The Keeper- Mary Bennet's Extraordinary Journey

by Don Jacobson

  “Father, I believe Mrs. O’Rourke was visited by an angel, so I willingly take on this holy duty to love and nurture these two babes. None of us can understand the will of the Lord. I just know that I cannot stand in the way of it either. God may have taken Mrs. O’Rourke, but her soul can rest easy in the knowledge that her little ones will know how much she loved them.”

  Father Newman smiled. Looking at Edward and shaking his head, “Listening to your wife makes me slightly regret my vow of celibacy. To have a companion as informed of her faith as is Mrs. Benton must be a joy, especially when it comes to guiding your flock. Do you think I could borrow her from time-to-time when I am stuck on a sermon?”

  All three laughed at this as a decades-long friendship was struck. After tea, Father Newman took Mary and Edward into a makeshift nursery and introduced them to their new family.

  Chapter XLII

  Kympton Parsonage, Derbyshire, August 23, 1816

  Mary opened a compartment in her escritoire and removed the box holding M. Ravel’s Waterman pen. Since it came into her possession over four years ago, Mary had read and re-read the instructions and had cobbled together a way to fill the ink reservoir. Now whenever she worked in private—and her sitting room at Kympton qualified as the most private place in the house next to the bedchamber she shared with Edward—she used the Waterman. Somehow the words she wrote with it seemed deeper and more personal.

  The open window in front of her overlooked the kitchen garden. The late afternoon summer’s breeze brought whispers of fragrant sage and spicy thyme to her nose. A mid-afternoon storm had broken the heat and cleansed the air. The sounds of the birds coming out from under their leafy shelters left Mary with a deep sense of peace. The corners of her lips tipped up as she spied Edward’s basset hound, Stanley, stalking an uncatchable squirrel. Edward asserted that anything that looked like a basset just had to be named Stanley. And assuredly Stanley was a parson’s dog, full of faith that he would someday seize that pesky rodent.

  Mary also smiled because she had never been happier in her entire life. Marriage suited her immensely. The passion she and Edward shared had not diminished even though they would never create a babe. They had spent the past twelve months nurturing their love with intimate joy.

  Kympton’s servants knew that when they spied the Master and the Mistress going anywhere holding hands, they were seeking privacy and, thus, discretion was the better part of valor. Sarah and Hastings were the gatekeepers whose task was to ensure that the couple was undisturbed when their eyes locked in that way. How she loved Edward!

  And how she loved motherhood! Rory and Bridget had grown into two redheaded 16-month-old toddler terrors. Under the watchful eyes of their nurse and Mary, the children were discovering the wonders of Kympton’s lawns and gardens, parlors and kitchens, and, unfortunately, from time-to-time, Edward’s study. The last foray into the bookroom left the staff with the task of scrubbing a pot-full of ink from the floor and the faces of two enthusiastic children. This afternoon, to give Mary a few moments of respite, their father had taken the pair to Thornhill to visit the ever-increasing Bingley brood.

  Faced with an abundance of free time, Mary was now contemplating the white vastness of a blank sheet of writing paper. She owed Lizzy a letter, but for some reason, she could not find the right words.

  Not that there was a dearth of news to share with her sister. The goings-on in Derbyshire life were always worth a line or two. Many of her earlier letters to Lizzy, now in the sixth week of her Continental tour with Darcy, were full of tidbits about the children, events in Lambton, the parish, and the day school.

  But, Lizzy’s most recent letter had set Mary to thinking. The Darcys had been passing through the Alps when they encountered another group of British tourists headed by the literary giants Byron and Shelley. The Swiss weather had been indifferent at best and downright miserable at worst so the Darcys accepted Byron’s hospitality to share his rented villa for several days.

  Lizzy related that Lord Byron had suggested a diversion to pass the time while they were cooped up in the house. He wanted everyone to write a ghost story suitable for fireside reading after dinner.

  “You have to understand how out-of-our-depth Darcy and I felt. Fitzwilliam has only recently begun to read novels. Most of his time is spent absorbing tracts on farming techniques or new mill machinery. And you know that I do enjoy reading gothic tales, but to write one?

  Darcy and I were able to plead that as “simple country folk,” we would be poor contestants but rather better judges of the competition. In any event, the stories offered by Byron, Shelley and most of the other guests were workmanlike but not particularly scary.

  There was one, however, written by Mary Godwin, Shelley’s paramour, that utterly terrified everybody. Byron fled the room as she was reading. Please do not be outraged that we would associate with ‘that sort’ of woman for she and Shelley are deeply in love but are trapped by his marriage[lxiii].

  Her tale of a doctor revivifying a corpse he had assembled out of pieces pilfered from graveyards has the makings of a timeless story. It works on two levels. Certainly, it is the most frightening story I have ever heard. The monster is heart chilling.

  But, as Fitzwilliam and I later discussed, this doctor’s assumption of what had only been in God’s hands, that is the power to create life, is a metaphor for our new industrial age. Man is now using water and steam to create cloth and forge iron. And, the biblical ‘Let there be light’[lxiv] has been spoken by Sir Humphrey Davy with success. Where before we accepted ‘God’s Will’ to explain the world, now we can change that which has always been deemed unchangeable.

  But, we must beware lest our new powers destroy us as the monster destroyed his creator in Miss Godwin’s story.”

  Lizzy’s comments about Man taking on roles previously reserved only to God had left a mark on Mary’s mind. She reflected that both she and her sister had changed to the point where they had become close confidants. In the old days, Mary and Lizzy barely engaged in civil conversation. Now, they shared their deepest thoughts.

  That special bond began after Lizzy lost the baby in November of ‘15. Throughout those cold and terrible Derbyshire winter months, Mary supplied the shoulder upon which Lizzy wept. And when Mrs. Darcy was not sobbing, she sat wrapped in a shawl staring out the window. Mary was usually by her side, perhaps to read poetry or a letter from Charlotte. Lizzy keenly felt her loss. Mary could imagine the wrenching pain she herself would have known if something had happened to either Rory or Bridget.

  But, even when she was at her lowest, Lizzy was pulled to Mary’s tenderness, so different from Jane’s mothering ministrations, because her younger sister offered Care to complement Jane’s Comfort. Mary sat with Lizzy much as Job’s three friends repined with him for days on end. Mary listened to her elder sister. She gently argued with her as Lizzy railed against God’s injustice. She fed Lizzy’s weakened soul while Jane tended her body.

  And, with the breaking of the frost and the blossoming of the trees, Lizzy’s mood began to lift. She returned to the nursery to play with George and Maddie. She began to attend to her appearance. She reached out to her husband to help him grieve their loss. Eventually they travelled. The Darcy’s European trip was as much a healing venture as a delayed honeymoon.

  Lizzy now turned to Mary where before she had only reached out to Jane. In return, as the wall between sisters crumbled, Mary found herself able to open up to the woman who was but one year older but had been, for so long, as remote to her as Land’s End.

  And, Lizzy’s words from a half a continent away pushed Mary to ponder.

  What am I doing to change my world? Lizzy and Darcy along with Jane and Charles are putting the resources of Darcy-Bingley Enterprises to work feeding their workers in Lambton, Derby, and Manchester during this terrible economic downturn. Lydia has taken her crusade for widow’s rights to the heart of the government.

  I am doing my part as Edward’s wife, bu
t I have yet to start on my mission! And when I do, will I make a difference?

  The turmoil Mary felt as she stared at the pristine sheet quietly settled into a distinct resolve. She needed to know more, to understand what her posterity would be. She quietly put her pen back in its box. Then she turned in her chair and gazed at the Wardrobe standing on the opposite wall of her sitting room.

  This was the first time she had been tempted. Perhaps temptation was not the right word. Curiosity was better. Was it forbidden fruit? The Biblical scholar in her remembered that the Tree of Knowledge resulted in the loss of Man’s innocence. Yet, Lizzy’s words about the Industrial Revolution and Miss Godwin’s story also struck a chord. Perhaps Man had grown enough to take control of his immediate world, leaving God to deal with the Hereafter.

  She thought about how five generations of Bennets had used the Wardrobe. For them, the cabinet was a device that opened a window on the future. What they saw, what they learned, and what they did was, as far as Mary was concerned, part of God’s greater plan. The visions they encountered, for good or ill, helped them comprehend the paths their lives would follow.

  And that sealed her decision. Scribbling a quick note on the paper, she folded it and dabbed it with a drop of wax. Addressing it simply with “Edward,” she left it on her desk. Rising, Mary crossed to the Wardrobe, closed her eyes, raised both hands and planted them firmly on the marquetry pattern.

  1,000 bees buzzed…

  

  Pemberley House, Derbyshire, April 30, 1833

  As quickly as it had built, the pressure vanished. Mary opened her eyes to the darkness inside of the cabinet. Taking a few moments to assure herself that she was in one piece, Mary listened carefully. Her arrival had apparently gone unremarked by the where/when in which she had landed.

  Mustering her courage, Mary pushed against the Wardrobe’s door. It opened onto a well-appointed bedchamber. Recognizing it as the room she and Edward shared when they visited Pemberley, she got to her feet and stepped onto the rich Persian rug covering the polished oak floor. Mary crossed the room to the window that she knew would overlook Lady Anne’s rose garden. In the gathering twilight she could see that while the plants were covered in leaves, the roses had yet to bud.

  It must be early to mid-Spring. And it is just past sunset.

  Her exploration continued as she looked for clues about the date. Finally, she discovered a small paper calendar tucked in the corner of the desktop blotter. Reading April 1833 on the top fixed the when. And, someone had carefully crossed out the first 29 days. Of interest was April 3rd where someone in a clear hand had written Mary and Edward to London.

  Satisfied that she knew the where/when of her journey, Mary considered her next steps. She was at Pemberley. Her future self had accompanied Edward to London for some purpose. She could continue to rifle the room for clues behind the Wardrobe’s decision or she could explore the halls of the great house. Confident woman that she was, Mary elected to venture out of the chamber.

  

  As soon as she had closed the door behind her, she ran into a young chambermaid moving about on her duties. Mary froze, feeling like a thief caught by a constable. The next few moments could lead to utter disaster. Or not.

  “Oi there. Are you the seamstress they sent over from Thornhill? The one that Mistress Darcy told me to watch out for?” the girl, no more than five-and-ten, asked as she scanned Mary from head-to-toe.

  Mary realized that her clothes must be hopelessly outdated which would place her as a servant wearing a hand-me-down. The fact that her gown was impeccable positioned her as a skilled needlewoman. And, the child in front of her was young enough to never have met Mary’s junior self. Smiling to herself, she realized that Lizzy must have known that a visitor was coming and had built a plausible story for the house servants.

  Looking the maid in the eye, Mary deepened her Hertfordshire “r” to soften her normally cultured, higher class English. She needed this youngster to believe that she, too, was in service—in this case to Jane and Charles.

  “Aye. But, the further I go, the more lost I get. This house has more halls than I have ever seen. Thornhill t’aint nothing like this. Can you show me to your Mistress, please?” Mary implored.

  “Well, you may have been lost, but you almost found yourself. You are in the Family Wing and the Mistress’ chambers are just a few doors down this hall. Let me get you there.”

  Guiding Mary to Lizzy’s rooms—although Mary knew full well where her sister would be—the maid knocked on the door. Mary recognized Elizabeth’s voice giving permission to enter.

  Lizzy was seated at her dressing table and looked up when the door opened. Her eyes widened as she beheld her much younger junior sister, but she maintained her composure.

  “Thank you, Sally. I have been awaiting this young lady to embroider some special stitching on one of my gowns. You may go now,” Lizzy ordered.

  Mary stepped deeper into a room that was familiar, yet different at the same time. Some furnishings were recognizable. Others were not. The mint green walls of her time had been replaced with wallpaper of the lightest blue embossed with flying birds. While Lizzy was herself, she had changed.

  Now a woman of three-and-forty, Elizabeth Darcy had grown into her role as Mistress of Pemberley. She clearly “fit” into the room. Her clothing and bearing reflected her wealth and authority. Her face had aged beautifully with the smallest of laugh lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Her lustrous hair was yet its trademark rich dark brown. Still a tiny woman, her figure had softened somewhat with age and motherhood. All in all, the Lizzy she faced was exactly who Mary imagined she would be.

  “Good evening, Mary,” Lizzy solemnly said, “Have you recovered from your journey?”

  Mary smiled, “I am quite fine, Lizzy. Thank you for your ‘reception committee.’ But, how did you know I was coming today?”

  Lizzy held up a small packet of letters. On the top, Mary could see her note addressed to Edward.

  “Unlike at least one of our sisters, you would not defy convention and Papa. Your note to Edward indicated that you would use the Wardrobe. The report you will write about your journey gave me everything I needed to know.

  “And, before you ask…No, I will not show you the report. That would cause too much confusion,” Lizzy stated.

  Mary crossed over to the chair opposite her sister and sat.

  “The Wardrobe sent me here to see you, but I am not sure why. After I read your letter about Miss Godwin’s story, I wanted to investigate the future, to understand how our world would change.”

  “Mary, the future you seek is yet to be written for you. My past may tell you something, but it is not necessarily your coming story. As for Miss Godwin’s tale, after she became Mrs. Shelley, she published it in a longer form, one that has remained popular these past fifteen years,” Lizzy offered.

  “Lizzy, I do understand that we each follow our own lines through time and space. What has happened to you is altered by your perceptions much as those same events color your insights. While we experience the same happenings in general, the specifics are unique to us,” Mary replied.

  Lizzy broke Mary’s serious speech with her characteristic crystal-tinkling laugh.

  “I doubt that you traveled seventeen years for a debate on temporal philosophy. Maybe we should engage in a healthy question and answer session. My only caveat will be that I may refuse to answer a question because the information may prejudice your actions in the future,” she suggested.

  This was satisfactory to Mary. So, she asked her first question.

  “When I came out of the Wardrobe, I noticed a calendar. That helped me deal with my disorientation by immediately fixing the timing of my arrival. But, I have two questions—why is the Wardrobe here at Pemberley? And what does the note on the calendar— “Mary and Edward to London”—mean?”

  Lizzy laughed again. “Oh, this will be strange. I just gave you an injuncti
on against debating the nature of time. Yet, we now will do just that.

  “You are asking me to explain something to you that you first explained to me years ago! You, Mary, told me that a calendar or some other device that gives date and location must always be near the Wardrobe and kept up-to-date. That way a voyager can quickly know the where/when of their destination.”

  Mary pondered this. “Well, that is a paradox. It seems that you in 1833 have just given me the idea for something that I will implement sometime after I return in 1816. So, whose idea is it? Yours or mine?”

  “Does it matter, Mary? Let this be something we ponder after having a glass of wine. In any event, the calendar note about London and the Wardrobe being in your room down the hall are part of the same event.

  “So, as to your questions…

  “The Bentons, you and Edward, although it is mostly you, having just finished crusading for the Reform Bill and supporting the adoption of the Sadler Report[lxv] are now in London pressuring MPs during the Second Reading of the Factory Act.[lxvi]

  “You insisted that the Wardrobe be moved to Pemberley so that I could watch over it as the interim Keeper while you and Edward based yourselves at Darcy House in Town,” Lizzy explained.

  Mary sat back in her chair. She looked across at her sister in wonder. A reform bill that had been passed by Parliament? That was something radicals had been tossing around for years…changing the way in which Members were elected to Westminster. And that would give more power to the regular people while lessening the hold of an increasingly irrelevant landed aristocracy.

  Well, the Vicar of Kympton and his wife were activists! At this she smiled. She had been listening to Lydia rant about politicians and government intransigence regarding the widows since last summer. Apparently, I will discover my own set of social passions that will be my beacons in the future. And, my efforts will bear fruit!