by Don Jacobson
“I know because I saw them. I am able to provide first-hand knowledge: something which modern fashion scholars are unable to offer.”
And, thus, Mrs. Bennet spent the intervening weeks prowling the workrooms of London’s couturiers, discarding and approving offerings as if she were the editor of La Belle Assemblée. Her softly uttered “How unique,” when faced with a theatrical interpretation of her vision, sent worried designers and cutters scurrying to pull fresh bolts of sarcenet, muslin, and gauze down from groaning shelves to earn the lady’s smile and approving nod.
Chapter XXXIV
The sun had long since settled behind the Chiltern uplift, agelessly protecting the western edge of the Mimram Valley. Earlier in the day, Longbourn’s residents and guests had packed up their formalwear and had shifted three miles to install themselves in Netherfield’s guest chambers, all the better to coordinate final arrangements as well as prepare themselves for the ball.
Now, freshly bathed and powdered, Eileen sat patiently as Lizzy’s London hair stylist carefully pinned the upswept wig into place. He darkly muttered about the antique mood that the sworls and complicated braids gave to this elegant lady. Oh, so not à la mode, madam. Your natural curls are so beautiful and soft. Why would you seek to hide these underneath tresses not your own?
More than one cautionary utterance from Miss Nearne’s acolytes in the chamber—the Countesses, the Gräfin, and Letty, who had lifted herself up from her mother’s despair to accompany her husband to Netherfield—served to silence his complaints.
Once the outraged fellow had flounced out of the room, Lizzy slid up beside Eileen who was testing the stability of several inches of additional blonde coiffure towering above her scalp by tipping her head from one side to the other.
Mrs. Schiller addressed Miss Nearne saying, “Your hair was quite the debate. Mrs. Bennet was adamant that you had to look as if you were a maiden from the Regency. That meant creating at least 24 inches of tresses you do not currently possess. She kept going on about ‘Jane’s triumph over Mr. Bingley’s heart began at the Netherfield Ball. She was perfection itself. Miss Nearne can be nothing less!’
“I dodged the bullet because I am a married woman with a child. The same for Letty. Even so, Mother B looked at the two of us and sniffed saying ‘In my day, a matron did not shear her hair like she was one of her husband’s prize Merinos until her first grandchild’s christening.’ That meant that Mama and Aunt Anne were in her good books.”
The Countess of Pemberley chirped up from her seat on the other side of the room, “Really, Lizzy? Annie and I in Fanny’s good books? Need I remind you that Mrs. Bennet has been bossing us around for the past month as if she was the Countess and we were her impoverished gentlewomen companions.”
Anne drawled, “Yaas…Georgie…I was waiting for her to demand I fetch her shawl lest she take a chill.”
Then the Countess of Matlock adopted a more serious tone, “However, Eileen, you must know that we are speaking of your adopted Mama in jest. We love her dearly and would not change one hair on her head.
“The Founder warned us that once his wife got the bit between her teeth, t’would be best for us to let her run with it. Mrs. Bennet has something up her sleeve. All of us have a good idea of what that may be…and have agreed to let her reveal all to you rather than spoil her surprise.”
Eileen, who had a clear impression of the purpose behind Fanny’s machinations, blushed and dipped her head, slightly abashed at being the center of attention. She straightened at Lizzy’s cautioning hiss.
“Careful, Leenie, none of us are used to wearing our hair piled atop our heads…at least not this much. Your evening would be ruined if you pulled a muscle!” she reminded.
“Now, let’s get you dressed before Lady Bennet strides in like the Colonel-In-Chief to make us stand post for final inspection,” the former WREN intoned.
All the women had gasped when Eileen’s gown had been unveiled. T’was the product of a secret workroom which Mrs. Bennet had established at Oakham House. She had auditioned designers and craftspeople for nearly a week before settling upon a young unknown, a Mr. Reynolds Woodcock, to execute her vision.[xcvii] He was the only one who seemed to comprehend that Regency-style formal frocks were soft and clinging, unlike the terrible blend of Victorian-Antebellum American South featured in the 1940 film version of Miss Austen’s book about her family. Except for one blind fitting, none of the principals had seen the final gown.
Once she had settled on Woodcock, Mrs. Bennet reached deeply into Selkirk’s cold storage vaults to resurrect the Dowager Countess Lydia’s gown from the renowned Madras House Twelfth Night Ball of 1812. Woodcock used the rose-hued confection as his inspiration to bring to life his interpretation that would embrace Eileen’s slender frame.
Now in 1948, the creamy white under-dress of cotton batiste shimmered through the sheerest sapphire blue silk net which was picked out with hundreds of the tiniest sequins, a blend of peach and diamond, beginning as a riot of reflection at the hemline, gradually reducing in number as they rose toward the empire waist. A tangerine ribbon encircling the bodice continued the warm tone throughout the short-sleeved gown.
Unlike modern dresses which were all décolletage, Woodcock understood that Eileen’s sparser figure, even accentuated by modern foundation garments, would never support the display of too much skin. His unique design featured a higher neckline emphasized with Rosa chinensis embroidered ribbons, urging the viewer to consider the entire woman rather than focusing solely upon her physical attributes. Peach-hued elbow length gloves and slippers completed the ensemble.
And now, like squires fitting their knight’s armor, the women of clan Bennet circled Eileen, lowering the remarkable confection over her upraised arms. More than a dozen satin wrapped buttons closed the full back which hid her scars and disguised her slightly crooked posture.
Used to a more martial ensemble of rayon blouses tucked into high-waisted slacks topped by a blazer cut for her lanky frame, Eileen marveled at how comfortable she felt in Woodcock’s creation.[xcviii] Carefully surveying herself in the chamber’s full-length mirror, she watched the gown swirl around her legs as she rotated her hips in half twists. The sequins rustled softly and gently weighed down the hem so that the cloth’s back-and-forth perambulations ended almost as soon as they began.
I cannot even see my toes. T’is as if I am floating above the floor. When Hans Christian Andersen was writing of Cinderella’s magical dress, he must have been imagining this beauty. Every young lady must feel like a princess a least once in her life. Tonight, it is my turn!
A careful knock signaled the arrival of the grande dame. Fanny Bennet let herself into the room and marched to Eileen’s side observing the increasingly-nervous woman. Her pursed lips did little to ease Miss Nearne’s concerns—or those of the other four women who had ceded the alpha female role to Longbourn’s mistress. Then she nodded and uttered a single word.
“Magnificent.”
She ran an appraising hand along Eileen’s flank, smoothing the rich blue gauze, before adding, “How like my Jane you look tonight. In fact, if I stood you next to Mrs. Lizzy over there, I would be hard pressed not to imagine my two eldest girls awaiting the first set to form.”
She paused and buffed at her eye where younger ones could discern a sudden sparkling on her lashes.
“Now which of you hoydens has been playing with the powderpuff? There is more than enough dust floating around the halls of this old pile without you adding even more. I would have expected that of Lydia and Kitty; but four married women and all mothers in the bargain?
“I have managed to get something in my eye,” she continued, “Might I trouble you, Eileen, for a handkerchief?” The cloth square was quickly passed, and the lady dabbed until her sight cleared.
Housekeeping finished, Fanny motioned Eileen to sit on the chair by the dressing table. She began the final stage of the dressing: the bestowing of favours and emblems. Mrs. Bennet rea
ched into her reticule and removed a navy velvet box which she slid in front of Eileen.
“Dearest girl: I would not wish to presume to supplant your mama’s and my Jane’s locket. However, for this night, Mr. Bennet and I would wish you to wear a new token of our enduring affection—a locket, much in the style of the original—but made especially for you.”
Eileen opened the jewelry box’s lid to reveal a sterling chain and pendant. On the back was engraved “EMN:” her initials. She popped the latch to reveal two color photographs…one of Mr. Bennet facing Mrs. Bennet’s across the hinge.
Fanny continued, “I recollect what your Papa and I said to Jane when we gifted her locket.
‘Though you may find yourself walking through high country far from your ancestral home, you will always carry us near your heart much as you will never stray far from ours.’
“We would wish you to carry us in your breast, in remembrance of our love, and, when the time comes, to pass this on to one of your daughters. Tell her about us.
“You must know by now, Eileen, how dear you have become to my husband and me. I did not slip a moment ago when I referred to Mr. Bennet as ‘your Papa.’ We wish that the laws of the Realm would allow us to adopt you, an adult, much as we did our infant son, Eddie, back in the Year Eleven.
“But, that is not to be. Lord Thomas even explored the possibility of a private bill. The Chancellor suggested that the current administration would not favorably view such an aristocratic undertaking.
“You must consider us to be in all other ways your new parents: prepared to do our duty to spoil you and your little ones.”
Then Mrs. Bennet carefully opened the clasp and fastened the chain around her almost-daughter’s neck. Eileen repeated the endearing motion of a year before; that of settling the locket upon her chest with a reassuring hand pat as the corners of her mouth tilted up in happy acceptance of familial embrace.
Mrs. Bennet cleared her throat to erase any residual emotional hoarseness before addressing the room.
“Ladies, as touching as this has been, we have a ball to launch!
“Mrs. Schiller and Mrs. Robard: your captains await! Countesses in the room: ought you not locate your husbands and begin greeting your guests?
“I will escort Miss Nearne downstairs to join my husband.
“Let the festivities begin!”
As the guests entered beneath a boreal arbor reminiscent of an Italian vineyard, the soft strains of a full orchestra filled their ears. Mrs. Bennet had opted for a more restrained version of the traditional harvest decorations than one might expect to encounter at Regency-era country estates hosting autumn festivities for tenants at the end of another successful growing season. There were no obligatory hay bales which could snag delicate silks. Corn stalks were likewise eschewed. Large squashes and gourds were invisible except, perhaps, in the chilled pumpkin soup.
Her choice of music, guided by the young Gräfin von Schiller, had tilted toward an appeal to the younger set. The Bert Ambrose Orchestra had a deep catalog of popular dance tunes stretching back into the Depression, but the ensemble had earned its greatest notice during the war. Ambrose had managed, with Five Family money sweetening his appeal, to entice a long-time vocalist back for a performance. Vera Lynn’s all-embracing alto was certain to be the highlight of the evening.
The Countess’ final cut saw 150 invited couples, all of whom, if they were not hospitalized or otherwise committed to an event of national significance, had replied that they would attend. In fact, so coveted was the golden voucher that several women and a few men whose spouses were unable to join in attended without their plus-ones.
The modest receiving line, composed of only the two aristocratic hostesses and their husbands, greeted the guests. Thomas and Fanny, who pled the vicissitudes of age to avoid the receiving line, the ballroom fill as saloon car after saloon car disgorged their glittering cargo onto the steps and into the halls of the estate. Letty and Denis Robard had been spared any hosting duties in recognition of their recent emergence from the mourning of Sergeant Liebermann. Lizzy and Alois, the diminutive lady and her tall commando husband who had assumed the task of coordinating the hired-help much in the spirit of the great housekeepers of the age, worked behind the scenes, having promised each other at least two waltzes and a jive in addition to dancing to Vera Lynn’s promised finale We’ll Meet Again.
The Rt. Reverend Lord Richard Fitzwilliam stood alone in an alcove off to one side of the dance floor. He nursed a tumbler of his father’s finest whiskey, especially carried to Netherfield from Matlock House to lubricate the tired throats of the Families’ gentlemen. He was decked out in the rich scarlet of a Life Guards Leftenant Colonel, his own regiment and rank; but rather than the more closely-cut modern tunic, Fitzwilliam suffered under the long-tailed-styling—itself covered with gold braid and a multitude of frogged closures—of 140 years previous.
He could see the roots of his present-day uniform in the black turnback cuffs of this grandiose costume, for he could call it nothing else. He missed his Sam Browne belt, comforting in its waist to shoulder to waist grip, as well as the weight of his Enfield No. 2 pistol. The Enfield was his weapon-of-choice, large enough caliber to finish the job, but not one of those 1911 Colt cannons favored by the Americans. His preference grew from his belief that, in his line of work, one shot, let alone six or nine, was one too many.
I look like a damned peacock in this outfit. T’is no wonder colonels in the Napoleonic Wars hung back behind the lines. Any French sniper worth his salt would have been able to put a ball ‘twixt wind-and-water if they could get in range and draw a bead on all this gold glinting in the Spanish sunlight!
And, I think Mother Bennet seems to have decided that my ridiculous appearance might not supply enough entertainment for her guests. So, she added about six yards of sapphire blue silk sash around my middle holding up the Old General’s great sword.[xcix] I have nearly broken my neck three times tangling three feet of sheathed steel between my legs.
Fitzwilliam, though, had submitted to Mrs. Bennet’s entreaties, confident that the woman had a method to what he might otherwise have considered her madness.
His station allowed him to overhear the entering guests’ comments about the way Netherfield’s festive precincts had been decorated for the evening. Words and phrases like ‘Authentic’ and ‘Never have seen anything like this’ were the norm unless the individuals had simply chosen silence as their tribute. Fitzwilliam wryly smiled to himself thinking how astonished attenders would have been if they knew the truth about the antecedents of the function’s planner-in-chief.
He tipped back his highball, melted ice cubes bouncing against his teeth draining the amber fire down his throat.[c] All the while he focused on the great double doors, carefully observing the traffic, warped in his vision by the brilliantly distorting leaded crystal, anticipating the arrival of a particular person.
Fitzwilliam’s first clue that something might be happening was when Mrs. Bennet bustled over to her husband who was conversing with the 1940s Master of Longbourn and his wife, returned to Meryton this night. She gently squeezed her husband’s elbow rather than interrupt in an unseemly manner. She stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. He nodded and turned to the other Bennets and made his excuses. He then gave his arm to his wife and escorted her from the ballroom.
To return with the original lady upon one arm and a vision unlike any Richard had ever seen.
Miss Nearne had arrived at the Netherfield Ball.
Chapter XXXV
Fitzwilliam was thunderstruck. He was not alone. The entire room went silent as the vision that was Miss Nearne exploded upon their senses. This allowed the orchestra’s soft sounds to suddenly crescendo above the now-absent conversational babble. The unexpected burst of music was akin to a fanfare and a grand march specifically ordered to accompany the passage of the threesome through the doors and onto the parquet.
These people w
ere unknown to almost every soul, yet their energy was undeniable. The two Bennets and the one Nearne became the lodestones to which every eye was drawn. The galvanism of the Wardrobe, Richard contemplated, seemed to have taken human form, and the crowd was aware of it, albeit unable to articulate the reason for the attraction.
Eileen was a vision in variegated midnight blue accentuated by the reflections cast by the tiny sequins lovingly sewn onto her gauzy overdress by Woodcock’s seamstresses. The toes of her peach-toned silk slippers peeked from beneath the glittering hem, alternating with each delicate step forward. The gown’s long lines flowed around her, hugging her athletic shape, so clearly female that Richard chastised himself for ever having applied the adjective ‘boyish’ to Miss Nearne’s chassis.
As she passed into the ballroom, Eileen began scanning the crowd, seeking out Fitzwilliam. The moment sky-blue met steel-grey, the air crackled. No. t’was not exactly a coup de foudre as they had known one another over five years. Yet, in that instant, t’was as if they had seen each other, had ultimately comprehended the truth of their opposite number, for the first time. All the beclouding interference and emotional noise, all the competing impulses and disruptive stimuli, vanished in that first glance.
She released Bennet’s arm and glided over to Richard who quickly placed his empty glass on a side table before holding out his hand into which she placed hers. He bowed low over the extended limb and brushed her gloved knuckles with his lips. Straightening, he raised his eyebrows in question and tipped his head toward the dance floor where couples were moving lightly to a foxtrot beat.
Eileen nodded and moved forward into hold to be swept off into the crowd.
Time, which had paused, snapped back into motion as the dancers stepped and spun within and above the melody, capturing Richard and Eileen in its invisible magic.
