by Don Jacobson
Happily abandoned by their charge, Thomas and Fanny changed course to reach an alcove off to the side of the dance floor. A single sentinel, Dr. Henry Wilson, had protected the seating area. He acknowledged the Bennets and, once they had settled into the plush cushions, moved off to give The Founder and his Mistress the privacy they deserved given the Family royalty they were.
Bennet impulsively reached over to clasp his wife’s hand. Touch was another sense that he had relearned in recent years; the feel of her body against his, the frisson that snapped between them even upon casual contact.
This was something that, even in his younger days, he had never felt with any other woman. And, he, perforce, had searched for it once it had become clear that his brother Edward was not returning to Meryton.
His quest had ended that day in the late Eighties when he found himself in the Gardiner’s High Street sitting room first encountering the blonde goddess who had come to Earth in the petite frame of the house’s youngest daughter, Frances Lorinda.
Her eyes had captured his soul, but t’was the touch of her hand that had convinced him that she had been made for him.
Now, after a quarter century of marriage, during which he had wasted so much time embedded in his grief and ignoring his lady, he had begun, once again, to appreciate the complicated puzzle that made up the handsome woman to his right.
Maybe t’was the sight of the dancers swaying in their mesmerizing pattern that opened pathways to possibilities he might otherwise have dismissed as absurd. His mind slid off into a rainbow study, contemplating the forces that seemed to have conspired to bring him—a landed gentleman and a country squire—and a daughter of trade—rusticated and two steps removed from any familial estate—together.
Why Fanny and not some other, more high-bred female? Back in my day, £2,000 a year was nothing to sniff at. I would have attracted some attention, perhaps not from elevated women seeking to become a countess, willing to accept some obscure earl from the Western Marches. But, even a second or third daughter of a well-heeled gentleman desiring to secure his child within easy reach of Town, would have been steps above a rural solicitor’s daughter.
Why did I look just outside my back door rather than in parlors and drawing rooms some four-and-twenty miles off?
No, there was something else that fitted us together: that which conspired to link Fanny to me and me to her and no other. T’was as if the Universe demanded, needed, wanted, the admixture of the strength and vitality of the blood of a tradeswoman into the thinner, paler, worn gentle blood flowing through my veins.
For that matter, why did the Gardiners gravitate toward Meryton? Fanny’s grandsire, a third son needing an occupation, surely could have become more successful trolling for business in Town.
What conspired to bring him and the Bennets together?
A bolt from the blue revealed his place in the grand scheme. As his capacious mind understood the implications of his musings, Bennet unconsciously tightened his grip on Fanny’s hand.
Feeling the pressure, she turned to consider him.
“Thomas…what is it?” she whispered.
He snapped back into the present and gazed across the floor at the glorious young couple spinning past, utterly ensnared in each other’s presence. Bennet caught the momentary glances surreptitiously taken as if in fear that what they perceived was not reality but rather a figment. Richard and Eileen were haloed, at least to Bennet’s inner eye. The Preacher and The Rose positively glowed with elemental energy channeled from the confluence of mystic ley lines which joined beneath Meryton and stretched across the few miles separating Netherfield from a certain chamber in Matlock House.
Bennet softly replied, “The Wardrobe…I understand it better in this moment than ever before!”
The orchestra segued smoothly from foxtrot to waltz. Bennet wryly thanked the gods that he would not have to leap about but rather guide his partner in a simple box step. Decision made, he grunted as aching knees protested his sudden effort to rise from the soft divan.
“Come, Mrs. Bennet. Would you honor this old reprobate with the step that scandalized Lady Jersey? We have work to do: a task that will prove to be to your liking,” Thomas appealed.
Coyly blushing like a maiden enjoying her first flirtation, Fanny ran the tip of her tongue over suddenly dry lips and voiced her assent. Within moments, the gentle pressure of her husband’s left hand in the small of her back sent butterflies batting against her ribs. His right led her over the polished maple, exhibiting the innate musicality of her man.
As they danced, he smiled down at her and whispered his plan. All that was required of her was to deliver the lady to the correct place and at the appropriate moment.
A few minutes later, the Bennets closed on Eileen and Richard; the two of them still suspended in their own little world. With the end of the tune and, thus, the dance, Thomas and Fanny dropped their hands to applaud the band’s efforts. The other two continued to move several beats beyond the final note, so deeply absorbed were they in one another. A jolt and a mutually-shared look of embarrassment at having been caught out brought their waltz to an end.
Bennet grasped Fitzwilliam’s shoulder in a firm, but friendly grip.
“Come, Colonel, I would speak with you while the ladies do whatever ladies do when their escorts vanish to enjoy more masculine endeavors,” he stated as he shot a glance at Mrs. Bennet.
Fanny archly replied, “I am afraid, Mr. Bennet, that I have no idea about what you speak. We women must order the world while the hands of meddling males are occupied with tilting snifters and holding cigars. I assure you that Miss Nearne and I will never divert ourselves by talking of lace and ribbons.
“Now, off with the two of you while we track down Lizzy to see how supper is coming along.”
Fitzwilliam led Bennet into the Netherfield library. He crossed over to the sideboard and hoisted a decanter, glancing at the older man. Bennet nodded.
Then he chuckled as he eyed the heavily laden shelves lining the walls, “If Bingley had stocked his bookroom like this back in my day, I never would have had to spend three days and nights on the road traveling to Pemberley.”
Richard had the grace to look slightly confused. He handed Thomas his glass of cognac and stood expectantly.
Chunks of anthracite snapped and crackled cheerily in the hearth, still required in the middle of the Twentieth Century, casting the room warmly orange. Motioning to two chairs positioned near the fireplace, Bennet urged the Colonel to sit.
“I will not toy with you, My Lord,” Bennet began after having sipped his drink, “any more than I would expect you to toy with a young lady’s affections, especially one as vulnerable and as valuable as Miss Nearne.”
Outrage crossing his features, Fitzwilliam made to protest, but stopped his voice at Bennet’s raised hand.
“Please allow me to continue. I referred to you as ‘My Lord’ only to warn you that I would not stand by and watch a rattle take advantage of his social superiority to impose himself upon a woman who is under my protection.
“That said, Richard, I would trust that you, my great-grandson, would not behave like so many aristocrats I have had the unfortunate ‘pleasure’ to observe over the years. Your parents and grandmother, I imagine, would have raised you better than that!
“However, I have watched you circling our girl for several months now. You give every indication of being smitten with Eileen.
“But, I must ask you to settle my mind. Are your intentions honorable, sir? If not, you should cry off now.
“In the years since my Lizzy confounded me by settling on Mr. Darcy, I have made every effort to become a better student of the clues a female gives off when her heart is engaged. Miss Nearne is giving every sign that she has selected you to cherish her love.
“What I have learned is that women, at least the type we would wish for ourselves, are reticent about broadcasting their sentiment
s. That places the burden on the sex—men—least likely to discuss feelings.
“In my day, a man had to declare his preference lest a woman be seen as throwing herself at him in an unseemly manner. Look back in the Family Histories to read about my Jane and her Mr. Bingley. She nearly lost him by being shy.
“Thus, I repeat my question to you. Are your intentions honorable? And, if they are, what do you plan to do about it?”
As Bennet subsided into silence, Fitzwilliam stared into the fire seeking insight into how to best frame his response to a Regency gentleman unstuck in time. Mr. Bennet was asserting his prerogative as pater familias much as pre-Republican Roman clan heads commanded the fates of their descendants. As such, the Founder was taking a double role, calling upon his authority as the eldest Bennet in the timeline to task Richard and protect Eileen.
Fitzwilliam had no cause to question his feelings for the lady who reminded him of Diana the Huntress. He knew that the intrigue, joy, and ache that he had borne in successive waves since 1943 were the purest evidence of the loving regard he held for Agent Rose and, later, Eileen Nearne.
He had been drawn to her since their first encounter in a Frankish field, darkling on a moonless night, when he climbed down from the Lysander to replace a field agent being evacuated back to Britain. Introductions between agent and radio operator were necessarily desultory until the small aircraft climbed once again into the night sky.
However, once they had followed their Maquis escorts into the feebly-lit barn, and Eileen had pulled off the inky uhlan knit she had used to hide her golden curls, he had been entranced. He sensed a similar regard as the sky-blue orbs assessed him. Operational security prohibited any exploration of his feelings beyond the ineffable sense of loss he experienced when word came that she had been betrayed into the Gestapo’s hands.
His Great-grandfather was now calling upon him to do that which he had never done aloud.
“I think…no, I know…that I love her,” he said with no small sense of wonder coloring his tone.
Bennet smiled over tented fingers and replied, “Feels good, doesn’t it, son, to admit what you have known all along to be the truth? Yet, I am going to push you like my old Ancient’s tutor at Trinity.
“How do you know that you love Miss Nearne? I do understand that you are a gentleman and would not prevaricate but let us pretend that you are in my rooms and are fighting for a First. Tell me all,” he probed.
Fitzwilliam, more comfortable having crossed the Rubicon of his feelings, earnestly responded, “T’is an easy answer, Father Bennet.
“I will ignore the agony of losing her at the end of the war only to find her trying to end me.
“Like your daughter, Mrs. Darcy, I, too, consider the past only when it brings me pleasure. Eileen’s tribulations cannot do that. Rather, I will dwell on the present to reveal why I know I love this lady.
“Whatever happens in my life is better if it involves Miss Nearne. Consider this meeting; I have already asked myself ‘What would Eileen think of Mr. Bennet, all puffed up in fatherly displeasure? How she would chuckle seeing you take me to task.’
“Mr. Bennet, I am already living my life in reference to this lady.
“I have found myself waking in the morning idly imagining the whorl of her ear—you know she possesses the most refined ears I have ever seen. Then I hurry my meal so that we can meet all the sooner for those ill-defined ‘after-breakfast’ events.
“I have found myself sitting quietly next to her, saying nothing, just watching her breathe. Her innocent expression of amusement when she catches me out is fodder for even more of my daydreams.”
Bennet interceded, “Enough, my good man. Seeing you, a light-colonel, as the Americans would say, acting like a moon calf has convinced me beyond any shadow of a doubt that you are quite ill: with lovesickness, that is. Your oration about her ears was beyond enough!
“My final question is, what are you going to do about it? Your ailment will not respond without treatment, I assure you.
“There is but one cure, you know, and that is to beg her for her hand. You can rest comfortably in the knowledge that Mrs. Bennet and I approve of your suit, and for what it is worth, you have our blessing.”
That last washed all the fear out of the Viscount’s system. Always a man of decisive action, he made to rise until Bennet stopped him.
“Hold, there. Finish your cognac. Then, allow me to play valet and adjust your neckcloth and make certain that you are well-arrayed. Mrs. Bennet has your young lady in hand. I imagine she will join you on the terrace in about ten minutes.”
Chapter XXXVI
The waltz had left her breathless: not from exertion, but rather emotion. Feelings she had suppressed for over four years roared back into life much like a housefire supposedly extinguished, but with a few embers left smoldering. The oxygen which was his touch, his glance, his voice, fueled the fever coursing through her soul, so receptive now after her years under Miss Freud’s tutelage.
In recent months, whether in casual company at the Beach House or cloistered together above the great worktable that dominated the Anubis conference room, she had dared to hope, to pray that he might regard her as something other than a skilled agent. Yet, she had feared that, even if he respected her professional capabilities, he would be unable to open his heart to the woman who had tried to end his life.
Try as she might, Eileen could not tamp down the tremblings of that disloyal cord which stretched through the core of her being whenever she considered a future with Richard Fitzwilliam.
The worst betrayal, though, was her dreamtime. During her work with Miss Freud, her night world had become remarkably active as her mind completed the heavy lifting she had begun each day in the consulting room. In the months since she had shifted from classic analysis into a schedule more suited for maintenance, Miss Nearne’s dreams had left the past behind, tending to explore possibilities. The most common themes were visions of peaceful fields, mountains, freshets pouring down from glaciers, and waves scouring the shore. While their idyllic nature was uniformly peaceful, t’was the revelation that there was another presence observing the vistas along with her in a profound sharing unlike any she had ever experienced. The completeness of the moment was only possible because Richard was there by her side. Awakening left her bereft in the knowledge that their oneness was only a possibility and not a reality.
As she stood next to Mrs. Bennet watching Richard’s scarlet and Mr. Bennet’s inky backs recede across the floor, Eileen felt confused, a dislocation resulting from the sudden fracturing of that tenuous bond between two hearts. Only when Fanny gently threaded her arm through Eileen’s to guide her from the floor did she snap back into the present world. She heard Mrs. Bennet whispering, chatting her up in a casual way, as if the lady was seeking to cover Miss Nearne’s momentary loss of composure.
“Now, my girl, if I know those two, they will be gone for some time, at least long enough to down a brandy and maybe puff upon a cigar.
“As for us, perhaps a glass of punch would be in order. I know it is not authentic, but Lizzy swears that this champagne brew is unlike anything you have ever enjoyed. T’is a mixture of fruit marinated in rum and ample bubbly. Sorbet is added at the end to make the most exquisite floating islands!”
The two ladies gravitated to the side of the floor to enjoy the cool air drifting in through terrace doors thrown open to give some relief to the crowds filling the room. Eileen had remained monosyllabic as Fanny prattled on, preferring to sip the fizzy rose-tinted concoction ever so carefully lest she dribble some on her sapphire gossamer gown.
Her attention was drawn to the woman at her side when the tone of the conversational flow shifted. Speaking in a lowered voice, Fanny switched to the heart of the matter which had been central in Eileen’s thoughts.
“You, my darling girl, need to attend to me now. I never spoke thus to any of my daughters for I was still far too foolish and had not yet found the strength to for
give myself for my fear.
“All too long, I urged the girls to give a man what he wanted. Of course, in our age, that did not mean that which he could only obtain from a virtuous girl after the vicar had done his work. Rather, I pushed them to intimate future raptures. That led me to push the girls to advertise themselves in the most vulgar manner.
“Luckily, both Jane and Lizzy refused to heed me. I doubt if Mr. Darcy would have had Lizzy if she had thrust her chest at him. Poor Bingley probably would have had an apoplexy if Jane had done anything so forward. Then again, Janie likely would have preceded him into the hereafter, expiring from embarrassment.
“What I have learned—and this is thanks to a good man who took the time to love me anew—is that all a man wants is nothing more nor nothing less than a woman’s true, honest, and authentic self.
“Give him that ultimate gift, and he will hold that gem in his cupped hands, cherishing it all his days.
“Expressing your love truthfully will never play you false.”
Eileen tilted her head to the side, looking down at Fanny quizzically, one question plaguing her.
She asked plaintively, “But, Mother Bennet, how will I know if Richard cares? I feel yearnings all the time, both when I am with him and when I am not. He is friendly, to be sure, but how will I know if he feels more for me: if he desires me as I do him?
“I am frightened to confront him. I worry that I will drive him away if I declare myself. We have so much baggage.”
Fanny looked up at her and quizzed, “You trust Richard, do you not?”
“With my life,” came back the firmest of declarations.
“Your life…and so you did once before: back in 1945. From what you told me of your encounter on the cliffs, your body was not your own. Another was executing an awful compulsion. You were trapped inside: an observer.
“But, somehow, you found the power to thwart the attack.
