by Don Jacobson
The carriage pulled up to the cottage, and the couple descended to knock on the door. Before it was opened, they heard the hacking cough of the adult occupant. Mrs. O’Rourke, a tall, thin woman, with a babe cradled in her arm, pulled open the rough panel. She wiped her lips with a rag she stuffed in her apron, smiled, and bobbed a curtsey when she saw the couple bearing the food basket.
“Ah, t’is you the Rev’rend an’ his new bride Missus Benton. So good ta see you and on your weddin’ day, indeed. Please excuse the mess but do come inside.”
Crossing the threshold, Mary scanned the hut. Small and musty, its two rooms were divided by a blanket hung to separate the sleeping area from the common room. She smiled warmly at the wan-looking woman with dull eyes and red hair that had lost its luster. She was surely no more than eight-and-ten.
“Let me lay little Bridget down, and I will be right with you. Rory, t’uther one, sleeps like a rock.” She disappeared behind the blanket and returned wiping her hands on her apron. She looked around nervously. There were no chairs to offer guests and only a single milking stool next to the fireplace. Though clean, the cottage had the aura of a sickroom.
Sensing Mrs. O’Rourke’s embarrassment, Mary put her at ease. “Mrs. O’Rourke, we only stopped by for a moment. We had hoped you would share in our joy by accepting this basket of food from our wedding breakfast. I think that Mrs. Reynolds also included some barley meal which may suit as you start the little ones on solid food.”
“Oh, you need not have diverted yourself from your wedding trip, Missus Benton, to stop here.”
“Mrs. O’Rourke, our wedding trip, as you put it, will be a few days of peace and quiet at the Parsonage. I want to get into the activities of the parish as soon as I can. As such, I will be looking to residents like you to show me the ropes.”
“But, Mrs. Benton, ya know I’m Roman, right?”
Mary laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “Roman or Church of England, we are all God’s children, Mrs. O’Rourke. As such, we reach out to one another, not divide by class or confession. Know that I will always be available to you.” The redhead smiled and clasped her hand atop Mary’s.
Leaving the basket with a grateful woman, Edward and Mary completed their voyage to the Parsonage. Another fit of phlegmy coughing started as soon as they pulled away.
Edward had been living by himself at Kympton since taking up his office in late June. Mary had not even visited because of the turmoil of Wickham’s death and the planning for the wedding. This would be her first view of her new home.
Unlike Hunsford Parsonage that was more of a yeoman’s residence, the Kympton Vicarage was only slightly smaller than Longbourn House. Mary’s eyes widened as she took in the grandness of the manor. She had always imagined her destiny to be the wife of a simple country parson, cozily tucked away in some little abode out in the rolling greenery. Kympton was far beyond her expectations.
Of course, this is a Pemberley living. What should I have expected—a thatch-roofed cottage? No wonder Wickham coveted it so much.
At the crunching sound of the wheels on the gravel drive, the front door popped open and out tumbled the entire staff. Mary, used to the ministrations of Mr. and Mrs. Hill, Cook, and one maid, started counting noses.
Butler
Housekeeper
Two Footmen
Lady’s Maid
Valet
Two Housemaids
Cook
Scullery Maid
Goodness! Ten people? She was mistress to a household of ten? Mama would burst her stays! In fact, I better write Mama—and ask Lizzy and Jane—for advice. I never even considered that I would be responsible for so many people. I wonder how many hands are on the property? Does Edward employ a steward?
Edward handed her down from the carriage and taking her hand and placing it atop his arm, introduced her to the staff. Her lady’s maid, Sarah, was familiar, having served Mary both at Darcy House as well as Pemberley. Formalities completed, all disappeared to their tasks. The couple entered the front hall, and Mr. Anders, the butler, conferred quietly with Edward. Anders looked at Sarah and nodded. She, in turn, approached Mary and guided her upstairs to a beautifully–appointed suite.
“Would you care to bathe before dinner, Mistress?”
“A bath? That would be divine. But where will we put the wash-tub on this remarkable carpet.”
Sarah giggled. “Oh. Mistress. I was not suggesting you bathe in here, your bedchamber. Remember the bathing tub at Darcy House? The one Mr. Darcy had installed after he married Mrs. Darcy? He is something of a tinkerer and inventor. He used Kympton to test out his ideas before installing them at Pemberley and Darcy House.
“Follow me, please.” And opening a door that should have led to a shared sitting room between the Master’s and Mistress’ chambers, Sarah revealed a large hammered copper tub mounted on a tiled floor. Windows opened out onto the western pastures and fields, offering a stunning view of the Peaks outlined by the setting sun.
“Sarah, this is divine. But, I could not think of asking everybody to haul buckets to fill this monster! It has to be big enough for two people.”
Sarah blushed, but as Mary’s body woman, she enjoyed liberties not afforded other servants. “Well, ma’am, that is the idea as I understand it from Mrs. Darcy’s Jennie. She says the Master and Mistress frequently…well, you know…”
Knowledge dawned, and Mary smiled. “Still, it seems so unfair to put Cook to boiling so much water and even with two footmen, it would be a terrible task.”
“Oh, Mistress, t’would be nothing even if we had ta do all that. Why, ta do it for you, ma’am, t’would be a pure pleasure. You know how servants talk—and with everybody at Kympton, Pemberley, Darcy House, and even Thornhill so close to one another—the book on you comes down somewhere between best mistress in the world and St. Martha[lix]. Please forgive my forwardness, ma’am, but it is your wedding day. Anything for you would be nothing at all for us.
“And, remember I said Mr. Darcy was somewhat of an inventor. He installed a thing he calls running water. There’s a big cistern up on the hill behind the house sitting on top of somethin’ like a smithy’s forge. One of the stable boys keeps the fire going all day long to heat the water. Then a pipe brings it down here to this tap where we mix it with cold water from t’other tap connected to the spring that feeds Kympton House.”
Mary was amazed. “You are saying we can run the water and have it be the right temperature for bathing? Right now?”
“Yes, Mistress. Right now. Allow me to show you, though please let me do it. First, we must plug up the drain and then, as my brother Corporal Jones would say, voila!”
Water poured into the tub. Mary ran her fingers under the stream—perfect.
“Sarah. I am convinced. Please help me out of all of this wedding frippery.”
Within moments, Mary stood barefoot and naked in the late afternoon sunshine streaming through the window. She had heard Mr. Turner at the Royal Academy refer to the unique quality of light such as this as golden time. Her skin goose-pimpled when exposed to room temperature air after having been smothered under layers of linen and muslin for the entire day. Her light brown hair, unpinned, flowed down her back. She closed her eyes and raised her chin letting the cooler air wash over her.
“My God, you are beautiful.”
She jumped at the sound of Edward’s voice and quickly grabbed a towel to cover up. He leaned against the doorframe obviously leading to his room, an admiring smile on his face. He had stripped down and was wearing a patterned silk banyan, tied at the waist.
“Edward!” she hissed.
He smiled again and called out in his pulpit voice, “Sarah, your mistress will no longer require your services this evening. Please advise the staff that we wish privacy. We will ring for food to be sent up.”
He reached behind him and held up a thin-necked bottle along with two crystal goblets.
This man of two
worlds told his bride, “General Fitzwilliam “liberated” this from Napoleon’s kitchen after the battle. He says that the Benedictine monks have created a drink that will have you think you are tasting stars.[lx] T’is called champagne.
“Come, the tub is nearly full. Step in while I pour you a glass.”
Smiling, he turned his back, giving Mary the opportunity to drop her towel and carefully lower herself into the soothing water. Edward approached and handed her a glass of wine that sparkled as bubbles fizzed to the surface. Then he pulled a bowl out from behind the tub to scatter white rose petals atop the steaming pool, filling the room with an incredible aroma.
Mary gazed up at him from her reclining position. Her heart lifted as her love stood above her, features cast as if in molten gold. Setting her drink on a small table, she raised her arms, water sheeting off them and catching the fiery rays of that late July day. Pulling him down, she opened her mouth and captured his in the first of a lifetime of kisses.
Chapter XLI
The newlyweds did not appear downstairs for three full days. Food was sent up, bed linens were discretely changed, discarded clothing was hung or washed as necessary by Sarah and Hastings, Edward’s valet. The couple certainly kept up their appetites as the trays were returned with most dishes sampled if not demolished. The large copper bathtub was filled and drained several times during the week, water gurgling through feed and discharge pipes alerting the staff. Occasionally, a ruckus could be discerned by those walking by in the hallway—laughing, squealing, and running around the Master and Mistress’s suites. Whatever they were up to, they were having a marvelous time of it.
Mr. and Mrs. Anders were sure that there would be every chance that the Mistress would soon be increasing. Both the Reverend and his wife were young and healthy. And, looking at the frequency with which Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy were presenting their husbands with new babes, the fecundity of the Bennet women was expected to continue at Kympton.
On Friday, the duo signaled their intent to rejoin humanity. Arm-in-arm they walked down the main stairs; Mary’s face aglow and Edward’s holding a happy smile as he kept her swaying body close to his. Escorting her to the table in the breakfast room, Edward paused to pour coffee for himself and bring a pot of chocolate for Mary. Next to his place was a stack of mail.
“Well, darling, we are back in the world now, are we not?” he said, patting the pile of correspondence.
Sorting through the missives, he saw that most were of a social nature; those he passed on to his wife as well as letters for her from her sisters and Longbourn. There was one that caught his eye. A precise hand had scribed the note and the return was St. Titus’ Vestry in Kympton.
“Hmm…I wonder what Father Newman writes. We have yet to be introduced. Perhaps he is welcoming us to the neighborhood.”
Breaking the seal, Edward scanned the padre’s letter. The color left his face and his hand dropped to the table with a thud, startling Mary.
At her glance, he said numbly, “It is Mrs. O’Rourke. She has passed away.”
“What, impossible! We saw her Monday afternoon. What happened? Was it an accident? What about the babes?” Mary’s questions flowed like water as did her tears.
“Newman says that consumption was the end of her. You heard her hacking when we were there. He found her Tuesday morning when he stopped by to check her health. She must have hemorrhaged during a coughing fit overnight. He says she still lived, and the children were unharmed.
“But, here is what is curious, and, Mary, this is the crux which involves us. As he was tending to her, he took her confession, and gave her the last rites of the Roman Church.
“Mary, she begged him to take the twins and bring them to us. While Newman would not break his vows as her confessor, he writes here that the lady insisted that the angel Gabriel had visited her during those dark hours as she weakened.
“He says that Mrs. O’Rourke stated that the archangel said 'Those blessed little ones are for the care of the Mistress of Kympton. She will be as Elizabeth, mother of John[lxi], but will never conceive. Hers is to be the highest calling—to be mother not through blood but through love’.”
Mary interjected, “Does Father Newman believe her? Do you?”
Edward looked solemn for a moment before he answered, “Miracles and visitations have been reported throughout the centuries. Recall that Joan of Arc claimed to have been visited before she took on the English. I feel it is more believable to accept that angels still walk amongst us than to think they stopped a few weeks or months after the death of Christ.
“Is it possible that Mrs. O’Rourke was fevered and delusional because of her slide toward the grave? Certainly. But, I doubt if she was educated, even in the least. While the story of Elizabeth and Mary is not obscure, it is also infrequently cited. For this poor woman to pick that one out of all others in the Bible beggars the imagination.
“And, there is that one bit about you and conception. You and I know the Rules of the Wardrobe. But, except for your sisters, there is not another living soul who is aware of all the implications of our marriage. I would not doubt that the Prime Mover’s right-hand man would have a command of Gibbons’ Rules.
“She left you a message, too. You tell Missus Benton that Rory and Bridget have been a blessing to me if only for a few weeks. Let them be a blessing to her and the Rev’rend for as long as they live.
“Father Newman writes that she survived for an hour or two after accepting Communion, but never again spoke. He gathered the children and brought them to St. Titus’ Vestry House where he awaits our visit.”
Mary stood, brushing the front of her dress. “Hmmmpf. I thought we would have a bit more ‘alone time’ Mr. Benton. However, it looks like the honeymoon is over and the rest of our lives has begun.”
Calling for the Anders, she instructed them to prepare the nursery in the Mistress’ bedchamber, removing the canopy bed to the attics. Her Wardrobe would be moved into the Master’s Chamber. Multiple wet nurses would have to be hired and accommodated. The quiet of Kympton was swiftly vanishing.
Edward and Mary waited at the door of St. Titus House. A snug stone building adjacent to the church and cemetery, the Vestry projected warmth and solace. Now, three centuries after King Henry’s break with Rome, the Catholics of England were emerging from their dark times into the accepted flow of society. Roman churches were becoming more common as the Irish migrated from their native lands to work the mines, build the canals and roads, and toil in the factories of an industrializing Britain.
The housekeeper opened the door and bade them enter. They were installed in a commodious library with book-lined walls. Latin titles mixed with the Greek classics leapt out at them. Here was the bookroom of a philosopher!
John Henry Newman[lxii], a slender man in his mid-twenties, breezed into the room to greet his guests. Father Newman had piercing blue eyes with which he probed both Mary and Edward. All of them felt a curious bond that electrified them. The three sat as a group around a small table.
Father Newman began, “You know, Reverend Benton, Mrs. Benton, I am not one much for small talk. We have a curious situation here. Mrs. O’Rourke, a solid member of our congregation has, upon her deathbed, given her children to you—a couple married less than a week—a vicar of the Church of England and his wife—two people she had known for only a few hours. This is, in itself, quite unusual.
“But, then, let us add that this woman asserted that she had been visited by an angel—and not just any angel, but the Lord’s headman, Gabriel.
“Now, I have bent the rules of the confessional a bit to reveal her words to me. I think we needed to have all our cards on the table. Not another person knows what she said. I could have easily passed the twins onto another family in the parish. But, I know what she asked with her last breaths. I am loath to counter those wishes.
Mary softly interjected, “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
Father Newman smi
led, “I am not concerned that she left her children to your care. I am not bothered that she claims she did it at the request of an angel. Honestly, I can tell you are good and Godly people. You are obviously somewhat well heeled, so Rory and Bridget would not want for anything.
“No, the problem rests in that these two little ones were baptized in the Roman faith. By our beliefs, they are and will be Catholic to their dying day when they will receive the Last Rites as did their mother.
“And here you are an Anglican priest holding one of the great livings of England. How can you reconcile this? You both know they must be raised Catholic. You cannot wave a wand over them and make them Anglican and imperil their immortal souls!”
Mary looked at Edward. Seeing the intensity in her brown eyes, her husband deferred to her with a simple hand gesture.
Mary crossed her hands in her lap. “Father Newman. I think we three are going to get along quite famously. Each of us detests guile and artifice. So, let me be equally direct with you.
“While my husband may be a priest in the Anglican Church, we know that our Lord tolerates the theological arguments that currently divide our confessions. The children have been baptized in Christ—whether the hand that dripped the water was Catholic or Protestant matters not in the Lord’s eyes.
“So here is what I say to you—we will raise Rory and Bridget to be the best Catholics England has ever seen. If Edward cannot bring them to the Vestry for instruction, I will. While Edward cannot celebrate their first communion at the altar as their father confessor, he and I will be in the congregation as their parents. Times are gradually changing, and we will fight the politics of the situation if they interfere in our family.
“If Rory wishes to take orders as a monk, we will bless his decision. If Bridget decides to marry a Catholic man, there will be no complaint from her parents. All we would ask is that he will love our daughter as we, her parents, will.
