Chapter 27

The birth of Jane's second child was far more difficult than that of her first. It did not help that she was weakened by having spent much of her pregnancy in bed, grieving and feeling depressed. Additionally, in her laboring she missed her mother's assistance and soothing hands.

It never occurred to the midwife or Mrs. Phillips (Lydia had married only a month before her mother's death and had not attended her sister's first confinement as then she was still a maid) that Jane's progression might be aided if she was relaxed by the rubbing of her shoulders and back as her mother would have done. So instead, the midwife and Mrs. Phillips mostly just watched Mrs. Bennet's efforts from their own chairs on the opposite side of the room until the main event was at hand. However, despite the longer labor, the baby was eventually delivered. No one praised Jane or remarked on the beauty of this child and Jane felt more relief than joy that her labor was done.

As Jane was still not speaking with Horace, and she said nothing to anyone about it, he did not know that she wanted to name this new baby for her mother. Somewhat unreasonably, she believed that Horace should just understand her mind.

When Horace was presented with his second daughter by the midwife (who dutifully apologized that it was not a son), he wished to see Jane. This second daughter, despite having the elongated head of freshly emerging from the womb, had dark fuzz upon her head and reminded him of his wife. But he believed Jane still did not want to see him (why else had he not been admitted to her room?).

He remembered, though, that Jane had agreed their next girl child could be named Elizabeth for his mother. Therefore, Horace pronounced, "Her name is Elizabeth." It did not occur to him that because the horse who had harmed her mother was named Bess, that any associated name was now abhorrent to Jane.

Under the circumstances of the last several months and the birth itself, it was understandable that Jane was quite weak and ill for some time. She felt quite ill-used that she would eventually have to resume marital relations to keep trying for the needed boy.

The nursemaid that tended to Jane brought her frequently to her mother's chambers. However, the wet nurse tending to Elizabeth would not presume to bring the baby to her mother when it had never been requested.

Jane welcomed little Jane's presence. Spending time with little Jane was soothing to her mother, and Jane was an easy child.

Passing by his wife's chambers one day, Horace chanced to hear Jane complaining to her maid, "I am so tired, how can I recover when Lizzy's crying keeps me up every night?" Horace was surprised to hear his wife complain about this as though the nursery was near their chambers, he never heard the crying himself. He did not know that part of why the babe's crying upset her mother was that Jane knew she was not tending to her as a mother ought.

Horace, seeking to help his wife recover and noting she had yet to visit baby Elizabeth in the nursery, decided after a few days that perhaps it might help if Lizzy should be housed with her wet nurse in the village (rather than having the wet nurse reside at Longbourn with her own child through the weaning, as had been done with baby Jane), so as to not disturb his wife's sleep. It was a decision he would come to regret as he failed to inquire as to what Jane wished (he could hardly do so when she refused to be in his presence).

Jane, who now predisposed to think ill of any of her husband's actions, thought it a sign that he did not trust her to handle two children. Indeed, she did feel ill equipped to fulfill all that was expected of her as a wife, mother and the mistress of Longbourn without her mother's guidance and support.

From the time of the baby's removal, Horace faithfully visited Lizzy at least twice a week, awkward as it was to call without his wife. When Horace received reports that Jane had improved, he invited her by note to accompany him to visit the baby. He received word back that she had refused.

Jane irrationally thought that Horace should know that she feared the very idea of being in a carriage, perhaps being conveyed by the very horse that had taken her mother's life and the driver who had failed to control her. Jane did not think to inquire as to what had become of Bess.

Finally, time itself softened Mrs. Bennet and eventually her desire to see her new daughter overshadowed her fear of Bess and the driver. Therefore, she ventured down for breakfast one morning and said, "Hello Mr. Bennet," to her husband, and asked, "today would you bring me to see my daughter? I would ride in the carriage but that killer horse Bess will never convey me and neither shall Miller ever drive me."

Horace agreed with alacrity, explaining, "Indeed I would be pleased to convey you there. Bess is long gone, and Miller only ever drives the farm carts."

If Jane was silent in the carriage, Horace still anticipated the pleasure she would take in seeing her baby. He finally had some hope.

Jane was pleased to note when the wet nurse brought baby Elizabeth toward her, that her second girl was a becoming child who in the weeks since she had seen her last had the pleasing roundness of health.

Jane held out her arms, desiring to hold her. However, given that Elizabeth had never spent any time with her mother, during the visit she clung to her wet nurse and Horace. Jane tried not to care that it was others that the baby reached for, clung to, and not herself. Still, Horace was determined that his wife would hold her child, so he himself placed Elizabeth in Jane's arms. Jane felt uncomfortable and awkward with this baby in her arms and baby Elizabeth seemed to know it as she began crying.

"What an ungrateful child!" Mrs. Bennet declared in a huff, covering up her grief that her child did not know her with an anger that was easier somehow to bear. "Does she not understand how much work it was to birth her?"

She would not listen when Horace tried to explain that little Lizzy needed time to come to know her. She insisted on immediately returning home and as Horace did not want to air their business in front of the wet nurse and her family, he instructed their driver to take her home. Himself, he stayed to complete his visit with his little Lizzy and then walked home afterwards.

Jane was angry that Horace did not escort her home and felt herself much ill-used that she was taking only her second carriage ride since her mother's death via horse and wagon, with no one at her side. She felt he was favoring his younger daughter over her. Thus, her resentment of Elizabeth grew. In the months that followed, Jane was most unwilling to venture to see baby Elizabeth again and, yet, also angry that Horace regularly visited without her.

Given Mrs. Bennet's lasting grief and anger, the whole tone of the household changed when she no longer kept to her chambers. Horace did not know how to help her and thus for a while let her do exactly as she pleased and mostly tried to stay out of her way. Jane made no effort to please anyone.

As the household still needed a housekeeper, eventually the Bennet men interviewed and hired one. Jane took this as a sign that no one trusted her judgment and irritation and nervousness became the utmost sign of her grief. Additionally, she let the new housekeeper do as she wanted and as this new housekeeper was rather more inexperienced than she had led the men to believe, she did not handle the staff well.

Longbourn had gone from being a place of joy to being grave as a tomb. To make matters worse, a couple of surly and lazy servants were allowed to continue without correction. Although they did nothing too abhorrent, their actions caused much irritation and annoyance to everyone, making Leonard and Horace short tempered.

Leonard's desire to escape increased but logically he knew that he could not go. While he had stayed more than the two years his son had requested and longed to sail far away where his guilt in getting his son to agree to such an unequal match was subsumed in hard work, he could not depart while things remained as they were. This did not keep him from writing a new set of letters to inquire about possibilities for sailing away from there, though he knew he could not leave as of yet. Leonard resumed spending a good portion of each day staring at the ship in the painting. If he could not sail away in fact, at least he could think about it.

Although the midwife had long ago told Jane and Horace Bennet that Jane was fit to resume her marital duties, and indeed Horace could see that Jane was much improved in her condition as she seemed to be taking more interest in their household, she did not seem to be softening much toward him. While Horace longed for his wife, Jane kept her door locked.

As the days slowly passed, Jane's anger toward her husband lessened. However, she still had no longing for him and kept him from her chambers. Although she did not name what she was feeling to herself, she was depressed. Too, even thinking of the marital act was tied up with memories of the education her mother had provided.

Horace was very frustrated with the situation, but still did not know what to do about it. He tried to be patient, remembering how hard it had been when his own mother died (even though he had known for some time that it was likely to occur). How much worse must it be to have one's mother die unexpectedly in a horrible accident while she was visiting you?

As the months went by, though Jane still bore resentment towards her husband, her reason finally began to win out and her anger to lessen. It helped when her father visited her. He told Jane how pleased her mother would have been to have a second granddaughter and that he had twice been to see Lizzy with Mr. Bennet, Lydia and Edward, and they all agreed that baby Elizabeth was quite becoming, with her dark beauty a lovely counterpoint to that of her sister. But it was the end of the conversation which had the most salutary effect on Mrs. Bennet.

Mr. Gardiner told her, "I know my wife, your mother; she would have freely given her life to ensure your safety and that of your daughter. I know you are still angry with your husband. I am angry, too, but not at him, but at God, that my wife was taken too soon. I did not understand before how much I depended on her, but she was the hub in the center of a wheel which allows everything else to turn. You are a hub in a wheel, too, though, and you are still here. Your husband and your two daughters depend upon you, as does this household, and the Longbourn tenants."

"What if I do not want any of it anymore?" Jane asked. "Sometimes all I want is to return to my childhood home and go on as if I had never married."

"You may wish for that, but there is no going back. If you were to leave your husband, daughters and Longbourn to return to live with me and your brother, you would find that the emptiness you feel here would follow you there. It is not that either of these places is wrong, save for the fact that your mother does not occupy them. Your mother is not in my home any more than she is here. There are only memories. While I would welcome your presence, I know this is not the answer. You must try to claim your life again and find meaning in your role here. If you must be angry with someone, be angry with God. He can bear it far better than your husband can. Your husband has suffered enough for something he did not do."

Mr. Gardiner raised his hand when his daughter made as if to speak, and Jane remained silent. "Horace Bennet was not the horse who trampled your mother. He was not the fate that directed that horse in the exact path of your mother. He was not the fear and pain that made the horse run. He was not the bee that stung the horse's flank. He was not the man driving the horse who might have stilled her run. He was not the wagon maker who might have made a sturdier wagon which would not upend, or a better harness. He was not the stable hands who might have caught her.

"He was the person who pulled you to safety, who protected you and your baby as a husband and father is supposed to do. He was the one that ran to get aid for your mother. He was the one who arranged for her to be properly honored in her death. You need to try to forgive Mr. Bennet for any small and inadvertent role he may have played."

Jane did not understand the word, "inadvertent," but she did not need to ask her father its meaning to catch the gist and understand that, truly, Horace was not to blame, had never meant to cause her pain. Still, the distance that had been created between them was hard to bridge.

One night about a week after this talk, Jane, was lying awake in her chambers, thinking about her mother as she often did. Unbidden, a memory rose up vivid in her mind. Jane remembered the talks her mother had given her about her marital duties, how her mother had emphasized that as a married woman she would need to satisfy her husband's sexual hungers if she wanted to keep him good tempered and to confine his pleasures to the marriage. She suddenly felt the weight of how she was failing her mother in not following her advice.

Jane then tried to see if she could muster up some desire for the act. Although she could remember all that they had done together and the enjoyment it had given her, she felt no longing within her, no wetness between her legs. It was as if she was a young woman again who could not really conceive of how her body was made to experience this kind of pleasure.

However, Jane reasoned (though it took a long time for her to do so), that she needed to let her husband back into her bed. Therefore, she got up, unlatched their connecting door and finally pulled it open.

The door hinges were well oiled, and the door made hardly a sound as she opened it. The rug was also thick and muffled her steps. Horace certainly would have seen her if he had been looking in her direction because her night rail was a light color, seemingly white in the bit of moonlight that penetrated the curtains.

However, Horace's eyes were not open, though he was awake. Horace was stroking himself, trying to give himself some relief and pleasure. He was still in his twenties with all the vigor one might expect. He was visualizing a woman stroking him. It was not his wife (whenever he pictured her now, she was looking at him with a most displeased expression, a half scowl), but it was not anyone who existed either.

He heard, "Horace?"

His eyes snapped open and he saw his wife standing next to his bed. She was a vision, luscious and desirable. Her breasts were still engorged from having birthed his child, her hips and stomach still rounder though her body had thinned considerably from what it had been when it held his child. Horace desperately wished to pull his wife into his bed, to feel the changes to her body and have his way with her. He had an overwhelming desire to thrust his ready arbor vitae into her janua vitae, but knew she was not ready for that. One thing he had early learned in his marriage was that while he might be ready in an instant just from having seen her and knowing what could follow, she usually needed time for her desire to build.

Instead Horace forced himself to lie there, his hand still clasped around himself but no longer stroking. "Yes, Jane?" He was embarrassed and scared to ruin whatever impulse had brought her through his door.

"I . . . I can help you with that." Without waiting for any reply, she lifted the counterpane, entered his bed and replaced his hand with her own. It took only five strokes for him to come undone.

As Horace cleaned himself up, he wondered what her intentions were. Jane remained in his bed, but other than her earlier touching him of him there, held her body away from his.

Given his deprivation, Horace knew he could be ready again, soon, if she desired. However, he did not want to do anything that she did not wish and drive her away. He wanted to please her, to make her feel pleasure again, to erase the tightness in her brow that he really could not see in the dark but imagined, was almost certain, was still there.

Finally, he asked, "What can I do for you?" The words sounded so mundane when he said them, so he quickly added, "Jane, darling, I would like to give you pleasure, if I can, if you would like it."

"I do not know what I want," she finally confessed, her voice sounding awkward to her own ears. "I am not feeling what I should be feeling, what I used to feel when beside you. I am not feeling much of anything besides sad and angry."

"Let me hold you," Horace told her, and they moved towards one another. He held her to his chest and enfolded her in his arms. He gently tucked her head under his chin and stroked her back. He held her for a long time, and she was half asleep before he finally slipped a bit away from her.

Jane fell asleep curled up next to him, in the comfort of his solid warmth. It took Horace a considerably longer time to drift off. Consequentially, Jane woke up earlier than Horace and contemplated him in the early morning light. She saw how much his hair matched that of little Jane. She found herself stroking her fingers through his blonde hair, much as she sometimes did with little Jane. It was soft and smooth, felt good against and between her fingers.

Horace awoke to her touch on his head, and a corresponding delightful tightening in his groin, but forced himself to lie still, only opening his eyes. He saw that Jane was looking at him and that the crease between her brows had smoothed quite a bit from when he had last seen it in the daylight.

She continued to stroke his hair and he continued to let her do it. After several minutes of this, she asked shyly, "Do you think you could try to make me feel good?"

He answered her with gentle touches, first just around her face. He traced her jawline with a finger, kissed her brow and her cheek, waited for her to show some sign that she was ready for more. Finally, she touched her lips to his in the lightest of kisses. He returned her kiss gently, languorously. Gradually he deepened the kiss, drawing the tip of his tongue against hers as his hands gently stroked down the sides of her body, his thumbs barely touching the sides of her breasts through her night garment.

Horace gradually stroked nearer to the places on her body that he most wished to touch. He sought to draw a moan from her or any other sign of delight. Those signs were slow to come, but eventually they did come: a little quiver, a slight biting of her lip, a pressing of her thighs together and finally a sigh that was not quite a moan. He noted many small signs that her desire was beginning to grow but held himself back.

The sun was quite high in the sky before their bodies were finally joined together. Afterwards they felt a certain contentment from their rapprochement. However, although Jane had let Horace back into her bed and locked her door no more, things were not the same as before.