by Don Jacobson
Her breath on his neck that last night burned as she had stretched firm legs alongside his needful limbs. She pressed full breasts into his muscled back; high and proud they were, tips hardened by undisguised excitement. Her denial of the power of his youth only deepened his anguish. Yet, their shared climax inspired and haunted him. Would he ever again know that wonder?
But, she had been gone from his bed when he had awakened. Breakfast alone left him bereft. Not until he was already in Campbell’s auto did he hear the House’s front door slam open followed by her hurried steps running down the walk. Then a last touch, a farewell, as her ungloved hand delivered a final gentle caress for him to recall as he was evacuated back to England. She had branded his cheek with a shimmering charge that had prickled in his imagination for the past several weeks. He was lost without her touch.
No woman could ever mean to him what this woman had meant. None could match what he saw in his mind’s eye, what he felt on the raw edges of his consciousness. She had been his only love…at first sound…at first touch…at first smell. He snorted at how trite it seemed, the stuff of a Brontë novel, him thinking of her as his soul mate. And, she was lost, trapped in a future he might never reach.
Now, after a month of ministrations by his mother, Gran and even Ellie, although just fourteen, only her scent remained fully imprinted on his brain—cut grass fresh in the morning dew underneath rose bushes in full bloom. That remarkable perfume was so her. Being bathed in her fragrance was like strolling through Selkirk’s gardens in the cool twilight of a June evening after the heat had been broken by a storm that had rolled in off the Peaks.
The vibrant yellow Lady Annes and blood hued Lizzy’s Own Red Bourbon roses were Gran’s favorites. When he was just a boy and she ancient even then, Gran would tell seven-year-old Henry the story of the roses as they walked along the estate’s manicured paths.
“These flowers could be my sisters. There were five of us you know. The “Roses of Hertfordshire” was what they called us—the Five Beautiful Bennet Sisters. And, each of us married well and for love; some of us—well me—more than once.
“Yellow was Jane’s color, Henry. Just like these Lady Annes. You know they were named after Mr. Darcy’s mother. Janie was pure elegance and light, brightening every room she walked through. Her eyes were sky blue, almost purple at times. Bingley claimed he would forget to breathe when he stared into them.
“You cannot imagine how crimson would set off Lizzy’s hair and eyes. Her mane was the color of Dutch chocolate, liquidly rich, like it was being poured out of a pot. And her eyes? Well, as Mr. Darcy would say, she had ‘a pair of very fine eyes.’ Nearly black they were. When she became angry, usually with Darcy, although frequently at Mama and me, they would flash like a squall rising up over the Channel.
“Mr. Darcy had a vase of fresh cut Red Bourbons sent up to their suite every morning before Lizzy awakened. Even after she passed away, the gardeners would place a new arrangement on a stand outside the door to her sitting room.
“And if Jane and Lizzy were the flowers of summer, Mary was the bush in autumn…you know, after the gardeners would prune it back. Some people might look at those shortened canes and see nothing but grim brown waste. But, from those rusty stunted sticks, next year’s beauty would flourish. To the uninformed, they seemed boring, but if you knew roses, you understood that they were only waiting to awaken. They were the foundation upon which all would grow.
“But, I have always colored her white for her purity of spirit.”
He would look up at her as he held onto her right hand—the one of flesh and bone. Every child of clan Bennet knew the story of how Gran and Aunt Mary survived the Peterloo Massacre[xxi] back in 1819; of how Gran’s left hand ended up in the dust of St. Peter’s Field while she protected the Old General from certain death. Henry would feel the pulse throbbing in her fingers as he asked the inevitable question.
“What about Aunt Kitty, Gran? Which rose reminds you of her?”
She would stop and lift her emerald green eyes to sweep across the garden. Then, in a voice that would catch on the edge of every word, she would tell him the reason she had planted roses wherever she had lived in her long life.
“All of them. Every plant and bloom here in Selkirk, over at Thornhill and Pemberley, down at Longbourn, and most especially on the fieldstone wall in front of the House at Deauville reminds me of my most beloved sister.”
Epilogue
May 5, 1892 Matlock House, London
Henry used the key he kept on his watch fob to open the red leather covered dispatch box. A messenger from the Bennet Family Trust offices had delivered it moments ago. He expected that it was more papers dealing with Lord Junius Winters’ efforts to get his hands on Kitty’s money.
Since that slimy worm had popped up in London over three months ago with both a marriage and a death certificate—the first declaring him to be Kitty’s husband; the second, her widower—he had been firing one legal salvo after another to gain access to her £225,000 trust fund as her heir.
The Bennet Family Trust, through their Lincoln Inn barristers Wilson and Hunters, had been fighting holding actions in courts across the City. One case challenged the authenticity of the documents. Inspector Lestrade and Dr. Watson had been most helpful in this instance, providing evidence that the old forger, Hoskins, had likely been employed once again by Winters, this time to compose the marriage record. On the other hand, the death certificate was surely real, issued from the Palais de Justice in Paris.
Another suit argued that since Winters could not produce physical evidence of either her death or burial—his central allegation had been that she had committed suicide by jumping into the Seine—the most he could hope for would be to have her declared missing. She could not be judged legally dead for another seven years, long enough for any of a number of contingencies—including Winters’ own death—something for which Henry dearly wished—to transpire. As Managing Director of the Trust, Fitzwilliam had been in the middle of every battle over his Miss Bennet’s wealth.
However instead of a stack of legal papers bound in red ribbon, he found one of those curious and awesome missives: A Founder’s Letter. However, unlike every other one the young Earl had handled in his brief tenure, Thomas Bennet’s hand directed this to him.
After indecisively flipping over the wax-sealed packet a few times, he carefully ran a finger under the seals holding the sharply folded paper in place. Reaching in, he removed a single sheet of yellowed notepaper and an envelope made of the finest cream-colored stock. He attended the note first. In faded ink he read
Longbourn House
My dear Earl Fitzwilliam;
I am trying to imagine you sitting at a desk in Town or perhaps in Matlock as you receive this letter. Of course, it is so much easier to see the past than it is to pierce the veils that obscure the future. Yet, here we are, correspondents separated by 80 years.
How droll this situation strikes your many-times Grandfather Bennet. You have no doubt heard my daughter, your Great-grandmother Lydia say, ‘The Wardrobe has a unique sense of humor.’ So, too, do I.
Pushing aside my natural inclination to search out amusement in observing my fellow humans, I urge you to closely attend to the enclosed missive. A source dear to my heart entrusted it to me. I have not opened it and so am unable to offer you any sage advice on how you must respond.
Well…perhaps one tidbit that I learned from another of my dearest sets of Bennet Eyes—the ones of chocolate—your Grandaunt Elizabeth…
Follow your heart, son. That glorious organ, upon which the poets placed so much hope, will steer you into a safe harbor.
I am your obt. Servant and etc.
Thomas Bennet
Now for the envelope: taking it in his hand, he read the direction:
Deliver to
Henry Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock
On 5. May 1892
On the reverse flap, the embossed initials CMF rose, highlighted in
rich blue ink.
Mystified, Fitzwilliam reached across his desk and gripped the stiletto-thin letter opener made from a gazelle’s leg bone. Swiftly slitting the flap, he pulled out a single sheet of notepaper, with hasty writing covering just one side.
23. October, 1915
My Dearest,
I left you early this morning because I could not bear to say good-bye all over again. Once in this war is enough. You will leave for London in a few hours to return to your life. I must continue forward in mine.
You certainly know that I wish you great happiness, but I fear that my selfishness has condemned you to years of sadness. Ellie has told me of your terrible fits of ennui after your return in 1883. I am so sorry that I have left you in the dark for 9 years, waiting for a dream that could never materialize, but I could not have you interfering in what had to happen.
And, I beg you, do not relate what you know of our time together to anyone. I do not doubt for a moment that you will do your duty for family and country. But, She may not be able to ignore that which you now know to be the truth. Perhaps when you return here for the holidays we can talk.
I have entrusted this letter to Sergeant Reynolds who will accompany you as you return to the London of 1915. He has no knowledge of its contents. The Sergeant and Dr. Campbell, like their ancestors before them, are loyal servants of the Trust and our families.
Now, my love, you must help me. Quickly.
Visit la Galerie Durand-Ruel in Paris no later than May 10th. You will know why when you see it. Come to me. My need is great. I wait for you.
K
A postscript was scrawled across the bottom.
I was too late. I had to chose—seal the note or bid you farewell. I will find a way to deliver this to your hand.
And in different color ink…another postscript.
A strange resolution has gripped me. I am bound on a grand mission, and so my note to you must travel the long way around.
K
Fin
For an excerpt from “The Exile: Kitty Bennet and the Belle Époque”, please turn the page.
To Follow the Story of
Henry Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock
And
Kitty Bennet,
Please continue on to
Volume II of the Bennet Wardrobe
Kitty Bennet and the Belle Époque
Please enjoy this excerpt.
Chapter XXI
221B Baker Street, London, July 6, 1891[xxii]
Watson rested in his armchair, the Times spread across his lap as watched his friend act like a caged tiger at the Tower menagerie, pacing back and forth across the parlor of the flat at 221B Baker Street. First, Holmes would prowl to the mantle over the cold grate to inspect some flecks of tobacco that had escaped the worn Persian slipper, using a long tightly manicured forefinger to trace aimless circles in imaginary dust. Then he would drift over to his work table where he would desultorily sift through ancient letters and telegrams, snorting in disgust when none of them appealed any more to him now than they had the twenty-odd times he had previously stared at their words.
Since Watson had wed over a year prior, these observed moments of impatience and boredom had necessarily become less frequent. While his Mary and the consulting room in Kensington occupied the greater part of his day, most mornings none-the-less found Watson greeting Mrs. Hudson and then climbing the stairs to 221B in time to hand Holmes the early post and to share a late breakfast.
This particular morning had been comfortably cooler than the past few thanks to a series of brisk showers that had washed away the accumulated heat of the great city. The sky was clearing. The mid-morning sun brightened the cluttered rooms that made up, as Lestrade sarcastically had put it, “the den of lost causes.” Holmes would have none of the Sergeant’s needling, frequently reminding him that the rooms at 221B were “the hall of Scotland Yard’s lost cases.”
Suddenly the detective’s perambulations were arrested as he pushed aside the summer drapes to peer down into the crowds of Baker Street. His deeply set dark eyes focused intently down his aquiline nose, a sudden squint wrinkling his high forehead. Spinning away from the portal, he strode resolutely back to his long-empty wingback. Throwing himself into the seat, he stretched his lanky frame like a feline having awakened from a pleasing nap. Then he reached into the pocket of his mouse-colored robe and extracted a silver cigarette case. Opening it, he pulled one long white tube, closed the case and tapped the cigarette to settle its Turkish contents. Having lit it with a wooden match, he took one very long pull and exhaled a giant cloud of aromatic smoke.
Holmes spoke for the first time in nearly 30 minutes.
“We are going to have an important visitor in a few moments. There is no question that we are to be sent on a great quest.”
Watson looked up from his newspaper and replied, somewhat skeptically, “Really? Great? Knowing you as I do, you saw something in the street just now to lead you to that conclusion. Pray, dear Holmes, enlighten me.”
“Now, Watson, I understand that you are justifiably doubtful about my sudden change of mood. I urge you, though, to reserve your judgment and also to recollect your disbelief after our guest departs.”
At that pronouncement, Mrs. Hudson gently tapped on the door and entered into the parlor. She handed a calling card to Holmes. Then she surveyed the cluttered rooms, shrugged and rolled her eyes. Gathering the breakfast dishes, she looked back at her star lodger who gave her a brisk nod.
Opening the door and stepping onto the upper landing, she called down the stairwell, “Mr. Holmes is in. Please come up, my Lord.”
Holmes and Watson both stood to greet a peer of the realm. Holmes handed Watson the card. Reading it, the doctor raised his eyebrows in surprise at seeing the name of one of the wealthiest men in the world, someone who certainly would have been justified in expecting Sherlock Holmes to attend him rather than the other way around.
A youngish man who was taller than average, with steel grey eyes and light brown hair, walked into the parlor. He was slightly winded from the climb up the narrow flight of stairs. His serious mien bespoke of a resolute nature. Yet, it was also clear that he was a man with a conundrum he could not manage without special assistance. He gravely nodded as introductions were completed and settled back onto the horsehair sofa. Holmes and Watson returned to their respective chairs. Watson pulled out a notebook and a pencil while Holmes continued to smoke his cigarette.
Finally Holmes opened the conference, “Lord Fitzwilliam, I understand that you have a concern which you believe may be resolved by an application of my methods.
“However, as Dr. Watson will attest, I do have my own conceits which allow me some amusement. I do hope you will indulge me, if only for a moment. I tell you this where I might otherwise have toyed with your sensibilities because I find you to be a man unusual for your class.
“You, sir, are one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom. Of course, that is no mystery. One only need visit those thick-fingered, narrow-eyed men who inhabit the precincts of the City and drop the words Bennet Family Trust to inspire a sharp intake of breath and a glimmer of envy. Since you are even now the Managing Director of the Trust, one need not be a financier to apprehend your wealth.
“Yet, that is not why I find you intriguing.
“You, Lord Fitzwilliam are remarkably modest for one who can lunch with Rosebery[xxiii] and dine with Blandford.[xxiv] Other men of your circle would have summoned me to their club or, perhaps, in your case, your office. However, you come to me.
“Yet you are not ashamed to be seen meeting with a consulting detective. Where others would seek to obscure the contact, you arrive in your personal equipage. While Baker Street is no mean neighborhood, the shining lacquer of your coach and your not insignificant coat of arms are out-of-place along our thoroughfare.
“This, of course, leads me to conclude that you are engaged on personal business rather than a professional problem, and you do not wish
to discuss the situation in front of those not of the family. I also sense that you believe nefarious motives lie behind your difficulty and want to send a message to those who may be keeping themselves aware of your movements.
“Before you begin to relate your tale, please be assured that all matters spoken of in this room will be treated with the utmost confidentiality. All that I ask is that you be entirely truthful with me and do not leave out any detail, no matter how seemingly insignificant.
Henry grimly smiled having already been assured by several friends in Government that, while Holmes could not resist playing to his audience, he could be counted upon to act with the utmost discretion. Fitzwilliam also knew that Holmes had a reputation for success that had often led Scotland Yard to bring him in to find answers where none seemed in the offing. With those bits buoying his otherwise sagging spirits, Fitzwilliam carefully recounted the events since the afternoon of the fourth; Kitty’s sudden headache, her departure from Matlock House to, apparently, a shopping excursion at Harrods in Brompton Road, the note found in her chambers after her failure to return home, the search of the house and grounds, the delivery from Harrods, the confirmation from Mme de Secondat that her daughter had no knowledge of any plans for Kitty to visit their villa, and the utterly cold trail at Dover, Cherbourg, Paris and Macon.
At Holmes’ request, Henry passed the letter across to him.
“My sister argues that this correspondence could not have been composed by Miss Bennet as there is nothing that would indicate that she was writing to her most intimate friend in the world.
“She especially noted the formal nature of the reference to the villa in the south of France. Lady Eleanor argued that the phrase ‘Hermione de Secondat’s villa on the Côte d’Azur’ was written to direct seekers to a specific location where Miss Bennet ultimately would not be found. Ellie said that Kitty would have referred to “Boots’ summer place” rather than something so stilted.”
