by Don Jacobson
“However, what you did through saving Mr. Fitzwilliam could have led to your own death. You, though, did not care. His life was more important than yours. You were in love with him even then.
“And, at some level, Mr. Fitzwilliam knows that.
“You need to trust him to discover his feelings for you. I have no doubt that he is in love with you. Anyone watching him can see that he has been pierc’d by Cupid’s arrow,” Mrs. Bennet affirmed, “And, as with most matters of the heart, t’is up to the lady to force the issue.
“I am not suggesting that you march up to Richard like one of Mr. Wagner’s Valkyries. In this here/now as well as mine own, that would be decidedly improper. Rather, use the power of your presence, your silent presence, to inspire him to speak the truth scribed on his heart.”
“If the disciple John were writing of your beloved, the truth shall set him free.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Fanny espied a flash of scarlet moving past the ballroom’s entryway, heading toward the first set of doors leading out onto the terrace. Eileen was unaware of this as she was facing toward the refreshment table at the rear of the room.
Fanny counted to ten to allow the Colonel to begin to make his way down the darkened verandah. Then she suggested that Eileen accompany her outside for a bit of fresh air.
As she passed through the door onto the balcony and into the darkness, Eileen was propelled forward as Mrs. Bennet firmly planted a hand in the small of her back and pushed. The French doors clicked shut, effectively cutting off any retreat. Eileen turned to see Mrs. Bennet’s shadow on the other side of the sheer drapes blocking any intrusion from the ballroom.
Taking a relaxing breath, Eileen stepped across the tiled deck toward the balustrade. Reaching that barrier, she planted both hands on it and lifted her face toward the starry dome arcing overhead.
The sound of approaching bootheels brought her chin back toward her chest.
“Miss Nearne?”
“Yes, Mr. Fitzwilliam, t’is me,” she softly replied without moving.
Richard’s distinctive chuckle bounced off Netherfield’s high walls and echoed out over the manicured grounds, visible only in the imagination of those who had seen them in daylight. The sound sent happy tingles rioting up and down Eileen’s spine, but she kept her peace.
Fitzwilliam, nervous at her ongoing silence, moved to fill the gap, offering up an explanation for his laughter, “I do believe that we are simply pawns upon a rather large chessboard being moved about by two grandmasters.
“Let me guess: Mrs. Bennet offered that you might wish to break the heat of the ballroom with a pass along the terrace.”
At this, Eileen dipped her head in assent, but again said nothing in reply.
After this second display of reticence to engage, Fitzwilliam was completely disequilibrated.
He stepped closer and, in a hushed tone, went to where men often go when the object of their affections goes quiet, “Miss Nearne, Eileen, what have I done? Are you angry with me? Please tell me so that I can make it right!”
His answer came when Eileen granted him a measure of mercy and turned his way, laving his troubled soul with the gentle waters of a loving look that soothed him without words. The Preacher, a man honored by his king for conspicuous valor, took courage from the warmth radiating from those sky-blue windows into her soul. The message was unmistakable.
He reached out and took both of her hands in his. A Mona Lisa smile lifted the corners of her lips.
Fitzwilliam cleared his throat and spoke, “My dearest Eileen Mary Nearne: allow me to pay my addresses to you using your full name. I have known you as Rose and then later as Dominique, Miss Smith, and, only just before you went away, as Miss Nearne.
“T’was not until my return that I knew who you were, Miss Eileen Mary Nearne of Glasgow.
“But, I thought t’was too late for me. You were lost, taken by the Germans. I devoured your file, but it read as a particularly sparse and sad biography, the ending known before the middle could be appreciated.
“I mourned you and tried to hide my sorrow in my churchwork in Stromness.
“Then came that remarkable…yes, do not look astonished, my dear...I said remarkable…day when you became the instrument of another’s bile. I have since learned that you did something extraordinary to alter the expected outcome.
“I tell you this, what that monster did not know was that he was facing the most powerful force in the universe: profound love, the type of love that transforms the lives of all it encounters.
“Mother Bennet has been muttering about agape, exagoras agapis, and synchotikí agape…the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Loves...spiritual love, redemptive love, and the love which forgives.
“I tell you this now, neither of us realized how and when we fell in love. Likely we were in the middle of it before we knew, but our love shaped that encounter on the path.
“You did what you could to redeem yourself, to become a better version of that poor tortured woman, usually so skillful with a blade. All because the essential core of you…your Eileen…would not harm me.
“And I knew the same. Seeing the surprise in your eyes as you lay flat on your back before me. How easy t’would have been to throw you over the edge into the Atlantic below. But, I stayed my hand knowing that I could no more dispatch my love, my agape, than I could cut off my arm.
“Something inside told me that this was an awful trick, that the woman I had known would not suddenly strive to end me.”
Fitzwilliam paused and shivered as the horror of the memory passed through him. Then he continued in the face of her widened eyes boring deeply into him, “I felt terribly guilty for a while; not for having struck you senseless, but rather from the irrational belief that you had been driven insane and were seeking your revenge upon me; that you blamed me for abandoning you to your fate at the hand of the Germans.
“Lord help me, but I found a perverse sense of relief in the deaths of my brother and his family. This showed me that your attack was part of a larger scheme, that you likely were an unwilling tool.
“Now, patience became a virtue as I waited for you to recover. How I rejoiced when you did the hard work of tracing the breadcrumbs back into the Swabian forest to that hillside bunker and the squad of black helmets. This was the proof that you were truly with us!
“Throughout this past year, working in harness with you, sharing my waking and sleeping…someday I will tell you my dreams of you…moments with you, have been the happiest months of my life.
“I know I am a bit of a broken down old soldier and now, it appears, a failed churchman. But, I do have some prospects,” he added with a grin, “and we have our work which is important.
“Now, before I lose my courage, allow me to tell you that I cannot proceed in this existence without the assurance of knowing that your heart is as fully engaged, although I believe it to be so, as is mine. Please, Miss Nearne, Eileen, will you do me the honor of agreeing to marry me?”
The last was said in a great rush, leaving Fitzwilliam slightly red-faced and breathless.
Eileen’s hand lifted of its own accord, moving to his face to gently stroke his cheek. Tears pricked at the corners of her big, saucer-like, eyes. Her lips parted as a smile began to widen.
Her words dispelled any fear he had held, “Oh, Richard, you know my history, my weakness…”
He interrupted, “No, my love, your strength.”
Dipping her head, she said, “As you wish, sir, my strength.
“Yet, do not be mistaken. You, Richard Edward Fitzwilliam, were and are my strength. Before Rose emerged to take the burden of becoming your murderer, I held on to whatever shreds of sanity that escaped detection by taking solace in your rich steel-grey eyes and comforting manner. You were that better place to which my mind fled to escape that concrete hell.
“I knew of your regard, your love, even if you did not. I had observed you closely in France. At some level, the Eileen I had been r
etreated into the safety created by your presence, albeit imaginary.
“And, at this moment, I cannot imagine ever being away from the real Richard Fitzwilliam.”
Fitzwilliam dared to begin breathing as his life slipped into a different channel than the one through which it had flowed just seconds before.
He wryly asked, “Is that a ‘yes,’ Miss Nearne? I have never asked for a woman’s hand before, but I have read of the proper forms. Once the gentleman has made his offer, the lady needs to reply—either in the affirmative or the negative.
“I do hope that I managed to couch my appeal in a less offensive manner than one of our lateral ancestors. I am sure that, in your girlhood, you read Miss Austen’s account of Sir Fitzwilliam Darcy’s first proposal to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I trust that I exceeded that standard.”
Eileen lifted a gloved had to stifle a giggle which burbled up from her trim midriff before replying with no less impertinence, “Oh, you and your reading: since you became Anubis Prime, you have buried your nose in musty report after moldy account. Now you bring up a biography that is 130 years old in your effort to win my hand!
“I heard about Darcy’s proposal to his Lizzy from her mother who got it from the lady herself. I assure you that Mrs. Bennet’s account was so much more colorful than anything the good lady from Steventon served up in those oh-so-proper times.
“You, however, offered a very pretty overture, one which any woman, romantic or pragmatic, would have received with pleasure.
“And, thus, my Lord Viscount, my Colonel, my heart, I cannot do less than say ‘Yes, please’ to your proposal. I love you more than air itself.”
Fitzwilliam pulled her to him, celebrating their betrothal by capturing her lips with a kiss which deepened as the seconds passed. At some point, though, Richard could feel Eileen squirming in his arms.
He broke their tight clinch and moved back a few inches, far enough to look down at Eileen and ask with a friendly sarcasm, “Are you trying to run from me so soon? Are my attentions that distasteful?”
Eileen slapped the hilt of the Old General’s saber and archly replied, “I knew you were happy to hear my acceptance, but then I realized that t’was your sword poking me in the ribs!”
Fitzwilliam choked on his guffaw, “Oh-my-Gawd, Eileen, you minx! That line was ancient when Mae West used it.[ci] Is this what I am to expect in the future?”
Further conversation was forestalled when Mrs. Bennet slowly opened the door leading back into the ballroom. Her unspoken message was that it was past time for the couple to return and inform the multitude of their happiness.
After Mr. Bennet’s announcement of the betrothal of the Viscount and Miss Nearne, Fanny nestled into her husband’s arms as the band swung into the evening’s final number. The couple moved around the floor, confidently stepping as if they were Len Scrivener and Nellie Duggan in Blackpool’s Empress Ballroom, already assured of another Open trophy. In the year since their arrival, the Bennets had begun—contrary to Tom’s earlier practice of avoiding large terpsichorean gatherings—a weekly habit of venturing out onto parquet expanses. While their efforts at some of the Latin dances were laughable—although both Tom and Fanny were the first to chuckle and giggle—their Viennese and traditional waltzes were acknowledged to be particularly compelling.
As Vera Lynn stepped up to the microphone to begin her wartime anthem, “We’ll Meet Again,” Mrs. Bennet sighed, loudly enough for her husband to lean back and peer into her eyes.
“Why so wistful, my dear?” Bennet asked, “You certainly have no cause to repine. Your ball is a grand success. You even provided your guests with a memorable highlight in the form of a betrothal between two young folks clearly in love.
“I can assure you, Fanny, that there were many a dampened hankie, so well-known and beloved are those two.”
Fanny replied, “Oh, I know I am being silly, Tom. However, I cannot shake the feeling that if I had been a different woman, you might have been making a similar announcement at Mr. Bingley’s ball all those years ago. But, I was driven to give voice to my imaginary relief and crudely counted my chickens well before they were hatched.”
“Mrs. Bennet! I protest!” Bennet bitterly interjected, “You cannot take all the blame upon your narrow shoulders!
“If I had been a better husband: if I had been a man who put his family’s future security before the immediate convenience of a quiet bookroom, I would have eased your concerns by ensuring each of our girls was well-dowered.
“No, Fanny, I counted upon your meager portion to solve the problem. I comforted myself that, as I would have expired, none of the world’s concerns would follow me into the hereafter.
“I was such a coward.”
The vehemence of his words struck her silent. Into that space, Vera Lynn’s rich alto added a philosophical undertone that changed Tom Bennet’s mood.
“Keep smiling through
Just like you always do
'Til the blue skies
Drive the dark clouds far away”[cii]
Spinning his wife to arm’s length and then bringing her back into hold, Bennet added with a smile that closed off his unhappy words, “Yet, Frances Lorinda, you always looked ahead, perhaps lamenting my indolence, but doing everything in your power to secure our daughters’ happiness. You were the eternal optimist preferring to nurture those delicate blossoms that populated our parlor.
“Me? I was content to repose, like a thorn amongst all those blooms which, I promise, included you.
“Understand this: blind as I might have been, you, Mrs. Bennet, were, are, and always will be my rose.”
From the Times of London, Friday, December 31, 1948
A Family Affair
This past Wednesday saw the celebration of
the wedding of Lord Richard Fitzwilliam,
Viscount of Matlock, to Miss Eileen Mary Nearne,
late of Glasgow, London, and Meryton,
Hertfordshire.
Bishop William Wand performed the
sacramental offices at St. George’s Church in
a morning ceremony.
The bride was escorted by Sir Thomas
Bennet, Bart., of Longbourn. Countess
Elizabeth von Schiller served as Matron
of Honor. The Viscount’s cousin, Capt.
Denis Robard of St. Denis and Deauville
attended the Viscount.
Lady Frances Bennet, standing as the
bride’s mother, hosted the wedding lunch-
eon at Matlock House, home of the groom’s
parents. The Countess of Matlock and the
Countess of Pemberley were deputed as
co-hostesses.
The couple departed immediately from
London Airport in a private Darcy-Bingley
Enterprises Constellation for their three-
week wedding tour of Bermuda, Jamaica,
and Cuba.
Book Five
Denouement
(Settling Accounts)
risoluto, trionfale
(resolved, triumphant)
I do not pretend to understand the moral universe;
the arc is a long one, my eye reaches but little ways;
I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure
by the experience of sight;
I can divine it by conscience.
And from what I see I am sure it bends towards justice.
Theodore Parker
Chapter XXXVII
Oakham House, London, November 14, 1950
The wind-driven rain hissed across the darkened pavement in front of the red-brick townhouse. The building was little different than the others on either side. The entire block had fortunately evaded the Luftwaffe’s best efforts in 1940 and, later, the doodlebugs and V2 s of 1944-45 as they dropped from the sky. The piles of debris, so common throughout the great city, were non-existent along the narrow thor
oughfare fronting the cheerily-lit house.
Thomas Bennet pulled his trench coat tightly around his frame, tugged the visor of his felt Borsalino fedora down to protect his face, tucked his briefcase under his right arm, and popped the door of the Jaguar Mk V drop head coupe. The swirling wind drove a ferocious sleet of needle-sharp raindrops into the cabin, briefly drenching both the driver seated on the far side of the vehicle as well as the leather seat Bennet had vacated before he slammed shut the door.
Reflections of the yellowish lights surrounding the house’s entry portico glinted off the lenses of Bennet’s round, NHS-issue spectacles. He sprinted up the steps and through the door held open by the grinning maître d’hotel/butler, Silas Hill, remaindered now from his Selkirk gamekeeper career.
Hill, still full young to be chief below stairs, had happily discovered the two-way loyalty that characterized the Five Families. After the Persephone disaster, with a black patch covering the remains of his ruined left eye, Hill had been brought south by Lord Tom and installed at Oakham House to learn how to manage the Families’ overflow quarters long-since ceded back to the Trust by the Gardiners. By mid-1949, when the Bennets returned from their Meryton sojourn, young Hill was comfortably overseeing Oakham House’s affairs in a manner, Mr. Bennet had noted, akin to that of his namesake in an earlier where/when.
Bennet lowered his briefcase to the floor and happily shrugged out of his dripping coat, handing it to Hill along with his sodden topper. In response to his unspoken question, Hill advised that Mrs. Bennet was to be found in the library.
Even now, the idea that his distaff side would bury herself in a book amused Tom Bennet. He imagined the confusion that would cross his daughters’ faces if he had told them they could locate their mother in the Longbourn bookroom. All they had ever known was that the library was his bolt hole: where their Papa would hide from their Mama’s effusions, exercising every ounce of his male prerogative.
