Mr. B Speaks!
Being a Reexamination
of
Samuel Richardson’s
Pamela,
Including
Shocking Testimony!
from
Pamela’s Husband,
Mr. B
Transcribed
by
Katherine Woodbury
Copyright © 2011 by Katherine Woodbury. All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Peaks Island Press. Edited by Eugene Woodbury. Smashwords Edition.
This narrative is based on characters created by Samuel Richardson for his novel Pamela, first published by Rivington & Osborn (London) in 1740.
Chapter 1: Day One
Committee for Literary Fairness v. Mr. B
Mr. B examined the oak-paneled courtroom.
Mellow spring sunlight streamed through the high windows, setting the vibrant grain of the wood walls, floor, and tables aglow. Despite the informal arrangement—two curved tables facing a slightly raised desk—Mr. B didn’t feel dislocated, even though he was sitting in a non-fictional courtroom three hundred years later than his own fictional time.
His attorney, Mr. Shorter, sat beside him at the left-hand table. Mr. B had asked for Mr. Shorter, even though he was an attorney, not a barrister, and unaccustomed to arguing before judges. Mr. Shorter was the right choice, however, being absolutely loyal to Mr. B’s interests.
“Are they seizing Pamela from the novel as well?” Mr. B asked.
Mr. Shorter shrugged.
Mr. B also shrugged and shifted his lanky body into a more comfortable position. He’d heard—all fictional characters had heard—about these hearings. Characters were yanked out of novels into non-fictional courthouses, where they were questioned regarding various literary crimes. After, they were returned to their novels or banished to new ones: Mr. B wondered if Malory’s whiny Launcelot was shivering on Crusoe’s island; if Bunyan’s bad giants were being needled by Lilliputians in Gulliver’s Travels.
“I hope they’ve left Odysseus alone,” he muttered.
“What?” Mr. Shorter said.
Mr. B shook his head. He’d never imagined he would be snatched from his novel. He was a loving husband, reasonable father, responsible landowner, plausible diplomat, and a damned good money manager. He’d committed no crimes. Perhaps he was here as a witness for Tom Jones.
Members from the Committee for Literary Fairness glowered at Mr. B and Mr. Shorter from the other side of the courtroom.
The Committee for Literary Fairness proudly boasted of its worthy goals to cleanse literature of bad role models, social apathy, defective marriages, and wrongful deaths—all social injustice, in fact. Mr. Rochester, the bigamist, would be transported to Nero Wolfe’s world and jailed; Fanny from Mansfield Park would get a much-needed infusion of self-esteem in a Toni Morrison novel; Scrooge would give up his money-grubbing ways and take a trip in something by Jack Kerouac.
Today, the CLF planned to save the heroine of Pamela from an unequal and brutal marriage. The CLF legal team included a CLF director, a psychologist, and a college professor.
The psychologist, Jerome Hatch, said, “He looks like a banker!”
Mr. B, despite his unruly dark hair, could pass for an unusually mellow trader from the New York Stock Exchange.
“When did they extract him from the novel?” Mr. Hatch said.
The CLF director, Dr. Naomi Matchel, said, “I believe they chose the fourth year of the marriage. Pamela recently gave birth to their third child; the family was planning a trip abroad.”
“Three children in four years!” exclaimed the college professor, Gary Trame. “Couldn’t they have extracted her sooner?”
“I’m afraid literature judges frown on that, Mr. Trame.”
“Call me Gary. All my students do.”
“Gary. Even though we know what’s going to happen, they say we have to let the characters commit the wrongful acts before being judged.”
Dr. Matchel and Gary shook their heads at the absurdity of applying due process and the rule of law to situations best decided by professionally-trained literary analysts. Dr. Matchel said sententiously, “Oh, well, it’s the only system we have.”
Mr. Hatch said, “People have to air their grievances.”
“Yes,” Dr. Matchel said archly, “you do enjoy putting on a show, Mr. Hatch. It’s like watching Dr. Phil.”
Mr. Hatch shrank into his chair and peered at his notes.
Dr. Matchel said, “Luckily, Pamela hasn’t been infected by Walmart-like mass-production.”
“The Pride & Prejudice hearings have to be held in the largest courtrooms,” Gary said, shaking his head. Both he and Dr. Matchel sniffed and glanced around the courtroom. Only two other people sat on the audience benches.
Gary jerked his head at them. “Isn’t this hearing closed?”
“They have press passes.”
The two audience members with press passes weren’t members of the press. They were an eighteenth-century aficionado and a representative from Readers for Authorial Intent. The aficionado, Leslie Quinn, was a writer of popular non-fiction (bestseller: What Frances Burney Wore and Daniel Defoe Traded). She had a doctorate in British literature but preferred writing to teaching. The RAI representative, Rupert Lonquist, was a volunteer at his local library.
Lonquist was a little surprised at being called in. “I always considered this novel rather innocuous,” he told Leslie Quinn.
The judicial committee had assigned Leslie Quinn and Lonquist to the hearing at the request of the presiding judge, Judge Arthur Hardcastle. He usually handled twentieth-century murder mysteries. Agatha Christie was one of his favorites. However, the CLF had lately gotten obsessed with eighteenth and nineteenth-century characters, and judges were being reassigned to the hearings.
“Fine, fine,” Judge Hardcastle had said when asked. “But I want some non-academics there—you know, people who actually read.”
He got them.
Judge Hardcastle arrived in the courtroom in a sweep of wrinkled robes, followed by his clerk. He motioned the clerk to a seat at the end of the right-hand table and sat at the raised desk that operated as his bench.
He noticed the characters from Pamela had stood immediately as he entered, the others slowly following suit, and reminded himself not to form favorable judgments too early.
“Let’s hear from the Petitioners,” he said when everyone sat down.
Dr. Matchel did the honors:
“Pamela, Or Virtue Rewarded by Samuel Richardson is an eighteenth-century novel told in letters from the eponymous heroine’s point of view. She begins the story as a maid in the house of the Respondent. During the course of the story, he sexually harasses, kidnaps, and assaults her. He then forces her to marry him. Based on Mr. B’s actions both before and after the marriage, the CLF petitions to have Pamela moved permanently to Herland by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.”
At the Respondent’s table, Mr. B slowly unslouched.
The judge said, “Mr. Shorter?”
Mr. Shorter stood. He wasn’t familiar with trials. As an eighteenth-century English attorney, he mostly managed land deeds. But he was more than game. “The court should reject this petition. Mr. and Mrs. B have a comfortable, happy marriage.”
The judge said, “Is Mrs. B in the courtroom?”
“No,” said Dr. Matchel. “We received an Order for Protection on Pamela’s behalf from Judge Kline.”
Judge Hardcastle nodded and flipped through folders on his desk. Mr. B leaned forward, shoulders taut. His eyes darted from the judge to Dr. Matchel. He called out, “Protection from what?”
“As stated in our petition, Pamela needs protection from the emotional and physical damage caused by her relationship with Mr. B.”
“Damage?” Mr. B said. “My wife is not damaged. She’s happy. Satisfied. She just gave birth to our third child.”
Dr. Matchel didn’t respond. At the CLF table, Gary rolled his eyes and Mr. Hatch shook his head.
The judge leaned back in his leather chair and studied Mr. B. Literature hearings were generally informal for the very good reason that fictional characters—ranging from King Lear (accusations of parental abuse) to the Cheshire Cat (accusations of enigmatic obnoxiousness)—were generally unfamiliar with contemporary standards of jurisprudence.
The judge said, “Did you kidnap her?”
A faint flush crept across Mr. B’s cheekbones, but he looked more amused than embarrassed.
“My courtship of Pamela was rather—active. But I did not force her to marry me. She accepted my proposal.”
“After you brainwashed her,” cried Gary. The judge scowled warningly at the CLF table. Character defendants might not understand court etiquette, but the real people there certainly did.
“I think,” the judge said when the CLF team had sniffed itself into put-upon quiescence, “we had better start from the beginning. How did your courtship start, Mr. B?”
Mr. B’s shoulders relaxed. He sat back, propping one foot against the table crossbar. “I would like to clarify: I may have tried to seduce Pamela, but I never lied to her. Never very much, anyway.”
Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Letters I-VIII
Pamela was my mother’s companion. She was a country girl, but her appearance and intelligence charmed my mother. She brought Pamela to live with her on our family’s Bedfordshire estate when Pamela was twelve or thirteen years old.
My mother was already ill, though at the time her good days outlasted her bad ones. Whenever I visited the Bedfordshire estate, I would find Pamela sitting beside my mother’s chair or bed, reading usually. She would stop and watch us with enchanting avidity.
“Be good,” my mother said when she saw me eyeing Pamela, and I suppose I would have been if she hadn’t died and left Pamela to my care. My father had died years before when I was at school, leaving me, his heir, to handle our estates. After my mother’s death, I moved into the Bedfordshire estate and took responsibility for its servants, including Pamela.
I put her in charge of my linen—my laundry. What else could I do? She wasn’t really a maid—she wasn’t trained, you understand. But she didn’t want to return to her poverty-stricken parents. Believe me.
I gave Pamela access to my late mother’s books. Did I mention she was bored? She got along well with the servants, especially Mrs. Jervis, but she was less busy than they as well as a cut above them. At the time, I considered my mother had been careless, training Pamela to be a person of leisurely activities. Nothing bores Pamela more than housework. She’ll object to that statement, but it’s the truth. She’d rather read to entertain Mrs. Jervis than sew a button.
Nothing absorbs her more than writing. I already knew Pamela was a skilled writer. My mother caught me once studying Pamela’s reading journal in which Pamela recorded her thoughts on sermons and novels. That was when my mother told me to be good. She knew me well enough to guess that mere good looks were not as tempting to me as good looks accompanied by high spirits and intelligence.
And Pamela went on writing. Shortly after my mother’s death, I walked in on her finishing a letter to her parents. She twitched—wary as a cat—but I got a look at the letter, which was lively plus full of references to me. I warned her to be careful what she wrote, and she agreed. All good cats leave the cream alone. Until you’re out of the room.
I began seeking Pamela out—in my mother’s dressing room, Mrs. Jervis’s parlor—whenever I was on the estate.
Cross-Examination
“Are you telling us,” interrupted Judge Hardcastle, “that you pursued a thirteen-year-old?”
The CLF team looked smugly outraged. Mr. Shorter said, “She was fifteen when Mr. B first made his advances.”
“Fifteen is not that much older than thirteen.”
The author of eighteenth-century non-fiction, Leslie Quinn said, “Your honor?”
“Ah, yes, Leslie Quinn.” The judge peered into the audience. “What can you tell us?”
“Twelve was the legal age for marriage in the 1700s—for women, at least.”
The judge harrumphed. Mr. B opened his mouth, then shut it. There was an awkward pause. Mr. B said carefully, “Pamela was young—unready for the world. I didn’t realize how much until later. She had an air of confidence and self-possession that placed her beyond her years.”
“Many a pedophile has claimed the same thing,” Gary declared.
Mr. B and Mr. Shorter looked confused. Lonquist, the librarian, said sharply, “That’s out of context.”
“Oh, you’re in favor of sexual predators, are you?”
The judge sighed. Agatha Christie hearings never got this nasty. He said, “The standard of lawfulness for literature hearings is the generally established customs of a character’s time period and genre. Otherwise,” he pointed out, “all those un-chaperoned children in adventure stories would never get into the wardrobe.”
Everyone in the courtroom looked puzzled, and the judge shook his head. Nobody read jolly, good adventure yarns anymore. “Legal age or not, was it unusual for women to marry at fifteen?”
Lonquist and Leslie Quinn said, “No.”
“Then Mr. B should continue.”
Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Letters IX-XIII
I did protect Pamela. My sister, Lady Davers, wanted Pamela to come work in her household, but her husband’s nephew, who stays with them often, is a boar and a bore, and Pamela wouldn’t have been safe. I suppose you’ll say she wasn’t safe with me—that’s what my sister thought—but there are degrees and qualities of interference.
Cross-Examination
“If your sister is a lady, does that mean you are a lord?” Judge Hardcastle asked.
Mr. B said, “No, I’m a squire.”
“With three estates,” Mr. Shorter interpolated.
“Summer-house? Winter house? That sort of thing?”
Mr. Shorter gaped at the judge. “Mr. B’s estates bring in an income of over ten thousand a year!”
“Ten thousand?”
“Pounds!”
“It means,” said Leslie Quinn, “that Mr. B is worth several million dollars.”
“Unearned wealth,” Gary spat.
“Mr. B doubled the income from his estates by his own initiative,” Mr. Shorter said indignantly. Mr. B put his hand on Mr. Shorter’s arm.
“Capitalist,” Gary said in the same tone as before.
“I don’t see the relevance,” the judge said. “I’m sure Mr. B’s wealth is very satisfactory for him, but how does it relate to his sister?”
Mr. B forestalled Mr. Shorter: “The relevance, your honor, is that backed by our family’s wealth, name, and my status as a gentleman, my sister Barbara could marry just about anyone she wanted. She married a lord. He’s not a bad man. A little vague, a little stupid. Barbara tends to overwhelm people. She tried to overwhelm me into sending her Pamela. I refused.”
“You wanted to control her,” Gary said.
“I think Mr. B should tell us the reasons himself.”
Letters IX-XIII (continued)
I had every intention of doing right by Pamela, especially as I got to know her better. I actually considered making her my mistress. That’s quite a leap, you understand—country girl to mistress—but Pamela was worth the investment.
I tracked her down in the glass-fronted summer-house behind the arboretum.
“Don’t run off,” I said; she’d been tiresomely skittish the last few days. Servants should stand and submit when you walk into a room.
“My sister wants you to live with her,” I said. “Wouldn’t you rather stay with me?”
She eyed me through half-closed lids and said carefully, “Your honor will forgive me, but you have no lady for me to wait upon. I had rather go to Lady Davers because—”
“Because you are a little fool,” I said. My sister, Barbara, is a generous employee but high-strung. Pamela would weary of her. “I will make a gentlewoman of you.”
Paramour, I meant. And, honestly, what else could Pamela do? She wasn’t fit for hard work; it would bore her to tears. It wouldn’t be kind to throw her back into poverty, even genteel poverty. But to be a kept woman—books to read and occasions to show off her figure—was immensely suitable. I would settle money on her; if she were wise, she would save enough to last until she found a new protector. Though there was no reason to suppose I would tire of her.
I kissed her there in the summer-house. And Pamela responded curiously, the faintest curling of her lips against mine, before she panicked. She would have bolted if I hadn’t shut the door.
“I won’t harm you,” I said.
“I won’t stay,” she said sharply. Pamela can be downright curt when cornered. Don’t let her deferential airs fool you.
“You forget to whom you speak,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” she snapped. “And you forget how a master should behave,” which annoyed me, but she started crying, which was disconcerting. Between sobs, she said, “I am honest though poor, and if you were a prince, I would not choose otherwise.”
I rolled my eyes. At the time, I considered all that “virtuous woman above rubies” stuff so much balderdash. People do what they need to do to survive.
Right then, I needed to protect my reputation. If Pamela had gone back to the house with a tale of humiliation and ripped bodices, I would have been a laughing stock. I told her to walk under the beeches until she stopped blubbering and to keep the matter to herself. I did offer her money—why not?—which she refused.
She went down the steps and disappeared amongst the trees. The summer-house sits on a slight rise, and a few minutes later I saw Pamela emerge from the trees and head into the house. I followed. I spotted Pamela in my mother’s dressing room, scribbling a letter at the vanity.
I stole it later. She’d hidden the letter behind the vanity mirror, so it wasn’t hard to find. The letter could not have been more ashamed or alarmed or abashed or contemptuous of my good self. Pamela can be quite incredibly articulate.
I couldn’t allow the letter to leave the house: her parents could do nothing, but there was no reason my private affairs should be recounted across the countryside. I told Mrs. Jervis to give Pamela something to mend to keep her hands busy and instructed John Arnold, who delivered Pamela’s letters on his errands, to show me all her letters before delivering them.
Cross-Examination
Judge Hardcastle said, “Reading a person’s correspondence is a gross invasion of privacy.” The CLF team clucked in vigorous agreement.
“Servants have no right to privacy,” Mr. B said.
The judge frowned. Leslie Quinn said quickly, “The American concept of rights, specifically the right to free speech, didn’t exist in this time period. It certainly never would have occurred to the young lady to sue Mr. B or to involve the police.”
“I was the police,” said Mr. B.
“Barbaric,” Gary declared. “He belittled her right to privacy and her right to her own sexual identity.”
The judge had no idea what the CLF professor was babbling about until Lonquist said, “Are you actually going to argue that Pamela is a lesbian?”
The CLF psychologist, Mr. Hatch, said, “I don’t think that’s very plausible, Gary.”
“Bisexual,” Gary said weakly.
The judge glanced at Mr. B, anticipating outrage or, at least, befuddlement. Mr. B had shifted to stare up at the courtroom windows where noontime light sparkled off the panes.
Lonquist said, “I don’t imagine lesbianism was a generally established custom—”
“Not as a cultural trend,” Mr. B said to the windows. His mouth twitched.
Gary said sullenly, “I would think some contemporary standards would be accepted as givens—in a civilized courtroom, at least.”
“Which contemporary standards?” Lonquist said. “Based on twenty-first century Western culture, Mr. B can hardly be faulted for wanting no-strings-attached sex.”
That did startle Mr. B. Mr. Shorter clucked.
The judge barked, “We will use the standard of customs as established in the eighteenth century. Was lesbianism a discussed topic in the literature of the day?”
Dr. Matchel said, “It was a forbidden topic that nevertheless underscored most women’s writings.”
Leslie Quinn said, “No.”
Dr. Matchel bridled. “Of course, popular non-fiction ignores such crucial subtexts.”
Leslie Quinn said good-humoredly, “Oh, I’m not saying that homosexuality wasn’t an aspect of eighteenth-century England or that people never discussed it. I just don’t think eighteenth-century literature is imbued with hidden messages about the love that dare not speak its name. People do write about other things, you know.”
“They were prejudiced,” Gary said.
“So you’ll use eighteenth-century culture to promote your position, then attack it to defend your position?”
The CLF team glared at Lonquist. Mr. B turned back to the windows.
The judge waved a hand. “I’m not concerned with critical theory relativism. I want to know how Mr. B behaved. Please continue, sir.”
Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Letters XIV-XV
I was away from the Bedfordshire estate for two weeks. I had business to conduct in Kent and London. I was still annoyed with Pamela when I returned from visiting my daughter.
Cross-Examination
Mr. Hatch, exclaimed, “Your daughter!?” and started flipping through his notes.
Mr. B waited patiently. Mr. Shorter said, “Miss Goodwin, Judge. She has been Mr. B’s ward since her birth. The mother lives in Jamaica.”
“I take it the child was born out of wedlock.”
“Yes,” Mr. B snapped.
Judge Hardcastle turned to him, affronted. “Is there any reason not to mention her?”
“There’s no need for her illegitimate status to be generally known. I met my daughter’s mother when I was in college. We had an affair. She was sorry for it and left, placing our daughter in my care. My daughter has the potential to grow up untainted by her parents’ mistakes.”
The judge still looked piqued. “Your daughter is not on trial, Mr. B. Your worries are unwarranted.”
Mr. B glowered. Behind him, Lonquist murmured, “Illegitimacy is not a disgrace here,” and some of the tension left Mr. B’s face and body.
Leaning nearly out of his seat, Mr. Hatch said, “How old was she at the time? How often did you visit her?”
“Mr. B’s paternal duties are not relevant to this hearing,” the judge said.
“They were relevant to Pamela,” Mr. B said. “Sally, my daughter, was six when I began courting Pamela. She resided in a boarding-house run by a trustworthy governess.”
“Abandonment,” muttered Gary, but Mr. Hatch beamed almost kindly on Mr. B.
The judge rapped lightly with his gavel. “Let’s focus on the courtship. If you would continue, sir—” and Mr. B did.
Letters XIV-XV (continued)
I spoke to Mrs. Jervis, my housekeeper about sending Pamela back to her parents.
“She’s an artful minx,” I complained, and Mrs. Jervis looked understandably doubtful. Pamela is shrewd enough to manipulate events as they arise, but she’s never possessed the kind of calculation that pre-arranges events to her benefit.
Mrs. Jervis said, “Your honor frightened her in the summer-house.”
Of course Pamela had told her.
I stomped off to find Pamela scribbling in my mother’s dressing room. She folded the letter and tucked it in her dress. She didn’t say anything or curtsy, only watched me, remote and guarded.
“You’ve been spreading rumors about me,” I said—true rumors but rumors nonetheless.
“I talk to hardly anyone.”
“You little equivocator,” I said. “What do you mean by hardly?” Mrs. Jervis was a great deal of very.
“Why should you care what I tell Mrs. Jervis—if you intend no harm?”
Pamela could be a barrister.
She continued: “I told her about the summer-house because my heart was broken, but I told no one else.”
“You wrote a letter, Pamela,” I said.
“Did you take it?”
“I should let you expose me?”
“It isn’t exposure if I write the truth.”
At that point, I realized I was exchanging extremely heated words with my mother’s companion in the middle of my mother’s dressing room.
“Insolence,” I said. “Should I let a servant question me?”
Pamela retreated. It’s what she does when she panics. She becomes instantaneously demure.
“I don’t wish to lose my employment.”
“How can you work for me unless you are willing to follow my commands?”
“Should I follow your commands at the expense of my principles?”
I rolled my eyes. “If that’s what you fear, I might as well give you real cause,” I said and took her on my knee. She stilled, eyes slewing towards me.
“Be easy,” I said. “Let the worst happen. You will have the merit, I the blame, and then you can write a very interesting letter.”
Her lips curved into a half-smile. She stared hard at the parquet floor.
“Nobody blamed Lucretia,” I pointed out and kissed her neck.
She lifted her chin to frown at me, and I kissed her lips.
“Should I kill myself like Lucretia did?”
Trust Pamela to start a literary argument in the middle of a seduction.
“We could create as pretty a romance,” I said and cupped one breast.
She bolted, and this time, I wasn’t in a state to do more than grab the tail of her dress. She got away.
I sat there awhile, considering the half-smile. Then I considered that Pamela was fairly young and given to hyperbole and could be imagining herself as Lucretia at that moment. English women supposedly know better than to commit suicide in the house of their employers, but Pamela is absurdly literal.
Cross-Examination
“Who the hell is Lucretia?” Gary said.
Judge Hardcastle didn’t know either but glared at Gary anyway.
Leslie Quinn said, “I thought you academics were chock full of scholarly knowledge.”
“I concentrate on modern problems,” Gary said.
Lonquist said, “Academics aren’t supposed to know facts, Leslie. They’re supposed to know how to use the right language to discuss intangibles: liminal, hegemonic, Marxist.”
Mr. B said abruptly, “Lucretia was a woman from Roman legend—she was raped by a king’s son when he threatened to destroy her reputation unless she slept with him. She complied, then denounced the son and killed herself.”
“Good heavens,” the judge said.
At the CLF table, Dr. Matchel pursed her lips while Mr. Hatch scribbled a note. “And did the Romans excuse the rape?” Gary said and looked triumphant when Mr. B said No. “Well, then,” Gary continued, “Pamela is Lucretia.”
Mr. B shook his head. “Pamela is not given to pointless martyrdom.”
The judge harrumphed. “I don’t care for martyr complexes myself,” he said. “Please continue, Mr. B.”
Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Letter XVI
I told Mrs. Jervis to check on Pamela but to ignore any hysterics, and for both of them to see me the next day in my private library on the ground floor. They came there together after dinner, the mid-day meal. Pamela hung back by the door until I frowned at her. Mrs. Jervis stood before the desk, her honest face puzzled. She wasn’t used to so much drama.
“What has Pamela been telling you?” I asked Mrs. Jervis.
“Only that you pulled her on your knee and kissed her,” she said uneasily.
“Only!” Pamela said, stepping further into the room. “Your honor did more than that. You talked of Lucretia’s hard fate.”
In retrospect, referencing Juliet might have been wiser.
Maybe not.
Cross-Examination
Mr. B said, “Juliet is from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.”
Judge Hardcastle said, “Thank you, Mr. B.” He wasn’t sure Mr. B wasn’t being snide, but at least the man was well-informed.
Letter XVI (continued)
The meeting between me, Pamela, and Mrs. Jervis was floundering. The gentlemanly thing to do was to smooth the matter over.
I said, “I should never have allowed myself to joke with a servant. What can I say? I was bewitched. I had no intention of carrying the jest further.”
A good piece of diplomacy, I think you’ll grant, placing no blame and bringing the matter to a close. Except Pamela hasn’t a diplomatic bone in her body.
She said, “It was not an appropriate jest between a master and servant.”
I gave Mrs. Jervis a see-what-I-put-up-with look, and she sighed.
“She is truly unnerved.”
I groaned. So much for diplomacy. “Pamela should return home,” I said.
That didn’t please her. Home was distress and poverty—why should she wish to return there? But I couldn’t have a servant spreading rumors, no matter how true, about my conduct.
Pamela does have poise. She took a deep breath, then thanked me for my decision as well as for the opportunities and favors she’d received in my mother’s household.
“What is the parents’ situation?” I asked Mrs. Jervis when Pamela left the room.
“The father is educated. He tried to open a country-school at one time, but it failed. Now, he labors for the Mumfords. Her mother spins though her eyesight is failing.”
“Pamela will be a burden to them.”
She sighed again. “She could do needlework.”
“She’s an odd girl,” I said, and Mrs. Jervis went away.
I knew that sending Pamela home was a death sentence. She would fade into one of those tired women who sit on their stoops, plaiting wool. She could hardly have arguments about Lucretia with the local sheep herder.
But she couldn’t stay. I was aware of her, sensitive to her every movement. I told Mrs. Jervis that Pamela could stay until she finished embroidering my waistcoat. It was a fairly hideous garment of entwined butterflies and roses, but there was nothing else of mine Pamela was working on.
“You care for her, sir,” Mrs. Jervis said, and I shrugged in agreement.
“She’s fearfully religious,” Mrs. Jervis added.
“People usually are until they want something,” I said. She clucked her tongue. But she didn’t disagree. Mrs. Jervis is a realist.
Cross-Examination
Judge Hardcastle said abruptly, “How old were you at this time, Mr. B?”
“Twenty-four, twenty-five. Why?”
“You had a rather cynical attitude for such a young man.”
“We lived in cynical times.”
“I always thought the eighteenth century was a genteel time period with strong public morals and a solid sense of propriety.”
“As compared to the Dark Ages?” Mr. B said, looking confused.
Leslie Quinn said, “I think it fair to say, Judge, that eighteenth-century England had stronger—and clearer—social expectations for its class members than our own age but no greater expectation of morality.”
“Well, then, if Pamela knew her, um, virtue wasn’t safe, why didn’t she just leave?”
The CLF members clucked in collective reproach. “Blaming the woman—” Gary began.
He was interrupted by Mr. B. “She would need a carriage to take her home.”
“There wouldn’t have been any downtown buses,” Lonquist said.
The judge scowled. “I realize that, but I gather people did walk places in the eighteenth century. Unlike today. No—?” in exasperation; Mr. B was shaking his head.
“It wouldn’t have been safe,” Mr. B said. “A female peasant could possibly walk unmolested but not a girl in Pamela’s situation.”
“Was the countryside so dangerous?” The judge was shaken. Eighteenth-century literature was proving more treacherous than twentieth-century “Golden Age” mysteries by those masterly writers of the unexpected, Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, and Ngaoi Marsh.
“It was not un-dangerous, and Pamela was no longer a part of that environment. She couldn’t have moved through it without attracting notice.” Mr. B’s brow creased. “I wouldn’t have let her,” he said levelly. “Things were still, more or less, under control.”
The judge said, “When did they become less?” and Mr. B resumed his testimony.
Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Letters XVII-XXIV
The servants learned about my rift with Pamela. In truth, it was my fault. I ran into Pamela in the front hall and asked why she hadn’t finished my waistcoat.
“You spend more time with your pen than your needle,” I said. “I don’t want idle slackers in my house.”
The butler, Mr. Jonathan, overheard me. Once he knew I was displeased with Pamela, my steward Longman learned of it, and after that, the entire countryside. I held a dinner party the next afternoon, and the guests teased me about my pretty maid servant. The lady guests even insisted on trooping up to Mrs. Jervis’s parlor off the first-floor landing to inspect Pamela—to comfort themselves she wasn’t a temptation to their husbands, I guess. Mrs. Brooks dropped numerous hints about mine and Pamela’s relationship, but Lady Towers said quietly, “She’s got a roguish air. Has she resisted you?”
“She wants to be Lucretia,” I said, and Lady Towers laughed.
Pamela had to go. I was starting to look foolish to my servants and my neighbors. I held off giving the final word, only to discover that Pamela was already preparing for country life.
I’d stopped by Mrs. Jervis’s parlor to tell her my travel plans to Lincolnshire where our family’s original estate is located. She was interviewing a farmer’s daughter; I didn’t want to disturb them, so I went to the back parlor and rang for Mrs. Jervis.
“Is your visitor Farmer Nichols or Farmer Brady’s daughter?” I asked when she arrived.
She laughed. “If your honor won’t be angry, I will introduce her, for I think she outdoes our Pamela.”
And she brought in Pamela dressed in plain muslin with a black silk kerchief and a straw hat on her head.
A country miss, in fact. Pamela is no fool; she knows clothes make the station.
I got up and came around the oak writing desk. “You are far prettier than your sister Pamela,” I said.
“I am Pamela,” she told me with a quick upwards glance.
“Impossible,” I said. “I can be free with you,” and I kissed her lightly on the lips.
She bolted out of the room. Mrs. Jervis clucked.
“What’s she up to?” I said.
“It’s her new wardrobe. She’s been collecting odds and ends over the last week or so.”
Damn Pamela and her practicality.
“Get in here,” I yelled towards the door, and Pamela sidled in, scowling. “This is pure hypocrisy,” I said, waving my hand at the country dress. Pamela didn’t want the life that dress represented.
“I’ve been in disguise ever since your mother brought me here. These clothes are more suitable to my degree.”
I was leaning against the desk, my face almost level with Pamela’s. We studied each other, and I noted her set lips and dark, unhappy eyes.
“Oh, Pamela,” I said and drew her into my arms.
She didn’t struggle—not this time. “You have to leave,” I said to her hair, “only I don’t want that.” She tensed instantly, but I strengthened my hold, and she relaxed again, her cheek against my waistcoat. Poor Pamela sent off in disgrace to a life that would sap her dry.
I let her go and addressed Mrs. Jervis. “I’ll submit myself to this hussy for a fortnight and then send her to my sister. Do you hear what I say, statue?”
And Pamela muttered, “I might be in danger from her ladyship’s nephew.”
Never imagine that Pamela’s memory is bad.
“Damned impertinence,” I said.
“What have I done that you treat me worse than if I robbed you?”
I almost laughed then because whatever was between me and Pamela was very much like being robbed—of sense or self-preservation.
She wasn’t done. “Why should you demean yourself to notice me? Why should I suffer more than others?”
“You have distinguished yourself above the common servant,” I said. She couldn’t have it both ways—she couldn’t write and read and befriend Mrs. Jervis and then want me to treat her like a scullery maid. “Didn’t my good mother desire I take care of you?”
She muttered. I took her chin and forced it up, and she said, nearly spitting, “My good lady did not desire your care to extend to the summer-house and dressing room.”
I nearly smacked her. She darted backwards out of the room.
“Oh, sir,” Mrs. Jervis said, “don’t be angry. She praises you when you’re not around.”
“Does she?” I said, studying my desk. I didn’t want Mrs. Jervis to see how much her words pleased me.
“If you could only hear her—”
“Very well,” I said. “Hide me where I can listen to Pamela speak freely.”
Cross-Examination
“In other words, he planned to spy on her.” Dr. Matchel said.
“Is this true?” Judge Hardcastle said, gazing at an embarrassed Mr. B.
“It was a harmless deception.”
“Huh. As implausible as that sounds, we’ve covered as much material as we can today.”
The judge nodded to his clerk, who finished typing on his laptop. “Transcripts of each day’s testimony will be couriered to the various parties every evening. Yes, Leslie Quinn, you too.”
Mr. Shorter, nudged by Mr. B, stood. “Your honor, may Mr. B see his wife now?”
“Absolutely not,” Dr. Matchel said. “I think we have at least demonstrated that Mr. B is not in full control of his behavior. In accordance with the Order for Protection, Pamela has been moved to Herland. Once—ah, if—our petition is granted, she will be settled there permanently.”
Mr. B said, “If you return her to our novel, I give you my word of honor, I will stay away until this hearing concludes.”
Gary looked like he wanted to snort but refrained. Wisely, in the judge’s opinion. Mr. B’s tone was grim and absolutely sincere.
Mr. B continued, “Her children will want to see her.”
The judge said, “Don’t they have nursemaids?”
“Yes, but Pamela spends a great deal of time with them. She is not a typical parent of our class.”
Mr. Hatch excitedly made a note and leaned across the aisle between the tables. He might have asked Mr. B a question, but the judge forestalled him.
“The Order remains in place until this hearing is concluded.” Perhaps Mr. B would keep his word, but the judge didn’t want to give either party reason to complain. This hearing would be carried out with complete procedural accuracy. “The hearing will resume tomorrow at nine a.m.”
Chapter 2: Day Two
Committee for Literary Fairness v. Mr. B
Mr. B made a point of ignoring the other people in the courtroom, especially the interfering busybodies at the opposite table.
He was still trying to understand why he was there. He had never excused or dismissed his mistakes with Pamela. He said to Mr. Shorter, “I encouraged her to publish her account of my misdeeds. Pamela forgave me everything.” She’d married him. “Aren’t any of these people Christians?”
Mr. Shorter shrugged. “I don’t think it matters.”
It mattered to Pamela. Mr. B didn’t see who else it should matter to.
But then, he wasn’t always sure the people in this hearing were talking about his and Pamela’s novel. His testimony followed Pamela’s account: he’d read and reread her letters so often, he knew the order she gave to events. She was a better observer than he, and he’d always accepted her version as exact. Her writing style was a tad effusive, but she and Mr. B concurred on who said what when, where, and even why.
But the people in this courtroom—more precisely, the people at the opposite table—seemed to think Pamela’s writing said something other than it did, that Pamela was not honest when she spoke of softening towards him, of loving him.
Perhaps, these non-fictionals wouldn’t leave Odysseus alone.
“Do you think they hate novels?” he said to Mr. Shorter.
“I’m not a huge fan of them myself.”
“Because they endanger society’s morals?” Mr. B said, surprised. Mr. Shorter had never struck Mr. B as an alarmist.