mother.
I have never sought to concern myself with Mr. Bennetâs darker moods and where they might come from. If pressed, however, I would admit that he returns from his visits to this irrepressible little creature seemingly lighter in mind, often a tiny smile on his usually dour mien.
I must defend myself to you, dear sister, for my actions even though I am not the only mother to place her infant with a wet nurse. You who hoped for so long to become a mother yourself must wonder at my willingness to give over the nourishment of my child to a stranger. I, too, believed for many weeks that I was a failure as a mother even though little Jane seemed happy and content. But with Elizabethâs first breath, she would not take nourishment from me and believe me, dear sister, I tried until my nipples burned like fire and the milk ran dry even for my adored Jane. I had no alternative but to seek out another source of milk lest both my babies cease to grow. Strange as it may seem, once Elizabeth was settled with Mrs. Dugan, mymilk began to flow again and Jane continued to thrive. Elizabeth herself grew fat and happy. Her howling gave way to gurgles and she was quite the wonderful baby, at least in my absence.
What is it that makes for enmity between those who should be close? What can it be in an infant that makes for such anger, for angry is how she appears to me. She seems furious with me, not with Mr. Bennet or Mrs. Rummidge, or now Mrs. Dugan. It is I who unleashes the squalling. No one, least of all I, understands where her rage comes from. Perhaps, I have wondered, she blames me for not feeding her properly. Perhaps she blames me for feeding Jane so happily. Perhaps she was simply born angry and I am her chosen target. We shall see. In the meantime, she will remain with Mrs. Dugan and I will peep in on her every so often. A quiet home is a blessing and so is Mrs. Dugan.
Indeed, âquietâ is the word for Mr. Bennet, though âabsentâ might be more to the point. He has not come near me since his return from London. Contrary to my expectations, he did not bring with him onion skin papers with ladies penned naked upon them. I know this because I scoured his library shelves and cupboards one day while he was seeing to the rents. Instead, everywhere in the house or out, he carries the large, heavy book called
Anatomy of Melancholy
. He is scarce seen without its company; he holds it close to his chest as he paces back and forth in his library as if to keep it safe or perhaps to draw from itwhatever wondrous knowledge it holds. It is his constant companion and for that I am grateful. He no longer paws me or assaults me in my chamber or in the kitchen, not even in the barn loft, a place that leaves me with nothing but sneezes and itching in my most private parts.
Which is what Mr. Bennet does much of: itching. It is clear that he is uncomfortable. He cannot sit still for more than a few seconds without scootching about, without excusing himself from the parlour, from the dining table, from his bedchamber to which, dear sister, he repairs even before the evening candles are lit. Not at all as it was before he made his way to London, when he sought me out in my chamber, the pantry, the clothespress, even the dining room, beneath the sideboard, where he insisted no one would think to discover us. I prefer this present to the difficult past. I do, however, wonder at the cause of his discomfort and while I do not wish it to persist, I am grateful for the freedom it gives me in my daily life. I am free to wonder about Colonel Millar, free to imagine placing his daughter, my own Jane, into his arms, free to hope for rescue from my unhappiness. At the same time, I imagine that Colonel Millar will not come to his new home unaccompanied. If I allow myself to do so, I fret and stew over who she might be and what her position is. Wife? Sister? Bespoken? Common sense tells me that a man of his position and reputation and
I have never sought to concern myself with Mr. Bennetâs darker moods and where they might come from. If pressed, however, I would admit that he returns from his visits to this irrepressible little creature seemingly lighter in mind, often a tiny smile on his usually dour mien.
I must defend myself to you, dear sister, for my actions even though I am not the only mother to place her infant with a wet nurse. You who hoped for so long to become a mother yourself must wonder at my willingness to give over the nourishment of my child to a stranger. I, too, believed for many weeks that I was a failure as a mother even though little Jane seemed happy and content. But with Elizabethâs first breath, she would not take nourishment from me and believe me, dear sister, I tried until my nipples burned like fire and the milk ran dry even for my adored Jane. I had no alternative but to seek out another source of milk lest both my babies cease to grow. Strange as it may seem, once Elizabeth was settled with Mrs. Dugan, mymilk began to flow again and Jane continued to thrive. Elizabeth herself grew fat and happy. Her howling gave way to gurgles and she was quite the wonderful baby, at least in my absence.
What is it that makes for enmity between those who should be close? What can it be in an infant that makes for such anger, for angry is how she appears to me. She seems furious with me, not with Mr. Bennet or Mrs. Rummidge, or now Mrs. Dugan. It is I who unleashes the squalling. No one, least of all I, understands where her rage comes from. Perhaps, I have wondered, she blames me for not feeding her properly. Perhaps she blames me for feeding Jane so happily. Perhaps she was simply born angry and I am her chosen target. We shall see. In the meantime, she will remain with Mrs. Dugan and I will peep in on her every so often. A quiet home is a blessing and so is Mrs. Dugan.
Indeed, âquietâ is the word for Mr. Bennet, though âabsentâ might be more to the point. He has not come near me since his return from London. Contrary to my expectations, he did not bring with him onion skin papers with ladies penned naked upon them. I know this because I scoured his library shelves and cupboards one day while he was seeing to the rents. Instead, everywhere in the house or out, he carries the large, heavy book called
Anatomy of Melancholy
. He is scarce seen without its company; he holds it close to his chest as he paces back and forth in his library as if to keep it safe or perhaps to draw from itwhatever wondrous knowledge it holds. It is his constant companion and for that I am grateful. He no longer paws me or assaults me in my chamber or in the kitchen, not even in the barn loft, a place that leaves me with nothing but sneezes and itching in my most private parts.
Which is what Mr. Bennet does much of: itching. It is clear that he is uncomfortable. He cannot sit still for more than a few seconds without scootching about, without excusing himself from the parlour, from the dining table, from his bedchamber to which, dear sister, he repairs even before the evening candles are lit. Not at all as it was before he made his way to London, when he sought me out in my chamber, the pantry, the clothespress, even the dining room, beneath the sideboard, where he insisted no one would think to discover us. I prefer this present to the difficult past. I do, however, wonder at the cause of his discomfort and while I do not wish it to persist, I am grateful for the freedom it gives me in my daily life. I am free to wonder about Colonel Millar, free to imagine placing his daughter, my own Jane, into his arms, free to hope for rescue from my unhappiness. At the same time, I imagine that Colonel Millar will not come to his new home unaccompanied. If I allow myself to do so, I fret and stew over who she might be and what her position is. Wife? Sister? Bespoken? Common sense tells me that a man of his position and reputation and
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