by Don Jacobson
The lift rising from the subterranean garage gave him more time to compose himself and regulate his emotions. While he was uncomfortable at using tradition, he realized that those with whom he would deal today—none of the Americans or other foreign Life Directors could be expected to attend—were steeped in the milieu of the deepest of all British traditions…English Common Law and the British Constitution: the first based upon precedents reaching back to the Twelfth Century and the second composed of disparate documents and utterly unwritten.
These British Directors would likely accept his assertions without objection.
Bennet intentionally pottered about his office for an additional ten minutes until his pocket watch showed that the designated meeting time had aged by about five minutes. Then he left for the boardroom, but not before patting his interior breast pocket to ensure that the folded sheet of paper was secure.
In moments, he had transited the lengthy hall, moving in the opposite direction from the Managing Director’s Office. Pausing at the great double doors, Bennet grasped both turns and swiftly pulled the oaken panels toward himself.
That action brought the conversation around the massive walnut table to a halt. The Earl had kept Bennet’s existence on this timeline from most of the Life Directors. In fact, he had only advised his sister, Lady Eloise Robard, that her Grandfather and Grandmother were in Town moments prior to yesterday’s intimate family dinner at Matlock House. The dinner was, perhaps, more intimate than Thomas Fitzwilliam desired, but circumstances beyond even his broad powers prevented more guests.
The Countess was not at home, but rather across the Channel overseeing Family activities at the Beach House. Maxie Robard was supervising Richard Fitzwilliam as the Swabian redoubt was being reduced. The only other couple present was the Countess Georgiana and her husband Lord David Cecil-Darcy. Their attention had, perforce, been distracted by the recovery of their son-in-law who, thankfully, upon Bennet’s gentle inquiries, was responding to Dr. Campbell’s treatment and Mrs. Schiller’s worried ministrations.
Not a single soul in the Board Room, beside the two aristocrats with whom he had broken bread, had ever beheld Bennet in the flesh.
The assembled Bingleys, Gardiners, Fitzwilliams, Bennets, and Darcys collectively gasped. More than one immediately looked toward the Dowager Countess’ portrait of The Founder as if to confirm his identity.
Bennet could recognize the varying and diluted images of his daughters in the countenances of the persons throughout the room. A few seemed to have a touch of his old friend Sir William Lucas’ distinctive brow and nose. Not that he dismissed most out-of-hand, for they were his kith and kin, but they were clearly from lines that had branched away from the Bennet tree after his time. The potency of their connection to him would be filtered through the closeness of his ties to Matlock and Pemberley.
However, there were two ladies who defied this sort of easy classification: one older, obviously the mother, and the other, her daughter from all appearances and clearly just having attained her majority. They stood slightly off to one side of the great room. Each was dressed elegantly, if in an understated manner, complete with hats, and matching clutch handbags. The elder sported a brown fur neck wrap which added a touch of chic even on this unseasonably steamy summer’s day. Her daughter was wearing a suit which was redolent of cotton superfine and reminded Bennet of a military uniform but without all the frippery and frogging so favored in his time. She was also without gloves but sported an impressive diamond betrothal ring on her left hand.
Both seemed to hearken back to a trunk of the family which he had not expected to encounter this far into the future. Unaccountably, they were being accorded a considerable amount of deference; not a single soul presumed to approach them. Matlock and Pemberley, the Earl and Countess, hovered slightly behind the two, acting remarkably like a pair of border collies minding their sheep.
Never being one to allow a lady, let alone two, to be relegated to lonely contemplation along the figurative chair rail, Bennet genially approached the pair and offered, “Good morning. I fear that you must forgive a man of my advanced years for presuming upon you without an introduction. However, I must admit that your appearance here today has somewhat surprised me. You look quite like my old solicitor, the man whose name graces the letterhead downstairs. I am speaking of Mr. Frederick Hunters who would have been my Great Uncle.
“Are you, by chance descended from the Hunters line of the Bennet Family?”
He felt his grandson, the Earl, fly up by his side. The man’s gulp indicated that he feared his Grandfather may have committed a terrible faux pas.
Bennet quickly continued, “Before Lord Matlock flays me, please forgive my forwardness. I am used to country manners, well actually, more like country familiarity...and both those probably have not aged well in the past 150 years. Might I presume upon Earl Fitzwilliam’s graciousness to introduce me properly?” He glanced at his doppelgänger and lifted a brow.
The Earl said nothing until the older lady moved her handbag from its double handheld shield-like post in front of her torso. Giving the man a nod, she said in a melodic voice that was redolent of drawing rooms and racing meets, “Yes, please, Earl Matlock, introduce us to your honored guest.”
Bennet swore that he expected his grandson…he is M, for Heaven’s sake...to run a finger under his all-too-tight collar before he completed this British tradition.
“Ma’am. Mr. Bennet, may I have the pleasure of introducing you to Mrs. Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon of Balmoral, Scotland and her daughter, erm…” he stalled on the second introduction.
The young woman quickly took pity on the older man and stepped forward, thrusting her left hand out, saying, “Thank you, Uncle Thomas. Elizabeth Windsor. Without a doubt you must be Mr. Thomas Bennet of Longbourn Estate in Hertfordshire. Your portrait does not do you justice. T’is truly an honor to meet The Founder.”
Bennet, in his surprise, automatically reached out and shook her proffered digits. Several sharp intakes of breath echoed around the room.
Her mother hid a smile and a small chuckle behind a gloved hand, and then turned to the Countess and said, “I declare, Georgie, it must be something with girls named Elizabeth. If I recall the tale correctly, your Lizzy greeted her German in that manner the first time they met on the sand by the Beach House.”
The Countess, now in her 45th year replied with all of the dignity she could muster, “You have the right of it ma’am. Recall that my daughter was lately a WREN driver while yours in the ATS could lubricate—how do the Americans call it—oh yes, a deuce and a half. I imagine our egalitarian cousins schooled the girls’ manners from time to time!”
Miss Windsor looked at the two before riposting, “Now Mama, Aunt Georgie; you know the world is changing. Just as Mr. Bennet discovered, if we stand on ceremony and privilege, nothing will ever be accomplished.
“And, you did teach me to respect our elders,” she said with a devilish twinkle in her eye, “I doubt if there is anyone here who will stand superior to a man birthed in 1760! And, yes, Mr. Bennet, we are of the Hunters’ line.”
She leaned in toward Bennet and whispered conspiratorially, “Your biography was required reading for all of my generation. Why, I am unsure.”
Bennet found that he enjoyed the young lady’s spirit, reminding him as it did of his own beloved Elizabeth.
Mrs. Bowes-Lyon gently, but firmly, broke up the singular conference saying, “Lord Matlock, I do believe you called this emergency meeting of the board. Might we attend to that? I fear that my daughter and I have other claims on our time this day. Later, we had hoped to rejoin my husband in Scotland. The shooting is particularly good this year.”
Chapter XIX
The Earl escorted the two ladies, seating both adjacent to his spot at the head of the table: the younger taking precedence over her mother and sliding into the chair on the Earl’s immediate left, her mother one slot lower. The Earl motioned for Bennet to take the seat to his ri
ght. The aristocrat remained standing.
He rapped his knuckles on the table to silence the room.
However, he had only begun to draw a breath prior to his address to the men and women around the table when Bennet rose to his feet and placed a quelling hand upon his grandson’s arm.
In a whisper he said, “Sit down, son. I will take it from here.”
As the Earl made to object, Bennet added, “Trust me. I know what I am about. T’would be better to accept this with grace. You cannot win, but you will be satisfied with the outcome.” A cloud darkening his features, the Earl none-the-less lowered himself into his chair.
As confused looks crossed the faces throughout the room, Bennet began issuing crisp instructions.
“Clerks and counselors, if you are non-Bennets, please return to your desks and offices.”
A number of men including Hastings and Annesley looked disturbed, but immediately rose and departed down the long hall.
“Next, who here has not received The Keeper’s Talk?”
A few hands went up around the table.
Bennet gently considered them and then said, “I fear that I must ask you to depart, as well. Earl Fitzwilliam, Countess Darcy: may I prevail upon you to counsel your colleagues that, while they may be Life Directors of the Trust, there are issues which we will discuss that exceed even that august title.”
As Pemberley and Matlock worked their way around the table, herding those who, for whatever reason, had been excluded from the rarified circle, Bennet gazed up at his visage staring down upon the polished surface.
I wonder how many sessions I have presided over, if not in person then at least in spirit? How many times was my name invoked to impress those who would waver?
He turned to watch the Earl and Countess chivvy the last stragglers out of the doors which were closed to silence their final protests.
One last command crossed his lips.
“Lock the doors, if you please, Lord Matlock. This is Wardrobe business.”
The sound of the bolts being shot home at the hand of the Earl deadened the room once again.
Bennet now addressed the significantly reduced crowd, speaking words which had been ritually uttered at the beginning of every closed session of the Board…but only when matters of the Wardrobe needed to be addressed. The last such meeting, well before the life of any but one in the room had been in the summer of 1892.
He intoned the formula, “My name is Thomas Michael Bennet. I was born in 1760. In my time, I am Keeper of the Wardrobe. Is there anyone, any Keeper, who is from an earlier timeframe than I?”
After a beat, he continued, “Then, as the Senior Keeper, I will assume the chair to discuss a matter regarding a revision of Gibbons’ Rules. If I may, Lord Fitzwilliam?”
The Earl had puzzled over his Grandfather’s actions. He realized that the man was nowhere near his dotage considering he was just two years his chronological senior. He did not begrudge the Founder his idiosyncrasies, but he still did not comprehend why Bennet was forcing the issue by displacing the Managing Director from the chair. However, aficionado of American poker that he was, especially that unusual Texan variant, hold’em, Fitzwilliam decided to play along and see what cards would appear. His Grandfather was clearly all-in. He rose and switched places with Bennet.
Mr. Bennet thanked him and carried on, “Given that we are now in a secret session, I have no concern about security. All here, even our youngest member,” at this he nodded at Miss Windsor, “are inducted in the secrets of the Wardrobe. All assure me that they have been given the Keeper’s Talk.
“Before I arrive at the heart of my purpose here today, I must offer that I arrived here in this here/now having used the Wardrobe to fulfill my…and my wife’s…wish to share time with my beloved daughter, the one you knew as Lady Kate. To her mother and I, she was just Kitty.
“However, and I have heard it said that my youngest daughter, Lydia, coined the most appropriate phrase regarding why we arrived here, three years after Kitty’s death rather than in time to say our final good-byes.”
A younger, cultured voice chimed in, “Yes, Mr. Bennet, the Dowager Countess…your Lydia…Fitzwilliam said frequently that, and please correct me if I stray, Mama, ‘The Wardrobe can have a nasty sense of humor.’”
Mrs. Bowes-Lyon smiled and placed a gloved hand on her daughter’s arm.
Bennet resumed with a gentle glance at the brown-haired lass who reminded him much of his middle girl in appearance and her next older in spirit, “Yes, Miss Windsor, although I cannot credit any comedy here. I do believe that the cabinet has a deeper purpose in this instance, beyond simply teaching this old dog that which, even at this late stage of his life, he needs to learn.
“As such, therefore, I have determined that Gibbon’s Rules must be revised to reflect this unique situation.
“Before we advance, I will offer the logical underpinning for my thinking…and I will ask Mrs. Bowes-Lyon and Miss Windsor to support me in this.”
At the pair’s surprised look, he fired a kindly-meant shot, “I realize that both of you wished to be incognito...at least to me…however, you neglected to remember that once a habitual newspaper reader, always one.
“While I tend to favor the type-filled columns of The Times, I recently discovered the wonderful process of inserting photographs into newspapers. I believe that The News of The World found representations of Princess Elizabeth’s engagement ring to be rather popular. I, too, find it compelling and better in person than in print. My wife remarked upon its beauty only this morning as we broke our fast.
“Thus, please know that I am humbled to be in the presence of both the Queen of England and her daughter, the Princess of Wales. I plan to make proper obeisance later. I wonder how Mrs. Bennet will react when she learns that the residents of Buckingham House are related to a humble gentleman farmer from rural Hertfordshire!”
Bennet harrumphed and shifted his gaze down the table, “But, I am depending upon the Queen to prevail upon her husband and the Princess upon her father to carry my point.
“I am aware that the Earl of Matlock serves in two important capacities: as Managing Director of the Bennet Family Trust and, doing General Fitzwilliam proud, I would imagine, as the head of British Intelligence. He might also lay claim to one other title, Lady Kate’s son.
“That last complicates his more formal positions.
“If he had been naught but head of the Trust, his understandable desire to find and punish the architect of his mother’s demise would be laudable and none would object to his turning the resources of the Five Families—yes, I do comprehend the wealth and power amassed by my descendants—toward the prosecution of that goal.
“However, he also has great responsibilities to the Realm. As M, he stands at the barricades between our country and the Russian horde. I, myself, have never trusted the Bear, especially when the Tsar cast his greedy eyes westward after Leipzig in the Year 13.
“The Earl must not be diverted from his task to protect the British people, no, the Western world, from the evils of the Eastern horde. Seeking to avenge his mother, at the same time as he is engaged in this awesome task, likely would mean that he would conduct neither well.”
Bennet then looked at Fitzwilliam and directly spoke to him, “Young Thomas, I beg that you do not contradict me here. If you strip away the emotional pall your mother’s death must necessarily cast, you will agree that you must pick one title or the other: son or commander.”
The Earl softly added, “Or father.”
“Father?”
“Yes…father…and grandfather,” Matlock sadly noted.
Georgiana spoke up here, “About two years ago, a complicated plot was unearthed, Mr. Bennet, in which simultaneous attempts were made to eradicate the entire Fitzwilliam line. It succeeded in part with the murder of the Viscount, his wife, and two little children. They missed the Earl because he did not join them aboard his yacht which was sunk by a bomb.”
B
ennet was momentarily unmanned as he considered how he would have felt if Lizzy, Darcy, and the children had been snuffed out. He squeezed the Earl’s shoulder, the balance of his speech forgotten.
“Let me find those animals, Tom. They have much laid against their account: my Kitty, your family, even old Mr. Robards and the German colonel.
“You must be the man to defend the nation by performing those dark arts known so well by your confederates in the secret services. I will count on these two good ladies to remind you if you should forget.”
Queen Elizabeth and the Princess sat straighter and looked across at their old friend; the man who had hosted them at the Beach House in those halcyon years before the Abdication, when she was the Duchess of York and the nine-year-old girl was but Lady Elizabeth, more than ready to scamper about the beach in pursuit of her younger sister and various and sundry Fitzwilliam and Darcy cousins. Thomas Fitzwilliam knew that the Founder was not bluffing: that he had played his hand perfectly and held a full house, kings over queens to his pair of jacks.
He acquiesced.
Now Bennet began to conclude his case. “However, I find that I need to bring other persons into my service who will provide invaluable support in my quest for the person responsible for our family’s distress. Unfortunately, they are not blooded Bennets and, under the current rules, cannot be told of the Wardrobe’s properties.
“But, and this is a large qualifier, I have thought on this problem diligently since my arrival on this timeline over two weeks ago.
“I reasoned that my ancestors and Gibbons himself recognized that spreading the news of the Wardrobe too far and wide would prove disastrous. As I explained to my children, there would be those in our family who, through either omission or commission, could inadvertently spill the beans. In his wisdom, Gibbons secured from my Great-great grandfather a promise binding both him and his descendants to never reveal the Wardrobe’s secret to non-Bennets.
