marry my own grandson, Darcy, who will have a grand estate of his own! They think they are all so fine those Lucases, just because Sir William has that meaningless title and was presented at St James'. Well, you know my thoughts on knighthoods that are only bestowed and not inherited! If ever Mr. Collins comes our way, Lizzie must marry him. I insist upon it. Hill! Hill! My salts!"

"Dear lady, think for a moment," said Mr. Bennet calmly. "If this Sylvie person is all set to marry a grandson of ours named Darcy with a prosperous estate, does not that infer that at least one of our daughters made an advantageous marriage and that you will most likely be living in the lap of luxury with hardly a care in the world, trumped up in all the lace and jewels you could possibly desire?"

"Now that you put it that way," said Mrs. Bennet, "it sounds quite likely. It must be Jane who marries so well, for she is by far the prettiest. Or Lydia because she is the liveliest. But still - I would do all it would take to keep my grandson away from some Collins spawn - wretched social climbers!"

Mr. Bennet emitted a deep sigh as his wife left the room to return to her parlour and the completion of her manuscripts. The afternoon was no longer quiet though as wails of anguish kept streaming from that room. He was certain he distinctly heard his good wife cry, "A plague on all your publishing houses!" He shook his head, stuffed cotton in his ears, and busied himself with some relatively tricky theorems and postulates.

As he was dressing for dinner his good wife joined him again. Her cap was askew and her hair was in disarray. He decided it best not to ask how her afternoon had gone.

"If it is not one thing it is another," she cried.

"What now?"

"A fortune-teller came to the door and I thought it would be a lark to see into the future. Lydia did and was given a lovely story that included love, travel to London, suspense, and matrimony. And to a fine soldier too. But what do you think that gypsy woman had the nerve to tell me? She said that in some future life I would desert my daughters and run off with another man, and marry and divorce so often it would put some floozy called Elizabeth Taylor to the blush. And my daughters would have to fend for themselves in a dingy set of rooms with only your supervision! How would they ever marry well? Or even at all? This is not to be borne! Lizzie scheming to prevent Lydia from getting a rich handsome man. A well set up lawyer too! Just because she had no interest in the cripple that was meant for her. Why is my life so fraught with difficulty? Why must I eternally suffer so? I am a good mother - I really am. Desert my children? Never in a million years! Yet in the twenty-first century . . ."

"My Dear. Let the twenty-first century take care of itself. It has naught to do with us. Fortune-tellers can neither see the future nor the past, just the money in their palms. You are the best of mothers. Now rest a bit and then dress for dinner."

"I will overcome this slander," said Mrs. Bennet, her eyes flashing. "I will prove to the world that I am a good mother. Mark my words if I do not have three daughters married or engaged before a twelvemonth is up! I will do everything by the book! My book!" She wandered out of the room, muttering all the while. As soon as she was nowhere in sight, Mr. Bennet called for the girls and held a quick meeting.

Dinner was served rather late. When Mrs. Bennet entered the dining parlour she still appeared somewhat fraught but she was cheered by her daughters' conciliatory gestures as they attended to her every need.

"Oh! What a day I have had!" she exclaimed. "I have not been able to finish the final draft of my manuscript. It is a hopeless case now - my one chance for fame has passed me by. And when I think of all the mothers my book would have helped! So many pretty young ladies never to be thrown in the paths of rich men. Such a terrible, terrible shame. I could just weep."

"There, there my dear," said her husband. "Jane has some news that ought to cheer you up."

"Whatever could she say when my life is ruined?" wailed Mrs. Bennet.

"Mama," said Jane earnestly, capturing her mother's eyes with her soulful blue ones. "I read your manuscript. It was perfectly wonderful. You can be reassured that publishing it would be a good thing. It is so inventive and entertaining and . . . full of such useful advice." She had to amend what she was saying when her mother started to look apoplectic. "I packaged it up and bundled it off, ordering the fastest horse possible. It should be arriving in London shortly."

"Oh, you are the darlingest girl," cried Mrs. Bennet, quickly recovering. "I am so happy, so excited! My very own book! I can just hear all the mothers of the brides at all the weddings thanking their lucky stars that they had my book to turn to in their hour of need. What praise shall flow in! I promise to find you a most amiable and rich young man. If Mr. Bennet would remember to call on Mr. Bingley we could get the ball rolling right away."

The dinner plates were cleared and desert plates placed before them. Hill walked into the room bearing a platter as the footmen snuffed the candles in the wall sconces.

"Whatever is this? Our desert has been set ablaze!" cried Mrs. Bennet.

"'Tis only your candles, Mama Dearest," responded all her daughters. "Happy birthday. You are the best mother we could ever have wished for."

As the cake was set before her, Mrs. Bennet looked at her husband, misty-eyed. "You remembered," she sighed.

"Of course I did, my love," he said. "How could I ever forget you?"

How could he indeed? How could any of us? Happy Birthday Sarah, best of all Mamas! Hope you have an infinitely better day than your alter ego did. We love you to bits!