by Don Jacobson
To his astonishment, they announced that they had married the previous day and that Anne, already seven-and-twenty, had assumed her rightful position as her father’s heiress. As such, Lady Catherine’s control over the affairs of Rosings had ended.
Now, my cousin may be many things—pompous, arrogant, unoriginal, and slow—but like an American mule, if you hit him between the eyes with a quarterstaff, you will get his attention. The words “wedding” and “yesterday” were the chunks of timber that broke through his incomprehension.
Bowing and scraping his way out of their presence, he ran as fast as his short legs would carry him back to the Parsonage where he burst into Charlotte’s morning room and accosted me. He was huffing and puffing so hard with exertion and excitement that his words tumbled out in a torrent.
He accused me of ruining everything. He named me a viper in his family’s bosom. He styled me a pimp for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s evil lust. He called me to account for betraying his noble patroness. Then he ordered me out of his house.
What he forgot was that sending me packing from the Parsonage only elevated me to the manor house. Anne and Richard received me as the friends they are. I am being prideful, and please forgive me, but Mr. Collins’ expression when he saw me the next day sitting in the pew with Anne and Richard was worth having to pack and unpack in great haste. But, I fear he is still going to be an enemy as he is the heir to Longbourn.
I draw this long and eventful letter to a close. I hope it finds you well. I hope it that it finds you at all given the war rumblings coming from Town.
Go with God and my Love,
Mary
July 23, 1812
Dearest Mary,
I received a packet of your letters from our contacts in Falmouth in the District of Maine. These fisher folk tend to ignore the fact that the United States and Britain are at war. They conduct an active cross-border trade with their counterparts in Acadia. I imagine our government would call it smuggling. So be it. They bring me valuable contraband!
…
My fondest and most regular recollection is your image as you cradled those two children in the wagon returning to Longbourn. Your soul, the pure goodness of it, was laid bare to me in that instant. I could not but love you from that moment onward.
Concerning your point of trust between a man and a woman: a deeper truth has never been spoken. If I could write those words you long to hear, I would. But, they must wait until we meet next.
…
I am deeper now into my studies. As I am elderly (now two-and-twenty since my birthday in May has been left behind) in relation to the other students, the masters and professors have allowed me to complete the exams for both the first and second year courses. I achieved high honors in all—but my Greek was by far the strongest! And, although he is no longer teaching here as he is the United States Minister to the Court of Czar Alexander, I have begun reading John Quincy Adams’ Lectures on Rhetoric and Oratory.
In addition to my classes at the College, I am now engaged as a secretary to Mr. John Adams, late the President of the United States, a Founder of the nation and an elder statesman. Our meeting was by chance—of the most sublime manner.
One of my professors selected several of his students to attend a levee at the house of Ward Nicolas Boylston, one of the great benefactors of the College. Do not let your London relations ever tell you that the Americans are uncivilized bumpkins. The Boylston residence in Roxbury is the family’s in-town home. But, being surrounded by generous lawns and stunning gardens, this could easily be a country estate owned by the wealthiest of the ton.
The guests were also of the upper crust of Boston society. There were Cabots and Lowells and Lodges galore. As this is a land of entrepreneurs, the only two measures of quality are length of time in Massachusetts and/or wealth—preferably both.
But, by far the most celebrated visitor that day was a relative of the Boylstons—Mr. John Adams. He is a short, round man with a balding pate and piercing eyes. He does not suffer fools well and, thus, is sometimes left to his own counsel.
Another difficulty is that he refuses to accept the characterization of being an arch-Federalist. Like most of his revolutionary generation, he is an American nationalist. The Federalists, driven by their commercial interests and still smarting from Jefferson’s ruinous Embargo Act, want to pursue a course of accommodation with London.
Mr. Adams is furious about the British Navy’s odious practice of impressing American citizens. He does see the present war as unnecessary and dangerous, but he also asserts that it is the result of the pro-French foreign policy of Jefferson and Madison that made negotiation with Britain impossible.[xlii] And, the old gentleman is almost apoplectic when he talks of how Jefferson allowed America’s frigates, the “Walls of Wood,” to rot in harbor.
…
We were seated together by chance near a beautiful bay window overlooking the back garden when Mr. Adams spoke to me.
He turned his gaze upon me and asked, “So, Mr. Benton, you are attending Harvard College. But, you are a stranger in a strange land, trapped here by the circumstances of war. Why are you here? Are you a spy? Are you some sort of agent provocateur for your masters at St. James? Explain yourself.”
I recalled that Mr. Adams had been the most accomplished lawyer in Massachusetts during colonial days. One only has to read his Dissertation on the Canon and Feudal Law or his defense of the British soldiers charged in the Boston Massacre to understand that he has a mind like a steel trap, ready to snap shut and extinguish anyone who prevaricates. Thus, my answer was frank.
“Sir, my family is of gentle circumstances, but without great resources. A distant relation prevailed upon Bishop Hobart to sponsor my studies at the College. I hope to take Holy Orders upon graduation and then, once the war has ended, return to Great Britain. My ministry will be amongst those who are in the middle of a social upheaval we are calling ‘The Industrial Revolution.
“I am no radical. But I do believe that the government in Westminster is held firmly in the grip of landowners who have no concept of how the world is changing around them. Great Britain will always grow things, to be sure. But, new and prodigious wealth will be found in the mines, looms, and forges that are springing up across the Midlands.
“Land powered the Agricultural Revolution. But, Mr. Adams, people will power the industrial one. And those souls will need spiritual support and advocates to take their part.”
The Old President leaned back in his chair. Dropping his chin onto his chest and planting his stick on the floor like a monarch would the scepter of state, he stared at me as if he would bore a hole to my soul.
“You sound like my son John Quincy. He is always going on about how the world will move on the legs of millions and be powered by steam. You also remind me of my revolutionary brother Mr. Jefferson. Always the bright-eyed idealist.
“You know, the world has made much of the break between us. That was politics. He and his family have always been dear to Mrs. Adams and me. We have begun exchanging letters again these past several months thanks to the machinations of Dr. Rush and my wife.
“My problem is that I am seven-and-seventy this year and decades of reading and writing in candlelight have left it difficult for me to keep up with my work. My granddaughters read to me, but I need a new man to take on my correspondence and other writing. Mr. Ware has suggested that you would be an excellent candidate.
“Well, what say you? You would need to move yourself to Peacefield, my home in Quincy. It may be eight miles distant from Cambridge, but since it is a farm, there are horses aplenty. You would be able to ride to Harvard when you had to. And, since I am an esteemed alumnus—Class of 1755—I may even be prevailed upon to encourage your studies and proctor your exams.”
What else could I say, dear Mary, but ‘yes?’
…
Please extend my best wishes to the newlyweds. Please know that I look upon the miniature your P
apa gave me and remember the sweetest pair of brown eyes I have ever beheld.
Your lonely, but loving,
Edward
June 11, 1814
Rosings, Kent
Dearest Edward,
The most joyous of news is crushed by the saddest.
Anne Fitzwilliam was delivered of an infant girl three days ago. Her husband, Brigadier Fitzwilliam remained by her side throughout her labors. Together they beheld their sweet child whom they named Anne Elizabeth Mary. They let it be publicly known that she was named after the three great Protestant Queens. But, Anne told me that it was for her aunt, Anne Darcy, and her two cousins—Lizzy and me.
Then childbed fever set in and there was no saving her. Anne, one of the sweetest souls in this world and my dearest friend, slipped away from us to her Father’s House in the early hours yesterday morning. Richard is devastated.
After her final services, the entire family including Lady Catherine gathered at Rosings. When the men returned from the family crypt, she immediately attacked Richard and then me for killing her girl, asserting that if she had never married Richard, she would still be with us. Then she attacked Elizabeth for stealing Darcy from his promised wife and thus being complicit in her demise. Some of her words I can ascribe to grief. But, in the froth of her anger, she let slip what I will leave to your own conclusion.
“If Anne and Darcy had married as was promised from infancy, she would never have become pregnant. Darcy is too much of a gentleman to impose on a weakling.”
Then she and her personal confessor, Mr. Collins, left the room. They are a strange couple—vinegar and oil.
Something is very wrong about Mr. Collins. There has been much angry talk amongst the parents in the village. After this began surfacing about four months ago, Anne and Richard terminated his living at Hunsford. On top of that, Charlotte took their daughter, Maria Rose, and removed herself and her possessions first to Lucas Lodge and then, at my parent’s invitation, to Longbourn. It seems that Mama is reconciled to Charlotte and her child. But, not to Mr. Collins. Every effort (and there have been but two) he has made to see Charlotte and little Maria have been rebuffed, I am told, by an armed Mr. Hill. Mr. Collins, himself evicted from the Parsonage, moved into the dower house with Lady Catherine.
…
This sad news cannot be lifted by the fact that the Tyrant has abdicated the throne he built on the blood of Europe. Lord Wellington has prevailed. Now there will be a conference.
If we can only end the foolish War with America…then you could come home.
Your dearest friend,
M.
November 3, 1814
Longbourn House, Hertfordshire
My Lizzy,
I rejoice in the news that you have been safely delivered of a little girl. That you and your husband have honored her maternal Great Aunt and paternal grandmother by naming her Madelyn Anne warms this old man’s heart.
Speaking of heart—mine has been annoying me recently. I think that the lengthy trip I have just completed took its toll. What did the poet say? “Time waits for no man?” Well, Lizzy, I fear that it did not wait for me. But, for once, I, as a father, did right by one of my children. I have since spoken with the best men in Town. One suggested that a tincture of cinchona bark might offer some relief. They also suggested that I get my affairs in order.
…
I now ask a favor of you. The infamous living at Kympton that is under Mr. Darcy’s control is, I understand, vacant. I would ask that you suggest your distant relation, Edward Benton, the man courting Mary, as being a suitable candidate for the post. You can assure your husband that young Benton, now completing his studies at Harvard College in America, is an upright, honorable, and steadfast man. He is a pastor not a politician. This would offer him the income to support a wife and give him a solid start on his career in the Church. He would be able to assume his duties once the proceedings in Ghent are concluded and peace is restored.
My only instruction is that Benton and your mother should not keep close company. For reasons that will soon become clearer to you, your Mama could upset certain apple carts that would best be left upright. I realize that total separation may be difficult, but hopefully the distance from Derbyshire to Meryton will be sufficient. Benton may have other solutions.
Wish your husband well. Give George William a hug and kiss from Mama and me. Pass on my blessings to little Madelyn Anne.
Your loving father,
Thomas Bennet
January 17, 1815
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
Dear Edward,
My father is dead. He lived to see Napoleon depart and peace be restored with our American cousins. He bounced his grandchildren on his knees and lost himself in Pemberley’s great library. But he did not live to see his middle daughter marry.
His last words were to me. He said, “Tell Edward I love him and will be waiting with our Mamas and Papa. Mary—you and Edward must protect the Wardrobe.”
I send this to you on one of Bingley’s fast ships leaving on tomorrow’s tide. Now that the peace treaty with your adopted home has been settled, I pray you will conclude your affairs with the College and President Adams.
Please come home. I will remove to Darcy House in Town.
I need you. The music is gone from my life.
M.
Chapter XXXI
Longbourn Estate, Hertfordshire, January 1815
There was one short phrase in Papa’s last words that Mary did not write to Edward. These were for her alone, words that repaired the damage heaped upon her young shoulders over the first nineteen years of her life, less now in the past three.
“Mary, you have always been a good girl. Your heart was hardened by my neglect and mistreatment. Forgive a foolish old man. I have always loved you, and your Mama loves you, too. Your Edward cherishes you. He will be a remarkable life partner.”
Mary had spent the last months of 1814 living at Rosings helping Richard cope with his loss and raise baby Annie. Then, in the early days of January 1815, the news of her father’s attack came from Longbourn. She had been in the process of preparing to relocate both herself and the little one to Darcy House in Town because Richard had been asked by the Government to serve on the commission at the Congress of Vienna.
Concerned about Lady Catherine’s ongoing efforts to re-assume control of Rosings as well as the baby, Richard had assigned Power of Attorney for all Rosings, which he had controlled on Annie’s behalf since her mother’s death, to Uncle Edward Gardiner and the Lincoln’s Inn law firm of Wilson and Hunters. He assigned Annie’s legal guardianship to her godparents Darcy, Lizzy, and Mary and named Lord Matlock her Power of Attorney until Richard was once again in Great Britain.
With little Annie in a basket, Mary took the Rosing’s post chaise directly to Longbourn. The long-faced greeting from Mama and Charlotte told her all she needed to know; the outlook for Papa was grim. When she entered his chamber, Mary was stunned at how profoundly her father had aged since she had last seen him during the summer. His full head of hair had thinned to mere wisps. His normally ruddy complexion and smooth skin was now the wrinkled parchment of an old man, appearing nearly a decade older than Thomas’ five-and-fifty.
Over the course of the next several days, Mary spent as much time as possible at her father’s bedside, talking with him when he was able, reading to him when he was not. She took her meals in his room and spoon-fed him whatever he could take.
His greatest pleasure was found in his time with little Eddie, now a sturdy three-year old puzzled as to why his father was not ready to play horses with him or to run outside in the thin crust of Hertfordshire snow. But Eddie and Charlotte’s Maria Rose, nearly of an age, seemed to understand deep inside that Papa needed hugs and kisses from little arms and rosebud lips.
Even Thomas’ wife of near seven-and-twenty years realized that the man who had g
iven her headaches with his teasing was preparing himself for another realm. Fanny would sit by his bedside with and in relief of Mary and the other girls. There were several times that Mary discovered her asleep on the bed next to Thomas, cuddled under his protective arm.
Lizzy and Jane along with their husbands and children had descended from Derbyshire to be by his side. Lydia, accompanied by her friend, Mrs. Wilson, arrived from her rented rooms in Newcastle. For a man who had always cherished his peace and quiet, Thomas’ last days were filled with a joyous noise. Though tears tempered them, the smiles he gave his children and grandchildren left everyone knowing that Thomas Bennet was fully satisfied with the life he had led.
The family quickly responded to the invalid’s whims and wishes hoping to make his final days more comfortable. His most unusual request was for something he called a vodka martini.[xliii] When questioned, he explained that it was a drink made from potent spirits—Russian vodka and dry vermouth from either Italy or France—for which he had developed a taste.
“Daughter, Mary…food and drink are memories. This particular cocktail, what the French call le coquetier, will help me savor a victory I won over someone who did our family a terrible wrong,” Thomas said one afternoon.
“Use the recipe my friend Mr. Fleming preferred—six parts of vodka to one part of vermouth—shaken, not stirred, with ice. Strain it into a champagne glass. If you can find a little twist of lemon peel, that would be floated on top.”
Mary was at sixes-and-sevens to fulfill this appeal. She turned to Madame Rochet because Papa had offered that mixed drinks like this seemed to have French roots. The lady averred that she had heard that the term “le cocktail” had come from New Orleans shortly after the city became American. But, the martini? “Mais non, Cherie, je ne sais pas. I do have some vermouth pour you. I enjoy it as an aperitif instead of sherry.”
