Free Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say by Jane Juska

as pointedly looked away. However, since my return from London she seemed to be on a rampage: energetic, laughing, running about, slamming doors, her behaviour not unlike little Jane’s, who, not yet two, spent her days copying her mother though at times it seemed the other way round. But little Jane did not descend into equal parts sadness and despair with such moping about as her mother exhibited, such flopping into chairs, toying with her food but eating little,staring endlessly into the evening fire. This was a new Mrs. Bennet and I was just as happy that I had closeted myself, per necessity of course, because certainly her recent behaviour did not draw me to her side. Conjugal relations, at least for the present, were out of the question, so in all honesty, I saw no reason to seek her out. Not that I preferred picking nits or, as would happen shortly, shaving myself, but as frustrating as all this was, I saw signs of victory. Where my wife was concerned, I saw nothing that was in my power to do. A stalemate, that’s what she was.
    â€œGo away,” I called to the maid. “Tell your mistress I will join her for dinner. Then you can tidy up here. Go on.”
    As the sound of her footsteps subsided I got out my razor strop and began to sharpen the last weapon in my arsenal.
    From her bedchamber I could hear wailing, something about her figure ballooning, then tears, then remonstrating upon whatever her maid was doing. “Tighter!” I heard. “Pull harder!” Then a shriek, then the sound of a body collapsing, probably onto the bed, then tears again. And then clearly, “Mrs. Salther will have my head when next she fits me. She will scold me. She will tell me there is not enough silk in all of London to cover my outcroppings. Dear God, am I never to have a waist again? What use is motherhood if all it does is to make the mother bulge beyond reasonable restraint?” Stamping on the floor.
    Despite this racket, I, who had had the forethought to soap myself thoroughly, propped the mirror against myfootstool and, monitoring my progress in the glass, shaved calmly and carefully, not a nick but not a gnat, either, not one that I could see at any rate.
    Apparently my wife had descended to the kitchen, from where she continued her complaints at an ear-splitting volume. This time it was Cook who felt the force of her fury. “What are you doing? I ordered the potato crusts to accompany the salmon. You know how the master enjoys those crusts! And here you seem to be putting together some kind of anchovy crisp. I am so disappointed in you, Nellie!”
    â€œBut, madam, when I went to make the gravy for the potatoes, the duck fat was missing. I cannot imagine where it might have gotten to. I shall look once more in the larder but I do not expect it will appear simply because I have come again to look for it.”
    â€œRidiculous. Duck fat does not disappear. Someone has got hold of it. Someone has stolen it away. Though to what purpose I cannot think.” I could hear the commencing of tears.
    Nellie continued, “And my pastry cloths, they are disappeared, too, and so the apple tarts you planned cannot be achieved!” Nellie’s tears commenced.
    â€œNow my house is full of thieves!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Is it not enough that I have to contend with corsets that won’t shut and anchovies for supper and . . . most likely the absence of biscuits for the morning. It is too much!”
    â€œStop! Oh, please don’t!” Nellie begged. “Not my tossing-pan!” The clang of pan against wall shook the house. And then another shattering, probably the mixing bowls, then two plops, hers, and then another’s, this time, I suspected, atop Nellie’s baking table. Sobs and sighs. The two of them made a duet of misery.
    Upstairs, I smiled with satisfaction. I had almost completed my task; shortly I would be as smooth and as clean as a newborn babe. All