by Don Jacobson
The Royal London Hospital, February 27, 1951
The past 48 hours had been trying for Fanny. The ambulance attendants had refused to allow her to accompany Tom as they raced from Oakham House to The London. Then she was barred by the ever-efficient sisters from crashing into the intensive care ward where Bennet had been installed. Only regular updates from Henry Wilson had kept her out of Bedlam.
According to the doctor, Mr. Bennet had suffered a moderate heart attack, not serious enough to carry him off, but worrisome because the extent of the damage to the cardiac muscle could not be known. To this point, the Master of Longbourn was resting comfortably and was responding well to regular courses of digitalis and aspirin, following Craven’s regimen.[cxvi] However, despite Wilson’s assurances that, since Bennet had survived the critical 24-hour period, he could be expected to recover, Fanny would not herself rest comfortably until she could personally assess Tom’s condition.
The good lady had installed herself in a comfortable chair adjacent to the double doors leading to the ward. She had been stationed there around-the-clock for the past two days. Various younger members of the family had waited upon her hand and foot, bringing food to help keep up her strength, escorting her to the WC to refresh herself, and pressing doctors and sisters alike for ‘weather reports’ on The Founder’s status. Having seen firsthand the pain experienced by families in extremis, the medical staff treated concerned Fitzwilliams, Gardiners, and Cecil-Darcys as they would have their own loved ones if they had been distracted by worry.
The hospital chaplain, often accompanied by Richard Fitzwilliam, who had dug his own stole out from his black parson’s case, periodically settled onto a small stool next to her. The vicar would offer up the prayers for the ill as well as others designed to comfort. He would clasp Fanny’s hand as together they spoke the familiar forms, unchanged in most ways from her day to his. The Viscount, for his part, intently stared into the frosted glass windows which obscured the ward behind, his lips moving silently as he spun whatever prayers he could. His body was tense, alert, a mainspring full of the energy he was trying to project, willing Thomas Bennet to rally and return to them, if not in his old form, at least a close approximation thereof.
Mrs. Bennet soldiered on because that is all she knew. In her age, t’was all they could do—that and pray. They petitioned for healing, but they also begged for solace in recognition that the Lord determined final outcomes. Those who were left awaiting that moment when they, too, would be gathered into His arms, needed strength to continue along their lives’ paths.
The inhabitants of the estates—and cottages—that dotted the countryside and the great townhouses—and shanties—in Town counted every month and year of good health a blessing. In the same motion, the absence of illness was not seen as invulnerability but rather as a deferral of that which was inevitable. The fatalism of the Regency was akin to an identical sentiment which had colored the minds of all who had lived from 1939 through 1945. Death was an intimate neighbor: one who might call without notice and use whatever instruments at his disposal. The denizens of either time were behooved to live their lives to the fullest lest Atropos cut their thread leaving them wanting.
Fanny tipped her head back against the wainscoting Even though she was barred from seeing him...cursed hospital rules...she could feel Tom’s warming presence pouring through the wall against which she leaned. Eyes closed. Resting now, she sensed her Guide, not alone as was her usual condition, but rather bringing another closer.
Friend…you have been gone a long time.
>had much undertaken
Aye…understand. Busy here.
>deep flows, many threads
>many guides, All Mother.
All Mother? In truth I have many children, grandchildren.
>no…
>you first of us
>from us came all other
>except the One
>old, before, within, without
The One?
>the All Father, the Blood of The Wardrobe
>The Bennet, time without, space without, universe without
Not possible…Mr. Bennet told me he knew no Guide
>not the Thomas
>rising from the Christopher, but before
>the Gibbons freed from its entrapment
Is it a fearsome being?
>no, All Mother, the Blood of The Wardrobe infinitely older
>from Brahma’s day before
>this Kalpa[cxvii]
>compassion and truthfulness
Then an ancient, deeper, more powerful, presence rose up in Mrs. Bennet’s mind’s eye, dwarfing her Guide, and flaring the plains of her consciousness with potent energies that brightened the terroir, illuminating dozens of other Guides toiling at their tasks.
>ALL MOTHER…I AM THE BLOOD OF THE BENNET
>COME TO YOU I HAVE TO LEAD ALL MY CHILDREN BUT TWO
But two? Unsure of your meaning.
>ALL GUIDES, GOOD AND BAD COME FROM ME.
>I AM THE ALL FATHER. CRONOS, ODIN, VISHNU
>COME TO THIS WORLD TO FIX THE BALANCE, BROKEN NOW
Balance? Are we not there? We solved Winters and avenged Kitty.
>ONLY PART. MORE YET. MAINSPRING YET TO REPAIR
My Lord, I am unsure of what you mean.
>AGAPE, EXAGORAS AGAPIS, SYNCHOTIKİ AGAPE
>THREE FINAL LOVES GOVERN ALL
>ALL MOTHER BROUGHT THEM TO THIS WORLD
>ONE ROSE YET, GREATEST, ETERNAL TO ALL THREE LOVES
One rose yet?
>RED. TIME NOT YET. BLUSH FIRST.
Not understanding.
>GARDINER. LOOK TO YOUR NURSERY.
>FROM ROSA CHINENSIS COME ALL
My Lord, I see some meaning. Still confused.
>ASK
My nursery? Are you speaking of my flowers or my daughters?
>THERE IS NO DUALITY. YELLOW, RED, WHITE, ALL, BLUSH
How do you know us?
>AM WARDROBE
You are the Wardrobe?
>BOX IS MY DOOR TO THIS PLANE
>ASK
You said but two. I know I am one, but who else?
>THE BENNET. WEAK. BODY WEARY BROKEN THROUGH LABOR.
>WOULD JOIN WITH HIM.
>STRENGTH TO CARRY HIM, ALL MOTHER, LONGBOURN
>REACH OUT…NOW.
Fanny could not open her eyes. T’was not a compulsion, but rather a powerlessness, that made her watch from a high vantage point as ineffable energies snarled and snapped and possessed every guide on that infinite plane. She saw her hands lifting as rainbow power swirled up and down their ethereal forms until she thrust them up and coruscating bolts seared off into the dome above, to join with other variegated blazes weaving around hers into a columnar tapestry.
Then all was sucked into nothingness.
The old presence was missing…until she felt it reaching back through that wall behind her.
Lady Bennet stood, shaking off first the vicar and then Richard, a shell-shocked observer to her tantric state. Her eyes opened: the sky-blue, near purple, orbs flashing with ineluctable power, such that both men fell away.
She opened the doors to the ward and stepped in, searching for her husband.
Chapter LII
Fanny was drawn to a bed in the far corner of the ward, protected from prying eyes by two folding cloth dividers. Some degree of hustle and bustle was evident as starch-collared sisters and white-coated doctors scurried about, apparently tending to the patient hidden away.
Mrs. Bennet was not frightened for, as she approached, the energy of the Old One—for so she had dubbed the consciousness of the Wardrobe—superimposed upon her husband’s more tenuous life force, told her that all was well.
Or at least as well as could be expected.
Even in her new manner as a woman who had set aside her famous nerves, Fanny had not developed a talent for sneaking up on persons. In short order, she was noticed, and both a doctor and a
nurse approached to bar her passage. Raising a hand in a gesture that would have done proud both her daughter, Lady Kate, as well as the unlamented Mistress of Rosings, who would otherwise remain unnamed, she swept both aside without a word.
Stepping around the corner of a screen, she beheld her husband nestled deeply in a cloud of well-fluffed pillows and downy quilts. His eyes burned in their hazel greenness from around the rubberized mask bringing life to his tired lungs. What she could see of his face, drawn by the ravages of the past few days, impressed upon her the desperate straits through which he had passed. His hands, their translucent skin pale and parchment-like gave only an intimation of belonging to a living being. They rested motionless upon the warming coverlet.
Surrounding nurses and medics pulled back as she broached their last defenses. She swept up to Tom’s bedside. He turned his head ever-so-slightly to lock eyes with her. He raised his eyebrows in a silent appeal.
Mrs. Bennet leaned in and, after quelling outraged Hippocratic sensibilities, unsnapped a fastener on the side of the oxygen mask to allow her to lift it away from Bennet’s mouth and nose. She held out her hand and simply said, “Damp cloth.”
A nurse hastened to soak a piece of terry in a basin of warm water and wring out the excess. Taking the proffered square, Fanny tenderly washed Tom’s face, removing the accumulated sweat and grime.
Ignoring the staff around her, she leaned in and kissed him squarely on the lips.
At his quizzical smile, she huskily whispered, “I almost lost you, you vexing old man! And, without even a farewell kiss.
“This will have to do until I can properly greet you. Welcome back, my love. You gave me such a fright!”
Observing the increased effort with which he was breathing, she tipped the mask back over his face to allow him a few pulls. He moved his head to signal that he had had enough.
His voice raspy from disuse, Bennet said, “I read of Monsieur Lavoissier’s discovery of this stuff we call oxygen. But, Fanny,” he wryly continued as his intonation improved, “I do believe that the cure is nearly as awful as the disease.
“I never imagined that I would be thankful to get a lungful of good, honest, but fetid London fug! Whatever they have been pumping into me smells like a tire.”
Fanny chuckled and replied, “I think, my dear sir, tire aroma or not, that oxygen kept you in this world, giving your tired heart an opportunity to regain its strength after you sorely taxed it!
“Given that you look as if have gone a few rounds with the Hertfordshire Hammer, I must ask you, Tom, how do you feel?”
With more strength now, he reached up and removed the mask from her hand and clamped it back over his nose for a few restorative draughts before replying, “Much better in the past few minutes. In fact, and I would imagine you would have to consult with Dr. Wilson,” he jutted his chin at the tall, blond-haired healer, “for my turnaround came as a bit of a shock to them.
“Not that they expected me to decline, but, all my vitals seem to have headed back toward normality. I now have become the subject of medical speculation.
“I might lay it to the fact that a soul can take only so much hospital gelatin. However, the truth is, I wish to put the hospital behind me…and to go Home.”
Fanny’s ears perked up at the final word. She elliptically asked, “Home…not Oakham House, and not Longbourn now?”
“You have the right of it, Mrs. Bennet. I do believe that there is no profit to be had in prolonging our stay in Town. Our business is concluded,” Bennet finished.
T’would require another 24 hours of debate to convince Wilson that Mr. Bennet would gain nothing by remaining in the ward: that any recovery would be completed just as well at Matlock House. However, Henry Wilson, like his father Liam before him, had been exposed to the odd goings-on involving the Wardrobe from his earliest years.[cxviii] Thus, he was clear on the double meaning behind Bennet’s use of the word “Home.” And, he knew that, while he could keep the older man amongst the living using the tools of modern medicine, a trip back to Hertfordshire of the nature intended by The Founder was, for all practical purposes, a death sentence. The progressive heart failure would only accelerate, bringing Bennet to the brink in a few months if not several weeks.
Yet, Thomas Bennet seemed to have imbibed some powerful aqua vitae. He was profoundly improved. There was no reason to force him to remain incarcerated in the hospital.
And so, in what Bennet and Fanny referred to as a Bath Chair, The Founder was rolled out of a rear entrance and assisted into the passenger cabin of the 11th Earl’s great 1907 Rolls-Royce Ghost, the 44-year-old vehicle now reserved for only the most auspicious occasions.
One of the Tomkins’ clan, a Red Judge, donned the traditional Matlock House chauffer’s livery first worn proudly by his father and sat behind the great walnut steering wheel. The original Michael Tomkins, the old Earl’s mechanical partner, stood in front of the auto and buffed at the great nickel radiator cowl. The still-spry 82-year-old tipped an alert ear to detect any irregularities in the near-silent growl of the monster eight-cylinder powerplant. He dashed around to prettily hand both Bennets into the passenger cabin. With Mr. and Mrs. Bennet safely installed, the elder Tomkins climbed up next to his son. Robard and Schiller jumped up on the running boards and gripped handles to stand as footmen.
The Ghost and its nimbus of outriders took a circuitous route through the city, eventually pulling through the archway into a palace’s courtyard. Fanny reached forward and grasped the speaking tube and blew into it. The elder Mr. Tomkins picked up his end to respond to her query saying, “Kensington Palace, my Lady.”
Fanny turned to her husband, “Quickly now, Tom, allow me to straighten your tie.” After that, she moistened her hand, and, in a purely maternal move, slicked down his errant locks.
Bennet looked askance at her and bridled slightly under her ministrations.
“Why have you suddenly become my valet, Fanny? And, why the detour from our accustomed route? Are we to take tea with the Kents? The Gloucesters?” Bennet quizzed his wife.
“Now, you hush, Tom. We have been commanded here by a lady with whom you are acquainted. In fact,” she peered around his body out the side window, “I see her, her mama, and, if I am not mistaken, her little boy—oh, is he not the most darling young fellow—waiting to greet us under the portico.”
The car ground to a halt. Bennet looked out the window and swore under his breath.
He tersely said, his eyes flashing his lack of amusement, “Mrs. Bennet! What manner of event is this? I thought we were going Home with the least possible amount of fanfare. On the contrary, you have brought me to the one place where my weakness could betray me and embarrass the family!”
Yet, The Founder was secretly pleased to be in the presence of a branch of the family that had risen to the greatest heights.
Michael Tomkins, belying his age, had leapt from his seat to pull open the door closest to the small group. Rather than allow her husband to exit in order to hand her out in his turn, Fanny gently pushed him back into his seat. Blocking the doorway, she planted her feet firmly on the pavement and dropped into the deepest curtsey Bennet had ever seen her undertake.
If I had cared enough for the condition of her heart, this is how she would have made her curtsey if she had been presented to good Queen Charlotte. I fear that I needs must leave that to Darcy or his Aunt Eleanor after we get Home. After all, a baronet’s wife deserves her day!
Another valuable lesson learned, thanks to the Wardrobe.
Fanny held her dip while she ceremoniously intoned, “Your Majesty, your Royal Highnesses: per your desire, I would present ourselves—my husband, Sir Thomas Michael Bennet of Longbourn and I, Lady Frances Lorinda Bennet—to your attention. I would beg your forbearance at Sir Thomas remaining in the automobile. In your gracious invitation, you said that you would not stand on ceremony, and, thus, Sir Thomas could sit.”
The Queen and the Princes
s each covered their mouths to hide the smile Fanny’s last had brought to their lips. Bennet leaned forward in the doorway and dipped his head as low as he could in a modest bow. The sight of the gentleman who reminded him in many ways of both his paternal and maternal grandpapas caused the three-year-old to break loose of his mama’s grasp and dash forward. He skirted around Mrs. Bennet’s blocking form and clambered over the sill into the back of the Ghost.
He stood in front of a surprised Mr. Bennet, curiously scanning the man from head to toes. Bennet looked deeply into the youngster’s rich blue-grey eyes, Bennet Eyes, and nodded solemnly at the young royal. He waited for the boy to address him, knowing that a question was forming behind his furrowed brow.
“Excuse me, sir, who may you be? You seem to be old like my Grandpapa, the King. Do you need to rest like him? I know Mama said that you had been ill. When I am not feeling well, Nanny gives me a peppermint sweet.
“I brought one for you.” He then reached into his pocket and brought out the candy which he solemnly placed in Bennet’s outstretched hand.
The ladies had moved closer with Mrs. Bennet stepping away to allow the boy’s mother to approach. Bennet apprehended the sense of maternal concern upon a face familiar to him and, increasingly, the world. He sought to smooth over the situation.
He addressed the young fellow, “I thank you for this, Your Royal Highness. I have developed quite a fondness for peppermint sweets, and it will certainly make me feel much better, I can assure you.
“I am Thomas Bennet, the Master of Longbourn Estate in Meryton which is a town about the same distance from London as is your Grandpapa’s castle at Windsor. If I am not mistaken, my daughter’s husband was the Chaplain at the Castle a few years back.”
Then he looked up at the young matron and added, “You have a fine young man, here, Your Royal Highness. I could place him as your child in any where/when.”
