Academic Spoofs in Pamela tribute, Mr. B Speaks!

Mr. B Speaks! is partly a spoof. Mr. B has to defend his marriage to Pamela against a group of academics, and I used their objections/conversation to spoof a number of silly academic ideas I've encountered as both a student and an instructor.

My primary spoof is of "just call me Gary" Gary. Gary is the type of professor who thinks he is edgy and contemporary and prides himself for climbing on the latest political bandwagon. Unfortunately, Gary is not a complete construct (an image of pompous academe rather than a representative of actual academic members). I've met Gary. The following passage from Mr. B Speaks! summarizes Gary's attitudes:

"The whole novel is nothing but trite and shallow pandering,” Gary declaimed. “What about death, disease, poverty, slavery, racism—all the terrible issues of the eighteenth century? Hmm? I mean women couldn’t even vote! But no, we’re fixated on watching an inconsequential couple tie the knot. People hid their heads in the sand. Just like they do today.”

Deborah said, “That sounds like the end of a lecture,” and Gary reddened.

Dorothy is Gary's nemesis. She is a young reviewer of romance novels, and she mirrors the attitude of a number of my young female students. They are completely blithe about their place/role in society. They don't feel put-upon. They take for granted that a woman can do whatever she wants in terms of a career/future. They don't feel the need to back "women's" issues or vote to support only female politicians.

From my point of view, the Dorothys of the world are what feminism is all about! However, someone like Gary--a chauvinist who thinks he isn't because he adopted the right "feminist" attitudes back in the 60's--the Dorothys of the world are a massive, scary threat.

Gary was trying to reprimand the young, romantic girl, Deborah. Personally, Mr. B would try flirting with her, but the man just blathered on about himself.

“So,” Mr. B heard the ridiculous man say, “I guess you’re one of those young ladies who adores authors like Jane Austen.”

“Sure,” Deborah said.

“I will grant, she is an important female writer.”

“Walter Scott believed no author matched Jane Austen at describing ordinary life and personalities.”

“Yes. Well. But won’t you admit that, despite her ability and her importance to women’s literature, Austen was mired in middle class values?”

Mr. Shorter, Mr. B's solicitor, leaned over to Mr. B and said, “What kind of gallantry is that man employing?”

“He isn’t,” Mr. B said, rubbing his temples. “He’s Polonius.”

“I like middle class values,” Deborah said.

“Of course you would say that,” the professor said in an irritated voice. Apparently, the professor didn’t like being contradicted.

And Mr. B was against female free-thinkers?

The professor said snippily, “I bet you wish you were Elizabeth, hmm, being chased by that handsome Darcy?”

“Not really,” Deborah said. “A lot of women do read books that way. And men too. Sort of what would I do? But I like to explore the author’s characterizations. Like Mr. B is way more of a homebody than most people picture him. Of course, he served in Parliament, but I think that was just out of a sense of obligation.”

Mr. Shorter snorted, but Mr. B couldn’t disagree. Except that a home without Pamela wasn’t much of a home.

“I’m sure Mr. B is quite conservative in his politics,” the professor said disdainfully.

“You could ask him,” Deborah said.

There was a short silence. Mr. B smiled to himself. The professor was a coward. He probably gravitated to female scholars because they were less trained in rhetoric and therefore easier to bully.

Deborah said, “Or Leslie Quinn. She might know.”

Some female scholars, that is. Mr. B laughed out loud. He glanced over his shoulder.

The professor was crimson. He didn’t look at Mr. B but hunched his shoulders and glared at Deborah, who was trying not to giggle. “I suppose progressive thinking is too much to ask from computer-obsessed students.”

Mr. Shorter muttered, “These Literary Fairness folks aren’t the most tolerant people.”

The "I'm pro-woman--how dare a woman contradict me with her conservative ideas!" attitude is, I'm sorry to say, real (though fading).

Leslie Quinn and Dr. Matchel (another member of the Committee for Literary Fairness) represent the two sides of Women's Studies, Dr. Matchel representing the negative or more narrow side. I'm actually kinder to her than I am to Gary because, like many disenchanted feminists, I believe that Women Studies started out with good intentions. I even believe there are decent Women Studies scholars. But the need to have an agenda/political purpose hurt more than helped that discipline.

Dr. Matchel, for example, is the kind of feminist who will support a CAUSE, no matter how very faulty, simply because it is pro-women. Thus her attitude towards Deborah--

Dr. Matchel cried, “These romance novels have done more to undermine women’s rights than any other type of literature.”

“Oh, that’s old-school,” Deborah said. “Like people who think women should only have supported Hillary in 2008.”

Again, Dr. Matchel is quite real. The above exchange is based on an actual exchange I saw on PBS during the 2008 Democratic convention.

Dr. Matchel is off-set by Leslie Quinn, who has the right academic credentials but writes for the popular rather than academic press (i.e. she actually makes money at her writing). Dr. Matchel and Gary's contempt for "popular" writers is, unfortunately, also quite real as is their discomfort with people who haven't jumped through all the right academic hoops (just recently, I've been placed in the uncomfortable position of having to defend my teaching credentials--my expertise of over five years teaching at multiple institutions--against people who automatically devalue adjuncts due to our supposed lack of education classes; yeah, that makes sense).

In the courtroom, there is also a gruff judge (who prefers murder mysteries and is only sitting in judgment on an eighteenth-century novel because so many eighteenth-century novels are under attack), a therapist (member of the Committee for Literary Fairness who wants to personalize everything), and Lonquist, a librarian. Lonquist is a member of Readers for Authorial Intent. His job is to pose (my) objections to literary revisionism. In the following exchange, the Committee for Literary Fairness wants contemporary--that is, their--standards applied to Pamela.

Gary said sullenly, “I would think some contemporary standards would be accepted as givens—in a civilized courtroom, at least.”

“Which contemporary standards?” Lonquist said. “Based on twenty-first-century Western culture, Mr. B can hardly be faulted for wanting no-strings-attached sex.”

The judge barked, “We will use the standard of customs as established in the eighteenth century. Was lesbianism a discussed topic in the literature of the day?”

Dr. Matchel said, “It was a forbidden topic that nevertheless underscored most women’s writings.”

Leslie Quinn said, “No.”

Dr. Matchel bridled. “Of course, popular non-fiction ignores such crucial subtexts.”

Leslie Quinn said good-humoredly, “Oh, I’m not saying that homosexuality wasn’t an aspect of eighteenth-century England or that people never discussed it. I just don’t think eighteenth-century literature is imbued with hidden messages about the love that dare not speak its name. People do write about other things, you know.”

“They were prejudiced,” Gary said.

“So you’ll use eighteenth-century culture to promote your position, then attack it to defend your position?”

The Committee for Literary Fairness glared at Lonquist.

The judge waved a hand, “I’m not concerned with critical theory relativism. I want to know how Mr. B behaved. Please continue, Mr. B.”

The emboldened lines (my emphasis of, um, my text) summarize my problem with most academic silliness. Dr. Matchel and "just call me Gary" Gary are less about reading--letting the characters speak--and more about promoting a particular agenda; less about falling in love with characters, lines, plots, authors, and more about promoting a particular theory which can be applied to current events. They are less about valuing interesting thoughts and ideas and more about categorizing those thoughts and ideas into appropriate, non-appropriate, acceptable, non-acceptable, profound-according-to-us, too-too reactionary categories.

Silly academics is, in other words, about anything but actual books and words.

Not every college/university in infected by this attitude and even within departments that are infected, there are always a few hold-outs. But unfortunately, the attitudes are still there to be spoofed.

I'll leave you to guess what happens to Mr. B (taking into account that I am a romantic).

The Villainous Hero

Many romances (G, PG, and R)* include villainous heroes--these are heroes that for all intents and purposes act not too differently from the bad guy: they kidnap the heroine, occasionally threaten her, and behave ruthlessly. Oddly enough, they rarely stalk (take that, Edward!) although they aren't adverse to interfering in the heroine's life when they believe themselves justified.

Naturally, in real life, one would question the advisability of pursuing a man of this type. In fiction, however, the villainous hero can be a lot of fun.

However, even in fiction, the villainous hero can prove problematic. I've read novels where the villainous hero won my endorsement, and I've read novels where the villainous hero caused me to roll my eyes: Oh, please, how on earth is the heroine supposed to know the difference between him and the bad guy?

I think it comes down to a matter of writing. Here are characterizations that distinguish the worthwhile villainous hero from the ridiculous villainous hero:

1. The villainous hero undergoes a change.

That is, by the end of the novel, the villainous hero has recognized the inappropriateness of his earlier behavior. In Prince of Dreams (R) by Lisa Kleypas, the hero actually undergoes a Scrooge-like dream sequence which teaches him a new way of relating to others.

However, in another novel by Kleypas, Tempt Me at Twilight (R) the hero is not only the same person when the novel ends, but . . .

2. The writer acknowledges that the villainous hero should change his behavior.

. . . the writer seems to justify the villainous hero's behavior.

By the way, I do mean the writer, not the narrator. One problem with the Twilight series, as Carole points out, is that Meyers didn't seem aware that she was creating a stalky, dysfunctional hero. If she just didn't care, eh, c'est la vie (this post is for writerly reasons, not politically correct ones), but she tried to justify Edward's behavior--always a mistake.

This issue of writer disconnect also arose in Buffy where Spike was treated like a villainous hero (a character capable of change and of being loved by Buffy) by the writers who then wanted to pretend they weren't doing precisely what they were doing: "Spike's a bad guy! Girls, don't you realize how bad Spike is?!"

Once the rules are established (some vampires, like Angel, can be forgiven), writers need to keep them.

3. The villainous hero is a bad boy--but not egregiously so.

That is, his faults fall into the forgivable range (I am excluding recently souled vampires). In the above mentioned Kleypas books, the villainous hero in Prince of Dreams confronts and scares off the heroine's current boyfriend. This is bad but not unforgivable. The boyfriend is a shallow Wickham-type character. Plus, the villainous hero does the confronting himself.

In the second book, the hero scares off the heroine's current boyfriend, but the boyfriend is just a waffling putz, and the hero doesn't do the confronting himself; he manipulates events into forcing the boyfriend to retreat. Setting aside the badness of a relationship built on manipulation, it's completely underhanded and not at all heroic.

Frankly, Kleypas did a better job with this particular plot device the first time.

4. The villainous hero is more interesting than the other characters.

Part of what makes the villainous hero so much fun is his sarcastic sense of humor. (In a total aside, Britishers do this better than anybody else; in the first Pirates movie, Jack Davenport as Norrington comes across as attractive and heroic ex-boyfriend rather than baffled and bumbling ex-boyfriend precisely because of his dry sarcasm and wry raised eyebrow. At one point, after he has declared that Sparrow is a terrible pirate, Sparrow gets away. A sailor exclaims, "That is the best pirate I have ever seen!" Instead of looking embarrassed or outraged, Davenport as Norrington just looks completely miffed.)

A villainous hero who can't outwit everyone else is a dead-loss. What's he the villainous hero for?

I place Mr. B of Pamela and Mr. B Speaks! (my personal tribute) into this category. As one of my characters states, "Mr. B is a very funny guy." Without Mr. B as a sparring partner, Pamela would be a good deal less interesting and interested. (By the way, it is not necessary to read Pamela to read Mr. B Speaks! since the plot of the original novel is fully described in both. Not that I normally discourage reading classics! But the writing style of Pamela seems to put off a lot of people.)

5. The reader believes at the end that the heroine is with the right person.

To refer again to Kleypas's books, the heroine in Prince of Dreams is exactly and precisely with the right person. She is strong-minded, tough, and more than a little capable of handling the hero.

However, I doubt the heroine in Kleypas's second book, who just wants a peaceful life but ends up with an alpha-needy-dominant husband, will have everlasting happiness (by the way, I feel the same way about romances where a highly opinionated, constantly challenging-the-man, pushy heroine marries a man who really just wants some peace and quiet).

For those of you who prefer G/PG* romance novels, check out Pamela (and Mr. B Speaks!), Georgette Heyer, and, naturally, Jane Austen. Richardson is quite convincing regarding Pamela's ability to handle Mr. B. Not only do you get the impression that Pamela can handle a man approximately 9 years her senior, you also get the impression she would be bored out of her skull with anyone else.

Regarding Georgette Heyer's novels, I consider the relationship between innocent (but worldly-wise) Leonie and the cynical Duke of Avon in These Old Shades entirely believable. I'm less sold on the romantic relationship in Devil's Cub although the villainous hero Vidal does fall under the "more interesting than any other character" label.

Out of all Heyer's villainous heroes, however, Dameral of Venetia gets the prize, not for himself but for the very real friendship that develops between him and Venetia. (This is actually the direction I think Whedon's writers were taking Buffy and Spike before they shied off.)

Regarding Austen, Darcy could be described as a villainous hero (he has the dark, glowering look), but as I argue in A Man of Few Words, Darcy's supposedly villainous behavior is more cluelessness and discomfort than outright villainy. In terms of hard-to-manage heroines, I think Knightley can manage Emma but only just and only because Emma's interferences are based on good will, not merely on a sense of entitlement.

On a slight tangent: Heyer has the under-appreciated (and under-utilized) ability to make extremely laid-back, non-villainous heroes interesting in their own right. The Quiet Gentleman and Sprig Muslin come to mind.

On another slight tangent: Jane Austen should be given kudos for creating villains who seem heroic but turn out to be deadheads: Wickham, Willoughby, and (that most subtle of villains) Henry Crawford.

6. The true villain still needs to be worse! 

Moral and ethical standards should never be entirely abandoned. A heroine who marries a villain, no matter how attractive, will lose the support of the reader. "My man right or wrong" only works as long as the man is weaving his way towards the right, and "my man must be right because I love him" only works if the reader knows the heroine is correct (by getting inside the hero's head). Otherwise, the heroine will come across as a vapid moron, the hero as a scoundrel, and nobody will be respected in the morning.

*I use these ratings not because I think they actually make sense in terms of evaluating a film (or novel) but because of their colloquial meaning in everyday life. For the purposes of this blog, "R" means sex scenes are described; "PG" means they are referred to and kissing goes on; "G" means the hero and heroine kiss, that's all. However, I'm not even broaching the issue of innuendo or theme. (Such as Dracula which is "G" only in the most narrow technical sense; actually the whole crazy novel totters on the edge of "R+"--not that Bram Stoker was aware of this.) I've seen "R" movies that were incredibly "clean" in the wholesome story sense, and I've seen "PG" movies that were technically clean but totally skanky in feel. Everyone has their own line when it comes to this issue, and my designations are simply to help people find their comfort level. 

The Unkind Treatment of the Romance Genre

In David Gerrold's The World of Star Trek, he presents one of the best definitions of romance novels every made. Speaking of female fans' reactions to Leonard Nimoy's Spock, he writes, "The pointed ears and arched eyebrows suggested great strength and masculinity with a healthy hint of controlled evil. But Spock's conscious suppression of emotion, as well as his unavailability as a sexual object, made him (in the words of one of these young ladies), 'A safe rape. You could love him without risking your virginity" (Gerrold's emphasis). Gerrold continues, "Each of these [women] believed that she was the one who could warm up Mr. Spock. If she could be given half a chance, she could get through to him."

This is romance fiction at its most basic. The male is inevitably strong, dangerous, but--through a hard, disillusioning life--has learned to control his base instincts . . . until he meets the one woman who overwhelms him sensually and intellectually, restoring him to a socially-acceptable, constructive life.

In my novella Mr. B Speaks!, the Committee for Literary Fairness is appalled by the possibility that Pamela might be construed as this type a romance novel. When a romance genre expert shows up, the committee take exception:

“I review romance novels,” said Deborah.

Gary [Professor Just-Call-Me-Gary] and Dr. Matchel looked pained, but the judge set down a folder and said, “Really? Would you call this novel a romance?”

“Sort of,” Deborah said. “It’s really more a polemic about education and servants and stuff. But it has a lot of the same material you’d find in a romance novel.”

“Such as?”

Dr. Matchel objected: “A discussion of romance novels is hardly appropriate.”

“We are looking for established literary customs,” the judge said briskly. “What are the romantic components in Pamela, Miss Walsh?”

“There’s a heroine, first of all, and she’s good—you know, virtuous. And there’s a hero, and he’s a rake. And he pursues her and sometimes gets her into bed, but he always backs off when she says no, and then they reconcile, and then they marry.”

Dr. Matchel cried, “These romance novels have done more to undermine women’s rights than any other type of literature.”

“Oh, that’s old-school,” Deborah said. “Like people who think women should only have supported Hillary in 2008.”

The judge said, “Do other eighteenth-century novels share these components?”

“No!” Dr. Matchel said, but Leslie Quinn said, “Yes. Novels for the middle-class. Broadsheets. The romantic romance isn’t new. Everyone likes a juicy story.”

The judge glanced at Mr. B who looked rather shell-shocked. The judge couldn’t blame him. Mr. B was being depicted as either a lecher or a champion. Personally, the judge thought both roles would prove uncomfortable.

Dr. Matchel and Gary's shock and discomfort is something I have encountered in academic settings. The specific shock is aimed at the low character of romances; the general shock is over the low character of genre writing (see Eugene's lastest post for some thoughts on high versus low literature). It's okay to read stuff like romances for fun, but it's not okay to talk about it (though if you must, be sure to call it "erotica").

I think this discomfort misses the point (as so many academic reactions do). There are badly written romances. There are also well-written ones. But any piece of literature that people actually care about is going to grapple with human emotions. And this is exactly what romances do. The characteristics/reactions that Gerrold listed aren't silly or wrong-headed or simply the product of undeveloped minds. I might not care for them when they show up in Twilight, but I recognize their power, their force, in male/female relationships: their reality. As Mr. B ponders at one point during the trial:

Simply not having sex was unthinkable. He could hardly handle sleeping alone. And Pamela was an eager participant in the marriage bed whatever his detractors might think.

They were an odd people, these twenty-first-century inhabitants—far more obsessed with sex than most libertines, but strangely repressive and easily shocked. Only this idealistic young girl [Deborah, the romance reviewer], who reminded him of his oldest daughter, seemed to take him at face value.

Although the true problem could be that romance novels just aren't angsty enough!

Gary rolled his eyes. “And, of course, romance novels always have perfect weddings.”

“Of course.”

“The whole novel is nothing but trite and shallow pandering,” Gary declaimed. “What about death, disease, poverty, slavery, racism—all the terrible issues of the eighteenth century? Hmm? I mean women couldn’t even vote! But no, we’re fixated on watching an inconsequential couple tie the knot.”

The judge glanced towards the characters’ table. Mr. B was still smiling faintly. He hadn’t flinched at being called “inconsequential.” Presumably, people of the eighteenth century were less obsessed with getting their “day in court” than people of the twenty-first.

The judge reminded himself not to chuckle at his own pun.

“People hid their heads in the sand,” Gary was still declaiming. “Just like they do today.”

Deborah said, “That sounds like the end of a lecture,” and Gary reddened.

She was probably right, but the judge didn’t want audience members giving the CLF any (more) reason to complain.

He said pacifically, “Different novels cover different topics.”

Leslie Quinn agreed, “People in the eighteenth century still had to work, love, have children, get along. Those topics never go away.”

Dr. Matchel said, “But romance novels don’t deal with real domestic problems. They end with the wedding, giving readers the false impression that married life will be eternally happy. Escapist literature!”

“This novel doesn’t end with the wedding,” Lonquist said.

Mr. Shorter muttered, “What’s wrong with escapism?”

Deborah added, “Dark and depressing isn’t automatically profound.”

“Let’s hear about the wedding,” the judge said.

Like Deborah (hey, she is my character), I don't think there is a pscyho-literary (acceptably literary explanation) for romance novels: “Some scholars think the hero actually represents the dark side of the female psyche—the whole thing is sort of Jungian . . . Yes, I know. I think it’s farfetched too. But the point is, the heroine is never completely at odds with the hero.” Rather, I think romance novels are delving into id stuff--stuff that's messy and uncertain and earthy. It's what Barthes called jouissance, delight in the bodily elements. Of course, Barthes had to put a label on it and make it sound literary when any woman over the age of 12 could just tell you that it's about the male/female relationship, both the cerebral and carnal sides as well as the gentle and less gentle sides: the fear that both sexes have towards each other and the possible delight.

And it's not going to go away.

The Humor of 18th Century Writers--Really!

Humor is surprisingly non-translatable. A few years ago, in a forlorn effort to compete with American Idol, another network held a talent contest which included a humor section. The producers eventually dumped the humor section. Unlike singing (one is either on key or not), humor is so entirely personal and subjective, the judges and contestants and audience were continually at odds.

On the other hand, laughing at puns and prat-falls is part of the human condition. Shakespeare is very funny although in his case, a literal translation (what do those words mean?) helps.

In writing Mr. B Speaks! I wanted to show how (deliberately) funny Richardson could be. In my novella, much of Mr. B's testimony (where he retells the story of Pamela), especially his recitation of the dialog, matches the original text (only, not as wordy).

Pamela herself is not always amusing. The text's humor arises from the quick-fire exchanges between Pamela and Mr. B. Like Bones and Booth, Nick and Nora, Pamela and Mr. B thrive on playing off each others' words. (This is one reason the second book is markedly less successful than the first, although still interesting: Pamela and Mr. B are reduced to fighting and making up rather than verbally sparring.)

Pamela is the perfect straight-woman.

The following scene, which is recounted by Pamela in Letter XVI, shows how Pamela will take hold of Mr. B's words to support her own argument.

I’d stopped by Mrs. Jervis’s parlor to tell her my travel plans to Lincolnshire where our family’s original estate is located. She was interviewing a farmer’s daughter; I didn’t want to disturb them, so I went to the back parlor and rang for Mrs. Jervis.

"Is your visitor Farmer Nichols or Farmer Brady’s daughter?" I asked when she arrived.

She laughed. "If your honor won’t be angry, I will introduce her, for I think she outdoes our Pamela."

And she brought in Pamela dressed in plain muslin with a black silk kerchief and a straw hat on her head.

A country miss, in fact. Pamela is no fool; she knows clothes make the station.

I got up and came around the oak writing desk. "You are far prettier than your sister Pamela," I said.

"I am Pamela," she told me with a quick upwards glance.

"Impossible," I said. "I can be free with you," and I kissed her lightly on the lips.

She bolted out of the room. Mrs. Jervis clucked.

"What’s she up to?" I said.

"It’s her new wardrobe. She’s been collecting odds and ends over the last week or so."

Damn Pamela and her practicality.

"Get in here," I yelled towards the door, and Pamela sidled in, scowling. "This is pure hypocrisy," I said, waving my hand at the country dress. Pamela didn’t want the life that dress represented.

"I’ve been in disguise ever since your mother brought me here. These clothes are more suitable to my degree."

I was leaning against the desk, my face almost level with Pamela’s. We studied each other, and I noted her set lips and dark, unhappy eyes.

"Oh, Pamela," I said and drew her into my arms.

She didn’t struggle—not this time. "You have to leave," I said to her hair, "only I don’t want that." She tensed instantly, but I strengthened my hold, and she relaxed again, her cheek against my waistcoat. Poor Pamela sent off in disgrace to a life that would sap her dry.

I let her go and addressed Mrs. Jervis. "I’ll submit myself to this hussy for a fortnight and then send her to my sister. Do you hear what I say, statue?"

And Pamela muttered, "I might be in danger from her ladyship’s nephew."

Never imagine that Pamela’s memory is bad. [Mr. B earlier resisted sending Pamela to his sister's because of the nephew.]

"Damned impertinence," I said.

"What have I done that you treat me worse than if I robbed you?"

I almost laughed then because whatever was between me and Pamela was very much like being robbed—of sense or self-preservation.

She wasn’t done. "Why should you demean yourself to notice me? Why should I suffer more than others?"

"You have distinguished yourself above the common servant," I said. She couldn’t have it both ways—she couldn’t write and read and befriend Mrs. Jervis and then want me to treat her like a scullery maid. "Didn’t my good mother desire I take care of you?"

She muttered. I took her chin and forced it up, and she said, nearly spitting, "My good lady did not desire your care to extend to the summer-house and dressing room."

The latter part of the argument is described thus in the original text:

Do you hear, Mrs. Jervis, cried he again, how pertly I am interrogated by this saucy slut? Why, sauce-box, says he, did not my good mother desire me to take care of you? And have you not been always distinguished by me, above a common servant? And does your ingratitude upbraid me for this?

I said something mutteringly, and he vowed he would hear it. I begged excuse; but he insisted upon it. Why, then, said I, if your honour must know, I said, That my good lady did not desire your care to extend to the summer-house, and her dressing-room.

Which brings me to the issue of Pamela's "sauciness." (She is described this way more than any other.) The word sounds coy and playful and when I first started working on Mr. B Speaks! I was confused by the disparity between Pamela's acerbic comments, Mr. B's reactions, and the references to her as some kind of giggling flirt.

However, in the second book, Pamela writes a letter to Lady Danvers in which she describes her personality: I am naturally of a saucy temper: and with all my appearance of meekness and humility, can resent, and sting too, when I think myself provoked.

In this context, "saucy" clearly does not denote pleasant flirting but rather sarcastic zingers. This is far more in keeping with Pamela's personality as delineated by Richardson in the first novel. Although Pamela is often portrayed by anti-Pamelites as leading Mr. B on, she is actually fighting to preserve her own space with the best tool available: her quick tongue.

She could hardly anticipate Mr. B would get a huge kick out of verbal sparring!

Pamela didn’t want me to read the letters; she was worried I would be offended by their bluntness. I couldn’t imagine 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 barbed reflections," I said. "And yet I’ve never upbraided you on that score." Not very often, at least.

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

"You have a powerful advocate in me," I said and went to my library to read.

The packet contained not only Pamela’s letters to her parents but letters from Williams [a clergyman who proposed to Pamela] and drafts of Pamela’s letters to him. I glowered over them. Pamela had certainly pled her case to Williams most affectingly, and he had definitely presented himself as more a romantic than disinterested savior.

"Do you find I encouraged his proposal?" Pamela said when I called her down and taxed her about her "love letters."

I didn’t, but, "What about the letters before these?" I said. The ones I had started nearly two weeks after I sent Pamela to Lincolnshire. I knew from Mrs. Jewkes that Pamela and Williams began corresponding immediately after her arrival.

"My father has them."

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

"I want to read everything you’ve written," I said. "You create a pretty tale of romance around your troubles."

She raised her chin. "You jeer at my misfortunes."

"Considering the liberties you take with my character," I said, brandishing the letters, "I’d say we are equally outspoken."

"I would not have taken liberties if you had not given me cause. The cause, sir, comes 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 wouldn’t love you half so well," I pointed out.

She flushed. "I’d be better off married to a plough-boy," she told the worn rug, which she knew and I knew wasn’t true.

"One of us fox-hunters would still have found you," I said. I hoped I would have found her. I couldn’t imagine never having met Pamela. "What about the most recent letters, the ones after these? Are they on your person?" 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 strip you, Pamela." I crossed to her and began to slowly untie the lace 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.

The underlying sexual threat is something I plan to address in a later post. It is also the one area where Pamela is not completely comfortable. The rather remarkable thing about Richardson is that he was a great observer of human nature. When Pamela actually does behave her age (and isn't just acting a spokesperson for Richardson), she behaves that age with utter believability. Like many a teenage girl, she can be ironic and sarcastic and sardonic and, frankly, rather obnoxious--but, when placed in a setting outside her knowledge, she will get completely bewildered and scared.

Unfortunately, Richardson didn't have the consistency of characterization that would place him at the forefront of English novelists (and I'm not sure he cared), but he definitely had the skill to create strong--and witty--characters.

About Pamela , or, Prim & Proper is Coming Back

Like many Pride & Prejudice take-offs, including my own, my latest novella Mr. B Speaks! retells a classic story from the hero's, rather than the heroine's, point of view. Mr. B delivers his point of view in a trial which will determine whether or not he stays married to Pamela.

Despite the voice now being Mr. B's, Pamela still takes center stage. Her personality is all important. Is she, as Henry Fielding believed, an insincere, ladder-climbing tease or a frightened, young girl who just wants to go home?

It is easy, and tempting, for modern audiences to adopt Fielding's point of view because Pamela can, admittedly, sound too, too prim and proper. Personally, I think prim & proper is coming back, but Pamela (or, rather, Richardson speaking through Pamela) can get a tad officious.

However, Fielding wasn't reacting like a modern. His main problem with Pamela was her status as a servant (who "catches" the man of the house), not (necessarily) her "don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me" speechifying. In other words, Fielding perceived Pamela as a slutty lower class trollop tarting her way into places she shouldn't be.

My first order of business, therefore, was to decide how seriously to take Pamela. My view is that Pamela's uneasiness is justifiable. Her choices, as Mr. B, her seducer, acknowledges, are extremely narrow (all excerpts are from Mr. B Speaks!):

I knew that sending Pamela home was a death sentence. She would fade into one of those tired women who sit on their stoops, plaiting wool. She could hardly have arguments about classical literature with the local sheep herder.

To put it simply, Pamela can either be extremely poor (as a working peasant) or moderately less poor (as a servant). There's no community college for her to attend, no local organization to help her to better employment. She also can't just pick up and leave, a solution broached by the judge:

"If Pamela knew her, uh, virtue wasn’t safe, why didn’t she just leave?" Judge Hardcastle said.

The Committee for Literary Fairness clucked in collective reproach. "Blaming the woman—" Gary, the professor, began.

He was interrupted by Mr. B. "She would need a carriage to take her home."

"There wouldn’t have been any downtown buses," said Lonquist from Readers for Authorial Intent.

The judge scowled. "I realize that, but I gather people did walk places in the eighteenth century. Unlike today. No—?" in exasperation; Mr. B was shaking his head.

"It wouldn’t have been safe," Mr. B said. "A female peasant could possibly walk unmolested but not a girl in Pamela’s situation."

"Was the countryside so dangerous?" The judge was shaken. Eighteenth-century literature was proving more treacherous than his usual venue: twentieth-century 'Golden Age' mysteries.

"It was not un-dangerous, and Pamela was no longer a part of that environment. She couldn’t have moved through it without attracting notice."

As neither peasant nor servant, companion nor member of the gentry, Pamela has no place. This makes her waffling about her future understandable.

I also decided to take seriously Pamela's fears of losing her virginity. Practically speaking, in this period of history, losing one's virtue, for a woman, was much more like losing one's entire savings account than like losing a shoe on the side of the road. When Mr. B argues, "Pamela was more concerned with her virginity than her rights," an audience member replies:

"I doubt she saw a difference. Holding out for a decent marriage was more or less her purpose in life. Rape would have ruined her forever."

And even Mr. B later admits:

Right or wrong, fair or unfair, in our world, a woman’s wholesome reputation can smooth her path to a respectable and stable future, while a damaged reputation can block that path for a lifetime. I would become the villain of our story to ensure Pamela’s role as heroine.

And the truth is, sexual revolution or not, this issue still concerns women (who, through pregnancy, bear the greater risk in the area of sexual exploration). It is also, I believe, why Regency romances sell so well. The risk is admitted/made real. Female characters are given socially acceptable reasons (and infrastructure) to keep themselves non-pressured. Prim & proper are acknowledged as useful traits for a woman to espouse.

The one major difference between Pamela and most current romances is that most current romances (even historical ones) don't include the religious context. I don't blame the writers for this; religious context, unless one is a true believer, is difficult to write, and, even for a true believer, can so easily sound static and heavy-handed.

Richardson was a true believer, and I admittedly toned down much of Pamela's religious context (it is hard to imagine even a sincerely religious 15-year-old spouting off some of Richardson's arguments). The important point for me is that everything Pamela says and does comes from the absolute conviction that some things are right and some things are wrong, no matter what society has to say about them. This comes up when Mr. B confronts Pamela for telling another servant that he "molested" her (what constitutes "molestation" is discussed throughout the trial):

I stomped off to find Pamela scribbling in my mother’s dressing room. She folded the letter and tucked it in her dress. She didn’t say anything or curtsy, only watched me, remote and guarded.

"You’ve been spreading rumors about me," I said—true rumors but rumors nonetheless.

"I talk to hardly anyone."

"You little equivocator," I said. “What do you mean by hardly?” Mrs. Jervis, my housekeeper, was a great deal of very.

"Why should you care what I tell Mrs. Jervis—if you intend no harm?"

Pamela could be a barrister.

She continued: "I told her what happened in the summer-house because my heart was broken, but I told no one else."

"You wrote a letter, Pamela," I said.

"Did you take it?"

"I should let you expose me?"

"It isn’t exposure if I write the truth."

At that point, I realized I was exchanging extremely heated words with my mother’s companion in the middle of my mother’s dressing room.

"Insolence," I said. "Should I let a servant question me?"

Pamela retreated. It’s what she does when she panics. She becomes instantaneously demure.

"I don’t wish to lose my employment."

"How can you work for me unless you are willing to follow my commands?"

"Should I follow your commands at the expense of my principles?"

I rolled my eyes. "If that’s what you fear, I might as well give you real cause," I said and took her on my knee. She stilled, eyes slewing towards me.

"Be easy," I said. "Let the worst happen. You will have the merit, I the blame, and then you can write a very interesting letter."

Her lips curved into a half-smile. She stared hard at the parquet floor.

"Nobody blamed Lucretia," I pointed out and kissed her neck.

She lifted her chin to frown at me, and I kissed her lips.

"Should I kill myself like Lucretia did?"

Trust Pamela to start a literary argument in the middle of a seduction.

Like Elizabeth Bennet, like Jane Eyre, Pamela won't be overwhelmed (despite Mr. B's best efforts). She has to think her way through the problem, and she does this by sticking to her beliefs.

More about Pamela's character, specifically her acerbic side, will follow in a later post!

More Publications and Mr. B Outlets!

My short story "Requited" was recently published in Issue #51 of Andromeda Spaceways. This makes my third story published through Andromeda Spaceways which, in my view, is a fantastic magazine that tends to publish story-stories (granted, I'm biased) rather than literary blah.

Having said that, "Requited" is actually one of my more literary pieces. The premise is an alien culture where some members are slaves to others due to physiological/biological symbiosis (or parasitism, depending on one's point of view).

The issue of judgment--how can one culture judge another?--is raised, but the real issue is what we want from others in terms of communication, affection, approval, and gratitude.

Andromeda Spaceways does deliver to the United States, and it can be downloaded!

My novella Mr. B Speaks! from Peaks Island Press is now available from two distributors:

Amazon Kindle

Smashwords

Published: Mr. B Speaks!

My latest novella, Mr. B Speaks! has been published on Amazon Kindle by Peaks Island Press.

Mr. B Speaks! is a retelling of Samuel Richardson's Pamela from the hero (rather than the heroine's) point of view. It is also a satire/examination of literary theorizing. The official blurb follows:

Did Mr. B, the famously redeemed rake of English letters, romance his great love or abuse her? In a world where characters from novels can be tried in real courts for their literary crimes, Mr. B is forced to defend his controversial infatuation before an unsentimental judge.

Alternately attacked and defended by historians, psychologists, and literary critics, Mr. B wants only one thing--to be reunited with the woman who endured kidnappers, scheming siblings, and a slutty housekeeper all for the sake of her virtue and her marriage--Pamela.

Will love conquer all in the 21st century as it did in the 18th? Can a Georgian romance touch the heart in a postmodern world? Examine the testimony and decide for yourself!

In sum, the novella is a combination of Mr. B's viewpoint, me poking fun at literary over-theorizing, plus discussions about the eighteenth century, historical fiction, romances, and authorial intent.

Mucho mucho mucho gracias to my editor and publisher, Eugene Woodbury. The original version of this novel is in no way comparable to the final version. Eugene's high standards--which involved sending me back to basics (who is telling the story? what is the ultimate point?), then expanding on the story's possibilities--have been instrumental in producing this professional, and quite fun to write, novella.

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.

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.