by Bethany Delleman
I will confess to you now, I actually really dislike P&P 1995. I almost stopped watching it because of the over-the-top annoying portrayal of Mrs. Bennet. I greatly prefer 1980 or 2005 Mrs. Bennet; even Lost in Austen Mrs. Bennet was better! Anyway, the word “shrill” or any descriptor of Mrs. Bennet’s actual voice does not appear in the text of P&P. That is purely 1995. I believe it is *what* Mrs. Bennet says and not how she says it that is annoying.
After all, Mr. Bennet did fancy himself in love and I can’t imagine anyone marrying The Shrieker, 1995 Edition. So I wrote a sexy, but still annoying, Mrs. Bennet. And Mr. Bennet trying to deal with it.
The day had started well. He had breakfasted before everyone else, except Mary, who was reading as she ate. He then retreated to the library, where he was deep in the translation of an Arabic text with some fascinating insights into natural philosophy when it happened. Her voice, with its deep, throaty tone, wafted up to his desk like an alluring perfume.
Damn.
He could not make out the words, but it was always more enticing that way. After all, she rarely said anything he approved. Most of the time he hardly listened, but it did not matter. His focus was shattered. Suddenly, the Arabic was uninteresting and he felt a particular type of desire. Unfortunately, it was still at least eight hours until he could find any relief. He got up and paced the room, he tried to focus on anything else, and he hummed a tune to drown out her voice.
It worked, this time. He returned to his translation. A few hours passed in tranquility and quiet. Visitors always came to the far side of the house, away from his library. That was why the library had been moved after he married. The sound did not usually carry.
Then his concentration was broken a second time. She was in the hallway, for what reason he did not know, she was not often in this part of the house. She must talk, she always did. He heard her voice, something about Jane, or to Jane, and he was in the disagreeable state once again.
After about half an hour, he judged it to be useless to return to his work. He decided to do something else that did not require concentration. He went to talk to his steward, that was a good distraction. It wore away the hours until it was time to dress for the evening meal.
Dinner was always the worst time of the day. It was inevitable that he would hear her. She always talked at meals and had so much to say. Today she was talking about Bingley, that was predictable. What else would she speak of? She seemed to think of little else. He thought for a moment the day she had announced his coming into the neighborhood. He had said that it was likely Bingley would fall in love with her, he had not been entirely joking.
Her deep alto voice filled the room as he tried very hard to focus on his dinner. None of his daughters had inherited that voice, though most of them had inherited her beauty, Jane most of all. Her voice was a puzzle that he had been trying to solve for almost a quarter of a century. How was it that he was so attracted to the sound and so repelled by what she actually said? How had she mastered pitch and tone into the most alluring shape but been entirely unable to conform her manners to her station?
He tried to think of the meal, of natural history, of the news, of anything, but he could not. His daughters wanted to read a novel together after the meal, there were to be no visitors tonight. Only a few hours until he could retire. Mr. Bennet took up a newspaper and tried to read it. She was quiet, listening to the reading, he was able to focus.
She took up the book for a chapter and he left the room.
Finally it was time to go upstairs. This had not been a good day. Yesterday he had managed to work for six hours, today he had barely managed three. He went to her room, as he knew he was going to. There were very few nights indeed, when he did not.
She was sitting and brushing her hair. Obviously, she had a maid who could have done so, but he suspected that she knew that he liked it. He loved her hair. He loved her voice. And even after five pregnancies and three-and-twenty years, he wanted her and no one else. And it was that desire which had led him into a marriage that he both regretted and cherished. Because how he felt had never changed, his feelings had only split in two and diverged.
“You know it has been fifteen years since Lydia,” she said, “and still you come.” He was certain her voice was lower, more musical when they were alone.
“What does it matter?” he said.
“I fear there is no chance that anything can come of this,” she said, but she was smiling coyly. He was sure she knew her power over him.
“That is immaterial,” he replied. He knew what she wanted him to say, but he was not willing to surrender yet.
She stood up, and shook her long, thick hair down her back. “You must come for some reason,” she said, in a husky whisper.
He gave in, “I come because I want you. Are you satisfied?”
Mrs. Bennet smirked, “I am sure I will be.”
Fade to black
For more short stories, go here
For my crossover romance, check out Prideful & Persuaded
For my Mansfield Park variation, here Unfairly Caught