Free Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler Page A

generosity by allowing me to sit quietly during the ride back to my rooms. “Quietly” is, however, a relative term, for music accompanies the ladies’ chat during the drive. Somehow it seems that music can be had in any space, mobile or stationary, and without benefit of musicians. This is music of a sort which I have never heard, a rhythmic, pounding, repetitive sound with a man’s voice that is not exactly singing, more like shouting some words that I cannot make out. Thankfully, Anna persuades Paula to soften the noise, and I am left to my own thoughts.
    It is natural enough, if anything about my situation could be deemed natural, that I cannot think of the engagement of which they informed me as my engagement. Yet I cannot deny feeling almost injured, not by Frank, whom I do not know, but by Wes. My feelings are in all ways unaccountable. After all, I have known Wes little more than a day.
    “This is what men do,” Paula had said of Wes and Frank.
    “This is what men do,” said my mother to her cousin Beatrice when I was but thirteen years old. It was wrong of me to listen to their conversation; indeed, I am sure they believed me asleep on the sofa, but I shall never forget the resignation in cousin Beatrice’s voice as she spoke of how she had turned aside two maidservants for being with child and that she suspected her husband of fathering them.
    “This is what men do,” said my mother.
    “Not Mr. Mansfield,” said cousin Beatrice.
    “Indeed, I would stake my life he does not,” said my mother, and I imagine what she really meant was that she would stake his, “but it is an all-too-common tale, my dear. I shall never forget when I was but a young bride, and a particular friend had the sad truth thrust upon her. Her aunt—a lady of sterling character—urged her to bear with it, declaring that such dalliances were what we women must strive to endure, and indeed are blessings that preserve our sex from yearly confinements.”
    Recalling these words I see, for the first time—how did I not see it before—that what stopped Edgeworth from compromising my innocence was not, as I believed, his noble character. Or his respect for me. It was his inconstancy.
    What else would have prevented him from taking me completely and making me his, body and soul, when I kissed him and held him so closely that I tremble still with the memory of it? It was he who broke away, not I. He who said we must wait till I would make him the happiest of men, he who asked me, once again, to marry him. For I am sure that he, like all men, wished for an unsullied bride.
    And it was I who was so frightened by my reckless behavior that I begged for a day or two to reflect quietly on this most important step.
    And so I returned to my home and contemplated the words I had heard at my sister Clara’s wedding, indeed at every wedding I had had the honor to attend, that marriage is “not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites.” That one should enter the state “reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which matrimony was ordained.” One married for the “mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other.”
    Yes, I desired to be a help and comfort to him, and that he should be a help and comfort to me. No, I would not marry him merely to satisfy my carnal lusts and appetites. But that I had those appetites I could not deny, and they frightened me. They had made me imprudent to the point of recklessness. And now they made me eager to marry him.
    For had I not refused him before I knew I even had such feelings? I had disbelieved that a man who had loved before could be capable of a second attachment. I had doubted how this handsome, agreeable widower could possibly love again. And if he did love, then I wondered if he had ever really loved his wife, and thus if he could