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Overview
An audaciously entertaining look at love, marriage, and the beloved Bennet family from Pride and Prejudice, as you’ve never seen them before . . .
It is a truth universally acknowledged that every man in possession of a wife must be in want of a son.
1785 was to be the most marvelous year of Marianne’s life, until an unfortunate turn of events left her in a compromised state and desperate for a husband to care—or rather cover—for her. Now, she is stuck in an undesirable marriage to Mr. Edward Bennet, a man desperate in his own way for a male heir. But as she is still carrying a smoldering desire for the handsome Colonel Miller, Mrs. Bennet must constantly find new, clever ways to avoid her husband’s lascivious advances until she is once again reunited with her dashing Colonel. Except that the best-laid plans of a woman in good standing can so often go awry, especially when her contrary husband has plans and desires of his own . . .
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780425278437 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 08/04/2015 |
| Pages: | 304 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.10(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.90(d) |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Ch. 1
In May by Candlelight at Brighton, 1785
Dear Jane,
O la! If only poor Mother had lived to tell me of the infamy that would be my wedding night. I recall, dear sister, when soon after your own marriage you tried to warn me of what lay in store: We were upstairs in my own dear little room which looked over the town square. Suddenly you pulled me to the window and said, “Look there.” I did as you asked but saw nothing unusual, only a few dogs playing about. “Look at those two,” you said. “What?” I wondered and then—I shudder to recall—my glance fell upon a pair of dogs, one on his hind legs clasping the rear quarters of the other, all a-quiver. Suddenly he ceased his jittering and returned to ground. It was clear from the rigid portion of this agitator that he was a male, the victim female. I hoped never to see such a sight again. Alas, ’twas not to be.
Something of this I knew to be my fate; I have, after all, reached the proper age of fifteen. And so I kept in my mind that the female dog did not die, though she seemed to take no pleasure from the encounter or to have a choice as to whether or not to participate. Still, she continued on her way afterward with no signs of the ravage that had befallen her. Small comfort.
Brighton is a lovely place. Our (that odious pronoun) inn borders the sea and I can see ships far off on the horizon, and on the promenade couples and families on holiday. One couldn’t wish for a prettier place in which to begin one’s life as a married woman, which, forever and a day, is what I am. I could enjoy myself if it weren’t for the man who is my husband and who appears to be a satyr. He seems to believe that I am his to muss and turn this way and that and up-end at will. He seems to believe it his right to do this at any time of the day or night and often both and sometimes twice in one lying! Surely, dear sister, this frequency is unusual; had you suffered as I do surely you would have warned me.
Here—for writing is my only friend at present—is my wedding night. Wedded bliss it was not. He had been watching me from the darkness and now, his breath heavy from wine, he ordered me to unloose my stays (a not altogether unwelcome command, for as you and I know, stays can bind and even cut when worn overlong). I did as I was told and stood silent in my petticoat, feet bare, arms crossed over my bosom. He dropped his trousers and oh, dear sister, you as a married woman would not be surprised I do not think. But, despite the blissful memories of my beloved colonel, memories I have shared with you, such a sight was new to me; indeed, I had scarcely seen or felt the colonel’s entry, so impassioned had I become from the sensation that his voice and his lips and his touch inspired in me. Clearly, marriage does not require such tenderness, although I was ignorant of that as well. And so the little shriek I uttered from surprise and apprehensiveness Mr. Bennet took as my expression of delight because he grinned and advanced, calling out, “Consummate!” Why he should summon the broth that Mother provided us when we were sickly I have no idea, and so I leapt onto the bed and attempted to cover myself with the bedclothes. But he grabbed them, threw them from me, and straddled me, his manhood seeking its inevitable way up and under my underthings, muttering “Consummate” as he did. All night long and into the morning he was at me—it certainly did not take that dog so long—until he fell off me and to sleep. I followed him shortly for I, too, was exhausted.
To be fair, I must say that despite my protestations, I could not help but admire his energy and his determination, at least in retrospect. And I was grateful to him: after such a night no woman could forestall motherhood, and Mr. Bennet’s paternity would never be questioned, because if anyone had ever been consummated it was I.
I did not bleed, dear sister, and my husband promises to make much of that, so I must dissemble so convincingly that he believes that my pleasure exceeded any pain and injury I might have suffered in my virgin state. I will not tell him—I cannot tell him!—that I did indeed bleed but not on this night. No, not on his night, but on the night of my true marriage (albeit without benefit of clergy) to Colonel Millar those many months ago.
All this you know, but it helps me during this time of despair to recall our meeting, how I stood with all the pretty maidens along the road as the militia in all their splendour marched into Meryton. And how, soon after, their leader, beautiful in his military regalia, black hair, flashing eyes, and oh so tall, stood before me. What can he want? I wondered. And he said, “I am a stranger here and lonely. Would you walk with me about the village on this fine day?” Oh yes, I would and I did. We continued to walk until darkness fell. Tired, we fell upon the grass next to the river, where we lay side by side until he leaned over and kissed me, oh so gently, and oh so gently pressed his hand upon my skirts and then beneath them. You know, dear sister, what came next. I was deflowered and blissfully so. I do not recall returning home; I am certain he escorted me there. I do recall the devastation I felt when I learned soon thereafter that his regiment had been called to another town. At least I have the memories and, truth to tell, a bit more.
But ah, how I thought of my dear colonel during this everlasting wedding night and blessed the memory of his kisses and gentle touches that carried me through the misery of my debut as Mrs. Edward Bennet.
Oh dear, I must close, dear Jane, for he is come upon me again.
Your loving sister,
Marianne
Verbis, quae timido quoque possent addere mentem.
“Words which would have inspired the greatest coward.”
—HORACE
I, Edward Bennet, begin this journal in order to record the events of my life such as they occurred in this year of 1785, the year in which I took myself a wife. Such a momentous occasion is deserving of my considered attention, and this journal will bear witness to my efforts in that direction. And, should I choose to continue those efforts beyond this year, this journal will also serve as a history of myself for those of my descendants who wish to delve into their beginnings. And of course they will, if only the boys, my direct heirs.
First, some explanation of my life as it preceded my marriage. I have always been a retiring sort of fellow, more interested in books than in parties, more at home in the country than in the town. I grew into manhood in this very home, Longbourn, a respectable red-brick with a respectable cook and housekeeper and a manservant for myself, in the midst of green meadows, a pretty forest, trails for walking, a brook for fishing, all the beauty the English countryside offers. I was content.
However, not long after reaching my majority, I faced the necessity of finding a wife even though I was perfectly happy in my library and on my ambles about the property. I looked into my future with apprehension. Should I remain single and childless, my property, entailed as it was, would fall to my closest male heir, in this case a cousin, a Mr. Collins. In truth, I came to detest Mr. Collins, and as he grew in years and in health, I lived each day in the fear that should he so choose, in the absence of male heirs, Longbourn would be his and my family cast out. The very thought that Collins might someday stroll about the grounds of this, my home, was intolerable. Action, never my natural inclination, seemed called for, and so reluctantly I left Longbourn, though never for very long, and ventured into nearby Meryton, where, I had been given to understand, marriageable girls waited in every parlour and at every ball. It appeared that I would have to learn to dance.
Ch. 2
A Tuesday in May at Longbourn
Dear Jane,
Do you remember as fondly as I the dancing in the town hall? It is the very hall where your beloved Mr. Phillips proposed to you beneath the trees which lined the path where the two of you wandered. I recall Mother worrying that Mr. Phillips was only a clerk. How pleased you must be that he has become the attorney that our father was, his office occupying the very space as that of our dear papa. Oh, that Father had lived! He might well have warned me off entering into a loveless marriage. Still, I suppose he would have seen Mr. Bennet as upright and as responsible as any suitor could be, the holder of property, a man entirely suitable for his daughter. But of course, were I to confess—as I always do to you, dear sister—I would admit that fortune smiled on me, perhaps in recompense for the terror that struck when my monthly flux ceased. I will not trouble you with the memory of we two in the shameful corner of my little bedroom where I told you my fears. So while I cannot bring myself to think of Mr. Bennet as a godsend, I must admit that he was a bit of luck and came, as they say, “in the nick of time.”
Can you hear my sigh, dear sister?
Until he stumbled against me during the minuet—how anyone could trip over his own feet in such a simple dance is beyond me—I was barely aware of this fellow, who on first glance and first dance was clearly from the country. The word “bumpkin” comes to mind. My attention was absorbed by the presence of Colonel Millar far across the room, who gazed at me with the utmost fondness—surely my due—and whose name was next on my dance card. Taller than Papa, his eyes as black as his moustache, his smile warm and inviting, he bowed slightly in my direction, and my heart beat faster. The dance would be a gavotte, my favourite, particularly so with the colonel, who would be the lead man, of course, and who at the end, as tradition would have it, must kiss his partner. Oh, please let me not stumble or, worse, perspire. Happily, I had brought with me a second pair of gloves, which would replace those which this Mr. Bennet had soiled with the moisture of exertion from his own hands. Mr. Bennet, if I may be so crude, sweats. Colonel Millar, an officer need I remind you, perspires and that only lightly. I prayed to the heavens above that I would do neither.
I like to think that the colonel took notice of my small waist but could not help but note that his eyes fell most often on my neckline, which, allowed by such social occasions, had dipped somewhat, encouraging a wee bit of peeping from those who would be so bold. Do you recall how tightly we laced our stays so that such peeping would be rewarded? Mother urged us to take up the newer style, which she said was not so heavily boned; she even offered to purchase the new corsets for us. She said they would not so distort us as she assured us they did by narrowing our back and widening our front. But we would not risk the newer and more comfortable strapless stays because they did not make the waist small or push the bosom into amplitude but forced us only to stand with our shoulders back. Fashionable, our mother said. More of her advice we did not heed. Such are daughters, I suppose.
As the gavotte ended and I looked up at the colonel, he leaned down and his lips did not graze my cheek or scuff my ear or touch my brow. His lips met my lips quickly, soft and lightly as a butterfly. Just as quickly he straightened and smiled, holding me by my elbow to steady me as he led me back to you and Mother, and as he assisted me to sit—for it was clear that my head was spinning—he whispered in my ear, “You are a love.” Had it not been for Mother’s suspicious frown, I would have followed him then and there. Alas, my dance card announced the next dance and my next partner: Mr. Bennet again. Mr. Bennet took no notice of my waist; his ogling went directly to my bosom, where it remained throughout the minuet. Subtlety, it would seem, is not his forte.
Even now, some weeks into our marriage, I cannot believe that my life is forever tied to him. I take some comfort in the loveliness of the countryside.
Yrs affectionately,
Marianne
Edward Bennet on His Courting
Quem circumcursans huc atque huc saepe Cupido Fulgebat crocina splendidus in tunica.
“When Cupid fluttering round me here and there Shone in his rich purple mantle.”
—CATULLUS
Despite my initial awkwardness on the dance floor, I will confess that I was quite admired by the young ladies present. And so I continued with plans to become the father of sons, the caretakers of my old age and of the property that would naturally fall to them. I found the future Mrs. Bennet, née Gardiner, to my liking, in ways similar to the broodmare of which I was at that time particularly fond. Like the pretty little horse, Miss Gardiner had a sprightly manner and hips that promised the birthing of sleek colts; I imagined this exuberant young girl frolicking in the fields behind the barn, she and the mare, together. I imagined myself gazing fondly at the scene from my library, then turning to my books, which even at my relatively young age numbered, along with those volumes attained by my father, in the hundreds. Ah yes, I could imagine that her 4,000 pounds per annum might serve even to add to my collection. My own 2,000 was barely sufficient to keep a few servants, but Miss Gardiner, I could see, was young and strong and would not require a large household staff. I decided to ask for her hand in marriage.
June, from Longbourn
My dear Jane,
What a fine sister you are! Too late I have come across the little book you handed me when I was but fourteen. As I did all good sense, I set it aside when you offered it to me and now, of course, it is too late. Allow me to point out those Hints, as they are titled in this little book, so that should you have daughters, they will be made aware of pitfalls and so avoid the errors of my recent past. I know that you yourself must have made use of it, as your Mr. Phillips is a living example of the ideal man revealed in those chapters, which guide us, as they say, on our Journey to the Land of Hymen. I need not tell you that guidance of this sort ought be made available to all young women as they are made aware of their future role as wives and mothers. I have copied out some of it for you:
1) If the man have thick, red lips, he will be simple, good-natured, and easily managed.
2) If he speak quick but distinct, and walk firm and erect, he will be ambitious, active, and probably a good husband.
That, my dear sister, describes my colonel, not my husband. The following is more characteristic of Mr. Bennet:
3) If he speak and look with his mouth extended, it is a certain mark of stupidity.
4) If he be beetle-browed, it shows duplicity and fickleness.
Now, I know you are saying that Mr. Bennet is not as repulsive as all that and reluctantly I would have to agree: He is not stupid even though his lips are thin and lacking in colour, with occasional spittle in the corners. He as yet reveals no fickleness; indeed, he is more faithful more frequently than I would have it. I do not yet know about his duplicity, although his calls for repeated lovemaking, as he would call it, would suggest a certain dishonesty. But then, I suppose one could call me duplicitous as well, for I married as a virgin, withholding from him the secret only you and I share. Still, had I been apprised of such honest words as these Hints offer, I might not have agreed so readily to marry the man who is the source of my constant sorrow.
My dear sister, I am with child. But then we knew that, didn’t we.
Yr sister,
Marianne
Dear Jane,
Thank you for your good wishes and your sound advice. I hope Mr. Phillips has got over his cold. Mr. Bennet remains in perfect health. My sniffles have come from within for I have spent many secret hours in tears, though none of them in Mr. Bennet’s presence. He is not a cruel man, but he is without that which would allow him to apprehend my sadness. I hesitate to say something so harsh about the man who is my husband, but he is without feeling, at least when it comes to me. His sympathies are great for his horses, especially the foals, and for the old dog who follows him everywhere. I cannot recall a single time when he has looked directly into my eyes; his own dart about every which way and light only on my belly where my child grows with each passing day. Often I wonder if he is simply shy in my presence, but I cannot know, for there is no conversation between us. And no smiles. In the evening, after supper, he repairs to his library. I sit by the fire sewing tiny clothes for the baby until the fading of the light. He lights our way upstairs with nary a word or even a nod. Could it be that he regrets his insatiability? That I remind him of his coarser nature? Well, there is no sense in pursuing answers. It is time to dry my tears.
I will send to the village for the name of a midwife to assist me when my time is nigh. I have decided to keep my expectations from Mr. Bennet for the time being; he could very well question the speediness with which I have become pregnant; after all, it has been not even one month since our marriage. Of course, he would put it up to his potency, and yet one can never be sure of this man. When he is not turning from me, his face dark with concentration on one of his books, he is mercurial: laughing, flailing his extremities, galumphing across the bed (and me), his eyes aglow with lust, a terrifying sight. Even during daylight hours I cannot so much as cross from one side of the room to the other without his grabbing at my petticoat and shoving his hands, which for a man who does no manual labour whatsoever are surprisingly coarse and rough, beneath my chemise. And he seems not to care if his behaviour is witnessed by others! Only the other day, whilst I was consulting with Cook in the pantry, in he stormed and all but tossed me onto the counter, where he lifted up my petticoat and began to rummage. The shame of it seems always to be mine, never his. Also the cleaning up after. Cook refuses to come near.
When he is not asserting his dominion in the bedchamber or the parlour or even the kitchen, he sulks, is surly in manner, broods, and spends much time in his library—where, not surprisingly, I am not allowed to go. On the rare occasions that he takes a stroll about his property I do enter the library and have found there many books about the creatures that live nearby, a very fat book called The Sermons of John Donne, whose very title puts me off, but also some novels! O la! One such is Pamela by a Mr. Samuel Richardson. Although Mother taught us to read when we were but small, she forbade either of us to read that very book; but now that I am a married woman, she could have no objections. Mr. Bennet is fastidious about the arrangement of his books so I have been very careful to tuck the book beneath my skirt so that no servant can notice and then to return it to its proper place before Mr. Bennet returns. O Jane! It affords me such pleasure even for so short a time. Here is her story: Pamela, a young servant girl, is pursued by an older and titled man. Oh, Jane, she is only fifteen years of age—as am I—and she vows to lose her life before her virtue. I will her to succeed; however, I have read only to page 9 of the first folio and cannot imagine her maintaining her purity for another 400 pages! We shall have to see; in the meantime, she brings me great delight. I am her champion on every page. She is my friend.
I must hush, here he comes.
Yrs affectly,
Marianne
Reflections on Married Life
Natura homo nundum et elgans animal est.
“Man is by nature a clean and delicate creature.”
—SENECA
I was for a time a happy man. I found my wife much to my liking. Her nether regions were plump and promised the sons who would, I was certain, resemble myself in appearance and temperament; that is, they would have my broad forehead and strong jaw; they would have my love for the animals of the field and the birds of the air. They would grow into manhood appreciative of their rights as gentlemen and landholders of this most agreeable property which I have spent much time contemplating from the windows of my library. It would not be long now, given my unceasing efforts, until fruitfulness would show itself in the person of a son. I would perhaps have to cease and desist in the delights of matrimonial concupiscence, at least until nature had done its duty, but, and here I sighed, ’twas a small price to pay for so rewarding a return. After that, back to business. I smoothed my trouser flap at the thought.
A Summer Evening at Longbourn
Dear Jane,
It is hands off for Mr. Bennet now that I have informed him of my condition. He was at once so happy and so proud I could not but help myself in smiling at this man who has done so much to make himself loathsome to me. He is like a boy in his delight and at the same time, for the first moment since our marriage, solicitous of me and my comfort. Nothing will do but that I sit instead of stand, that I leave off any thought of the kitchen or of the housekeeping; and under no circumstances am I to ride in the carriage. He has even hired an upstairs maid and a housekeeper who will take over the management of this house. I will admit coming to this marriage ill-equipped to direct the two servants who reside here, but now, with the addition of Mrs. Rummidge, who appears good-natured and capable, I can attend more closely to my burgeoning self.
I find, dear Jane, that I am enjoying this pregnancy. It is a relief not to be pursued but attended to. It is pleasurable to have time to wander about this glorious countryside. Against Mr. Bennet’s advice—he fears I will stumble and fall so is happiest when I am still—I stroll along what I have come to call the Wood Walk bordered by copsewood and timber, beneath its shelter primroses, anemones, and wild hyacinths. It is so lovely and untouched. The other day I found a bird’s nest upon the ground and quickly returned it to a low-lying branch of an alder. When I mentioned having done so to Mr. Bennet he scolded me that I had contaminated the nest. Then he warned that I must never be so careless of my own nest, and he made me sit down in the parlour all alone for what seemed like an hour “to contemplate the seriousness of your behaviour, my dear.” Pfah, it is my nest, not his. I will wander where I like until such time as my condition prevents my doing so. I am after all about to turn sixteen.
Do you have news of Colonel Millar’s regiment?
The Frustrations of Married Life
Humani a se nihil alienum putet.
“Let him not think himself exempt from that which is incidental to other men.”
—TERENCE
Bored with the interminable wait for the birth of my son, I contemplated taking on a few students. One or two might provide me with companionship and serve to enliven my mind, dulled by the banality of my wife’s pregnancy and by her constant good cheer. To my dismay, she has refused my advice on comportment during her gestation and will walk about the countryside at will, eat puddings doused with treacle, ingest great quantities of beef roast, and even wild blackberries picked during her peregrinations. She lumbers about the house clutching a wedge of Cheddar, and on one occasion I discovered her sipping from a glass of brandy taken from my very own cellar where I have forbidden her to go! She grows ever larger in the belly. The encroachment of her cheeks over the entirety of her face obscures what had been a twinkle in the eye and remains barely a glint. She speaks rarely to me although I detected a small smile over some amusement kept entirely to herself. She appears to be living a life far removed from me and over which I have no say whatsoever. I find myself living with a stranger and I must confess to being lonely.
Before the New Year, at Longbourn
Dear Jane,
Oh, how I wish I could have been with you and Mr. Phillips for this Christmas season, my first as a married woman and heavy with child to boot. But, as you know from Mr. Bennet’s greeting to you in early December, it is best that I not travel—or do much of anything else if you would know the truth. I am inclined to wish that he were still be-deviling me to conceive; at least, when ’twas done, ’twas done. Now he hovers; he never leaves my side, not in the day, not at night. He is forever pulling up footstools, has had the carpenter raise my favourite one so that my feet, when Mr. Bennet places them onto it, are level with my hips. “No sense in forcing the little tyke out before his time,” he says with a gurgle he believes is a chortle. Believe me, Mr. Bennet is not capable of chortling; gurgling is as close as he can come. And now he does it all the time, believing it to recommend his suitability for fatherhood. I have warned him that the child may not wait the requisite nine months; indeed, that the little tyke, as he would call him, could appear as early as this month. He agrees instantly, eyeing the enormity of my belly. “The sooner the better,” he gurgles and rings for Cook to bring me the camomile tea replete with herbs known only to him that he believes will facilitate the birth of his first son. I sip. I know otherwise, of course, and have decided to name her Jane. What better beginning could I bestow upon her than the blessing of the name of one so dear to me. You can be sure I have not consulted Mr. Bennet on this matter. Occasionally I admit to a pang of sympathy; he knows so little of the woman who is his wife. But then he does something like cock-a-doodling about the dining room proclaiming his approaching fatherhood in tones so stentorian that Mrs. Rummidge claps her hands over her ears. You are fortunate that we did not visit you this holiday; there is no telling when Mr. B.’s outbursts will occur or what form they will take. One would think it was he who was carrying a child.
Yrs affectionately,
Marianne
Late December at Longbourn
Dear Jane,
My time is near. The winds howl, snow drifts against the windows; the fierceness of winter threatens our every comfort. How I wish you were here with me. That your duties to your husband overwhelm your love for your sister I well understand. The demands upon our role as wife are not to be denied. I do hope Mr. Phillips regains his health soon. In your absence, Mrs. Rummidge, herself a mother several times over, has summoned a midwife to assist in the birth and lying-in soon to be mine. Mr. Bennet, as you might imagine, is loudly insistent on calling for a doctor when the time is nigh. He has read a monograph on forceps, an ugly-sounding instrument used to draw the baby from the mother should contractions be reduced. A doctor, he insists, would have knowledge of this procedure along with the proper use of opium or chloroform should the pain be too great. I laugh at him. He can read all he likes, know all there is to know, but in this regard I reign supreme. I will not have a doctor or drugs; I will not be bled as he urges, for my humours have never been more balanced than now and my sense of well-being protects me and my baby from the interference of strangers, albeit men of medicine. The very thought of a man present in the birthing chamber repulses me. Mrs. Rummidge, it would seem, agrees with me so wholeheartedly that she would absent herself, too, from my chamber. She who when I first arrived at Longbourn seemed so capable, so comforting, so experienced in the ways of motherhood, has fallen into bits and pieces now that my time is close upon me. She has agreed to boil water though she continues to ask the reason—why ought I to know?—but will leave the rest to me and the midwife. No matter. I am content and confident that my beloved is with me though still so far away.
I have felt the little one moving about for some months now. Much pain awaits me, but I know that the little girl who comes from the deepest part of me will make any discomfort, however severe, momentary. I await her with all the love I can bring to bear. Would it amuse you, as it does me, to know that the name of the midwife, an old woman, her face scoured with wrinkles, and stooped, is Pamela. She seems kind.
Little Jane is on her way. You are about to become an aunt.
“Drat!” This the single utterance from the new father with no acknowledgement of my pain and discomfort in the delivery of his first child. It would seem that I have disappointed him anew.
Ch. 3
The New Year at Longbourn, 1786
Dear Sister,
The winds continue to howl but within all is safe and warm for I have my own darling child nestled close to me. She came easily, so the midwife assured me, and in truth even so close to the birthing I can barely remember the pain. She is beautiful, though of course all mothers say that. And she is good; no one need tell me that. Her little mouth is a rosebud and her tiny fingers grip mine with a strength surprising in one so small. She cries only rarely and then out of hunger. My milk flows boundlessly. Mrs. Rummidge continues to boil water despite my assurances that hot water is no longer necessary and even though Mr. B. has chastised her for steaming up the windows of the entire kitchen, pantry, and hall. I hear him bellowing, “I can write my name on any window in the house! I must wipe them down to see into the fields! Cook has threatened to quit so damp are her bowls and pins and all the things she tells me she needs to keep us well. The laundress no longer starches my shirts. ‘No reason to do it,’ she says, ‘they just go limp.’” Only the sties and coops out back escape the gusts; that is where Mr. B. spends more and more of his time. A good place for him, to my mind.
Most recently, Mrs. Rummidge has confessed to being widowed early on and left childless. “I never did know the least thing about spilling a child. Forgive me, ma’am.” She bowed her head, where only a few strands of hair remain, and scrunched up her eyes until the tears came. “But I did want to help, you know,” she said wanly. She has given me good reason to let her go. But she is poor, and besides, she plumps my pillows and brings me endless cups of tea and is almost as taken with little Jane as I. “Oh, ma’am, she’s a perfect one, she is.” And then she brushes my hair off my forehead and with a hand as soft as down smooths my brow. In the absence of dear Mother and of yourself, Mrs. Rummidge will have to do. I am grateful for her ministrations.
What People are Saying About This
Praise for A Round-Heeled Woman
“Fiesty, charming, moving, and wise, this page-turner of a memoir proves that life for a woman—sexual and otherwise—hardly stops at thirty-nine.”—Cathi Hanauer, editor of The Bitch in the House
“Juska writes well about the sex . . . but even better about the seductions, which take on the luster of years served. Expressive and touching: Readers will be rooting for Juska to get all that she wants.”—Kirkus Reviews
“There’s something universal in [Juska’s] love affair with the written word.”—Publishers Weekly
“[A] thoroughly engaging memoir . . . Refreshingly honest, remarkably candid.”—Booklist