by Don Jacobson
Bennet looked back at the bantam hen facing him, fists planted upon her hips, standing adjacent to the sitting room’s fireplace, cold now in the depths of summer. His wife was still an attractive woman, although her years and six pregnancies had rounded her features somewhat. Her girlish figure had certainly filled out in recognition of her status as a gentlewoman who frequented the parlors and drawing rooms of the Four-and-Twenty Families, and who, likewise, enjoyed viands of the first cut. Yet, she was not stout, but rather had become silkily voluptuous in a pleasing sort of way, reminiscent of the muses of Meester Rubens. Thomas still could see the young Miss Gardiner whose pair of fine eyes so effectively captured his heart back in ’89.
He knew that he would have to tread lightly as he felt his way across rocky ground over the next several minutes.
Am I engaging in the height of arrogance? Who am I to presume to reveal matters concerning the Wardrobe to a non-Bennet? Yet, young Thomas showed me Gibbons’ original rules as a refresher. I had not closely considered them for three years, not since I gave Janie and Lizzy The Keeper’s Talk just before their weddings.
There is no rule against discussing the Wardrobe with a non-Bennet. That was a Keeper conceit to ensure security…one that was suitable in my Great-grandfather’s time when the cabinet sat in the Longbourn bookroom. Now, though, it is safely hidden in one of the great townhomes in Mayfair!
So, the Wardrobe is protected. And, however much Fanny likes to gossip, she has never once spilled our family secrets. Not only will she not be a danger to the Wardrobe, she will also be an invaluable asset in the future.
Bennet cut short his inner dialogue and refocused on his wife. He prayed that she would not revert to form with a bout of her famous nerves. He counted on the fact that she had found her own form of emotional comfort after Jane, Lizzy, and Lydia had wed in ’11. Plus, their adoption of little Eddie had allowed the maternal to rise again in her matronly bosom. He required a fully functional Frances Bennet if he was to successfully conclude his business.
Secure in this understanding, he made to begin.
Except that Mrs. Bennet launched the first salvo.
In her pleasing alto, so like Elizabeth’s, she surprised him with, “You must think me the most foolish woman in all of England. You hide me away here in this gaol…for such it is even though it is my home. Or so it appears to be…except for many unusual discrepancies which a master but not a mistress would ignore.”
She swept her hand around the room.
“Do you believe me to be so insensible as to not notice that the pattern on the fabric upholstering this furniture is subtly different from that which I selected shortly after we wed? The broad stripes of these chairs and sofa are picked out in violet and not the gold I chose to be burnished by the sunlight flowing in through the western windows.
“The same holds for the bedding and the drapes. Every item is certainly something I might have picked, except that I could not and did not as I have never seen threads dyed to this level of perfection.
“And, I must ask you: where are our servants? Even if I were contagious, can you convince me that Hill would not insist on tending me? Rather, nameless mutes bring my meals, fill my bath, and empty my chamber pot—the latter accomplished with an expression of such distaste that makes me wonder if these girls have ever seen manure, human or otherwise.”
Bennet unconsciously rocked back on his heels as one sally led to another. He could sense his wife’s concealed anger in her indecorous reference to night soil. Her litany reminded him in some ways of Mary’s delivered nearly three years ago,[xxxv] except his serious middle daughter had been engaging in self-criticism where Mrs. Bennet was laying the foundation for a potent conclusion.
Fanny Bennet now warmed to her task and continued, “None of my friends visit. Where is Lady Lucas? Mrs. Long? Mrs. Goulding? If their husbands were too inept—as most of your species surely are when dealing with a woman—I would have stationed myself by their sides through illness, injury, and childbirth. They would have returned the kindness without a blink. Surely, they would have left a card or a note even if they were barred from my presence for fear of some malodorous disease.
“Yet, there has been no such undertaking.”
She paced around the smallish seating area before spinning on her husband and continuing.
“Now, Thomas, I can accept that Lydia is not here, but I cannot believe that she is in Derbyshire for you, my dear husband, so firm in your estimation of my powers of observation…
“No…do not object. I know that you have oft considered me one of the silliest women in the kingdom.
“Please allow me to finish.
“You, Mr. Bennet, have been so convinced that my waking moments have been occupied by thoughts of ribbons, lace, and weddings…so convinced, mind you…that you made a mistake.
“You told me that you sent Lydia to Lizzy at Pemberley. While you claim that an illness has made me lose my memory, how is it that I recall that Mary is helping Colonel Fitzwilliam raise poor motherless little Annie at Rosings?[xxxvi]
“However, that is not what has convinced me that you have been less than truthful with me. The tiniest mistake will tear down the greatest fortress. And you made such an error because you concocted the tale based upon what you, not I, would find believable.
“You see, my dear, you trust Elizabeth beyond all words. That is not to say that you do not love our other girls, but if you wish something accomplished, you, Thomas Michael Bennet, would turn to none other than Lizzy.
“Except that you were dispatching Lydia away from Longbourn. Can you honestly believe that inserting Lydia Wickham into the Pemberley household would go smoothly? While Lydia has become fast friends with Miss Darcy, Lizzy still would have to hold her husband away from Lydia’s throat at least two times a day.
“And, I imagine that Lizzy would have to hide away Darcy’s supply of brandy.
“T’would have been more believable if you had told me that you sent Lydia to stay with Jane and Bingley at Thornhill!”
Fanny stopped and drew a deep breath and drilled deep into Bennet’s soul with her sky-blue orbs…
And delivered the foundation stone that had been most deeply laid in her heart, “I will not hear another reference to my illness...ever. A mother knows where her children may be. Deep inside, right here.”
At this she laid a hand atop the lace decorously shielding her now heaving bodice.
Then she firmly stated, “And I cannot feel any of my five daughters. They simply are not here.”
In a flash, Bennet knew that his wife possessed her own measure of the uncanny otherworldly connection that gave Lizzy her infallible sense of direction.[xxxvii]
Gathering strength and further marshaling her arguments, the lady of the manor continued, “And, speaking of not here: you have vanished every single day taking a strange and brand-new carriage to who knows where. You have told me that you are off on estate business.
“Now, I have known you for over five-and-twenty years. One thing you have learned to do is dissemble, but you are a terrible prevaricator. Your only defense is that you have become adept at convincing yourself of the truth of your statements. Thus, I have no doubt that you firmly believe that whatever you find yourself doing has everything to do with Longbourn.
“I will grant you that…,” she noted with a snicker and then a pointed pause, “However, you must agree that the last item on any of your daily agendas has been estate business.”
Bennet released a wry chuckle at his wife’s perspicacity.
Now Mrs. Bennet raised a quelling hand as she glided, although Bennet would later aver that she stalked, across the room to the wall adjacent to the doorway. She stroked the wall at one specific location about four feet above the floor.
In a quiet voice, Fanny returned to an earlier theme, “I am saddened that you would think so little of me that I would not apprehend that I am living in a place that looks like Home but is not. Do you see me
as one who, like Queen Catherine, would be fooled by a Potemkin Village?[xxxviii]
“I have lived in these rooms since our wedding, Thomas. I know every bump and scratch. And this freshly patched and painted area right here by the door post…and that new wainscoting there in the middle of the wall…tell me that someone removed items that were never present in my rooms Home at Longbourn.”
She spun around, leaning toward Bennet before fiercely laying out the last item in her bill of particulars.
“You may lock me away indoors, but you have yet to paint over the windows to blind me to the strange markings crisscrossing the sky overhead and vanishing into the clouds.”
She paused for effect, noting the stunned look that had transformed her normally staid husband’s face. She came close to him and took his hands in hers to whisper, “I can accept that where we are must be some version of our beloved Longbourn, despite its altered state. But, Tom, I need you to be honest with me…what is the when?”
Chapter XII
Bennet had the grace to look ashamed as Mrs. Bennet concluded. The lady noted the maidenly flush creeping up from beneath his neck cloth until his cheeks flamed brilliantly. Her man’s head dipped in contrition.
He addressed his wife in a solemn tone saying, “Allow me, if you will, to ask you to sit as I try to answer your indictment.”
After she had settled back into her seat, Bennet, rather than dropping into the chair opposite, instead fell to his knees by her feet. He impetuously grabbed her hand and bent over it, caressing and gently bestowing a small kiss on her knuckles. Then he lifted his eyes, uncommonly bright with unshed tears, blinked a few times, and begged forgiveness.
“Mrs. Bennet, Fanny. I am heartily sorry that I have led you astray this past fortnight. I realize that I misspoke a moment ago. There is no answering or excusing anything that I have said or done. If you will forgive me, know that which I did was done out of concern for your sensibilities.”
Then he stopped and shook his head.
He continued, “No, that, too, is as utterly false as is this entire scenario so inelegantly constructed to distract you from the truth.
“I was not worried about your discomfort. I was worried about mine: about how you might react if you had winkled out the unbelievable realities governing this situation. As with most prevarication, t’was done out of a selfish desire to keep the peace…my peace.
“I have taken on some poor habits since our great misfortune in the Year Zero. I closed my heart to you and shut myself away in my bookroom. T’is only been in the past two years that I have come to appreciate you for the astonishing woman you truly are.”
Mrs. Bennet’s heart leaped at this revelation. She had been toiling under the awareness of his reduced respect for all those years before Jane and Lizzy married, yet, she had not been able find it in herself to set aside the fears for her daughters’ wellbeing to raise herself in her husband’s estimation.
“Mr. Bennet…I do forgive you. However, I must protest your severe treatment of yourself. I gave you good cause to be concerned.
“How many times did my outbursts embarrass you and our girls?
“How often did I chase you from the room with my exclamations about lace?
“How frequently did I push the girls to chase men utterly unsuitable for them; all in the name of marriage and security?
“Did I ever give you a reason to behave otherwise toward me? I think not.
“After I lost our babe, I became obsessed. The blood on my skirts was the surest evidence I needed to know that Death could not be held at bay. If that awful Reaper could reach into my womb and steal a precious life, then He would not hesitate to collect any one of us, although the implications of your demise were much more profound,” she said in a quivering voice.
Bennet was not having any of it, though, and rejoined with some fervor, “No, my love, you cannot take our strained relations on your shoulders.
“While the loss of our little one happened to both of us, t’is Society that places blame on the ladies. The man gets a sympathetic pat on the back from his fellows coupled with a subtle suggestion, usually made in an undertone, that the wife did something wrong. As for the gentler sex, they must bear up with looks askance from tabbies seeking to hurt rather than heal.
“I should have offered you comfort. Instead I nursed my own pain and resented you for being unable to minister to me.”
Frances snorted, “I thought I would choke when all those ‘well-meaning’ biddies would stop by our sitting room. Butter would not melt in their mouths when they would say in sugary tones something like, ‘Oh, my dear, you will do better next time.’ They made it sound as if I was competing in the house cup races.
“Yes, we both seem to have retreated into our own corners. But, t’is not too late for each of us to come back into the center of the dance floor.
“I, for one, have missed you.”
“And I you,” Thomas averred, “Listening to you now, I know how greatly I have injured you over all these years. Yet, you do not berate me, but rather blow apart my Banbury tale with arguments that put lie to the conceit that Lizzy inherited her cleverness from me. T’is clear t’was you.
“Perhaps you would honor me now by taking advantage of this glorious summer’s day and accompany me on a short trek up to Lizzy’s favorite outlook atop Oakham Mount. I have much to tell you, and more to discuss with you, but would prefer to undertake it all in complete privacy.”
So gracious and gallant was his offer, and so eager was Mrs. Bennet to escape her chamber for the first time in weeks, that the lady immediately hopped up to search for her bonnet. Mr. Bennet smiled into his hand as she quickly proved once again that men are hopelessly unaware of a woman’s needs. Fanny had arrived at Matlock House with no luggage—and surely nothing that had passed through either the talented hands of Meryton’s milliner or their bonnet mæstra youngest. Her husband had not thought to fill the deficit in her wardrobe over the past fortnight.
The couple had repaired downstairs before dispatching one of Longbourn’s retainers to locate a topper for the Mistress. They had stepped into the bookroom while waiting for closets to be turned out. Without pausing to think about his actions, Bennet crossed the room to the opened French windows looking out onto the well-tended gardens. A warm breeze carried the scent of dozens of rose bushes from the sunny expanse into the library’s cool interior.
As he reached down and lifted the lid on the padded seat beneath the windows, he chuckled. What he was planning to gather had been missing for nearly three years…ever since the Countess—he still could not think of the smartly dressed aristocrat as Kitty—had returned to her present, his future. Yet, to his surprise, there, folded carefully where it had always rested, was the soft lamb’s wool throw, into which his Kitty-Kate had cuddled as a youngster…and later, he imagined, as the elderly Countess mourning her Henry. This coverlet, much like the Electric Grandmother, succored Bennets when they needed care, both at the front and back ends of their lives.[xxxix]
As he gathered the fluffy expanse into his arms, he caught a whiff of Kitty’s distinctive perfume—roses over cut grass. The intoxicating scent wafted gently across the edges of his mind, recalling to him that wonderful conference over Mrs. Hill’s cold collation. He mused that there was something poetic about bringing Kitty’s comforter up the Mount to serve as set decoration for the conversation he hoped would enlist his life’s partner in the campaign to avenge their daughter.
Little did he realize how long would be the road upon which he was preparing to march.
Chapter XIII
The path along the side of Oakham Mount gradually rose away from Longbourn’s fields and wound gently up through the ancient deciduous woodland. The undergrowth along the furrowed slopes bore testament to the benign neglect that had been the watchword for at least the last two decades. The economic calamities before and then after the most recent war had dictated different priorities for the
current Master of Longbourn. That six-year long cataclysm had, itself, been a great winnowing that had stolen away and never repatriated great tranches of young men who might otherwise have been put to work by a competent forester clearing away the brush and juvenile trees that burdened the hump. Thus, the timberland had undertaken that which it had always: exercising its wooded privilege of entropy by reclaiming what Man had sought to turn to another purpose.
The two figures toiling up the slope would have appeared, to a Twentieth Century observer, to be play-actors stepping directly from the sound stages at Gainsborough Studios in Shepherd’s Bush.[xl] Their quaint and stifling garb—she in a long-sleeved muslin gown, gloves, and a broad-brimmed straw sunbonnet and he decked out in pantaloons, waistcoat, and topcoat…as well as his planter’s hat—were redolent of a sesquicentennial celebration honoring Jervis’ great victory.[xli] The mid-summer heat simmered in full intensity above the leafy canopy. However, the couple was shielded from its glaring worst by shadows thrown by massive branches flying up and away from equally colossal trunks. The air beneath eased and freshened as the pair moved further up and away from the manor house now hidden by thickened forest. The great arbor dwarfed both the Master and his Mistress in all but the enormity of their contemplations.
“I always wondered how Lizzy could possibly wear out boots and slippers at the pace that she did,” gasped Fanny Bennet, “And, now I know. That girl was up top of this knob at least five days out of seven! And this trail…t’is new to me, but, and please correct me if I am mistaken, t’is also surely age-old when you consider how deeply it has been worn through that ledge up ahead.”
Bennet marveled at Mrs. Bennet’s powers of observation for he had never considered her able to leap beyond household matters where her knowledge and management skills were unparalleled. Here again she offered another compelling argument against his earlier estimation of her mind. This was no foolish female, but rather someone with a laywoman’s appreciation of natural philosophy and longue durée history.[xlii]
