Thanksgiving and Folklore

It's that time of year again! So here is my post from last year about Thanksgiving. At that time, I wasn't teaching my Folklore course and wanted to. This year, I am, and I'm thankful for that!

Thanksgiving, as it is known in America, is a relatively new holiday . . . despite the supposed link to Pilgrims and Indians.

Not that Puritans and Native Americans didn't lunch together--only, at the time, the involved parties weren't thinking, "Hey, this is Thanksgiving!" although they may have been thinking of "thanksgiving." People are generally glad not to be dead from starvation.

Not to overwhelm anyone with abstractions, but holidays usually become holidays once the thing they become a holiday for is long past. This is true of most commemorations: the Vietnam War Memorial was completed in 1982; the Korean War Veterans Memorial in 1995; and the World War II Memorial--for the war we won!--in 2004.

Commemoration always seems to occur when people fear that the thing being commemorated has already been forgotten (and it probably has).

Another point is that holidays will accummulate traditions which are explained/justified/linked to the holiday's history AFTER they have accummulated. Human beings are wonderful at seeing connections; they are also wonderful at having purely visceral reactions. So . . . let's have a parade! BECAUSE . . . the Pilgrims and Indians would want us to.

Here's the history. During the Civil War, Sarah Josepha Hale (of "Mary had a little lamb" fame) became obsessed (there's really no other word for it) with the idea of a National Thanksgiving Holiday. Hale wrote for/edited several women's magazines. She used her position to write numerous letters and editorials and articles, etc. etc. etc. about how awesome it would be to have a National Thanksgiving Holiday.

Hale was not particularly interested in Pilgrims and Native Americans. She was more interested in a holiday that would unite the United States (this was pre-Civil War), specifically, a holiday that had New England origins. Harvest festivals and days of thanksgiving were part of early colonial life, and thanksgiving dinners were already being practiced in New England in the 19th century. In many ways, Hale was the soul-sister of Martha Stewart since what she really wanted was for everyone to come to dinner. (And the creation of the holiday led to literally thousands of books on "how to cook the perfect turkey" and "holiday crafts that children will be forced to make and then scatter about your house!"--not that I minded the crafts as a child; I only became anti-crafts as an adult.)

In October 1863, Lincoln caved, issuing a Proclamation of Thanksgiving for the last Thursday of November for Federal employees and DC residents. However, Hale died long before Congress passed Thanksgiving as a legal holiday in 1941.

Here's the commemoration bit: although Hale started campaigning for a Thanksgiving holiday in the mid-1800s, that holiday was not linked to Indians feeding poor starving Pilgrims until the late 1800s; by then, the Mayflower had become a founding story, and Native Americans were no longer a perceived threat in the United States.

In other words, not only was the "traditional" story not linked to the holiday until well after it was first suggested, the reality of the "traditional" story at the time the link was made had been--true to the exigencies of communal memory--forgotten; the real threat felt by both Pilgrims and Native Americans for each other no longer existed. (As several people point out in the Buffy episode "Pangs," you can't just apologize for wiping out a civilization plus it is against human instinct to simply roll over and play dead just because you feel very, very, very bad; the politically-correct Willow still fights the ghost Native Americans to save her friends.)

All this sounds much more cynical than I mean it to. I'm all in favor of Thanksgiving personally and although I sympathize with those who commemorate it as a National Day of Mourning (if commemoration is going around, why not commemorate the way one wants to commemorate?), I think the symbolic gesture kind of misses the point. Thanksgiving Day started out as Martha Stewart personified and ended up as football, turkey, days off from school, and Christmas shopping, all of which is not too far afield from the original gesture (I guess Hale had a point); the later linkages occurred long after any actual events took place.

Not to mention that communal memories that have a shelf-life of OVER thirty years tend to create miserable places to live: hence, the Middle East.

On the other hand, I was raised on the Thanksgiving=Pilgrims & Indians story, so the link is there, however erroneous. I wasn't raised on it in a nasty way, and I never took it very seriously (it may help the cynics amongst my readers if I clarify that I have rarely in my life believed anything a teacher told me, but that doesn't mean I feel betrayed or anything [gasp! I was lied to in high school! gasp! gasp!]; I figure that in a democracy, obtaining and discerning correct information is my responsibility).

Misguided or not, I wasn't taught Thanksgiving folklore in a "We came, we saw, we conquered" sense but in multicultural sense. Of course, this approach has its own problems. As Dave Barry writes in his A Sort of History of the United States, "Also we should keep in mind that women and minority groups were continuing to make some gigantic contributions"--which is completely patronizing (Barry's point) but hasn't stopped many university programs from practicing this approach at the expense of more accurate/less "fair" history.

Thanksgiving Traditions in Literature/Popular Culture: "John Inglefield's Thanksgiving" by Hawthorne (holiday ghost story); "Two Thanksgiving Gentlemen" by O'Henry (combines motifs of charity with eating too much); "Over the River and Through the Wood" by Lydia Maria Francis Child; numerous sitcoms where characters bemoan the preparation work of Thanksgiving and mention football.

Mr. B's Testimony: End

Interruption
Judge Hardcastle protested this time:

"A poor family history does not excuse unkindness towards your wife."

Mr. B stilled, then nodded, his eyes hooded. The judge glanced towards the CLF table. "This strife doesn't bother you?"

The CLF members looked at each other. Finally, the psychologist arose:

"In all honesty, Judge, I find the frank discussion between the parties revealing and healthy. Mr. B obviously comes from a dysfunctional background—"

Surprisingly, Mr. Shorter snorted, "Doesn't everybody?" Mr. B grinned and released a careful breath.

The psychologist continued: "I am concerned about Mr. B's temper and would recommend anger management. I would recommend it for his sister as well."

Mr. B strangled a snort that turned into a cough.

"However, to be frank, few spouses in my experience are as upfront as Mr. B about their pasts."

"If his emotional abuse continued—" a CLF member suggested.

"Yes, yes." The psychologist remembered which side he was defending. "As his sister suggested, Mr. B does have it in him to break Pamela—his wife's—spirit."

"She was back to normal the next day," Mr. B said, and the judge motioned for him to continued.

Mr. B's Testimony Corresponding to the 1st Week of Marriage continued
The next morning, Pamela and Barbara talked together. I had already given Barbara a run-down of the last few weeks. She was my first confidant, after all. Pamela told me later that my sister quizzed her on certain events and asked to see her letters. Pamela promised to send them on—with my agreement.

I was agreeable. As this hearing illustrates, Pamela's literary prose is her best advocate.

We had guests that evening, and the next day, we set out for Bedfordshire, my sister leaving us at Chawston. We arrived at home on Friday noon.

"Welcome to your own home," I said to Pamela.

Mrs. Jervis rushed to hug Pamela, and Pamela cried, "I am so happy" and called her "my other mother." I wished then that I'd sent for Mrs. Jervis to be with Pamela on her wedding day. But it was too late by then.

They went off together, and I called in Longman and Mr. Jonathan. Mr. Jonathan's greeting was perfunctory—he knew he was a good butler and I likely would have rehired him whatever Pamela's situation. Longman, however, thanked me tremulously. I felt downright guilty—to throw such a good, old man out of my employ was an unworthy act. I called him back when Pamela came down, so he could greet and congratulate her directly.

It turned out that John Arnold, who I'd also let go, was lurking about the house. "He will serve here or nowhere," Mrs. Jervis said, shaking her head.

I called him in and left him to Pamela's custody. She, naturally, returned him to my employment with the rider that he should be paid as if he never left.

While we were eating, Longman came in, and we discussed the Kent estate and other purchases that Longman wanted to make. I handed over 200 guineas to Pamela to distribute amongst the Bedfordshire servants. I also advised Longman of Pamela's budget which was to be paid to her immediately.

Pamela was rather aghast, and Longman laughed:

"Why madam," he said, "with money in stocks and one thing or another, his honor could buy half the gentlemen around him."

Pamela stared at me, and I shrugged acknowledgment back at her. I admit, I was pleased she hadn't known how wealthy I was. I've always preferred the market to farms and such.

Pamela gave twenty guineas to Mrs. Jervis and twenty to Longman. He was surprised and embarrassed but finally took it, saying he would spend it in the next nine months to celebrate a birth.

Pamela colored, and I laughed, slipping my arm around her.

"The old man said nothing shocking," I murmured in her ear when Longman went out.

"I know, but I did not expect it of him," she said.

"It is the usual way of things," I pointed out and kissed her.

She gave five guineas to each of the four maids and to the grooms and the gardener, plus John Arnold. When Mr. Jonathan came in, looking stately, Pamela seemed confused. She glanced towards me and held up all her fingers, and I nodded. Mr. Jonathan is worth every shilling of twenty guineas, but he is not as highly placed as Longman and Mrs. Jervis. Pamela gave him ten. She gave three to the lower servants and two to Tommy, the scullery-boy.

Afterwards, Pamela ducked into my library. I went to follow her and saw she was praying. I closed the door slightly and waited till she was done, then went in.

"You have some charming pictures here," Pamela said, looking demure as she indicated the walls.

"Your piety is also very charming," I told her, and she blushed self-consciously.

The Bedfordshire house is more finely appointed than the Lincolnshire one. The mistress and master have separate suites. I escorted Pamela to hers, which used to be my mother's. I wasn't sure if Pamela expected me to remove to my chambers. I certainly didn’t intend to, customary or not, but she had the right to eject me.

She didn't.

We spent Sunday at home. Longman and I went thoroughly over the household budgets for Bedfordshire and Lincolnshire. In the future, Pamela would confer with Longman, but I wanted to get things in order before I handed her the accounts. She is a quick study, but accounting is a tad out of her experience. By Monday, however, she was already compiling a list of charitable causes, using an account book that Longman got her.

I also went over my will. Should I die, I wanted Pamela to be absolutely independent; her parents would also be protected. I had seen with Carlton what happens when a man leaves this world without proper planning. He was so troubled that night, not just by his illness and the state of his soul but by the disorder of his affairs. I'd reassured him as much as I could, but I'd seen his anxiety and his wife's. There was no reason Pamela should ever suffer that.

On Tuesday, I went to visit the Arthurs. My hunting friends, Martin, Brooks, and Chambers were there.

"Are you really married?" said Mrs. Arthur.

"Yes," I said. "I married my mother's waiting-maid."

They looked at each other, and I could tell that they had planned to tease me, thinking I would hide the information. I sighed. There was nothing for it but to take them back to the house to meet Pamela.

Pamela doesn't like Martin, who considered himself a freewheeling bachelor, but she came down and was civil. He tried to tease her (and me) about the failure of marriages.

"Did ya ever think B here would marry?" he chortled. "How long will this last?"

"Forever," I said and glanced at Pamela who was watching Martin through narrowed eyes. "Her person made me her lover, but her mind made her my wife," and Pamela, startled, gaped at me and blushed. The men departed after drinks, praising Pamela which was all to the good.

We had the next day to ourselves, so I took Pamela to meet little Sally. We set off early at 6:30, arriving at the Dobson's farmhouse in time for breakfast. The boarding house, which is nearby, sends its pupils to the farmhouse on outings. I had written to the governess on Monday, asking her to include Sally in an earlier trip—if possible.

When the chaise pulled up, she was there. She and the other students scurried inside, chattering avidly as little girls of six tend to do. Pamela went after them, and I heard her asking their names and what they were studying. I followed and leaned in the doorway.

Little Sally looks a little like her mother and a little like me. She has my eyes and hair and her mother's chin. She knows me as her uncle since she knows my sister as her aunt. When the girls bounced up to visit the Dobson's beehives, she curtsied to me, and Pamela turned to study me gravely.

She followed the girls to the door but stopped beside me and to my amazement, slipped her arms around my waist.

"She goes by Miss Goodwin," I said. "It was her mother's choice."

"How can her mother bear to be apart from her?"

The question was sincere but also deliberate, and I bent to look into Pamela's face. She gave me one of her sideways glances, and I realized that in my story of Sally Godfrey, I might not have mentioned what happened to my erstwhile lover.

I held Pamela a little tighter and smiled over her head.

"She lives in Jamaica," I said. "She left soon after the child's birth, passing herself off as a young widow. She married—three years ago now. Her husband knows there is a child; he believes she is being raised by friends."

"Poor lady," Pamela said. "I am glad she is so happy at last."

"And no doubt you are glad she is so far off," I said, and Pamela nudged me with her fist.

"Does the child visit you?"

"Occasionally." I bent my head again. "She believes the story her mother has created."

I didn't say I wished I could claim the child. What was the point of wanting what would only cause pain and damage? It would do little Sally no favors to be known as illegitimate. I had to consider the child's future.

But Pamela hugged me tighter as if she guessed my feelings, then detached herself and went into the garden. She knelt beside Sally, and they watched the beehives together.

"Will you let me be your aunt?" Pamela was saying as I neared, and Sally, looking up, waved at me cheerily.

"Hullo," she said. "I haven't seen you for an age." Pure exaggeration. I saw her before I went to the Hargraves.

"Would you like to live with us?" Pamela said, and I think I actually gasped.

"Can I?" Sally said. "Can I go now?"

An ability to seize opportunities as they present themselves is a family trait.

"In the next vacation," I said.

She agreed readily. She liked her school—I'd made sure of that—and her friends. There was no reason to burden Pamela with a new household and child in one week. Not to mention her moody husband. But I was light-hearted when we returned to the carriage. I have not hoped to bring my daughter home. I had anticipated Pamela's kindness but never such magnanimity.

"Miss Godfrey could have been me," Pamela explained.

"Yes," I said, "but you aren't her. I am truly sorry for what happened to Miss Godfrey—I have been sorry for many years but that didn't stop my pursuit of you."

She raised an eyebrow, and I laughed.

"I was stopped by your virtues," I told her.

She gave me a skeptical glance, and I laughed again, but it was more or less the truth. The fact is I never anticipated that my lover could also be my friend. Miss Godfrey was compliant and affectionate at a time in my life when I badly needed affection. But compliance would never have been enough for me any more than antagonism would have attracted me. I wanted my wife to want to be my friend—that's the best way I can explain it. And Pamela did. And there we were.

We went to church on Sunday, and everyone fawned over Pamela, even Martin, who, poor man, was at loose ends now that all his pals were married. I promised to invite him often to dine. On Monday and Tuesday, I finished up the legal papers that would disburse and control my estate once I was gone. I took Pamela for a walk in the garden and explained the matter to her.

To my alarm, she burst into tears.

"I'm not planning to die soon," I told her and then, to jolly her along, "But if I should, the only person I don't want you to marry is Williams."

My reason, I explained, is that if she did, people would think she only married me for money and, once I was out of the way, had turned back to her first love.

By the time I was done, Pamela was glaring at me. I clasped her against my side:

"Isn't it nice out here?" I said. "All nature blooms around me when I have my Pamela by my side. I wrote a poem about us, you know."

I started to recite it, but Pamela encircled my neck with her arms, gave me a wry look, and kissed me. Which shut me quite effectively.

End of Testimony
Judge Hardcastle Renders His Decision
"Hmm," said Judge Hardcastle. "And from that point on?"

"We have been married for several years. I am thirty-five—"

"Making Pamela twenty-five."

"Just turned twenty-six, your honor. We've had our trials and rifts but are settled now and happy."

"Huh," the judge said and eyed the CLF table. "Your petition?"

"Although we are impressed by Mr. B's love for his wife, we still believe that the relationship was entered into precipitately. We recommend counseling as well as separate households before they resume cohabitation."

The judge harrumphed. "I confess I am concerned by the age difference although I agree that Mr. B sincerely loves his wife." He swept up his papers. "This hearing will reconvene Monday morning at 9:00."

Mr. B, surprised, jerked to his feet: "May I see my wife—?"

The judge looked pained but his voice was firm. "No, sir. I will need to review all the documents as well—" with a glance towards the clerk "—the typed transcript of this hearing."

The 18th century aficionado requested a copy of the transcript as did the CFL members.

The RFA said kindly to the stricken Mr. B, "I'm sure you'll be fine. He's a softy despite his curmudgeonly demeanor."

A CFL member, overhearing, said acidly, "Yes, but he doesn't like men who yell at their wives or girls getting married too young."

"She wasn't that young, not for our world," Mr. B said, his voice far off. "I thought once he heard I'd reformed—"

Mr. Shorter took his arm. "Come, sir, be patient, wait for Monday."

Mr. Shorter and Mr. B went out. The RFA representative shook his head. The 18th century aficionado, coming up in good humor, said, "That was an historically enlightening narrative."

"Where is Pamela anyway?" the RFA representative said to the killjoy CFL member.

"She's safe. We've put her up in a very nice hotel. She's getting a chance to work through her own issues—"

"Fictional correctiveness masked as compassion, in fact."

"I'll have you know we encouraged Fanny Price to stop being such a weakling, and she married Henry Crawford."

"Poor girl," the aficionado said absently.
*********************
"He didn't sleep at all," Mr. Shorter told the RFA representative Monday morning. They sat in the courtroom, waiting for the judge. In the well of the courtroom, Mr. B leaned over the fictionals' table, his head in his hands. "He says he hates sleeping alone. He says he hates not knowing how she's doing." Mr. Shorter sighed. "I tell you, he is much easier to manage when she's around."

The 18th century aficionado strolled in. "No decision yet?"

"I didn't expect to see you today," the RFA representative said. "Weren't you just collecting contextual information?"

"Well, you know, it's hard not to get invested. I can see why the novel was so popular when it was published."

The CFL table was populated only by its chairperson and the CFL psychologist. A CFL member burst into the room at the same time the clerk announced, "All rise for the honorable Judge Hardcastle." There was a brief flurry of self-effacement, everyone stood, and then the CFL member blurted, "Has your honor read today's newspaper?"

"Wait," Judge Hardcastle barked and settled himself. "What?"

The CFL member hurried to the stand and handed a folded newspaper across the bench. The judge frowned at it.

"This editorial was written by Mrs. B? By Pamela?"

"Yes."

Mr. B raised his head.

"How did she see the hearing transcripts?"

"A copy was delivered to the CFL chairperson at Pamela's hotel room. She must have taken it—"

"Your honor, I confess, I didn't notice it was gone—"

"Clearly, the hearing should be disbanded until this has blown over—"

The judge waved them all into silence. "I would like to speak to Mrs. B directly."

Mr. B's breath shortened. Mr. Shorter patted his arm. The CFL members huddled together.

"That wasn't a request," the judge said.

Another befuddled flurry of movement, then the courtroom door opened, and a slim young woman walked in. She studied the company, her eyes resting on Mr. B who looked back gravely. She stepped forward between the tables.

"Mrs. Pamela B," the judge said, "did you send this editorial to the newspaper?"

"I called it in," she said in a low, clear voice. "It was faster."

"In it, you criticize your protectors." The judge glanced down at the newspaper: "you refer to the CFL as 'citizens of low repute who deign to disrupt the holy sacrament of marriage.' You did write that?"

"Yes."

"'Sad souls who prey upon the goodness of deserving masters'?"

A faint smile touched the corner of Mr. B's mouth. He kept his eyes on his wife.

"Yes."

"You quote here at length from Friday's hearing. How did you obtain a copy of the transcript?"

Pamela shrugged. "It was delivered to the place where I have been imprisoned."

"It was not addressed to you."

Pamela opened her eyes wide. "Was it not? I assumed I had rights to any literature in the suite. I was incessantly informed of my rights by my kidnappers."

Mr. B bit his lip and stared fixedly at the table. The RFA representative was grinning openly.

"The passages you chose to quote are more than a little provocative."

"I felt the need to defend my religious beliefs."

"Involving a lot of overly opinionated people," the judge muttered, his eyes returning to the editorial.

The CFL members become to clamor: "Your honor, the young woman is under a misapprehension—" "This is grossly prejudicial behavior. An injunction against the newspaper—" "Pamela's belief that we imprisoned here is clearly reflective of—"

Judge Hardcastle said to Pamela, "You go on to criticize CFL action in other cases. How did you know about these?"

"I did research on . . . the web? As my husband will tell you, I'm a quick learner."

The judged glanced at her husband who, hand pressed to his chin, kept his head down.

The CFL members began whining again. Suddenly, the judge shouted. He stood, black gown sliding sideways, and waved the newspaper:

"Did you people," he shouted at the CFL, "did you people really remove the Lilliputians from Gulliver's Travels?"

There was a brief stunned silence. The 18th century aficionado pulled out the notebook.

A CFL member stammered, "They . . . they were examples of prejudice against Little People."

"They were thoughtful depictions of human pride and smugness. Haven't you ever seen Night in the Museum?"

The RFA representative had to lie down on the bench from laughing. Pamela raised a brow.

"That's it. Case dismissed. Pamela, Miss Andrews, Mrs. B, whoever you are, take your husband home. And good luck to you." The judge stormed out, his wrinkled robe clumping around his legs.

"Who would know it was one of the judge's favorite novels?" The 18th century aficionado tried to console the CFL. They grumbled and glared at Pamela.

She waited for the judge to depart, then crossed to stand beside her husband. Without looking up, he slid an arm around her shoulders and released a slow, deep breath.

"Well," the aficionado said to the RFA representative, "where are you off to next?"

"Pride & Prejudice. The CFL won't win. Too many fans. But the arguments are always interesting."

"Hmm. I'm checking out the hearing for Congreve's Way of the World." They were at the courtroom door. The 18th century aficionado looked back at Mr. and Mrs. B. They hadn't moved but stood close together, fair and dark heads glossed by the soft morning light from the windows.

"You think they will be okay?"

"Of course," the RFA representative said. "He read her letters. Now, she got to read his."

And, at the table, Mr. B said softly, "You read the transcript?"

"All of it."

He threw her a sideways, wary glance. "And you still love me?"

Her mouth creased, laughter spilling into her eyes. She turned, slipping her arms around his neck. He pressed his face to her shoulder.

Laughter spilled into her voice.

"I read your thoughts," she said, "and loved you more."

THE END
I hope to add an epilogue based on Book 2 (yes, there was a second book!) at some later date.

Television Update

Joss Whedon Actors

I recently reviewed Chuck, as did Mike, for the Mike-Kate Video Club. Last week, we reviewed Castle. A thought occurred to me: every actor should be required to go through Whedon-camp.

Both Nathan Fillion and Adam Baldwin are Joss Whedon graduates, and both of them make a tremendous difference to the quality of their respective shows. I think, in part, Whedon's success with actors is that he allows them to play more than "that guy/gal every week who . . . " David Boreanaz certainly grew as an actor while in Whedon's care.

Wonder Woman

Recently, I also started watching Wonder Woman. And boy! talk about having a light bulb go on--a number of things clicked in my brain as I watched the beginnings of Seasons 1 & 2:

1. For instance, I was curious why two such disparate characters as Brennan (from Bones) and Roz (from Frasier) would be written as admiring Wonder Woman.

Now I know why. Lynda Carter is truly amazing. When you consider that the show was made in 1975 and a whole decade of annoying, whiny, supposedly "strong" women would come between her and Scully, she is even more amazing. Lynda Carter was Scully and Brennan and Cordelia and Samantha Carter before those confident, professional women were glints in anyone's eye. She plays Wonder Woman with complete unself-consciousness. She holds her head high; she isn't cowed or alarmed by anyone. And she never whines. It isn't the material. It really is the actress.

2. Wonder Woman explained Bruce Boxleitner to me.

Bruce Boxleitner plays Scarecrow in Scarecrow & Mrs. King and although I love the show, I've never understood the casting. Bruce B. is so . . . bland. He is supposed to be playing this suave, sexy CIA agent, and he is neither hunky enough (David B.) or strange enough (David D.) to really pull it off. He's just . . . bland. Don't get me wrong: Bruce B. is a respectable actor. But James Bond he isn't.

And I never understood why anyone said, "A-ha, he's the man to play our cool, charismatic CIA operative!"

Until I watched Wonder Woman. Bruce B. could be Lyle Waggoner's kid brother. I went, "Oh, that's the look they were going for."

By the way, Lyle Waggoner is even blander than Bruce B. Interestingly enough, Lynda Carter--who is obviously no fool--played Diana Prince/Wonder Woman as interested but certainly not infatuated with "Steve" (Lyle W.) from day one. She has this way of tilting her head and saying, "Hmmm" even in the midst of inane dialog that makes clear how totally unimpressed Diana Prince/Wonder Woman is by Steve's "Oh, Diana, it's too bad you aren't as beautiful as Wonder Woman" dialog.

(Actually, now that I think about it, the women in 1970s Columbo episodes are a lot like Lynda Carter. It really was the 80's with Murphy Brown and Maddie Hayes, etc. etc. that created the angst-filled/whiny BUT I'M STILL TOUGH supposed feminist heroine.)

In any case, with Wonder Woman I was reminded of something I already knew: writers in Hollywood know their Hollywood history. Being able to "place" Wonder Woman in that history explained to me where a lot of writers have gotten their inspiration/ideas.

Just one more piece of the media puzzle.

Law & Order: UK

Finally! Netflix doesn't have it (available), but my local videostore does. I was unbelievably excited about this show, and I'm glad to report that it didn't disappoint.

Basically, the episodes are remakes of original Law & Order episodes. It is interesting to see what translates and what doesn't. Of course, I'm not 1st generation British (just fifth generation), so I don't really know if any of it translates.

However, from my American p.o.v., I thought the tenants' rights issue didn't translate but the 13-year-old killer did. I realize that Londoners have tenant issues, but the original tenants' rights episode is so incredibly New Yorkish in its arguments and setting, the translation seemed a bit belabored.

The 13-year-old killer, however, seemed to translate with very little effort. England has had its share of crazy young killers!

In any case, the cast is more than good: Harriet Walter plays the Van Buren/Cragen role; Jamie Bamber puts in a remarkable performance playing the Noth role (Bamber is one of those baby-faced actors who can be seriously underestimated but is actually extremely good at anything he does); Ben Daniels does a surprisingly good job playing a softer version of Ben Stone; Bradley Walsh (who I was not familiar with) is beyond excellent playing the Sorvino/Briscoe role; and Freema Agyeman, who I did not care for in Doctor Who, does a great job in the Robinette role (she really does make a far more believable prosecutor than a crazy mythic figure's sidekick).

I can't forget Bill Paterson in the Adam Schiff role! What is it about adorable grumpy old men? (Adam Schiff never fails to make me laugh; his deadpan, c'est la vie sarcasm reminds me of Brass on CSI.)

One of the fun things about Law & Order: UK is how many British guest stars I recognize: Sean Pertwee, Patrick Malahide, Lesley Manville!

I really feel like I'm watching Law & Order, Seasons 1-3 again, back when Law & Order was REALLY good.

Mr. B's Testimony X

Mr. B's Testimony Corresponding to the 1st Week of Marriage continued
I woke to dull, constant thudding and a piercing shriek. Someone was at the chamber door. Pamela was clutching me and saying, "Don't let her in."

I decided then that my sister was completely insane. It was her voice outside the chamber door. She was shrieking loud enough to waken the household. Based on the light outside the window, it was not much past six. I cursed and got out of bed, groping for my dressing gown.

"Don't," Pamela said, and I said, "If she wants proof we're married, she might as well get it," and stomped to the door.

My sister, Barbara, barreled in.

"You can't hide your wickedness from me," she yelled.

"Why should I hide?" I snapped. "This is my house."

Barbara stared at the bed and began waving her arms. "Witness this," she cried to Jackey and her waiting woman who stood in the hall. "The creature is in his bed."

"Get out," I roared at Jackey before he could witness anything, and he slinked away. I stomped back to the bed and put my arm around Pamela. "Come closer, Beck," I said to my sister's waiting woman. "I want you to see my dear angel. Don't be afraid, Pamela."

Barbara shrieked, "Wicked, abandoned wretch," and I'd had enough. I picked her up—she's a tall woman but shorter than me—and carried her out of the room to her chamber where I dumped her on the bed. I turned to Beck.

"Look after your lady," I said. "But do not either of you leave this apartment until she is calmer," and I returned to Pamela. She was shaking, so I hugged her and left her in her closet (she was already writing before I was gone) and went downstairs to straighten out the servant situation. My sisters' servants are, in general, very loyal, which is commendable. But they had no rights in my household. I made this clear both in the house proper and in the stables.

I went to fetch Pamela for breakfast. She didn't want to come down. "I don't want my presence to aggravate your sister," she said, looking up at me from her desk.

"I'll eat with you then," I said.

"No, sir. No, eat with your sister."

I didn't like it, but I knew Pamela was right. My sister was my responsibility. Besides, there was no reason Pamela's meal should be ruined because my family can't control itself. I sent some chocolate and toast up to Pamela through Mrs. Jewkes.

I ended up eating breakfast alone. Barbara was still too upset, and Jackey was out somewhere, avoiding me, which was wise. I badly wanted to take a ride, but I didn't want to leave Pamela in the house without me. I tried to get some work done in the study. Towards noon, I went upstairs and into Barbara's chamber. She was pacing, hands clenched at her sides.

"I am married," I said, leaning against the door frame. "You should become accustomed to the idea."

"I refuse to believe you would belittle our name so much."

"It is no longer your name," I said. "Nor has it been belittled. Pamela is very like our good mother—"

"How dare you?" she shouted. "To marry so low when you could have the highest born lady in the land—"

"I was never so sought after," I told her. "It was your own imaginings that created a marriage of great significance between me and some silly girl."

"Silly? Silly? You go and marry a baby-faced slut—"

I let the slur go, for the moment: "So, you admit, Pamela and I are married."

"No, I don't. Tell me you aren't." She faced me, hands tightly clasped. "Tell me you have not sunk so low."

"I have married," I said. "I have married Miss Andrews—"

She scoffed at my use of Pamela's maiden name.

"I have married Miss Andrews, and I am well-pleased with the marriage. She is—" I laughed softly—"a very good match for me."

I wanted to tell my sister then about Pamela's character, how she cared about me, made me happy and comfortable. She also kept me honest, challenged me and provoked my interest: Pamela was no light or superficial character. I confess, I wanted my sister to approve.

Barbara laughed, and her laugh was not kind: "She is a match for your bad behavior," she shouted.

I turned and went downstairs and into the garden. If I'd stayed I would have struck someone or thrown something.

After a long walk, I went to fetch Pamela for dinner and while I was there, Barbara barged into our chamber.

"Do I have to follow you all over the house?" she said when she saw me in the closet. "Do I deserve to be shunned by you?"

"You brought it on yourself," I said. "You have insulted me, insulted my house, insulted a person dearer to me than any other. Our mother never acted like this."

She sneered. "So much contempt for a sister that loves you and so much tenderness for a vile—"

I strode across the floor and put my hand over her mouth. "Be silent," I said. "You don't know what false charges you are making."

She burst into tears. When Pamela cries, I take notice. When my sister cries, it is not because she is hurt; it is because she has been thwarted. I strode around the bed chamber. Pamela had come to the closet door and watched us carefully, cautiously—cat-like.

"Am I not independent?" I said to Barbara. "Am I not of age? Why did you use your husband to send me a lecturing letter?"

"Listen to his self-importance," she said. "Ever since your Italian duel, brother, you have strutted about like a manslayer.

I glanced towards Pamela. Her eyes were wide.

I said as much to her as to Barbara, "I am not ashamed of that duel." And to my sister directly, "The issue is the liberties you take with Pamela."

"That little strumpet—"

I exploded. She was using my past against me like she always did, and she was deriding my wife at every opportunity.

"Get out!" I yelled. "I renounce you. I renounce my relation to you."

I took her by the arm. She clung to the curtains like a little girl rather than a woman in her thirties. "I won't," she yelled back at me, "not in front of her."

And suddenly Pamela was in the room between me and Barbara, which was not wise.

"Don't," she said, "don't be unkind to your own sister."

"Am I supposed to owe my brother's forgiveness to you?" Barbara said.

"That's enough, Pamela," I said as calmly as I could. I couldn’t bear that she would take my sister's part against me.

I put my hand against Pamela's back and propelled her into the closet. She sat on the chair and began to cry. It was much worse than my sister's tears, but I was too angry to care at that point. Right then, I wanted to be in Nottingham with Hargrave.

Beck had arrived in the chamber and was trying to calm Barbara who was yammering on about the bed again: it was a site of great wickedness, blah, blah, blah.

"It's my bridal bed," I said.

"Swear to me that Pamela Andrews is truly your lawful wife."

"I already told you, but yes, I will swear. She is."

"Who married you? Was it not a broken attorney in a parson's habit?" A reference to the sham marriage. I don't know how she heard about it, but, like always, she planned to use any mistake on my part against me.

"Mr. Williams married us. Parson Peters gave her away. The ceremony was performed on my land in my little chapel. Mrs. Jewkes was present."

That actually quieted her for almost a minute. She stared at me and bit her lip.

"I'm glad our father and mother didn't live to see this day," she said finally.

"What would they have said?"

"They would have given their consent," I said. At least, my mother would have. My father would have banned me from the house, but he wouldn't have stopped the marriage—he never concerned himself that much about my life. In any case, "I do not require your consent, madam."

"Suppose," she said archly, "I had married father's groom—what do you say to that?"

I folded my arms and shook my head. "Does your pride see no difference? A man ennobles the woman he takes, be she who she is. He adopts her into his rank, be that what it will. But a woman, though nobly born, debases herself by a mean marriage, descending to the rank of the man."

This may not be fair. I suppose the members of this democratic hearing think it appalling. But it was the reality of my existence. And my sister's. And Pamela's. The man was the head of his household, the wife a member of that household.

"Excuses," Barbara said but half-heartedly. "I suppose all young men should marry their serving wenches."

"If they are all like Pamela," I said, "why not? She's better than both of us."

"Oh, you worship her like an idolater." She was back to sneering. She strode into the closet. I didn't stop her, but I followed closely.

"Well, Pamela," she said to my wife, "you have done wonders. You have made my rake brother a preacher. But don't you dare call me sister."
Pamela didn't answer. She was no longer crying, and her chin was set, but I saw how her hands clenched the table. If I had been less angry, I would have sent my sister and Beck out and spent time comforting her, but I wasn't thinking entirely rationally.

"Let's go to dinner," I said. "Pamela, I hope you will give me and Lady Davers your company."

Barbara jerked. "How dare you include her!"

"Don't vex her," Pamela said quietly.

"You'll get nowhere with her, my dear," I said to her.

"I'm leaving this house," Barbara cried and ran out of the room.

Good. I could get on with my marriage which I had been enjoying.

But Pamela was at my elbow, saying, "Follow her."

"If you come with me."

She held back.

"I charge you to come down," I said and went out.

Barbara had ordered her servants to fetch her things and prepare her carriage. She was situated on a seat in the foreyard with Beck, looking forlorn. I went into the parlor and walked about in a lessening fury. My sister was the only sibling I had. When I was rational again, I suppose I wouldn't want to break with her absolutely.

I called out the window for her to come in. Jackey sauntering up just then, I told him to escort her since she wouldn't give me the honor. Barbara is a glutton for flattery. She came in but balked when Pamela arrived.

"Must I sit at the same table with that creature?"

"Come now, aunt," Jackey said, "we must not forget common courtesies. If they are actually married, there's no help for it. We mustn't make mischief."

"I will wait on you," Pamela said to Barbara.

"No, you won't," I said.

I sat Barbara on my right and Pamela on my left. That relaxed Pamela, but it bothered my sister, who tried to get Beck to sit next to Pamela (implying, you understand, that Pamela was no better than a servant), but I caught Beck's eye, and Beck stayed on her feet.

Barbara sat sideways on her chair, not looking at us. When I served her, she hit my shoulder. "That's how wives behave," she told me.

I gritted my teeth and smiled. "You haven't hit me in a long time," I told her, not since I was sixteen, at least.

Jackey was gaping. "You're very patient," he said. "She hits me all the time."

"And her husband," I said.

Pamela pressed her foot to mine and shook her head. I guess she felt sorry we men were ganging up on my sister, but Barbara was behaving like a brat. Besides, Pamela should be on my side.

Barbara behaved better once the servants came in, remembering her station and curbing her tongue. Not that the entire household hadn't heard every word of our arguments, but there's a difference between screeching at me in private and screeching at me in front of the footmen. I turned the conversation to innocuous topics.

"We're going to Bedfordshire tomorrow," I said when the servants had withdrawn.

"Would you care to accompany us? You and Pamela could share the carriage—" under the table, Pamela's hand clutched mine—"and when we reach home, Lord Davers could come stay. You could help Pamela choose clothes, go with us to church—"

"I will do no such thing," Barbara snapped and went to slap me. I took her wrist and tried to remember that she was my sister and Pamela wanted us to all be friends.

"Dear aunt," Jackey said with his mouth full, "he isn't asking you to do anything out of the common."

Barbara was building up to a rage again, her mouth set, her cheeks crimson.

"May I go?" Pamela said to me, and I nodded. As she neared the door, I said, "Look at her: there goes a sweet, beautiful lady."

I admit—I said it to provoke my sister, and she reacted. Oh, yes.

"I'm sure I would dote on her as much as you if she were my harlot."

And Pamela turned back. Her voice was shaking but her eyes were steady, flinty even:

"Your ladyship is cruel," she said. "It is no surprise that gentlemen take liberties when ladies of honor say such things. Your lady's interference, if your brother had not made me so happy, would cause me great misery."

I rose. Pamela's passion had tipped the balance; my sister had to go.

Behind me, "No fear, wench," Barbara called, "you will hold him as long as anybody can. Poor Sally Godfrey never had half the interest in him, I assure you."

And everything broke. Sally Godfrey was a young lady I romanced when I was nineteen. The affair was mutual though I grant, now, that the lady in the case always suffers more than the man. Her mother tried to force us to marry, by sword point if you can imagine that; I refused, thinking Sally was part of the plot. She wasn't, and later, when she contacted me to make amends, we resumed our liaison. She got pregnant which is when my sister entered the picture. She took care of Sally during her lying in, then tended the child—named for her mother—and established her in a boarding house. I am grateful to my sister for all that, but it was the sort of thing she held over me in extremes.

I had not wanted Pamela to hear about it this way. I'd wanted her to meet the child, not have the child thrown at her head in the middle of an argument.

Nor did I want to have memories of Sally evoked at that moment. I had loved Sally as much as a callow nineteen-years-old can. I had importuned and chased her as much as I'd importuned and chased Pamela. I thank God I didn't catch her—in retrospect, we were not well-suited—but the affair had a lasting effect on my heart if not my morals.

My sister knew this. She knew what she was doing when she mentioned Sally.

"Stay," I said to Pamela, my voice shaking now. "My sister has accused me of being a dueler and a profligate. I want to answer those charges."

The duel came about because a man of title in Italy attempted to assassinate a friend of mine. The reason was neither a sister nor a fortune; rather, the man owed my friend money. He accused my friend of cheating, then, when that failed, used intermediaries to try to kill him. I challenged the man to a duel. I wounded him, and he later died—of the wounds or of fever, I don't know. His relations made a half-hearted attempt to pursue me, but gave it up when I wrote them a full account of the business. I may have also sent them money. In any case, they let the matter drop, and I wasn't sorry for my part in the business.

I told all this to Pamela and then told her about Sally.

"That's all the bad my worthy sister can tell you," I said, looking straight at Pamela who met my eyes. "I wanted to tell you at a more proper time when I could have convinced you that I wasn't boasting of my prowess but rather telling you of my concerns."

They were both silent. Pamela gave me a small half-smile, and ordinarily, I would have relaxed from her support, but I was still agitated over Barbara's indiscretion. I'd told the stories as I knew them without pause or reflection—much less reflection than I am showing now.

"Oh, brother," Barbara said in a pleading voice. "Oh, Pamela, stay to hear me beg his pardon."

It was always the same—she would rage and destroy and then act the innocent. I broke away and stormed out of the parlor into the garden.

"Get my carriage ready," I said to Colbrand. I needed to get away, to be somewhere other than that house. I saw Barbara and Pamela come into the garden and strode away from them. I didn't want to speak to anyone. I didn't want Pamela to see me so angry.

They rushed after me. "Stop," Barbara called, "I have asked Pamela to be my advocate. That should pacify you."

It didn't. She had co-opted Pamela like she tried to co-opt everything. And Pamela had agreed. Pamela was urging her on now.

"If you'll forgive me, I'll forgive you," Barbara said.

Typical. Typical for my sister to cause an upheaval and then try to pass around the blame.

"I wish you well," I said, "but we should not come near each other anymore. I'm going to Bedfordshire."

"Without me?" Pamela said uncertainly, and there were tears in her eyes.

"You'll break her spirit," Barbara said, shaking her head.

She was, in fact, ranging herself on Pamela's side—as she would do when I quarreled with anyone other than herself. I wish I could say I did it on purpose. I didn't. I was really furious with both of them, more so since I knew my anger at Pamela was irrational.

Barbara threw up her hands. "I only said what I did because I love you."

"It was spite," I told her.

"Very well. I own it. And now I will be gone." She turned to Pamela. "God bless you," she said and kissed her.

She'd gone from "creaturing" to "God blessing" Pamela in less than twenty-four hours. I groaned.

"Women are the devil," I said. I looked at Pamela's white, stunned face. I thought, Welcome to the family, Pamela.

I went and put my arms around her and Barbara's waists.

"You see how he behaves when offended," Barbara said to Pamela. "Though I've never known him make up so soon."

"I'll take care how I behave," Pamela said shakily.

That chilled me. I truly disliked seeing Pamela cowed. She needed a break from me. I sent her into the house and took Barbara and Jackey on an airing. Barbara was in high good humor as she usually is after a fight. I am not so inclined.

"Oh, you are so stiff," she said, laughing.

We ended up stopping to see Lady Jones who was dining with the Darnfords. I sent a note to Pamela that we would return later than expected. I wanted the Lincolnshire families to see that Barbara was reconciled to my marriage. The Davers' name carries some weight, after all.

Barbara put on a great show of amazement at hearing the Darnfords praise Pamela, but she mostly did it to tease me. I wasn't in the mood, and she then teased me for behaving like a stately married man. I tried to smile, but I was thinking about Pamela and wishing I could go home and talk to her about what had happened.

Barbara loves company, and I wanted her to hear how Pamela was treated by the Lincolnshire gentry, so we stayed until ten. Pamela was still up when we returned home, talking to Mrs. Jewkes and Beck. She looked up cautiously as we came in, and I went and kissed her.

"My sister has been hearing your praises, Pamela," I said and grinned crookedly at her.

She nodded solemnly. My heart ached.

Barbara sat with Pamela for a half hour, providing a monologue of the night's entertainment. I went up to the bed chamber. I heard Barbara a few minutes later, prattling to Beck on the stairs.

Pamela came in a few minutes later. She stood hesitantly by the door. Her behavior reminded me of the days before our marriage. I held out a hand, and she neared me, took it. I gripped her hand tightly.

"I thought you'd taken her part," I explained. One haranguing female in the family was enough; I couldn’t bear if Pamela sided with my sister against me.

She shook her head. "I wanted to reconcile you. I offended without realizing it."

"When I get angry like that," I said, "it is better to leave me alone. I always come to myself, and I am sorry for the violence of my temper—so much like my sister's! I hope I will not be tyrannical with you, that you will bear with me. It is just, when I am in such a mood, it is better to be a reed than an oak—to bend with the hurricane than to try to resist it." To let me work out the problem myself rather than fix it for me, in fact.

"I'll try," she said.

We'd dressed for bed and sat against the headboard, my arms around Pamela. She snuggled against me, and I sighed in relief.

"We had terrible upbringings," I said. "My sister and I. You know how our class is raised—born to large expectations, educated badly, humored by nurses, indulged. My father was a stern, humorless man, but even he ignored my willfulness towards others because I was a gentleman. My mother bore the brunt of my insolence. She was a fine woman, but she saw her own marriage as a game to be won."

Pamela protested. She had liked my mother.

"Their unhappiness was more his doing than hers, but my mother still preferred to make her own arrangements than to reach an understanding. Most marriages in our class are entered into by two headstrong and arrogant people who plague each other to eternity. The gentleman has never been controlled. The lady has never been contradicted. Their expectations of each other are wildly at variance with reality. They quarrel, appeal to parents and friends. They end up in separate beds—" Pamela made a soft noise of disgust, and I hugged her more tightly—"and finally settle into either indifference or aversion."

I didn't want that. I couldn't bear the idea.

"And should I never contradict you?" Pamela said softly, running a finger down my hand.

"Yes," I said, "but not for contradiction's sake. I want us to behave reasonably, Pamela. I don't want you taking part in outside quarrels against me, especially when my quarrel is not with you."

She nodded, and I raised her hand to my lips.

"It isn't that you've done anything so bad," I said, "or anything at all, really, but I don't want my private family to have divided loyalties."

She turned then and studied my face. I let her look, let her see my uneasiness—that my sister, however much I loved her, reminded me of worse scenes, scenes I never wanted to see repeated.

Pamela brushed my hair out of my eyes, leaned forward and kissed me.

I honestly don't know, even now, what I did to deserve her.

Mr. B's Testimony IX

Mr. B's Testimony Corresponding to the 1st Week of Mr. B and Pamela's Marriage
I was, admittedly, quite nervous when I entered Pamela's bedchamber. The associations with that room were not pleasant ones, and I was wondering if I should have moved the wedding night to my bedchamber. However, it is customary for the man to wait on the woman at this time. It allows her to make the invitation.

She was seated on the edge of the bed in her dressing gown. I stood by the door and watched her. She'd let down her hair; it had been cut where she was struck by the bricks, and the short strands fluttered about her face which was serene, remote, wholly contemplative.

I said, "I would rather not put off this evening, Pamela, but if you—"

She looked up, focused on me, and I waited, hardly breathing. She smiled then, shyly, and I went to her and took her hands.

"Are you thinking of the night I tried to ravish you?" I said.

She looked surprised. "No," she said. "I was considering what a strange path I have been on that has deposited me here."

"Not an entirely happy path."

"I suppose not. But I don't remember it with reluctance. "Only," she studied me gravely, "I wonder if I will please you."

I laughed and sat beside her. "I am not the libertine you have imagined, Pamela. There were indiscretions, a few liaisons, and some poor behavior, but I was never profligate. Wild behavior in young men does not always follow the same path. I have no diseases."

She nodded, her head against my shoulder.

"You have enjoyed my kisses," I pointed out; in the dim candlelight, I saw her blush.

"Even in my mother's house," I added boldly and waited for expostulation.

She slid off the bed then and faced me.

"You were very naughty there," she said, and her lips twitched.

I pulled her between my knees and gave her a kiss, not the type of kiss I'd given her before but a kiss more frank and full. There was a brief moment when Pamela neither approached nor retreated—she must considered everything—and then she was there, in my arms, all of her with no restraint.

This hearing does not require that I detail our actual lovemaking nor would my wife thank me for such tactlessness. She is private, not prudish; there is a difference. I will say that she did not pull back at any point. Her scruples were never about the act itself but about her role in that act. Once she was permitted full expression, she expressed herself. Anyone who has read her writing should know how easily that would come to her.

I woke towards morning. The faintest light from the windows showed me Pamela's outline. She was seated cross-legged beside me, her back against my thigh. I wondered for a moment if she was writing her parents and if they would thank her for such a letter, but the room was too dark for writing. I reached out and touched her arm.

She turned, taking my hand.

"Are you in pain?" I said.

"No," she said vaguely. "I was thinking about the marriage service."

Trust Pamela to revert to theological considerations after a bout of more than satisfying sex.

She said. "A man is supposed to love his wife like his own body."

"'With my body, I thee worship,'" I said sleepily.

"Yes. We are one flesh—"

"Like my goods," I pointed out on a yawn.

"Yes. Which means," Pamela said, "that your body is my property."

That woke me up.

"And," she went on with legal precision, "I have rights to it."

Quod erat demonstrandum.

Which she did.

I went back to my chamber towards morning; Pamela was still asleep. I didn't expect her to wake until late. Frankly, I was only awake because I needed to send letters to town and check what money I had in the house. I am usually up by six in any case.

Pamela was awake by mid-morning, and we ate breakfast together. She was, unfortunately, completely embarrassed by her, uh, aggressiveness in the early morning hours, and I kept the topic on household tasks. I gave Pamela fifty guineas to send to her parents and 100 to distribute amongst the Lincolnshire servants. She caviled at being trusted to handle so much money, and I said, "You will need to act as my wife ought." I understood her nervousness, but she would have to shake it off. As my wife, she had the right to command, to put the servants in order, even to stand up to my sister.

She exercised her right to command later that day. She wanted me to reinstate the Bedfordshire servants I had let go. This was no great hardship. I was a little uneasy about their dealings with my sister, but now that I'd married Pamela, even I could have to deal with my sister.

I sent a letter of reinstatement to Mr. Longman, instructing him to rehire Mr. Jonathan and Mrs. Jervis. Pamela wrote directly to Mrs. Jervis. I was handsomely rewarded by Pamela for my agreement with multiple kisses. Pamela had not yet adopted a lady's dignity over ordinary household matters. Privately, I hoped she never would.

I also began to arrange for the Andrews to take possession of a farm on my Kent estate. They would not be required to pay rent, and I would send them fifty pounds per year besides. I discussed the plan with Pamela the next day; I wanted her to write her parents about my proposal.

I also wanted to acquaint Pamela with her household budget which would be 200 pounds a year. I got a great deal of thanks for that as well, and it was perhaps a tad generous but not overly so for a lady in Pamela's position.

I'd slept in my own chamber, alone, Friday night. I was contemplating whether to address the sleeping arrangements at supper on Saturday when Pamela forestalled me. As she rose from the table, she said, blushing, "You are going to attend me tonight?"

Short of falling on my knees and saying, "Good God, yes," I managed to convey my agreement. I took my dressing down directly to her chamber and changed in front of her. Pamela didn't mind. She is, as I've mentioned, a fast learner.

She was hardly self-conscious at all at breakfast.

We got into a mild argument that morning about wifely duties. I'd been a bachelor long enough to form certain definite opinions about good wifely behavior versus bad wifely behavior, and I was bold—or foolish—enough to communicate those opinions to Pamela. To summarize, it annoyed me when a wife began to take her husband for granted, to become careless in her dress and behavior. I'd seen many wives cold-shoulder their husbands when his friends dropped in on him unexpectedly. It was the type of situation that left one in no doubt that she would abuse him thoroughly once the friends left. The wife, I told Pamela, should demonstrate a better temper.

"What good advice," Pamela said with deceptive meekness. "You provided me with an excellent example of this when Sir Charles Hargrave visited."

I eyed her; she beamed seraphically back at me.

"I do not always follow the doctrines I lay down, Pamela," I said. "I doubt I shall ever be half as perfect as you."

She didn't roll her eyes though she came damn close. She was more amused by my strictures on Lady Arthur who spent an entire supper party obsessing over one of her footman's mistakes. The poor man dropped a china dish, and Lady Arthur was so embarrassed, she used the rest of the evening to promote a discussion of careless servants.

"I had nightmares about broken glass for a week," I told Pamela. "I really did."

We had no disagreements about our daily schedule. I wake at six, usually. I liked to have dinner around two and supper at eight, and I saw no good reason—bar unexpected visitors—we shouldn't retire at eleven.

We had no disagreements, as I said, but that didn't stop Pamela from teasing me. She came down to my study before dinner, saying, "Do you have any more kind injunctions to give me? I could listen to you all day long."

I took in her mocking eyes (I was receiving fewer sideways and more direct glances in the last two days) and had to grin.

"There can be no friendship without freedom and communication," I said. "If you find any fault with me, you should tell me."

She kissed me instead which I didn't mind. I slid my hands around her waist.

"I'll regret when you lose this shape," I said. "But I won't mind the cause."

She blushed then as red a color as I've ever seen. "That's the freest thing you've said since our marriage," she told me.

It wasn't the freest thing I'd done. "Would it be unwelcome?" I said.

She pressed her face to my waistcoat.

"No," she said, and I kissed her and told her more silly stories of my visits to great houses.

The Darnfords, Lady Jones, and the Peters came to dine that afternoon. We announced our marriage to the company. Sir Simon teased Pamela as usual. Anna Darnford looked miffed. Lady Darnford and Miss Darnford congratulated us kindly.

Things were going well.

Until Monday.

Interruption
"I protest," said the CLF psychologist. "Mr. B is whitewashing his behavior. Can you deny—" turning towards Mr. B before Judge Hardcastle could intervene "—can you deny that Pamela—Miss Andrews—was bullied by you after the wedding into uncharacteristic passivity? During the time period you detail, she did not once object to her patronage or castigate your behavior."

Mr. B eyed him curiously. "Not directly, no. Have you ever been married? We both behaved out of character—for several days, I might add. I've never 'beloved' and 'deared' someone so much in my life. Or," he added, smiling faintly, "been 'beloved' and 'deared' in turn. We were besotted. Can you blame us?"

"Absolutely not," said Judge Hardcastle smiling.

"You got yourself a complaisant chattel, in fact," said a CFL member, and Mr. B tensed. Mr. Shorter patted his arm.

"My wife is my equal in station and my better in character. You talk of her," Mr. B said, levelly, "no differently than my sister did."

"We are coming to that—on Monday evening you sent a letter to your wife, addressing her as Mrs. Andrews. If you were truly married—"

Mr. Shorter stood quickly.

"I have the marriage certificate here. By the rules of the novel, it is a legally binding document."

The clerk took the certificate to the judge. Mr. B sat back and stared fixedly out the windows.

"Yes, this looks in order," the judge said. "I am curious, however. Why did you have to send a letter to your wife three days after your wedding?"

"And why did he refer to her as Mrs. Andrews?"

"It was a joke," Mr. B said to the windows. "She has a sense of humor, my wife. I sometimes think she's the only one who does."

"I see." The judge eyed the set face. "Why don't you explain Monday to us, Mr. B?"

Mr. B's Testimony Corresponding to the 1st Week of Marriage continued
I got a letter Monday morning that a friend of mind, Carlton, was dying. I had a mortgage on part of his estate, and I was his executor. I needed to be present in case he wished to change his will or had any last minute instructions. I left Pamela unwillingly, but she had said she could entertain herself. I trusted marriage hadn't changed her in that regard.

Carlton lived eighteen miles off. I got there a little past noon. His wife was distressed; the physician had come and gone, having done little except serve a notice of death. Carlton had a fever and fluid in the lungs; I doubted he would last the night. I couldn't leave him. I wrote Pamela a letter telling her to go on to the Darnfords without me; we had agreed to dine with them the next day, and I doubted I would arrive there on time. If she went, even without me, the family would be gratified. I hoped to join her by tea-time.

Carlton died early Tuesday morning in my arms. I spent the morning with the undertaker and his attorney. Carlton's wife's family arrived around noon.

"I would stay," I told her brother, "but my wife—"

He said he understood and thanked me for being present.

I wanted to see Pamela very badly. Carlton was not an old man, only a decade or so my senior. I'd been reminded how quickly death comes—how quickly a person could be drowned by water. I got to the Darnfords at four, tired and unhappy.

Pamela wasn't there.

To say I was annoyed would understate the matter. For all our joking, I had meant what I said to Pamela about wives who began to ignore their husband's wishes the moment the knot was tied: all smiles and kisses beforehand; all bad manners and derision after. The Darnfords were our neighbors and had been impressively supportive of our marriage. They deserved her patronage; I thought she understood that.

"She will arrive soon," Lady Darnford said pacifically. "Come, join my husband at loo."

"I asked her to join you for dinner," I said.

"Something has kept her," said Miss Darnford. "She'll be here. She hardly likes to be apart from you."

I went into the washroom to bath my face. I told myself I was angry because Pamela was behaving high-handedly, but the truth was I'd counted on her being there; I'd counted on being able to sit with her awhile, so I could tell her about Carlton and be calmed by her presence.

I went out and joined the loo table, but I hardly attended. Sir Simon joshed me about missing my bride. "A wife should attend when commanded," I said somewhat bitterly, and he just laughed and slapped my shoulder.

I thought about sending a message to her, then I decided it was beneath me to beg my wife's company. In retrospect, I should have sent a message plus a few footmen.

About an hour into the game, Miss Darnford called, "Here she is," and ran out. I played a hand, put down my cards, and followed, pretending I was merely curious. I didn't fool Sir Simon for a minute.

I found Pamela, Miss Darnford, Lady Darnford, and Lady Jones in the front hall. Pamela was seated on the cushioned bench by the door.

"Hello, Pamela," I said coldly.

She looked up, breathing quickly.

"Don't be displeased," she said. "Mrs Jewkes will attest I wanted to be here—"

"I told you," said Lady Darnford to me, and Miss Darnford said, "Oh, men."

They all frowned at me, so "What happened?" I said.

"Your sister and her nephew arrived."

Damn.

I sat beside Pamela on the bench and put my arm around her. "Did you talk with her?"

"More than that," Pamela said.

"She didn't strike you?"

Pamela paused then and rested her chin against my shoulder.

"I don't want to spoil the party," she said quietly.

Noble woman. I kissed the top of her head.

"I'm sorry I was angry," I said. "I'll be more patient next time. Was my sister uncivil?"

Pamela hesitated. I squeezed her shoulders, and, "She used me severely, sir," she said carefully.

"Didn't you tell her we were married?"

"She didn't believe me. She thinks it is a sham marriage."

"You should have sent for me."

"She kept me a prisoner," Pamela said and even allowing for Pamela's dramatic flair, I didn't doubt the tremble that went through her. She tucked herself against me more tightly and let out a long sign. Her breathing had begun to settle.

"I even showed her your letter," she said to my heart. "She wouldn't believe anything I said. She locked me in with her."

"Did you eat together?" I said, remembering that Pamela wouldn't have dined yet.

"She wanted me to wait on her."

I tensed. "You didn't, did you?"

"No," she said, raising her chin to look at me. "I remembered the dignity I owe you as your wife."

"Quite right." I was pleased and impressed that Pamela had perceived the issue so correctly. "She is an insolent woman," I said as levelly as I could, "and she will pay for it."

"It is only because she believes we are not married," Pamela said, but I didn't believe that for an instant.

"How did you get away?"

"I jumped out the parlor window," my extraordinary bride said, "and ran to the carriage—Robert kept it waiting at the elms. And Mr. Colbrand prevented Lady Davers' servants from stopping me. He was very fierce," Pamela said.

I couldn't help but look at our listeners. Miss Darnford had covered her mouth with her hand; over it, her eyes twinkled. Lady Jones was shaking her head in amazement. Lady Darnford was giving instructions to a servant in a low voice.

"We should join the company," I said. I didn't want to. I wanted to go home and put my sister and her obnoxious nephew in their places. I wanted to order my sister's servants out of my house. I wanted, in fact, to yell at someone.

But I had already lectured Pamela about putting on a calm demeanor. I could hardly back away from my own advice. I stood, and Pamela slid her arm through mine.

"I'm sorry," she said as the others preceded us into the front parlor. "You forgive me for being late?"

"You should forgive me," I said. "You have suffered much from me and for me."

The party greeted Pamela with fervor. I was pleased to see how well she got on with Miss Darnford. Pamela needed a friend her own age.

Before we sat down to whist, Pamela said softly to me, "How is your friend?"

"We'll talk later," I said, but she clasped my hand for a moment and smiled at me from her seat.

I tried to concentrate on the game and then on supper (served early for Pamela's sake), but I couldn’t help but question Pamela about my sister's behavior. My sister had called her names: everything from wench to creature to beggar's brat which last had annoyed Pamela considerably ("My parents are not beggars."). Pamela was reasonably circumspect, but I knew my sister; I knew she had come just to quarrel with me. It was her way.

I was, of course, breaking my own rule about keeping one's private affairs private. But it occurred to me, looking about the room, that the Darnfords and their guests were truly concerned for Pamela. My sister had spread rumors about me and Pamela in Bedfordshire. It would be well for me to forestall any rumors she might try to spread in Lincolnshire.

So Pamela told the whole story—how my sister had arrived, called her names, locked her in the parlor, allowed her nephew, Jackey, to badger her (I set my teeth), prevented Mrs. Jewkes from attending on Pamela, insulted the letter I'd sent Pamela, and so on and so on.

Pamela was not exaggerating. My sister hunts for quarrels. I quarreled with her constantly throughout my childhood. She quarreled constantly with Lord Davers when they were engaged. (He has since been cowed into submission.) She even quarrels with her maids (although she also rewards them handsomely for their services).

She was not angry because I had married beneath me; that, alone, would not have brought her, rushing, to Lincolnshire. She was angry because I married without her input. She had once gone so far as to set up a match without consulting me. For me to marry anyone, without her express encouragement, would infuriate her beyond reason.

"I would like to be in her good graces," Pamela said wistfully, but I was too furious by then to care whether my sister was accepted by Pamela or not.

We left early since I'd been up all night the night before. We got home about midnight and learned that my sister had already gone to bed. Thank goodness. I thought I was going to fall over on my feet. If my sister had been up and ready to argue, I would have left the house and slept in the meadows.

Mrs. Jewkes, however, wanted to tell us all about my sister's behavior after Pamela got away. She followed us up to Pamela's chamber which was becoming mine as well: I'd begun to keep clothes and papers there.

"She called me in," Mrs. Jewkes said while I was stripping off my frock coat and Pamela was setting aside her slippers, "after the young lady got away. She said, 'I have a question to ask you, Jewkes, and answer yes if you dare.' 'Well,' I said, 'I'll answer No before you ask.'"

I laughed. Pamela looked troubled.

"She asked me, 'Will the young harlot lie with my brother tonight?'"

I didn't laugh at that, and Pamela stared at the floor.

"She wanted to sleep in here," Mrs. Jewkes continued, "but I wouldn't let her since you have the key, sir."

"Quite right," I said.

Pamela came over and took hold of my waistcoat. "Let me stay in my closet tomorrow," she said.

"Don't be afraid, dearest," I said. "I'm here now."

Mrs. Jewkes left us with cheery encouragement to Pamela, and I dropped onto the bed. Pamela wrapped her arms around my neck and settled her cheek against mine.

"I'm sorry about your friend. Did he die?"

"Yes," I said, sliding my arms around her. "What a tiresome world this is, Pamela, when everything was going so well."

"It still will," she said, brushing back my hair and smiling faintly when her fingers got tangled. "I am already very happy."

I crawled into bed, and she settled beside me, and I fell into a haven of pure contented sleep.