by Don Jacobson
And, struck gold!
There laying right on top of the inverted heap were several sheets of foolscap, neither foxed nor yellowed, but rather fresh from the packet Bennet kept on a shelf next to his desk. This was the Founder’s Letter to Kitty—complete, although, as Lord Tom had noted, in rough draft. Her husband must have composed it immediately after they had returned to Longbourn but had put it aside for later attention. The date at the top was November 3, 1814. She chuckled when she saw her husband’s boldly-scrawled injunction to Burn After Reading! Here was one question that had plagued her now easily answered.
She slowly read through the entire note, smiling in some places as she encountered Bennet’s traditional dissembling in lieu of addressing uncomfortable topics. His droll recounting of the visit to Town, of their time spent with the Gardiners and Philips, brought her to laughter as few times.
Then the tears began. Equipped with the knowledge of Kitty’s last days, she understood her husband’s intimations and declarations. She well-imagined her darling girl as an old woman, curled up on the sofa in The Beach House’s library, reading her Papa’s final letter.
I can see her tapping into those last wells of strength…Bennet power it is…to carry out his wishes, to do that which she must. And, she did it with a grace she never learned from me! I bless Lord Reggie and Lady Elaine for their polishing of my beloved gem!
Coming to the end of Letter, she was resolved to undertake what she had been missing in her life these four—no, eight—years past, to speak to her daughter. She picked up a fresh quill, removed the lid from the inkwell, dipped her pen, and began to write after Bennet’s scribbled signature.
December 29, 1814
My darling girl…the Dowager Countess of Matlock
Dearest Kitty,
I will be brief for both my time and yours is precious. You may be surprised to read my postscript as this is supposed to be a Founder’s Letter composed not by me but rather your Papa. I will not burden you with my thoughts on that which he has written except to say that I know you will do your duty, for the Wardrobe (yes, my child, I have been initiated into its secrets so that I could aid your Papa), the nation, and the Families.
No, Kitty, I am putting pen to paper at this late moment in your life to beg your forgiveness. I have learned through considerable self-reflection and some conversations with a Miss A.F. that I allowed many of my deep-seated difficulties and perceptions to impact my relationship with you. Paralyzed as I was by my fears, I failed to prepare you for the life you should have led: well-loved and respected by a worthy man and the community. Rather I set you—and your sister—upon a path that was dictated by my narrow vision of the trials women of our age would have experienced if they remained unmarried.
You suffered through years of pain—I now understand your bouts of coughing so much better thanks to Anna—all brought on by the one woman who should have sheltered you, her little one, beneath her loving wing. I do wonder if you would have been better off if I, too, had passed on that awful day in the Year Zero. However, the Universe had other plans for me and, as I have learned, you, my dear.
T’is important that you know that I, thanks to your Papa, have seen visions, wondrous ones, of your family. I would have loved to meet your Henry. I will tell you that you proved to be, in spite of the example which I set for you, an accomplished mother. Your children and grandchildren…and the greats as well…do you credit.
I fear that I must close now as I am expecting your sisters to arrive from Derbyshire at any moment. As you know, your Papa is quite ill.
Would that I could have beheld you, your glorious china-blue eyes, and your happy manner one more time. Perhaps the Wardrobe, the Old One, may reach out and tweak the strands of Time once more so that I could hold you, to protect you from what must come.
However, that cannot be in this world. Perhaps the next?
Go with God, Kitty. Trust in the love your Papa and Mama send with each word we have written here.
Your loving Mama…
F. L. Bennet
She swiftly folded the entire note and used Bennet’s signet ring to seal it in three places using the traditional blue wax he favored. Then she called out to Mr. Hill to dispatch one of the grooms to Town, to deliver the note to Trust in Lincoln’s Inn.
Matlock House, March 3, 1951
Eileen Fitzwilliam collapsed into a plush chair in her private sitting room at her in-laws. She huffed out an exasperated breath having finally settled little Henry in for his nap. The young fellow continued to struggle with teething pain.
Her distaste of anything involving narcotics had made her loath to apply the traditional remedy so popular amongst the young mothers of her acquaintance: paregoric. Rather, she applied what Grandmother Bennet had sworn to be the best tonic of all—a chew rag soaked with diluted brandy. In fact, Eileen, in response to Richard’s anguished entreaties, so much he hated to hear his little boy’s cries of pain, had upped her game by switching from a generic liquor to Monnet cognac. Her husband then snorted in derision and asked if the child would require one of Señor Upmann’s Cubans in accompaniment.
How she missed Mrs. Bennet who had become, over the past four years, her surrogate Mama. However, she knew that Fanny had wanted, had needed, to return to her Home in her where/when lest the Universe tip in an uncomfortable manner. That awareness did not lessen her longing for the good lady who had nurtured her wounded soul.
Now, all she had left of Fanny and Thomas was the locket they had gifted her on the night of the Netherfield Ball.
Oh, that and Fanny’s purse.
Eileen had not thought of the accessory since the Bennets had left. Once the crowd had dispersed, she and Richard had returned to the apartment on the next floor up to check on Henry. She had dropped the handbag on her vanity. Her maid must have put it away, mistakenly thinking it to be Eileen’s.
She stood and brushed her hands down her skirt, removing a few real and many more imaginary wrinkles. Stepping into her changing room, she pulled open the drawer where her bags were stored. The butter leather soft brown clutch was easily found.
Hefting it in her hand, she heard a rustle and a rattle. Curiosity piqued, she popped the clasp and opened the purse. Therein she found a few bank notes, some loose change, an envelope, and her mama’s locket! Treasures safely in hand, she returned to the sitting room and settled into her chair once again.
She immediately opened the locket to apprehend the old miniatures of the Bennets. Smiling, she opened the clasp and strung the chain around her neck suspending the memento next to its more modern iteration.
I may be making a fashion statement that will leave some eyebrows raised, but I am determined to feel Grandmother and Grandfather’s love twice as deeply.
She counted the cash and discovered that Mrs. Bennet had left her a small stash of some thirty-five pounds and odd change.
Finally, she turned to the letter. T’was addressed to her in Fanny’s hand! She opened the flap and pulled out a sheet of notepaper embossed in a bronze ink with the three letters F L B. What she read thoroughly astonished her.
February 26, 1951
My dear Eileen,
I pause from my vigil to offer an unusual gift that is wrapped in a task I charge you to undertake. This is nothing you can perform right now. You must be patient, my dear, and remember the wise counsel that all good things will come in their own time.
Of all my grandchildren of whatever vintage, t’is you, Eileen Mary, who will be the one I will regret leaving behind as Mr. Bennet and I return to our Longbourn. Since that first day I saw you on the beach in 1947, I have felt a deep bond. T’is more than just your resemblance to my dearest Jane. Your soul, pained and scarred as it was, reached out to me. You gave me the opportunity to be a mama again. Never forget that I (and Mr. Bennet) love you beyond all words.
I can rest easy in the knowledge that you and Richard (and little Henry) will face all difficulties together. Tha
t is what marriage is. When the vicar intones ‘for better and worse,’ t’is not a promise, but rather a truth. A married couple must unite in the face of adversity so that the joyous times can be savored in a like manner.
I have left you all my remaining cash. Mr. Bennet reminded me that a £5 banknote with the portrait of your King George on the front would cause uncomfortable questions to be asked back in the Meryton of our King George. In any event, I have always found that having a few extra pounds and pence is a welcome situation for any lady; at least my daughters never complained. Purchase a bit of lace or a pair of gloves and think of me.
I do appreciate you allowing me to keep my Jane’s locket these past few years. To have her near my heart during our trials was a blessing. You would have loved meeting her. A sweeter girl has never walked this earth. There are so many times that I looked at you and thought you were shaped like Jane…at least before that beast got his hands on you!
Which is why I turn to you now. Truly, I could have depended upon any of our Anubis team to carry out this commission. However, you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, have a greater vested interest than any other. Perhaps you might also invite your associate, Miss Rose, to join you in completing my final instructions to you.
Now, here is what I wish you to do…
Book Six
Finale
(Passages)
lacrimoso…morendo…giojoso
(tearfully, dying, joyous)
With wings which I have won for myself,
In love's fierce striving,
I shall soar upwards
To the light which no eye has penetrated!
Die shall I in order to live.
Rise again, yes, rise again,
Will you, my heart, in an instant!
That for which you suffered,
To God shall it carry you!
Gustav Mahler
Resurrection, Sym. (No 2), 5th Mvt.
Chapter LIV
Number 3 Baptist Gardens, May 26, 1960
The willowy woman slowly made her way around disused rubbish bins and other detritus that littered the walkway. The neighborhood had declined over the years since it had last played a starring role in the cosmic drama that had been unfolding throughout the Isles for well over 250 years. Now, it was to take one last bow before the Council decided on a redevelopment scheme that could level the rows of dilapidated townhouses.
The lady, for an aristocrat she was, offered a bookish, near librarian, appearance with sky-blue eyes peering owlishly through NHS spectacles. She sported a sedate cotton blouse topped by a robin’s egg blue cardigan. She had chosen not to wear a topcoat of any sort as London was experiencing its first true summer’s weather of the year.
She halted in her passage to peer down at her wristwatch. She had been specifically enjoined not to enter the house before 9:00 PM.
Eileen Fitzwilliam climbed the front stairs at Number 3 and played the beam of her pocket torch onto the lock into which she inserted the key delivered to her earlier today from the estate manager. The hinges squealed their objections as they were forced against their natural inclination to remain frozen in place, much as they had been for years. She did not, however, enter the residence. There were others, yet to arrive, upon whom she waited.
Earlier in the day, in response to a Founder’s Letter unaccountably discovered in the Trust’s archives, Earl Thomas had caused the Wardrobe to be moved from its secure location in the City. Once again, the cabinet was to be found in the same address where the Families…well, to be correct, Mrs. Bennet…had triumphed over an ancient enemy and had, in the process, righted a great wrong.
Eileen had waited for over nine years for this moment: since the first time she read Mrs. Bennet’s note. She had it committed to memory, the original now fragile from constant perusal and refolding…
Now you, Eileen, must complete our Anubis project. This must be for you alone as I fear that your husband, the Earl, Alois, or Denis would simply take matters into their own hands and commit a murder that would besmirch their honor.
The men in our lives, even Mr. Bennet, would act in heat and passion. We ladies know that revenge is a dish best served cold. Thus, you can appreciate the punishment I contemplate for this vile pustule on humanity’s hind quarters.
I made the Wardrobe my co-conspirator, although I have cause to believe, as you well know, that it was a willing accomplice. I knew that it would send our target to a time when he would ‘learn that which he needed.’ In my estimation, that education would be at the hands of those who would bring him to justice. However, I knew that if any member of the Bennet tree had laid him low, he would have gone to his final accounting with joy upon his face because he would have caused one of us to lower himself to kill much as he himself had done so many times.
This could not be borne!
As I thought upon our conundrum, I chanced upon a report of another set of hangings after Nuremburg. What struck me was that Nazis found guilty of murdering Jews had been executed for ‘crimes against humanity.’ I imagine that more than one of those slimy examples felt the final chafe of the rope with the uncomfortable thought in their minds that the world considered the Jews ‘humans’ where they had seen them as animals. What a fitting lesson!
I would imagine the Jews…the Israelis…would be quite pleased to get their hands on our objective. When the time is right, I would suggest that you ask the Earl or Richard to contact the gentlemen in Tel Aviv. Do not offer any more explanation. Just give them the date and time of the assignation. The Wardrobe will assist you in convincing them of the importance of your request.
Speaking of time…
Return to Number 3 Baptist Gardens no earlier than 9:00 in the evening on May 26, 1960. Await your guests outside the front door. Enter as a group. You will find the package on the floor of the parlor.
Go with our love and blessing, Eileen.
F.L. Bennet
The past nine years had seen the birth of two more children to fill out the Fitzwilliam nursery. Likewise, Eileen had spent that time working with Miss Freud to first re-awaken and then integrate the Rose personality back into the Eileen-whole. While she justifiably feared the cold and calculating aspect that was Rose, she had, none-the-less, recognized that a healthy binding between the major and minor fragments of her psyche could only result in a greater whole.
Far too much had happened in her life to ever again provide fertile ground for malignant shoots to grow.
Now, Rose also would be present at the end of the journey begun fifteen years ago in that bunker beneath the Swabian hillside.
9:02 PM
A well-used and richly-rusted painter’s panel van pulled up in front of the house. A burly, balding, bullet-headed man stepped around from the passenger side of the cab. The driver climbed out and opened the back doors to allow two more men to jump out onto the street.
The first fellow, obviously the leader, climbed the stairs, grunting as his joints objected.
He looked Eileen up and down. He addressed her in English accented by a number of Eastern European languages, “I would imagine that I would be a bit of a fool to under-estimate your capabilities, my lady. I have the pleasure of addressing His Majesty’s SOE Agent Rose, do I not?”
Eileen tightly smiled, nodded, and said, “I have been retired for some years now. My father-in-law and husband carry on the family tradition. However, I may be fighting above my weight for you, if I am not mistaken, are Mr. Harel, the esteemed director of our intelligence partners the Mossad?”[cxx]
Harel pursed his lips, “I fear that we Jews have been betrayed by far too many of those we had counted as friends and partners. The Five Families, though, have, as we do, a personal stake in collecting this piece of trash. As such, I do believe we can count our relationship as being based in something deeper than national interest.”
Eileen reached out her hand and the spymaster gripped it firmly.
8:58 PM
The dislocation of transition faded a
s Crawley and Winters tumbled from the Wardrobe into the cluttered anteroom. His captive remained somnolent, snoring deeply as the drug finalized its grip upon his consciousness.
The lawyer looked up and observed the clock on the wall and the old-style single day calendar. Beneath it was a crudely-lettered sign identifying his and the Wardrobe’s location as 3 Baptist Gardens, London. He committed his where/when to memory and bent over to grab Winters and drag him into the parlor.
The German was heavier than Crawley had recalled…given that t’was but a matter of minutes since he had previously pulled him from Mr. Bennet’s side. Once he had successfully deposited Winters on the parquet floor, the carpet having been rolled up and dumped, moldering, next to the wall, he stood and stretched, kneading the muscles of his lower back.
To be startled by the clumping sounds of several feet climbing the front stairs.
Like a scared rabbit, Crawley bolted for the anteroom, pushed the doors of the Wardrobe shut and planted his hands on the marquetry pattern.
9:03 PM
The distinct, if soft, pop raised the ears of Harel’s hounds. Pistols appeared from nowhere and the men silently flowed around Eileen and their master. Winters was prodded. One of the agents stood above him, the black muzzle of his pistol pointed at the unconscious man’s forehead. The other two conducted an efficient search, entering the antechamber, opening the Wardrobe, but discovering nothing.
Eileen chuckled, “These old buildings are full of rodents, I would imagine, Mr. Harel. I do hope that your gentlemen are gentle with the heirlooms. The present owner will have to clear them away before the building is demolished.”
Harel looked quizzically at Eileen, but then shrugged and focused his attention upon Winters.
