Mr. B's Testimony VIII

Testimony of Mr. B Corresponding to Pamela and Mr. B's Engagement continued
Sunday was bearable. Mr. Andrews read the psalm and did a fine job. He wore one of my suits and with his white hair and sonorous voice, he made a more impressive sight than tweedy Mr. Williams.

I suppose I should be kinder to the man, but he chose as his text the generosity of benefactors.

"Is he going to compliment me again?" I muttered to Pamela, and she patted my hand.

He didn't. Just.

Lady Jones persuaded Mr. Andrews to read another psalm which ended the service pleasantly. But it was still too depressingly grave, so after dinner, I read Pamela's version of the 137th psalm which she'd written in one of her letters. Pamela was embarrassed although she was most annoyed at my reading the stanza castigating Mrs. Jewkes (Remember, Lord, this Mrs. Jewkes/When with a mighty sound/She cries, Down with her chastity/Down to the very ground). She was trying to get on with Mrs. Jewkes now that she was going to be the lady of the house. The best way to get on with Mrs. Jewkes, I told her, was to put Mrs. Jewkes in her place. A lady does not feel sorry for servants.

I took Williams out walking later and got him to talk about French philosophy which was more bearable than his groveling. Besides, I could always throw out a reference to his poor behavior to keep him in line.

I left Pamela to the ladies. I was hoping they would persuade her to move up the wedding date. I put down Pamela's reluctance to a fear of appearing acquisitive—after all, wily servants have bamboozled clueless masters before. When I returned, the younger ladies were again pressing Pamela to include a ball with her wedding.

She flatly refused.

"Such sackcloth and ashes over a marriage," said the youngest Darnford chit, and Pamela flushed but held firm. She also refused to name a day. I decided to confront her the next morning. I'd received the license and once her father was on his way back to Bedfordshire (on a horse from my stables), I went upstairs and showed the license to Pamela.

"Now," I said, "you should oblige me with a day."

She leaned over and kissed my hand which was disconcerting.

"I ought to resign myself to your will," she said. "But—"

"But what?"

"I don't want to be too forward."

"If that's the problem," I said, "we can get married today."

"No," she said. "Let it be Thursday."

She sent one of her quick gazes upwards, saw my confusion, and said, "My parents were married on Thursday. I was born on Thursday. Your mama took me into her protection on Thursday. And you, sir, caused me to be carried here on Thursday."

"This is a little superstitious," I said. "I could make as good an argument for Monday. Your parents could have decided to be married on Monday. My mother could have prepared to get you on Monday. I wrote you on Monday asking you to come back to me, and you returned on the same day. And now, you can say, I was married on Monday."

"Then let it be next Monday," Pamela said.

I swear her lip twitched.

"Let it be this Wednesday," I growled.

"Defer one more day, and it will be Thursday!" and she grinned up at me triumphantly.

I tried to keep a stern countenance. "Are you certain?"

And she blushed and said, "Yes."

I went downstairs in good humor and sauntered out onto the drive. A messenger had just arrived with a letter.

"I'm meant to wait for a reply," he said.

The letter was from my sister's husband. In it, he reproved me for thinking to marry below my station. He went on to warn me what people were saying in Bedfordshire of my libertine character. I was a foolish man who did not know his own mind. I should leave Lincolnshire immediately and join my sister in London where I would regain my sense. I should remember my past follies—

He would not have written such gross impertinence at his own instigation. I know the man. It was all my sister's interference. I tore up the letter and order the messenger off my property.

My sister, Barbara, has tried to bully me since the day I was born. I am younger by seven years, and although I am the heir, she has always thought she knew better how I should behave, who I should associate with, how I should handle the estates. She will use any past mistake or indiscretion of mine to gain her ends.

I found I was trembling and walked around the house to the stables. I didn't want Pamela to see me in a temper. She knew I had one, but she'd never had to endure a full-blown rage. We are not pleasant people, my sister and I, when we are angered.

I got a horse and rode out. I rode the horse hard, harder than I should have, to the meadows and then away from them into the unmowed fields, which could be dangerous to the horse, so I slowed to a walk.

My sister and I inherited our father's temper if not his lack of humor. I am, however, more generous than my father and sister—in my better moments, at least. But then I had our mother's influence. She and my sister never got on. My sister saw her as compliant, dreamy, but I marveled at her steadiness and good will.

Which I had found in Pamela. I stopped the horse at a stream so it could drink, dismounted, and leaned against its side.

I had Pamela. She was resolute, strong, firm. Occasionally obstructive but no screamer and certainly, no bully. I'd learned that Pamela's temper was regulated by good sense and empathy. Pamela always retreated into thought before lashing out. She was and is a far better person than me.

My sister would try to keep Pamela from me. She would try to stop the wedding. I knew her.

I remounted and went to find Williams.

I got home late around supper time. Pamela had been worried at my absence, so I told her about the letter and suggested we let people to believe our marriage would be in two Thursdays while marrying that coming Thursday. Williams would perform the ceremony—he had already agreed—with Peters assisting.

Pamela thought it a good plan though she was worried about my sister. But I would handle that problem.

I was still short-tempered the next day and snapped at Pamela when she got a little too moralistic. She fell silent, not out of tact to my booby sensibilities but from surprise.

"I didn't say you should never tell me your pious impulses," I snapped, and she widened her eyes at me and raised her brows.

I couldn't imagine why she would want to marry me.

She didn't seem to know either. By Wednesday night, she was as jittery as a colt. We ate together in the parlor or, at least, I ate while Pamela fidgeted. Finally, I rang for the plates to be taken away and pulled Pamela onto my lap.

"I thought all doubts had been dealt with," I said against her hair.

She pressed her face to my arm, her fingers kneading the cuff of my shirt; I'd removed my frock coat.

"I am just being foolish," she said. "I don't know why."

I smoothed her hair and sighed. "If I have been too pressing," I said, "we can choose another day. If you think your fears will abate—"

"Whatever day we choose, I will feel the same beforehand."

I began to worry then that I'd misread Pamela's affections. Except there she sat, on my lap, and she seemed quite relaxed and, for the moment, calm.

"This timidity isn't like you," I said.

"I have no woman to confide in," she pointed out.

I granted her that. She had no mother, not even mine, or sister, and Mrs. Jewkes, however well-meaning, hardly qualified as a confidant.

"I'll compose myself," she said.

I went out to check on the preparations for the coming day. None of the servants had been told we were marrying; my sister had spies everywhere. Instead, they thought Peters and Williams were coming to breakfast and to look over the chapel after which Pamela and I were going for a ride in the carriage. I reiterated my instructions regarding the meal and the carriage.

When I returned, Pamela was curled on the window seat, looking through a book of prints. I sat down near her. She seemed not only calmer but more serious; she said, placing a finger in the book, "It has occurred to me that I bring you no marriage portion."

"I can never recompense you for what you have suffered."

She made one of her dismissive gestures. "I wish I had more. But what's a wish but a bunch of words—an acknowledgment that one lacks power to oblige and only the will to try?"

"That's all I want," I said. "And all, I think, that Heaven requires." I sat in the window seat, and she nestled against me. "No more of these doubts, Pamela. I wouldn't want to be thinking about settlements right now. I have ample enough possessions for us both."

We looked at the prints. The book was, I believe, Knox's adventures in Ceylon. We studied the elephants and monkeys.

I said finally, "I could ask Lady Jones to join us tomorrow."

"That would disoblige the Darnfords."

"There's Mrs. Jewkes."

She pursed her lips. I knew, from Pamela's letters, that Mrs. Jewkes had manhandled Pamela. I had already reproved the woman, and I could have let her go, but she was a scrupulous housekeeper. Honest servants are not that easy to come by.

"She is very civil to me now," Pamela said. "Since you suggest it, she can attend me."

I kissed the top of her head and called Mrs. Jewkes in. She pretended to be more astonished than she really was that we'd moved up the wedding day. We arranged to have her attend Pamela at the wedding, and I exhorted her to keep up Pamela's spirits. Pamela went upstairs—to write, probably, and I went to my bedroom.

I don't know if Pamela slept that night. I hardly did. I wondered if Pamela would decide the marriage was too much for her, if she would put it off another day or week or year, if she'd ask to return to her parents. I decided I would agree to whatever she asked which made the waiting worse. A simple refusal to consider alternatives would have produced a far more restful night.

Towards dawn, I found the Book of Common Prayer and read over the marriage service. I hadn't thought much of what I was agreeing to—only that marriage would bind Pamela to me. Now I read over the words: "Love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness, and in health, forsaking all others" and after a deep breath, I decided they were words I could agree to. I had, as Pamela would say, the will to try at least.

The morning is something of a blur. I remember speaking to Pamela who was more pale and jittery than the night before. She says I told her to cheer up or the parsons would think she wanted to marry someone else. I don't remember that. I remember eating breakfast with Williams and Peters. I remember arranging to visit the chapel, so Peters could "see the alterations". I remember standing at the altar with Pamela. We were both rather solemn until Williams said, "If either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, that ye confess it."

I murmured, "Do you?" to Pamela, and she blushed and said, "No, sir, only my great unworthiness."

That startled me—she was perfectly serious—but then Williams asked, "Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?" and I said, "I will" since, "Of course, you idiot" would have been rude. I held my breath when he asked Pamela and begged Providence to damp her scruples. She curtsied and pressed my hand. Williams faltered, but Peters nodded to him to proceed. Pamela spoke up when it came to the actual vows, agreeing "to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey" on which words, she raised her eyes and smiled at me. And everything was good.

"You curtsied when I gave you the ring," I told her later in the carriage after we had drunk a celebratory toast and set the parsons on their way.

"I don't remember."

"I hope you remember giving Mrs. Jewkes a hug." She had done it on the church steps after the ceremony, startling Mrs. Jewkes.

"She was a great comfort last night," she said, "if a little crude."

I grinned at the roof of the carriage.

"You were very kind to Mr. Peters and to Mr. Williams," she said, slipping her hand into mine. "What did you give Mr. Williams?"

"A 50 pound note."

"That was very generous. He was never a bad man," she said, "just a silly one," and that settled Mr. Williams.

I wanted to spend the day with Pamela to keep her from fretting too much. We had just returned home, and Pamela had gone up to her room, and I was planning to change and spend the afternoon with her in the parlor when a messenger arrived.

Charles Hargrave, the messenger informed me, was bringing two of his friends to dine.

One is not supposed to kill messengers.

I stomped upstairs. "I wouldn't mind any other day," I told Pamela, "but today, this is a barbaric intrusion. Besides, they are horrible drinkers, and I'll have to ask them to stay. This is what they do—ride around the country impinging on the households of their 'friends.' They would have to pick today!"

She was trying not to laugh, so I stomped back downstairs.

I heard Charles and his companions before I saw them. They blew a bugle at the gate and then again in the courtyard all while snapping their whips.

"Hullo, hullo, hullo," Charles said. "And what are you up to? All better from your accident, eh? I told your sister you'd be fine!" He was off his horse by then, slapping my back and motioning to his friends to dismount.

"I have an engagement this evening," I said. "I'm afraid you can't stay long."

"We only wanted to see you before going on to Nottingham. Oh," Charles said, slapping his forehead, "I know what I wanted to ask you—Did you kidnap one of your maids?"

I scowled at him. "Where did you hear that?"

"You did? Can we see her?"

"No—that is, who told you such a story?"

"Your sister."

My sister. My sister who was doing my reputation more damage than Williams had ever done.

"Can we see the chit?"

They were inside the house by then, and Charles' companions—Sedley and Floyd—were clamoring, "Show us the fair one."

"Go on," Charles said, waving his bugle, "call her down."

"We'll have to get her ourselves," said Sedley.

"You'll do no such thing," I barked, and they all stared at me, great-eyed.

"If you sit," I said, "I'll arrange for you to have some repast."

They were more subdued after that, but I could only get them out of the house by agreeing to drive with them as far as Thorney.

"They are like snowballs," I complained to Pamela (she and Mrs. Jewkes were seated in the back-parlor), "gathering company as they go."

She gave me a half-smile. She was pale again, and I frowned. When we were together, she was comfortable and relaxed. Apart, I couldn't imagine what she was fearing or envisioning.

"You should tell her some pleasant stories," I said to Mrs. Jewkes.

"She's too refined to hear them," Mrs. Jewkes said archly, and Pamela gave her an inscrutable look.

"What's the shortest one you know?" I said.

"There was a bashful young lady from Kent—"

"That's enough," Pamela said quickly, and I grinned.

"Go on."

"No," Pamela said, glaring at me.

Abraham came in then to tell me Charles and his companions were ready, and I went out, saying, "We'll hear that tale another time, Mrs. Jewkes."

The ride was tedious, to say the least. Charles and the others circled the carriage, hallooing and screaming with laughter at each other's riding tricks. I felt incredibly old and wished they would all break their necks in a ditch.

"I think you must be serious about this serving wench," Charles said when we parted at Thorney, and I refused (several times) to go on with them to Nottingham.

"She isn't a serving wench," I said shortly and left them.

I was glad to be rid of them, but I found myself growing as uncertain as Pamela during the ride home. I had avoided considering the associations Pamela might make with our wedding night. I didn't like to think she might fear me. Since our engagement, she had never, I assure you, complained about my kisses or caresses. And she'd returned them. But our wedding night was, admittedly, different and for Pamela, entirely new.

And Mrs. Jewkes was not the best person to put an innocent at ease.

As we entered the road leading to the house, I saw Pamela and Mrs. Jewkes standing at the stile. I rapped on the carriage roof, got out, and sent it on. When I turned back, Pamela was alone. I went and put my arms around her, and she relaxed against me with a little sigh.

"What worries you?" I said.

"How can I deserve all this?" she said, and I remembered what she had said in the chapel about her unworthiness. "How can I earn the merit of these favors?"

"You don't need to earn them," I said. "You are now mine and I am yours and what I have is yours. Your wit and your judgment are more than equal to mine. We should avoid comparisons, Pamela, although if the riches of your mind and your worth be set against my estates, I will owe you."

She laughed into my shoulder.

"I will try to be less serious," she said, leaning back to look into my face, and I kissed her.

We entered the house together.

We ate supper together and talked and then Pamela went to her closet—to write, I assumed. I was grateful since writing usually calmed her. Near eleven, I set a message that I would attend her shortly; she asked me to come in a quarter of an hour. So I went.

Interruption
Mr. B stopped speaking. There was a long silence.

A member of the CLF said pettishly, "Well? Aren't you going to regale us with a detailed description of your wedding night?"

Mr. B smiled to himself.

"What's your prurient interest?" the RFA representative said.

The CLF members bristled.

"Considering Miss Andrews' state of mind," said their psychologist, "I would like reassurance that Miss Andrews' wedding night was a non-traumatic event."

"If he told you so, would you believe him?"

"If she is as sincerely religious as Mr. B claims," said a CLF member, "I can't imagine it was anything but traumatic."

Mr. B and Mr. Shorter looked confused. So did the 18th century aficionado. The RFA representative sighed.

"Are you suggesting," said Judge Hardcastle with a furrowed brow, "that religious people do not enjoy good sexual relations with their spouses?"

Mr. B guffawed. He leaned over the table, shoulders shaking. Several CLF members flushed.

"My wife," Mr. B said, still laughing, "is a righteous woman, not a dead one."

"Augustine," the RFA representative explained to him, "separation of body and spirit. Bad body. Good spirit. That's where they are coming from."

"I know, but Pamela was no Augustinian. Modesty and virtue are not attributes restricted to nuns. Besides, once my wife married, sexual congress was no longer a disgrace. It really is that simple."

"She enjoyed her wedding night, in fact," the judge queried.

"Yes. So did I, by the way."

"I do not want a chapter out of Lady Chatterley's Lover, but I am afraid that some detail will be necessary. Can you oblige?"

Mr. B sighed and ran a hand over his face.

"I can provide more detail than Pamela does. There are 24 hours missing from her account. But not enough to satisfy the prurient moralists," jerking his head towards the CLF table.

"I am not a prurient moralist, Mr. B. I'll tell you when to stop."

What is the Classic Era? And Why?

Eugene's most recent post about dress and hairstyles (notably, Audrey Hepburn's) reminds me of a question Mike posed recently: Why do so many movies and shows perceive the 1950's to 1970's as classic? Mike points to "the current trend to try to create a kind of 'timeless' era, that isn't really specified" and points out that this "'timeless' quality tends to have a late fifties, early sixties feel" (or, as Mike puts it, "Rockwellian").

Mike points to Christmas movies like Polar Express as using this particular time period but also to the following movies:

• The Incredibles
• Meet the Robinsons
• The Iron Giant

He also points out that many sci-fi films re-imagine NOT the current modern age but the '50-70's in the future.

So why is this?

I think one possibility is that these movies are evoking feelings of nostalgia, and nostalgia is always about 40-50 years in the past: 40-50 years ago, life was perfect! Which is nonsense, of course, but it has made me wonder if, in another 20 years, people will be waxing nostalgic about the 1980s and 1990s. (A friend of mine does own a book about mullets.)

I also wonder if the '50-70s are seen as the end of the mechanical age before the digital/computer age came along. And maybe we humans miss the hands-on aspect of the mechanical age--like on Star Trek: Voyager when Tom changes all the buttons on the shuttle to blinking, punchable lights. Way more fun!

In other words, all this nostalgia is nostalgia for the pre-computer/pre-cyber age. Right now, we are inventing a new mythology (The Matrix, Ghost in the Machine, etc.), but before we have a complete new mythology, we have to rely on the old mythology. In about 30 years, laptops will be seen as cute, nostalgic technology, but right now, to get really nostalgic, we have to go back to blinking lights and clumsy robots.

Or it could just be that the 50's-70's do provide classic images, and the 80's (fashion-wise at least) are just a complete embarrassment (and we are too close to the 90's and 2000's to see the trends yet).

Character-Driven versus Plot-Driven!

In our reviews of Monk, Mike and I discuss the character-driven versus plot-driven show. We represent the sane/moderate views on the issue (since we like much of the same things and agree on what's important--we're both fans of Red Letter Media, for example--but don't necessarily get the same things out of what we watch).

If you have an opinion on character-driven versus plot-driven, we'd like to read it!

Mr. B's Testimony VII

NOTE: At Eugene's most excellent suggestion, I have changed the over story. Instead of Mr. B being interviewed by a grad student, he is giving testimony in a hearing. The hearing will determine whether or not he remains married to Pamela.

The over story, which has been massively fun to write, involves multiple interruptions. I begin the next section with one of them.

Interruption
The CFL [Committee for Fairness in Literature] chairperson rose. "The topic of marriage has been broached, Judge. If we may make our arguments?"

Mr. B said, "She didn't accept until the next day."

"She only accepted because she returned to the house under duress."

Mr. B set his jaw and stared fixedly out the courtroom windows. Mr. Shorter [Mr. B's attorney; he is mentioned in prior sections] coughed.

"We have the letters Mr. B sent to Mrs. B and Monsieur Colbrand," he said and pulled them from his briefcase. "They indicate Mr. B's willingness to accept Mrs. B's decision: whether to continue to her parents or return to his home."

"They indicate that he intended to pursue her to Bedfordshire."

"Is this true?"

"It is, your honor. If I may—" Judge Hardcastle waved a hand, and Mr. Shorter read: "'Spare me, my dearest girl, the confusion of following you to your father's which I must do if you persist in going on, for I find I cannot live a day without you.' Mr. B's affections and intentions are clear, Judge. Mrs. B was free to continue her journey—"

"Knowing she would be hunted," a CLF member said.

The judge waved a hand, and the clerk collected the letters from Mr. Shorter. The judge read them over, then glanced at Mr. B, silent for once, his lanky form unusually taut.

"The letter to your wife is quite eloquent. Was she appreciative?"

A faint look of amusement touched Mr. B's face. "I believe she was."

"She did return?"

"Yes."

"Against her better judgment," the CLF chairperson argued.

"No use of force is mentioned—"

The CLF psychologist stood. "If I may, Judge. Force is not stated directly, but it is implied. Pamela was clearly horrified at the thought of further pursuit. She felt she had no choice. Like many suffering from paradoxical identification shift, she did what she needed to survive."

"Her own record indicates a state of eagerness."

"After seven weeks imprisonment, she hardly knew her own mind. She was desperate to avoid more threats. Consider how radically her personality changed upon her return."

Mr. B swiveled. "How can you say that? Pamela's behavior was the one constant—"

"Her religious effusions increased. She was obviously clinging to useless platitudes in an effort to relieve her stress."

Mr. B's voice was steely. "My wife's religious beliefs are sincerely held. She does wax moralistic when in good humor, but you are wrong to suggest she doesn't believe in the Bible's doctrines, or to disparage her pleasure in those doctrines. She has never clung uselessly to anything except, possibly, my good self." He began to rise, but Mr. Shorter pressed his shoulder, and he sat, clenching his hands on the table. "Does this courtroom encourage the denigration of a woman's soul and values?"

The courtroom was very quiet. The RFA [Readers For Authenticity] representative grinned faintly, and the 18th century aficionado [one of the few attendees] made a note in a journal.

"I agree," the judge said. "We will continue without disparaging any religious beliefs, people."

"They should also call my wife by her proper name," Mr. B said, still steely. "They are neither her family nor her betters to be so familiar with her given name."

The judge raised an eyebrow. The chairperson said loftily, "We will refer to her as Miss Andrews."

Mr. B nodded curtly and slumped back in his chair. Mr. Shorter patted his arm.

"Please continue," said the judge.

After a deep breath, Mr. B complied.

Mr. B's Testimony Corresponding to Pamela and Mr. B's Engagement The next morning, Pamela was wary again. She seemed to think she shouldn't go out in the carriage with me. She made excuses: she wasn't dressed properly; she was only a servant. I allayed her fears, and she was ready at noon. We settled in the carriage side by side. I put my arm around her. She leaned against me and even lifted her chin to receive a kiss on the mouth, which disarmed me.

I was a very reformed rake, as you'll see by what I said next. I warned Pamela that marrying me could possibly ostracize her from society. If my sister's letter was any indication of how Pamela would be received by our set, she would never be visited or invited to parties. I could always go hunting with my friends, but Pamela, as neither servant nor lady, would have no one.

"What will you do?" I said.

"I will take care of your accounts," she said, "and visit the poor and assist your housekeeper." She paused, considering. "And take out your carriage," she said, giving me one of her sideways glances. I smiled and slid my hand under her cap to rub her hair.

She went on: "Entertain your friends, play music." She paused again. "Wait for you and miss you when you are gone."

I bent and kiss her shoulder.

"Write," Pamela said.

I laughed.

"Pray for you," she said severely, "and myself," she added. "I shan't be at a loss for how to pass the time."

"We have sufficiently tortured one another," I said. "I hope we are now secure in each other's good opinion."

And she detached herself—not physically but in that slight, guarded way she has. We were no longer a happily engaged couple.

She said to her lap: "In the garden, I wanted to tell you about this—"

She pulled a letter from her pocket. It was from "Somebody" warning Pamela about the sham marriage I'd considered. I groaned. "How did you get this?"

From a gypsy, who told fortunes at the back gate and left the letter in a clump of dirt.

"A man who thinks a thousand dragons sufficient to watch a woman will find them all too little," I said.

But I told her the truth: I had planned the sham marriage but had given up the idea.

"You should have told me about this in the garden," I said, tapping the letter.

"You wouldn't listen."

"You could have written me," I pointed out, "and saved us all a lot of trouble."

Her lips twitched, and she agreed gravely.

"I came back very quickly," she pointed out, and I hugged her, and she was there again, present in my arms. "I could never hate you," she said to my shoulder.

I found that hard to believe, but who am I to argue with Providence?

The next morning, we discussed the wedding ceremony. I wanted a private service; I was getting tired of my neighbors' tittle-tattle. The Darnfords were already bothering me with messages about meeting Pamela (even Lincolnshire servants blab).

Pamela was agreeable but wanted a religious service.

"I will order my little chapel cleared," I said. "It has been used as a lumber-room for two generations."

Pamela fixed me with a stern eye: "I hope it will never be lumbered again," she said, "but instead kept to the use for which, I presume, it has been consecrated."

I grinned. "In my great great grandfather's time."

Thomas came in then. He'd gone on to the Andrews when Pamela turned back at the inn. He'd taken them a letter from Pamela which included her request for the first packet of letters.

They had refused to send them. Apparently, they believed their daughter had written under compulsion. From Thomas's expression, I gathered the interview had been rather trying. Apparently, Pamela's flair for dramatics is inherited.

Pamela was looking perturbed, so I quelled my annoyance. We would both write letters and send them to Mr. Atkins. He lived near Pamela's parents and would make a worthy representative for everyone's good intentions.

Later that day, Pamela brought me her latest batch of writing from when I left for the wedding to our walk in the garden. I took it with me to look over privately.

I drove out to the meadows and walked along the footway there. I was pulling out Pamela's writing when I saw Mr. Williams. He was strolling about with a book though he might have been reading upside down for all the attention he paid it. He was obviously hoping to meet me.

He was hoping I'd give him a living. I sighed and made myself stop.

"What are you reading?"

"Sir," he stammered, "it is the French Telemachus. I am perfecting myself in the French tongue."

I didn't roll my eyes. We made small-talk. When I got tired of comments about the weather, I said, "You should have approached me directly about Miss Andrews if you thought I was doing wrong." If I hadn't listened, I would have deserved his interference.

"Yes, yes, absolutely," he gabbled.

So much for Pamela's Galahad.

I dropped him at his lodgings and went home to tell Pamela about our meeting.

"Poor man," she said, and I gave her a narrow stare.

"I'd rather he was perfecting his French tongue with Telemachus than perfecting you with it," I said. Despite her bent head, I caught a glimmer of Pamela's smile, and I went out grinning to myself.

The next day the Darnfords came to visit plus Lady Jones and Mr. Peters with their respective families. They all gathered in the front room where they could watch Pamela walk in the garden. They exclaimed over her charm and sweetness and grace and discretion. I watched them fawn and reminded myself that I was wealthier than Sir Simon.

Pamela was nervous to meet them. She hardly glanced up when she entered the room. Sir Simon was boisterous, demanding a kiss. Pamela flinched but recovered nicely. I couldn't help her; if she was to be accepted by my peers, she had to withstand the initial run of introductions. Sir Simon was a flirt, but Lady Darnford had social clout. Besides, I liked her. I wanted her to like Pamela.

She appeared to. She didn't argue when Pamela went for a stroll with her daughters.

"They want us to hold a ball with the wedding," Pamela told me later when she'd agreed to perform on the spinet.

"Do you want one?"

"No," she said, running her fingers over the keys. "It's supposed to be a solemn occasion."

I agreed; I just hoped Pamela wouldn't be bringing solemnity into the bedroom on our wedding night.

Pamela retreated upstairs after the music, leaving the guests to me. I was chatting with the ladies, and Lady Darnford was assuring me that Pamela would have no trouble finding her way in society when Mrs. Jewkes sidled in and waved me over.

"There's an old man wants to see you on a business of life and death," she said. "He is very earnest."

I made my excuses and went into the little hall, and there was Mr. Andrews. He looked surprisingly presentable with a shaved chin and clean shirt, but he was weeping copiously.

"I must ask for my child," he cried.

Yes, Pamela comes naturally by her dramatic gestures.

In any case, it was a far more effective plea than Williams's meddling, however unnecessary.

I went forward and took his hand and got him to sit. "Don't be uneasy," I said. "She has written you that she is happy."

"Ah," he said, "but you once told me she was in London."

"Yes," I said, "but now I am her prisoner and about to put on the most agreeable fetters a man ever wore."

"May I not see her?"

"Presently," I said, "and hopefully she will convince you since I cannot."

"Is she virtuous?" he said and tears aside, if I'd answered no, I doubt I would be here telling this tale.

"Yes," I said, looking at him directly, "and in twelve days' time, she will be my wife."

I went out then, adjuring Mrs. Jewkes to explain the situation and to bring Mr. Andrews some wine.

I ran upstairs and told Pamela to come down for a man had come that I would allow her to love dearly, though not more than me. She frowned and tried to ask questions. "It could be Williams," I said and went out.

Downstairs, I persuaded Mr. Andrews to join the company. Pamela would go nowhere without her parents, I'd figured that out. If I wanted to ease her path into high society, I'd have to drag her parents there too. Not that I intended them to live with us. I had other plans for the good people.

Pamela came down, looking wary. I suppose she thought I was going to surprise her with Williams. I admit I was soothed by her reluctance. Not that Williams was a threat, but it still annoyed me that he had been her confidant. That should have been my role, if I'd been wise enough to accept it. We pay for our follies.

She saw her father and rushed to him, overturning a table. "Daddy," she cried, then sagged. The ladies got her water, and her father picked her up. I decided I'd given the Andrews family as much dramatic license as they could bear and escorted them to the back-parlor.

Back in the front-parlor, the ladies dabbed their eyes and even Sir Simon blew his nose. I smiled to myself. There's nothing like a reunion to overwhelm people's sensibilities.

The Andrews family was much calmer when I went to the back-parlor. They sat in the window seat, heads close together, and I felt a sudden pang for the parent I had lost not so long ago. I never cared for my father, but my mother was kind and patient. It's a pity her children are not more like her.

"Make this your home," I told the old man. "The longer you stay, the more welcome you'll be."

"You see what goodness there is in my once naughty master," Pamela said as I was leaving, and I winked at her.

Pamela and her father joined us later while the ladies and gentlemen were at cards. Pamela sat beside me with her father on her other side. Her father had brought her letters, and she handed them over to me with a pretty bow.

The company stayed for supper which went forward with only three or four scenes from Pamela and her father; in this case, however, I understood their anxieties. Lady Darnford wanted Pamela to take the wife's place at the upper end of the table. She wanted to sit near her father. Her father didn't think he should sit near the upper end. I finally arranged everyone and put Pamela's father near me.

The party broke up after supper. Pamela and I were invited to everyone's houses after the wedding. I spent a little time with Pamela and her father, then took her letters to bed.

It was not pleasant reading. These were the letters she had written immediately after arriving in Lincolnshire. She had turned down Williams' proposal, but she was obviously frightened, her parents were not averse to the match, and Mrs. Jewkes—by my encouragement—was pushing Pamela hard towards a decision of some kind.

"You would have been Williams's wife by now," I told her the next morning. I'd found Pamela with her father in the garden.

"I had no notion of being anybody's," she said.

"It would have been inevitable, and your father was for it."

"I little thought of the honor you would bring her," Mr. Andrews said. "When I discovered she didn't want to marry the parson, I resolved not to urge her."

"Yes, yes," I said shortly. "Everyone was sincere, honest, and open."

They gazed at me, and I realized—with some annoyance—that they were being sincere, honest, and open. I sighed.

"She is a witty and blameless writer," I said. "You are exceedingly blessed in your daughter."

I arranged to take them out later in the carriage. I went to check on the chapel which had been cleaned. It would be white-washed, painted, and lined. I intended to buy a new pulpit-cloth, cushion and desk. I wanted Peters to consecrate it with a sermon on Sunday—he'd stopped by to congratulate me on my coming nuptials—but he only laughed.

"Williams needs your patronage," he said. "It'll keep him out of trouble. Come on, man, he's not so bad."

"Fine," I said. "Tell him to meet me at the meadows this afternoon."

If the Andrews family could effect a dramatic scene of reconciliation, so could I.

It wasn't quite as dramatic as I'd anticipated. We all drove out to the meadows—Pamela, I, and her father. Williams was there, pretending to read again: Boileau's Lutrin, this time. Pamela and I addressed him—her father had stayed with the carriage—and Williams fawned. He showered praises on Pamela who behaved graciously though her eyes glazed a few times. We introduced Williams to her father and brought him home to dine.

After, we visited the cleaned-out chapel. I invited Williams to preach there the next day. He stammered and claimed he wasn't ready.

"I have a text," I said. "There is more joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety-nine just persons that need no repentance."

I kept a straight face, but Pamela, who'd just come back from praying, gave me a severe slant-eyed glance.

"The book of Ruth would afford a fine subject for a sermon," Mr. Andrews said.

I had to think that one over. Boaz rewards Ruth in the story, and I objected, partly for the sake of form but not entirely. I'm no King Cophetua.

"Pamela will confer as much honor to me as she receives," I said.

Pamela shook her head, and I grinned at her. "It will be best for me to think so," I said, "and kind of you to disagree, and then we shall always have an excellent rule to regulate our conduct."

She didn't roll her eyes since Williams was simpering at my shoulder, and her father was beaming.

"I am at a loss for words," she said.

Before Williams left, I forgave his bond of money.

Interruption
"I would like to add," said Mr. Shorter, "that this good man said many more fine things to Williams and to Mr. Andrews that are included in Mrs. B's account."

A CLF member said sullenly, "Mr. B has suggested that her account is inaccurate."

Mr. B objected, and Judge Hardcastle said, "I believe he commended her exactness with dialog."

Mr. B spoke up: "My wife is a faithful recorder and an excellent writer, but she recorded for posterity, not for her private amusement. She always had an audience—her mother in this case. When she flatters my conduct and intentions, she is only trying to impress a skeptical readership. Surely, you can understand."

"Yet you resist her portrayal," the RFA representative said, amused.

"The portrait was for outsiders."

"You don't seem to mind disparaging her religious beliefs," the CLF member said, still sullen.

Mr. B gazed at him with ill-veiled contempt. "There is a great difference between wit and disparagement. I said before, I am no cad. Besides, I understand my wife's beliefs."

"Pure hypocrisy. You were hardly a virtuous man."

"By the standards of his world, he was," the 18th century aficionado said. "He and Mrs. B would have shared a similar belief system. For example, he would not have been an atheist—"

"Certainly not." Mr. B was shocked.

"Or a secularist. Remember, he appointed vicars."

"I even went to church."

New List at the Mike-Kate Video Club!

Today, the Mike-Kate Video Club did its first review from the new list: mystery shows!

1. Veronica Mars, "Pilot," October 15th
2. Monk, "Mr. Monk and the Candidate, Parts I and II," October 22nd
3. Castle, "Flowers for Your Grave," October, 29th
4. Chuck, "Pilot," November 5th
5. Lie to Me, "Pilot," November 12th
6. Mentalist, "Pilot," November 19th
7. Columbo, "A Stitch in Crime" (Season 2), November 26th

Join us!

Mr. B's Testimony VI

Mr. B's Testimony Corresponding to the 6th Week of Pamela's Bondage continued
I took Pamela walking the next day. I tried to sit with her in an alcove in the garden, but she hunched when I kissed her. So we walked instead. I tried to talk to Pamela about love, but she answered shortly and finally snapped, "I will not talk of this with you, sir."

Round and round we go.

"Do you know where you are?" I said. "And to whom you speak?"

"I am in a place with no friends."

"And to whom do you speak?"

"Not my master," she said, "for no master demeans himself to his poor servant."

I groaned inwardly. Why couldn't Pamela see that life had changed for her? The same arguments no longer held.

I went to put my arms around her. She struggled and said, "To be sure you are Lucifer himself in the shape of my master."

That was too much. I was an ordinary squire, no prince of darkness. I released her.

"These are too great liberties," I said. "If you show no decency towards me, I'll have none to you. Get back here," for Pamela was running towards the house.

She came back, sullen and teary. I glowered at her.

"Lucifer indeed," I muttered. "I'm not so bad, Pamela."

"Forgive me."

"You should ask Lucifer to forgive you. You have given me a character, Pamela. Don't blame me if I act up to it."

"I really am sorry," she said, "but you don't use me like a gentleman."

That was an incorrect statement, but then, Pamela didn't know many gentlemen.

"I should have gone through with my plan Sunday night," I said, then wished I hadn't for she paled.

"Oh, we should end this," I said.

I half-expected her to take that as an invitation to leave Lincolnshire—which misinterpretation I would have to correct. But she stayed, watching me warily.

"I really am sorry," she said earnestly. "But what is left to me but words? I must protest actions that could lead to my undoing."

"What kind of apology is that?" I said. "If you continue to protest, how is that any improvement?"

"I will submit to anything except where my virtue is at stake."

I didn't believe her for a moment. Everything placed Pamela's virtue at stake which gave her, apparently, the right to protest everything I did.

I visited the stables after the mid-day meal. Pamela and Mrs. Jewkes were dining in the parlor when I re-entered the house. They rose when I came in, and I waved them to sit.

"How are you eating?" I said to Pamela.

"Very poorly indeed, sir," Mrs. Jewkes answered.

"Pretty well, considering," Pamela said with the faintest emphasis on considering.

"None of that," I said and tapped her cheek. She smiled faintly. I pulled up a chair and sat sideways, my legs stretched out. I watched Pamela play with her food.

"My mother said you were a nice carver," I said finally and pushed a chicken towards her. "Cut that up."

She did with intense concentration. When she was done, I took a wing and placed it on her plate.

"Eat it," I said.

"I've eaten," she said, but I saw Mrs. Jewkes shake her head slightly.

"For me," I said.

She ate carefully, watching me.

"I'll be in the garden," I said when she was done. "I'd like you to attend me there."

I went out to the pond. I don't know what I expected, but Pamela came.

I took her hand, and she didn't struggle, so I told her the truth:

"You have a good deal of wit and penetration. You are possessed of an open, frank, and generous mind and a lovely appearance. I cannot live without you, Pamela. I am not a profligate. Seizing you, bringing you here, is perhaps the worst I've done. Were I utterly given up to my passions, I should have gratified them already. I do not want to marry—" I'd seen my mother fade under my father's severity; I'd seen my sister's husband evade her shrewishness with drink and less innocuous pastimes; Pamela and I could damage each other beyond all that.

"Yet I must have you," I told her. "I cannot bear the thought of another man supplanting me in your affections. That is why I have used Williams in a manner unworthy of my station. I have told you my mind candidly. Tell me, with openness and candor, what you think I ought to do."

She blushed several times as I spoke, but she retreated when I finished, shaking off my hand.

"Let me go home," she said. "I won't marry at all if you think I shouldn't."

"That's not much of an answer."

"Once I'm gone, you will meet worthier women. You will overcome your regard for me."

I shook my head at her. I'd suffered far too many conversations with worthier women to believe that.

"If I were the first lady in the land instead of poor abject Pamela, I would, I could tell you—" she broke off. I tried hard not to smile. Pamela made a confused, hopeless gesture and sat on the damp grass. I knelt beside her.

"Tell me what you're thinking," I said.

"I overheard what you said to Mrs. Jewkes. I think I am in more danger now than ever in my life."

I pondered this. I couldn't imagine what I'd said to Mrs. Jewkes that would alarm Pamela so much unless, of course, she meant my vow to thaw her with kindness.

I supposed, on reflection, that Pamela was right to be nervous.

I said, "You have never found me a common liar. I can't answer for how long this kind mood will continue; my pride struggles hard within me. But at present, I am sincere."

"You will take advantage of my weakness," she said to her knees.

I sighed. "I've spent a lot of time on you, Pamela, and I'd hate to learn you'd given your heart elsewhere. What about Williams?"

She was annoyed. "That poor man—"

"Oh, shut up," I said.

She glared at the ground.

"You really never intended to marry him?" I said finally.

"I didn't know how else to get away. I asked him to apply to the gentry for my sake. They all refused. Then he decided we should marry. I declined, and he still agreed to assist me. For God's sake."

I thought about this and tried not to laugh. Pamela couldn't have found a less competent Knight Errant if she'd tried. A more subtle and intelligent man could have saved Pamela. Williams was neither.

"So you do prefer me to any other man?"

She pressed her mouth to her knees and shook her head.

"Can't you trust me?" I said.

"I have already said too much," she said, raising her chin. We eyed each other and then, to my pleasure and surprise, she blushed and pressed her face to my shoulder. I put my arms around her and smiled into her neck. I was happier then then I'd been in a long time.

She echoed me, saying, "I'd be so happy if—"

"I won't marry, Pamela," I said.

It was the wrong thing to say. She recoiled. "I am not so presumptuous," she said stiffly. "I would wish you happy in marriage to a lady of suitable degree."

I didn't believe her.

I considered luring Pamela into a sham marriage. I confess that. I even started to put the plan in motion. I knew a man who knew a man who would do the ceremony. Pamela would be satisfied, and we would live together—for years, perhaps—happy and content. I know, I know it was unworthy of me. Anyone who knows me knows how loathsome I find the idea. In others, that is. But there were so few solutions left to Pamela and me at that point. Except marriage. Except that.

Mr. B's Testimony Corresponding to the 7th week of Pamela's Bondage
I received a lecturing letter from my sister. My servants in Bedfordshire had hauled her into the problem of Pamela. She harangued me for seducing Pamela on the one hand and wanting to marry her on the other. I had no intention of marrying although I knew I should for the family line. In any case, if—when—I did marry, I'd marry whomever I damned well pleased.

I had to let the scheming servants go; you cannot have servants forming plots against you, especially servants idiotic enough to involve my sister. The servants included the bulk of the upper table at Bedfordshire: Longman, Mr. Jonathan, and Mrs. Jervis.

It bothered me that I would lose such fine servants. The whole matter was getting out of hand. I needed to let Pamela go home. I knew it, but I couldn't bring myself to say the words.

I was expected at a wedding ball, and I said goodbye to Pamela before I left. I instructed Mrs. Jewkes, in front of Pamela, to watch her closely. Since my sister had gotten involved, I was sure various schemes to free Pamela had been put in motion. If I freed Pamela, it would a considered decision, not something forced on me by interfering busybodies.

The ball was tedious. I don't usually mind social occasions, but my ribs still ached, and the fever came and went. The only highlight was talking to Lady Darnford, wife of Sir Simon, who is a placid, level-headed woman.

"Are you in love with your guest?" she asked me at the end of our dance but kindly, not salaciously.

"I guess I must be," I told her.

I went to Stamford the next day and freed Mr. Williams from gaol. He didn't mention Pamela once; the Knight Errant had been brought to heel.

I mentioned her. I said, "You will leave Miss Andrews alone, is that understood?" and he gulped and nodded.

Pamela had told me she wasn't interested in him, but I confess, I'd begun to doubt her veracity. Pamela will claim she was always honest with me—except for the occasional fib, the occasional untruth, the occasional downright lie. After all, she will say, I imprisoned her.

I knew, even at the time, that Pamela would do what she needed to protect herself. I knew she might have lied to me about Williams, hoping he would return and carry her off. Face to face with Williams, who is handsome enough if dull, I couldn't help but wonder.

When I arrived home on Saturday, Mrs. Jewkes met me carrying a packet of Pamela's letters. It appeared Pamela had been writing vociferously since she arrived at the Lincolnshire estate, then hiding what she wrote. Mrs. Jewkes had finally tracked down the bulk of Pamela's writing.

Pamela didn't want me to read it. She was suspicious when I carried the letters up to her in her chamber. I pointed out that her writing so far had impressed me with her wit and innocence.

She finally confessed she was worried she'd been too blunt in her letters. I couldn't imagine that Pamela could be blunter to the page than she was to my face, but I told her to have more confidence in me. I wanted the honest Pamela, not the Pamela who spoke round and round and round a topic, hiding her thoughts and motives. "I have read many of your saucy reflections," I said, "and yet, I've never upbraided you on that score—" at least, not very often.

"So long as you remember I wrote the truth from my heart," she said, "and that I had the right to escape this forced and illegal restraint."

"You have a powerful defendant in me," I said and went downstairs to read.

The packet contained not only Pamela's letters to her parents but letters from Williams and copies of her letters to him. I glowered over them. Pamela had certainly pleaded her case to Williams most affectingly, and he had certainly presented himself as more a Lancelot than a Galahad. I called Pamela down and taxed her about her "love letters."

"Do you find, sir, that I encouraged his proposal?"

"What about the letters that came before these?" I said. The packet I had started nearly two weeks after Pamela arrived in Lincolnshire, and I knew from Mrs. Jewkes that Pamela and Williams had corresponded before that.

"My father has them."

I remembered then that Mrs. Jewkes believed Pamela had given Williams a message for her parents. Mrs. Jewkes had tried to retrieve the message by arranging an attack on the poor man. I would not have condoned such a crude scheme, especially since it failed in its object.

"What about the letters that follow these?" I said, waving the packet at Pamela. The packet ended with a reference to the attack on Williams. "I like to read the fruits of your pen. You create a pretty air of romance around your troubles."

She set her chin. "You jeer at the misfortunes that you brought upon me."

"Considering the liberties you take with my character," I said, still waving the packet like a mad man, "we are equal there."

"I would not have taken those liberties if you had not given me cause. The cause, sir, is before the effect." Pamela's voice gets quite steely when she's riled. I held back a smile.

"You chop logic very prettily. What the deuce do men go to school for?"

"You wouldn't mock me if I were dull."

"I would not love you so well," I pointed out, and she flushed.

"I would be better off married to a plough-boy," she told the rug, which she knew and I knew wasn't true.

"One of us fox-hunters would have still found you," I said. I hoped that was true. I couldn't imagine never having met Pamela.

"Where have you hidden the rest of your writing?" I said. Mrs. Jewkes had located the current packet under the rose-bush in the garden.

She shook her head.

"Are they on your person?" I said and, when she remained silent, "You know criminals who don't confess are tortured."

"Torture is not used in England," she retorted.

"Oh, my torture will fit the crime," I said. "I'm going to have to strip you, Pamela." I crossed to her and began to slowly untie the handkerchief that masked her bosom. She gazed at me, open-mouth, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought she wouldn't stop me. But she slapped my hand and darted backwards.

"You'll give me the letters?" I said.

"Yes," she said and fled.

I received a single note from her a few minutes later. She wanted permission to look the letters over. She wouldn't, she promised, make any revisions. I agreed—Pamela probably wanted to prepare herself for my reactions—so long as she delivered them to me the next day.

I was still unable to sleep through the night. The on-again, off-again fever made me restless. When I did sleep, my dreams woke me. Finally, I set sleep aside. Instead, I reread Pamela's letters and smiled over her disgust at Williams' naivety. I agreed with her that he was a man with "no discretion in the world." He certainly wasn't Pamela's equal for plotting or for comprehending people's characters.

I got up early the next morning and walked out to the pond. I was surprised when Pamela came to me there. I had expected another round of pleading.

"I should have taken the opportunity to strip you last night," I said, taking the packet. She made a dismissive gesture. What she wanted was another promise I wouldn't hold her boldness against her. I said I'd do my best and broke the seal on the packet. She would have gone back to the house, but I motioned her to stay.

I've mentioned Pamela's effusive style. I should state absolutely that she doesn't cry or collapse quite as often as she claims. I would never have stopped my ravishment if Pamela's fit that night had been simply one more of many.

Pamela's previous letters commented often on her "oppressions and distresses and fears," but I'd put those complaints down to Pamela's romancing. The letters she gave me that morning were different. Williams had proved unreliable, I'd sent my angry letter—I repented of that now—and Pamela had panicked. She decided to escape by wiggling out the window in her bedroom and throwing her upper-coat, handkerchief, and cap into the pond to put off any pursuers.

I knew about this part of the plan from Mrs. Jewkes. I didn't know the rest: Pamela tried to escape over the wall, but the bricks gave way and struck her on the head.

Her scar. I turned and looked at Pamela. She was gazing across the pond. She started when I lifted her chin but didn't pull back. The scar stretched under her hairline. I turned her head gently and lifted her cap to examine a second scar at the base of her skull. Her hair had been cut to help it heal.

I got up and went over to the brick wall. Pamela's narrative implied she'd been struck once or twice, but I counted at least five bricks lying on the grass.

I went back to the pond and put my arm around Pamela.

"It's a good thing you didn't get out," I said. "You would have been in great danger and alone, and," I added, trying to jolly her, "I would have caught you anyway."

She gave me a half-smile, and I turned back to her letters.

After being struck by bricks, Pamela considered taking her life.

It was no melodramatic proclamation. She even acknowledged her tendency to romanticize and was ashamed of her momentary despair. She had honestly contemplated ending her life in the pond.

Drowned. Buried under water. Out of fear. Fear of me.

I got up, so Pamela couldn't see my face. It was like dreaming awake, only worse, because any follies I caused to myself, I could pay for. But if Pamela had taken her life, it would have been on my shoulders, and I wouldn't have wanted to live.

I turned back. She watched me curiously from the edge of the pond. "Don't sit there," I said, and she got up. I put her letters in my pocket and slid my arms around her.

"I'm sorry," I said, "for pushing you into so much danger and distress."

I felt her head come to rest against my shoulder.

"I will defy the world and the world's censures and make you amends," I said.

I meant marriage. If Williams had been there at that moment, I would have commanded him to wed us.

I felt Pamela withdraw even before she stepped out of my arms.

"Let me go home," she said.

I'd just offered her marriage, and she didn't care. She stood there, not meeting my eyes, and I knew she was thinking about Williams. She preferred a canting clergyman to a man who knew her, who liked her, who wanted to be more to her than a knight.

"Very well," I said and walked away.

I was almost to the house when she called, "One word," but I waved her off. It was time for Pamela to go home.

I ordered the carriage immediately and called in Mrs. Jewkes.

"Pamela is leaving today," I said and ordered her out before she could start expostulating. My head ached. Mrs. Jewkes came back a few minutes later, saying, "She wants her letters, sir." I shook my head and when she left, grumbling, I sat down and wrote to Pamela.

I was still furious over Pamela's rejection, but I knew, in my rational mind, that I was being unfair. She had been my prisoner for seven weeks. She had been so frightened, she'd tried to escape and contemplated suicide. I wished her well with all my heart, but I begged that she wouldn't marry in haste. She would be miserable with someone like Williams. I asked her to think of me as her first husband, to wait a year until her memory of me was ash before she considered another man. A pretty conceit worthy of Pamela, but I meant it. I also promised to return her letters when she reached her parents' home.

I called in Monsieur Colbrand and Robin, my coachman. I gave Robin the letter to give to Pamela the following day. They would be well out of Lincolnshire by then; Pamela would have no reason to fear any more action from me.

I sent the servants out and put my head in my hands. Once she was gone, maybe the fever would abate. I could turn my mind to other things.

I heard Pamela on the stairs with Mrs. Jewkes. As they passed the parlor, Mrs. Jewkes called peevishly, "Sir, you have nothing to say to this baggage before she goes?"

Why would Pamela want to stay when I let the woman speak to her so rudely?

"Who bid you refer to her like that?" I said. "She's offended only me. She deserves to go honest, and she shall go."

And then Pamela was at the door, looking at me with all the delight in her face I'd seen months ago when my mother was still alive.

"Thank you," she said. "God bless you for your goodness to me!"

I almost asked her to stay, but I knew I shouldn't, so I went into my study. Before I closed the door, I heard Pamela say, "And I will pray for you too, Mrs Jewkes, wicked wretch that you are," and I grinned to myself.

I leaned against the door, then sank to the floor. The headache was getting worse and finally, I lay down and closed my eyes against the pain.

I woke near twilight. The room was not quite dark. The headache had lessened, but the fever was back with a vengeance. I made my way to the desk and lit a candle. I considered calling the servants, but the idea tired me too much.

My seat was uncomfortable: I was sitting half-on, half-off my coat. I jerked it loose and realized that Pamela's letters were still in my pocket. I pulled them out and flattened them on the desk. There was no point reading more; they would only remind me that Pamela was gone, no longer upstairs writing furiously in her closet, getting ready to lecture me.

I couldn't help myself. I read.

Pamela had been sorry to hear about my accident, even after my horrible letter to her. She described my aborted ravishment in detail. I winced. But she went on to detail how hard it was for her to resist me—only she didn't trust me.

What did I expect? I'd given her no reason to trust me, not from the moment my mother died. I should have courted her in earnest from the beginning. I should have known then that marriage to Pamela would satisfy all my desires.

The candle guttered and went on, and I sat in the dark, thinking of Pamela, missing Pamela.

Mrs. Jewkes pounded on the door and asked me if I wanted tea.

"No," I said, and she went away.

I went back over Pamela's letters, and an odd coincidence struck me. I'd almost drowned the same day Pamela tried to escape.

As if we were bound to the same fate; if she had died, I would surely have perished in Hertfordshire, whatever the doctor told my sister.

Soul of my soul.

I'd been a fool to let her go.

I lit another candle and wrote a letter, begging Pamela to return "for I find I cannot live a day without you." I asked her to "forgive the man who loves you more than himself" and promised to make her happy.

I went to the stables, hugging the wall because the fever was making me dizzy. I woke Thomas, only remembering after he was up that it was past midnight. But since he was up—

"Prepare a horse," I told him. "I want you to ride after the carriage. I have a letter for Miss Andrews."

As he got ready, I considered that Pamela would never believe I meant her no ill. I went into the back-parlor and wrote a letter to Monsieur Colbrand confirming that Pamela was only to be returned if she wished to come. He could show my letter to him to Pamela.

I gave both letters to Thomas, and he rode off.

The rest of that day is a blur. I fell asleep in the back-parlor. I vaguely remember being half-escorted, half-carried to my chamber above. Towards daylight, someone forced me to drink broth. Later, I heard Mumford's voice—he's the local doctor—and then my arm ached: I'd been blooded, which must have helped because I fell asleep again. But I dreamed of lurching shapes, and I thrashed awake to be given another cup of broth. Finally, towards evening, I slept thoroughly.

I woke to late morning light. Mrs. Jewkes was standing by my bed, arms akimbo.

"Well, she's here," she said. I gazed at her blurrily.

"Pamela," she said. "And in quite a taking because I didn't wake you earlier. I told her—"

"She came back?"

"Yes, and I wouldn't let her wake—"

"Already?"

"They drove all night at her precious command. And she's been up two hours, fretting."

"Ask her if she would so good as to visit me," I said. "Or I could visit her."

"You must stay abed, sir," she said. "I'll tell her."

"Don't urge her," I said, remembering certain passages from Pamela's letters. Mrs. Jewkes took my commands possibly more seriously than any servant ever had.

She rolled her eyes as she turned away. I didn't bother to rebuke her. I sat up and combed my fingers through my hair. I heard feet in the corridor.

"Is she come?" I said, and "Yes," Pamela said.

She looked tired but happy. She came over to the bed and took the hand I held out. I kissed her wrist.

"You do me too much honor," I said.

"I'm sorry you've been ill," she said.

"I can't be ill while you are with me," I said. Yes, I know, but remember, I was feverish. "I hardly dared hope you would oblige me," I added.

She sat beside the bed. I leaned back and watched her talk about the inn she'd stopped at the day before and the ride back. I watched her smile to herself as she talked, watched her eyes gleam as she reflected. I held her hand until I fell asleep.

I got up around noon. I wanted to make sure the servants understood Pamela should be treated like a guest, not a prisoner. She could go where she liked, even town: my carriage was at her disposal. I also told Pamela that Williams was free. I thought she should know.

"We'll take a ride tomorrow," I told her and went back to bed. I didn't dream at all that night.

The Fundamental Reality of Romance Novels

A common criticism of romance novels is that they support the worst excesses of patriarchy: heroes who think they have the right to "protect" women by overmastering and seducing them.

Defenders of romance novels will often argue, among other things, that (1) women readers are simply acting out the female version of the male fantasy:

THE MALE FANTASY
Leonard Hofstadter: If we do get a new friend, he should be a guy you can trust. A guy who has your back.
Howard Wolowitz: And he should have a lot of money and live in a cool place down by the beach where we could throw parties.
Sheldon Cooper: He should share our love of technology.
Howard Wolowitz: And he should know a lot of women.
Leonard Hofstadter: Let's see: money, women, technology. Okay, we're agreed. Our new friend is going to be . . . Iron Man.

(2) Women readers are actually critiquing the patriarchal model as they read; as readers, women readers exercise control over the hero and heroine, over what they (the readers) will accept/agree to: the hero is at the mercy of the reader; (3) women readers may participate in the heroine's subjugation to the male, but they do so knowing that the heroine does truly agree since they know her thoughts.

I think all of these are valid arguments and mostly true, but I also think they totally miss a really important point. Romances have nothing to do with patriarchy. They have everything to do with biology.

My personal yen is for cerebral, shortish men. I am not automatically attracted to the tall, looming, massively muscled, broad-shouldered hero of romances, and there are several romances where, despite being told that the hero is tall-looming-broad-shouldered-massively-muscled, I simply don't see him that way because his character dovetails far more neatly with, say, Patrick Jane (in fact, this disconnect is so common that I often get the impression that the writers have their own individual images in mind as they write and stick in the iconic image to make the publisher happy).

I also tend to read romance novels which focus less on the overbearing moments and more on the building relationship moments.

But, having said that, I must tell you about my reaction to Vincent D'Onofrio on Law & Order: Criminal Intent.

First, Vincent D'Onofrio is HUGE. He is 6'3" and, well, HUGE. In the first season, whenever he (as Goren) walks into an interrogation room, he basically fills the room and overwhelms the suspect. If he gets physical, all he has to do is pluck the bad guy out of his chair by his collar and swing him around.

I think this may have created a tension problem in the scripts because in later seasons, all the villains suddenly became at least 6' tall (though Goren's nemesis, Nicole Wallace, is an itty-bitty woman.)

Still, I must admit, this HUGE/effortless physicality is impossibly sexy.

Goren's sidekick, Eames, is played by Kathryn Erbe who is my height, 5'2". The writers make it clear that Eames is more stable than Goren and can more than hold her own (and that Goren relies on her as a constant, dependable presence). But when I first watched Season 1, I became very aware that I--a Libertarian feminist--found Goren's mere physical presence utterly satisfying and comforting. If the villains get crazy, he just has to nudge them, and they are out of the game. Eames is safe.

This does not mean I would appreciate this kind of protection in my personal life. And it also doesn't mean that when I watch Season 1, I am imbibing, interacting with, or considering sexist/patriarchal principles. My reaction is purely atavistic.

Protection--whether it be financial, physical, technological/cerebral, or emotional--is hugely attractive to women. The most telling aspect of romances is not that the heroines are overwhelmed sexually, it is that the heroines can rely on the heroes: the heroes perceive the heroines as a responsibility.

Consider history: Anarchy kills women and children before it kills men and boys. A large part of human history has been the history of anarchy or dictatorships/kingdoms descending into anarchy. Being safe, therefore, is high on a woman/wife/mother's genetic priority list. And, I'm sorry, people-who-get-worried-about-patriarchy, you can't just undo thousands of years of basic evolutionary need with a few decades of enlightened Western culture.

Especially when so many women believe they are still in danger. Since I am not that paranoid, I don't. But I can understand women who feel threatened by war, pedophiles coming onto their children, crime, belligerent politicians, being left/abandoned, poor economies, having to balance work and family, etc. etc. etc. Yes, they should hold their own, but several biological realities still leave women more vulnerable than men to the environment (I mean that in the social AND in the volcanoes/hurricanes sense). Let's not kid ourselves.

The answer is not to blame the patriarchy. What possible good would that do? Herland (and the falsehood of the perfect matriarchy) aside, the biological realities will still exist, whatever the social construct. Squawking,  "But the government--" which is still male-dominated--"should do something!" is nicely Victorian but hardly feminist-oriented and not terribly helpful.

Herland included, Gilman and Paglia have always been right: the male cannot be ignored or bypassed. Thank goodness romances are still doing the hard task of making sure he isn't.

Ruminations of Mr. B: V

NOTE: This section includes the attempted rape of Pamela by Mr. B. For a modern audience, this scene makes the later romance between Pamela and Mr. B a near impossibility. However, our modern sensibilities are somewhat unfair to Richardson. Richardson wasn't interested in rape, per se; he was interested in the issue of integrity, i.e. whether female servants had the right to claim it (and many people, including Henry Fielding, thought they didn't: a female servant was automatically considered vulgar and sluttish). He was also, I think, interested in the issue of "fallen" women. He had to make the seduction of both Pamela and Clarissa as close to rape as possible (to make clear how totally innocent they were), but I do think seduction is what he was aiming for. This is one aspect of the BBC Clarissa that makes zero sense. I always thought Lovelace's triumph was that Clarissa succumbed--even if only for the time it took to do "the deed." After all, if he is just going to rape her, why doesn't he do it earlier?

In an effort to place the scene in context, I have added dialog below between Mr. B and the grad student.

Corresponding to the Onset of the 6th Week of Pamela's Bondage
I started on Friday; Lincolnshire is less than day's ride from Hertfordshire. I sent letters ahead that I would arrive Monday or Tuesday. On Monday, I lasted four hours in the carriage and then collapsed in a Cambridge Inn. I made it to the Lincolnshire estate the next evening.

I sat in a chair in the parlor while Mrs. Jewkes talked my ear off. She was full of Pamela's intransigence: How Pamela kept trying to escape, how Pamela had secrets, how Pamela called her names. I might as well have stayed in Hertfordshire.

"Get my supper ready," I said and went up to Pamela's bedroom.

She was kneeling on the floor when I came in, ready for a melodramatic scene, no doubt, and I was suddenly tired of all women. I wanted sleep except sleep brought dreams. I wanted rest from pain, but I didn't want to get drunk. Loss of control has never appealed to me.

"You should be ashamed," I told Pamela. "Come in, Mrs. Jewkes, and see this woman I once thought as innocent as an angel of light. I now have no patience with her."

Mrs. Jewkes bustled over to Pamela. "Come on," she said with brash good-humor. "Learn to know your best friend, confess your unworthy behavior, and beg his honor's forgiveness of all your faults."

I watched her patting Pamela and considered that perhaps John had been right, and Mrs. Jewkes was not precisely the right person to watch over Pamela.

Pamela finally looked up. "God forgive you, sir!" she said after a deep breath.

Forgive me? I almost smacked her. But I checked myself and tried to remember that Pamela was probably imagining herself as Lucretia. Or Cordelia. Or some other wronged lady from the theater.

"When she's finished acting," I said, "perhaps I will see her again," and I went downstairs.

The Lincolnshire house is shadowed and quiet. There are less servants that at the Bedfordshire estate, and the servants are less jolly. I sat in the parlor and had only my thoughts for company. Frankly, Pamela's over-acting was better than nothing.

"Tell Mrs. Jewkes to bring Pamela down to serve me," I told Monsieur Colbrand who I'd sent to the estate the week before. He would valet me in Lincolnshire.

She came down, head lowered, shoulders hunched. She served my wine and stood behind me. Mrs. Jewkes watched from the far end of the table, arms akimbo.

"Mrs. Jewkes," I said, "you tell me Pamela remains very sullen and eats nothing."

"Not so much as will keep life and soul together."

"I suppose she lives upon love," I said. "Her villainous plots with sweet Mr. Williams have kept her alive and well."

"That's right," Mrs. Jewkes said. "She's slippery as an eel."

And finally, Pamela spoke: "Have mercy and hear me concerning this wicked woman's usage—"

"I am satisfied she has done her duty," I said. "You, however, are a wicked girl to tempt the parson to undo himself."

I heard her sigh, then, "I have a strange tribunal to plead before. The poor sheep in the fable was tried before the vulture on the accusation of the wolf."

I was a little surprised that I wasn't cast as the wolf, but I tried to follow Pamela's line of reasoning: "So, Mrs. Jewkes," I said, "you are the wolf, I the vulture, and here is the poor innocent lamb."

"Oh," Mrs. Jewkes snorted. "That is nothing to what she has called me: Jezebel, a London prostitute—and now, you are a vulture—"

I grinned at my chicken as Pamela burst out, "I wasn't comparing—"

"Don't quibble, girl," I said, and Mrs. Jewkes agreed.

Pamela said, "There is a righteous Judge who knows the secrets of all hearts and to him I appeal."

Calling down the fire of heaven on us, in fact.

I finished dinner and turned to look at Pamela. She was crying, but she looked fit to strike something. If we ever did have children, I pitied them their tempers.

Even tearful, though, she looked beautiful if too thin. The direct glare was still there, the thin saucy quirk to the lips. I wondered what had led Williams to think he could handle Pamela in the first place. But then, she can be quite persuasive when she wants to be.

"It's no wonder the poor parson was infatuated," I said. "I blame him less than I do her."

And Pamela's expression changed, became bewildered, helpless. For the first time, I wondered if she hadn't encouraged Williams. Had she endowed him with Galahad scruples? Oh, Pamela.

She walked away from me and pressed her face against the wainscot.

"Come back here, hussy," I said. "We have a reckoning to make." When she didn't come, I went and slipped my arms around her shoulders. "How can I forgive you?" I said to her hair. She had caused disturbances in my households, brought discredit on me, corrupted my servants, conspired with Williams. I kissed her head and tried to stroke her.

She broke away then. "I would die before I would be used thus," she said and the rage was back.

"Consider where you are, Pamela," I said. "Don't be a fool."

She wouldn't meet my eyes, so I sent her upstairs with Mrs. Jewkes.

I collapsed then. Monsieur Colbrand heaved me into bed: "You have a fever, sir," he said, and I said, "I'll be better in the morning."

I didn't sleep, and the next morning, I was still warm, but I dressed without help. Sir Simon came to welcome me to the county. "Can I see the chippy?" he asked, and I said, "No" rather shortly. He obviously expected to dine, so while he strode in the garden, I pulled out my proposal to Pamela and sent it up to her by Mrs. Jewkes.

I'd be working on the proposal since before I packed Pamela off to Lincolnshire. Once Pamela became my mistress, I would give her the immediate gift of 500 guineas, the income from my property in Kent with her father as manager, a promise to care for any of her relations (I hoped there weren't many; she'd never suggested she came from a large family), four sets of clothes plus several pieces of high quality jewelry, and the right to command my servants. Lastly, I promised to marry her in a year. I doubted Pamela would care about the last provision once she had exposure to the rest. It was a generous settlement.

I suppose you are not surprised that Pamela refused. I no longer knew what to expect. I will say that her answer to my proposal was the most straightforward Pamela had been with me in many weeks.

"I will not trifle with you nor act like a person doubtful of her own mind," she wrote. She assured me she had not encouraged Williams. She disdained my offers of money, proclaiming that her "honest parents" would never agree to any proposal that involved the "prostitution of their poor daughter." I wondered if her parents would be so high-handed if approached directly, but, remembering Mr. Andrews, thought perhaps they would be. She continued in the same melodramatic vein, pronouncing that she had "greater pride in her poverty and meanness than in dress and finery," which is a lie. Pamela has never been proud of being poor. She ended by pointing out that if she did become my mistress for a year, at the end of it, she would hardly merit marriage with a gentleman.

There is, as I've mentioned previously, a great deal of the lawyer about Pamela.

There was one passage, however, that gave me pause. "I know not the man breathing I would wish to marry," Pamela had written, "except one and that is the gentleman who, above all others, seeks my everlasting dishonor."

She wanted me. Her refusal was foolhardy, pointless. God would hardly hold her accountable for merely trying to better herself. Her parents would hardly complain because their daughter put their comfort above her own misguided morality. I stomped around my study, my head throbbing.

"It's your own fault for being so tender," Mrs. Jewkes said, and I was beginning to think she was right. Pamela needed a fait accompli. The issue needed to be resolved. "I'll bed her tomorrow," I said and instructed Mrs. Jewkes to not let Pamela escape. She bustled out. I heard her and Pamela yelling at each other in Pamela's bedroom. Pamela wanted the keys to the room; Mrs. Jewkes wouldn't give them up.

I went to bed and didn't sleep.

Interruption
"You realize," the grad student said to Mr. B., "that your decision to rape--"

"Seduce," said the lanky man. "Rape is your parlance, not mine."

"So no one in the 18th century was raped?"

"Of course they were. But female servants--" Mr. B. shrugged. "Even Pamela was more concerned with her virginity than her rights."

"I don't think she saw a difference."

"But a modern woman would." Mr. B grinned faintly. "I did repent the decision. I'm no Lovelace. He was a cad."

"You came very close to being one yourself."

"And Pamela would have survived. She was no Clarissa." He twitched, straightening up and clasping his hands between his knees. "You are forcing me to justify an action I long ago regretted. Just remember, action and intent were not the same to us as they are to you moderns. I was no sociopath, not even particularly bad. Pamela was my servant, she was female, she had no prospects, and little protection. I was the god of my estates. Didn't Eros kidnap Psyche?"

"Psyche never regretted her seduction."

"I was convinced Pamela wouldn't either. Let us grant that I was wrong. But don't forget why I believed I was right."

Corresponding to the Middle of the 6th Week of Pamela's Bondage
I went to church the next morning with two texts sent to me by Pamela through Mrs. Jewkes. "The prayers of this congregation are earnestly desired for a gentleman of great worth and honor who labors under a temptation to exert his great power to ruin a poor, distressed, worthless maiden," read one. The second was not much different.

Typical Pamela and very clever, but I was tired of the game. "Tell her the reckoning is not far off," I said and left the house. As I got into the carriage, I saw Pamela's face at the window. She looked solemn.

Church was exasperating. Parson Peters was there to plead with me for Williams's release: Williams didn't realize he owed me money; he thought the sum I gave him was salary for three years and so on and so forth. "It was a bit much putting the fella in gaol," Sir Simon chimed in.

"I'll resolve the matter," I said and left them.

But I knew then how to arrange matters with Pamela. I sent the carriage home plus a letter to Mrs. Jewkes advising her that I'd gone to Stamford to deal with Williams. She was to tell Pamela the same. I then walked home, cutting across the pasture, so I could enter through the rear. I ran into Monsieur Colbrand and used him to send a second message to Mrs. Jewkes. I then rested on a seat outside the back door, watching the sky mellow and getting my breath back. The stage was set. By the same time the next day, Pamela's fate would be decided. Finally.

Towards evening, I went upstairs to my room to change and from there to Pamela's bedroom. She and Mrs. Jewkes were in the downstairs parlor. I sat in the elbow-chair in the darkest corner and covered my face with an apron and my legs with a petticoat. I was pretending to be the maid. I dozed off and on until I heard Mrs. Jewkes and Pamela come upstairs. Mrs. Jewkes was teasing Pamela about her writing. Pamela was complaining about me. She checked the closets--I smiled to myself--and finally went to bed, still talking rapidly, feverishly. Pamela is no fool. She knew something wasn't right.

They doused the light and after a few minutes, I got up and undressed. I sat down on the edge of the bed closest to Pamela. I slid under the covers.

"Are you alright?" she said, thinking I was the maid.

I suppose no red-blooded gentleman will believe me, but for a long moment, I just wanted to sleep--there, next to Pamela with my arm across her middle. Sleep away dreams, sleep away thoughts of drowning. I suppose I was already drowning, and Pamela was the only way out, the only way up. I slid closer until her arm was under my shoulders and clasped her around the waist.

I kissed her full-mouth before she could scream and then I came up for air, and she did scream. Mrs. Jewkes was somewhere on the periphery, shouting, "Don't dilly-dally, sir." And Pamela was still screaming, and I was trying to explain that this was it, she might as well accept my proposals, and then she went limp, completely limp, like something dead.

"She's had a fit," I said, getting up.

"Ah, she's faking, sir," Mrs. Jewkes said.

"No, she isn't," I said and lit a candle. Pamela lay on the bed, white and motionless. Mrs. Jewkes leaned over her.

"She's breathing, sir," she said while I pulled on my gown and slippers. I brought another candle to the bed and sat on the free side.

"Can you wake her?" I said.

Mrs. Jewkes, nonplussed, waved smelling-salts under Pamela's nose. Pamela jerked awake. She looked at me, and I knew that look, I read it from my own experience. She was terrified of drowning. She sat up, edging backward until she struck the headboard.

"Pamela," I said gently. "Pamela."

She watched me warily like something wild and injured. I leaned forward, speaking softly, and she put her hand on my mouth. We gazed at each other over her palm.

"Did I suffer any distress?"

"No," I said. "I promise you I did nothing."

"Well, you could now she's well," Mrs. Jewkes said stolidly.

Pamela's eyes rolled back in her head. She was pressed sideways against the bed's headboard and would have fallen to the floor if I hadn't caught her.

"Get out of here," I said to Mrs. Jewkes. "Send the maid in."

I laid Pamela flat on the bed; she was light, too light. She hadn't been eating as Mrs. Jewkes claimed. I touched her cheek, and it was cold. There was a scar along her hairline. I didn't remember it from Bedfordshire.

The maid showed up, blinking her eyes.

"What's your name?" I said.

"Nan, sir."

"Sit down there. You'll be sleeping here tonight."

Nan agreed, wide-eyed. I waited, holding Pamela's hand, watching her face. Nan waved the smelling salts, and Pamela came to slowly. Her eyes fixed on me.

"Nan will sleep here tonight," I said. "Mrs. Jewkes has been sent to sleep in her bed."

"Won't the same thing happen again? Only with Nan to encourage you?"

"No," I said. "I will not come in again tonight. Say you forgive me, Pamela," and I kissed her hand.

"God forgive you, sir," she said.

I had to be content with that.

She was still weak the next morning. She tensed under the bedclothes when I entered the room, and I stopped just inside the door.

"I don’t want Mrs. Jewkes," she said.

"She won't come near you today," I said, "if you promise to compose yourself," and Pamela nodded.

She was better the next morning and agreed to see me in the parlor. She was still careful and tense, not the Pamela I knew.

My fault.

"I will not attempt to force you again," I told her.

"Send me away."

I couldn't do it. I was sorry, I truly was. I never thought Pamela could be so frightened. But to send her away would leave me to the water and the dark, and I couldn’t do it.

I would coax her back to happiness and ease.

"Your confinement will get easier," I said.

"To what end? How long am I to stay? And to what purpose?"

"Give me a fortnight," I said, "and try to forgive Mrs. Jewkes," who'd been complaining vociferously for the last two days. "She was only being obedient to me."

Pamela's jaw set, and I saw the woman I knew again. "She is unwomanly and wicked and vile," she said fiercely, and I half-smiled. This seemed to calm her a little, and she knit her brows, thinking.

"I consent to anything you enjoin that I may do innocently."

"Good girl," I said and kissed her. She didn't struggle. She just watched me through half-lids. I wasn't sure I'd gained anything, but I called Mrs. Jewkes and abjured her and Pamela to be friends.

"Can I send a letter to my parents?" Pamela said.

"No," I said.

"You're too kind to her," Mrs. Jewkes said when Pamela left the room.

"I began wrong," I told her. "She may be thawed by kindness, melted by love rather than frozen by fear."

Mrs. Jewkes sniffed and went away, and I sat down to consider a better strategy than the ones I'd used so far. I was still feverish, but I put that down to Sunday's drama and its aftermath.