by Don Jacobson
Curious girl that she was and also somewhat impatient to discover what Miss Bennet desired of her, Annie began to wander around the modest-sized room looking at the paintings that graced the walls. Some were of Cecil ancestors. However, one, obviously by Sir Thomas Lawrence, was clearly a copy of Lord Tom and Lady Mary’s wedding portrait, probably commissioned by the Marquess and Marchioness for exactly the same reason that Annie loved the original hanging in Larchmont’s main drawing room. Lawrence had captured the image of love.
She studied the unusual composition with Lord Tom standing directly behind his seated wife, both hands on her shoulders. Lady Mary’s head was tipped slightly upwards and turned away from the painter—not enough to obscure her features but making it obvious that the focus of her attention was not the artist behind his easel, but rather her husband whose tender touch had stirred deep emotions. Her left hand, the jeweled wedding band clearly visible, reached up across her bodice to caress his right where it rested on her bare skin. There was none of the stiff formality so common in most portraits of married couples. Rather, the painting seemed a slice of life, as if Cecil had slipped up behind his beloved while someone was entertaining them, perhaps playing the pianoforte.
Inspired, she broke away from her examination of the canvas and drifted across the room to where an exquisite pianoforte stood, its marquetry box work gleaming in the firelight. Trailing her fingers along the soft glow of the ivory keys, Annie unconsciously slid onto the bench and ran through a few scales. Unlike many of her class, she had been taught to play. Her father had seen to that.
Annie smiled as she recalled her Papa standing next to her as she faced the towering upright that Lord Tom had brought in from Philadelphia and installed in Larchmont’s servants’ hall.
He had declared to her, “Child, you know that your Mama, God rest her soul, loved to lift everybody’s spirits down here with a song or two. You know that her fondest dream was that you would find the same joy she did. So you are going to take lessons with Mrs. Masters in Belbroughton. Your Mama left a bit of the necessary to cover the cost.”
And so she learned and happily discovered that she had a talent for the instrument. No, she would never be anywhere near as accomplished as Miss Darcy, who probably would tour the Continent one day in the future, playing for the crowned heads of Europe. Whenever Annie would visit her Aunt Addie at Pemberley, she would hide in the servant’s passage adjacent to the music room. Sitting on the floor of the dusty hallway, she would lean her head back against the rough lath strips and listen to Miss Darcy practice for hours. Annie would often play her own “air pianoforte” as she tried to mimic the heiress’ fingering.
Family and friends discovered early on that Annie could play anything that was put in front of her. She had an intuitive understanding of how a piece ought to sound even though she had never heard it performed. Thus, presents for the young maid were often in the form of the latest sheet music.
Now, as she waited, her heart began to fill once again with happiness—both for her friend, Miss Bennet, as well as for herself. And as it was with Anne Reynolds, when the joy became too great, she lost all words and simply had to play.
The sad German, Herr Beethoven, had captivated Annie’s musical being. Last year Lady Mary had discovered an astonishing work in the possession of an aristocratic refugee from Stuttgart. She had had a copy made for her music room at Larchmont. Annie had caught sight of it and memorized it. The title, Für Elise, spoke of the wonder and beauty of newfound love.[l]
She rested her hands on the keyboard, closed her eyes and let the eighth notes flow from her fingers. Her right hand began the powerfully simple melody before her left hand began the A minor and E major arpeggios. Though the notation was poco moto—little motion—her body began a gentle sway as she leaned toward and then away from the keys as the master plucked the strings of her soul.
Once the Matlock, Cecil and Bennet women had breached the door to the library in their quest to rescue the General from his future male in-laws, Wilson was no longer needed. He returned to the ballroom just when the guests were moving toward the dining rooms at the start of the intermission in the supper set. As he stood at ease in the alcove off the deserted dance floor, he caught sight of Fitzwilliam striding toward him. The General was obviously quite pleased with himself, having secured both the hand of his lady as well as the blessing of her uncle.
“Sergeant. I despair of you. How are we to keep Britain safe if a gaggle of evening gowned females can displace you from your post?” Fitzwilliam japed.
Wilson rolled his eyes, “Forgive me, General, I was overtaken by superior forces. You are acquainted with your future mother, Mrs. Bennet, I imagine. And I would never cast aspersions on your betrothed’s sense of purpose.
“But I now know how the ancient Saxons felt when they first ran into a Viking berserker. Those two women along with Mrs. Poldark and Mrs. Gardiner and reinforced by Lady Mary, the Duchess, Lady Matlock and your sister Lady Amelia—I am uncertain if the Marchioness or the Countess were there as well, but they may have been—could have made the Old Guard turn tail and flee.
“A lowly footman did not stand a chance, sir.”
Fitzwilliam closed out the side when he bowled a hard one straight into Wilson’s wicket, “Lowly footman? Where? All I see is a uniformed six-footer with several sets of dainty footprints running up the front of his tunic!
“Well, t’is good practice. You have learned the first—and only—lesson in managing females. Do-Not-Try.”
The General drew closer and lowered his voice, although it was unnecessary in the ballroom, empty save for a few maids and footmen taking the opportunity to collect discarded punch cups and champagne coupes.
The normally voluble aristocrat confided in a tone he reserved for serious business, “I completed your commission while I was in town. When I took my Grandmother’s emerald to Garrard’s to be cleaned and re-anchored, I brought the stone you gave me to have made into a ring for Miss Reynolds.
“The quality and color of that diamond astonished the jeweller who actually called Mr. Garrard out to view it. I could see the wheels turning in the old man’s head when he caught sight of your gem. Probably wanted to sell it to Prinny at a ridiculously inflated price.
“He thought I must have been ‘pockets-to-let’ because he only offered me 500 pounds which leads me to believe that it is worth five times as much. In any event, I refused him knowing the point of our exercise.”
He reached into his tail pocket, pulled out a small velvet covered box and handed it over to Henry. Wilson popped back the lid to see the round cut two carat blue simply set in sterling. He looked over at his commander and friend.
“It seems so big sitting all by itself. This is a glorious ring. Thank you, General. What do I owe you for this?” Wilson said speaking barely above a whisper.
Fitzwilliam shook his head firmly, “You owe me nothing, Wilson. The few pounds Garrard charged for this sterling setting have been more than made up a hundred different ways these past three months. I insist that you consider this an early engagement gift.
“To quote the Marquess: I will not be gainsaid!”
He reached out and clapped the Sergeant on the shoulder. Handshakes were for the future, but this level of familiarity between a Baron of Britain and a seaman’s bastard left Wilson somewhat unsettled.
The General ordered, “Come with me. She should be in the Blue Parlor by now.”
Henry and Richard exited the ballroom to find Kitty standing by the door to the parlor. Peeping out from beneath the hem of her gown was the toe of one satin slipper tapping out her impatience. Her arms were crossed, and her brows were arched.
“Just where have the two of you been? Annie has been alone in there for at least a quarter hour. I would not wish her to think she has been abandoned,” Miss Bennet intoned in her best governess’ voice, seeking to shame the two delinquents.
The sou
nds of the piano came softly through the door.
Richard spoke quietly, “Are you certain she is alone? Who is that playing?”
Kitty replied, “Annie, I assume. Although I never knew she could play. But she is alone. I checked the room before I sent her there to wait for me.”
Fitzwilliam turned to Henry and said pointedly, “All right, Sergeant. No long speeches now. Just go in there, and let the lady know that you cannot exist without her. Maybe some flowery words will help.
“Oh, be certain to tell her how ardently you admire and love her.”
At this, Kitty smacked him on the arm with her fan.
“Richard Fitzwilliam…you may be a general and a baron, but you can be such a foolish man when it comes to dealing with ladies.
“Annie knows Mr. Wilson’s heart—we all do. Let him seek his happiness, their happiness, in his own manner. My Wilson is a man not a man of words, but rather of deeds.
“Let his actions tell her of his hopes.”
She reached over and softly released the door catch. Wilson slipped through into his future.
The emotion of the music washed over Henry, bathing him in the beautiful waters of the composer’s Romanticism. He was so entranced by the waves of sound, by the vision before him, that he did not comprehend the door clicking shut against his back. All he had were eyes for the black-clad form of the woman leaning into the great instrument. She was utterly unaware of his presence, so caught she was in the web spun by the felted hammers striking the Aeolian strings that came to life under her hands.
He stood unmoving, riveted to the floor in that red-orange washed room illuminated only by the fire in the grate. Though The Reverend Benton might have thought it oxymoronic, Henry felt an intense sense of tranquility flood through him washing away all the turmoil, all the fears that had plagued his soul.
Here was his center.
Enchantingly, he was not alone in that.
About two-thirds of the way through Elise, a page of sheet music had lifted itself from the pianoforte and fluttered slowly to the floor.
As if a single, crystalline note had been struck, the universe drove down new channels.
Where once was none, then two, now there was but one.
In those first moments, Annie had discerned another heart sharing her reality. The powerful, slow bass beats gave percussive grounding to the treble of her existence. They completed the arrangement, uniting her song. Flowing to her, they penetrated her oneness and filled in every gap that had ever left her wanting.
The world outside of the Blue Parlor vanished into a grey cloud. Nothing remained of that frame in which Annie and Henry had existed independent of one another except the azure silk walls covered in family art. The portrait of Lord Tom and Lady Mary smiled down upon them, guiding them, shining like a Polaris for their hearts as they reached out to touch and then join.
As she entered the last six bars, Annie’s head tipped back as tears of pure joy moistened her downy cheeks. Like a young dove, her spirit soared in its dance.
To be joined by another grey-plumed avian—her partner, her soul mate.
The muse settled on her and guided her hands as she finished the Viennese love song to begin Jonson’s great English testament to ardor.
Henry watched Annie surrender herself to the music. With that he lost all restraint and softly moved to her as she began Callcott’s immortal tune.[li] He reached down and placed his hands on her shoulders as she played. He sang in a rich baritone
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss with in the cup
And I'll not ask for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me,
Since when it grows and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee![lii]
Annie softly exhaled as she ended the melody. Not shifting in her seat, she reached up with her unadorned left hand and gently clasped his right where it rested on her collarbone. Her eyes remained closed so as not to break the trance.
Henry dropped to his knees and carefully—so carefully—grasped hers where they were under the pianoforte. He turned her body on the bench to face him.
Her face, rosy in the room’s firelight was turned down to his. Her eyes slowly opened as she beheld her world. The golden brown pools glistened with hope and joy.
He gripped her hands in his, holding them prayerfully. Here was his Westminster. His love echoed through the spires, rising like the great buttresses holding the walls of the mighty cathedral to join with the bells tolling a full peal[liii]. His Annie…his love…his life.
His beseeching eyes begged her.
Hers gave nothing but agreement.
She held his head between her hands, softly stroking his short cut blond mane. Then she drew him in for the first expression of their joy.
At some point, they broke as a soft knock sounded through the room.
Henry reached into his pocket and removed the velvet case. He opened it and removed the ring, sliding it onto her finger.
A smile played on her lips as she raised it into the light to better see the richness of the mighty blue.
As it caught the titian glow of the fire, rays of the most remarkable green shot around the room, one catching and bringing to life Lady Mary’s adoring look bestowed only on the one man for her. In her turn, Annie focused her caramel eyes on Henry’s rich blue ones, losing herself in their depths for the rest of her life.
Epilogue One
One of the most difficult tasks, dear Reader, is to chronicle the varied events of rich and deep lives. This burden is compounded when you have two such interesting and important personalities as Annie Reynolds and Henry Wilson. Thus, as this endeavor is necessarily constrained by time, space, and, perhaps most important of all, your patience, I have elected to present a few vignettes that may answer some questions that were raised in your reading of this work.
In the years since I first set pen to paper to examine the lives of the General, his Lady and their associates, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, I have remained acutely aware that some stories remain far too sensitive to the nation and those who rule to be revealed to a casual audience. When they may be told, I leave to the judgment of posterity. In the meantime, I have entrusted my remaining writings to my young friend, John H. Watson, M.D., who assures me that he will keep these safely in a tin dispatch box under his name in the vaults of the bank Cox and Co. at Charing Cross.[liv] He is my literary executor. Either Dr. Watson or his heirs may decide to publish those tales…or not.
Perhaps when all who were involved have passed from the face of this Earth. Few remain, but until then…
Prior to the brief scenes that follow, please allow me to reassure you that Henry and Anne Wilson lived long and happy lives together. After their marriage was celebrated at Larchmont’s chapel by Henry’s first benefactor, the Reverend Edward Benton, lately the prebendary of Winchester Cathedral, they made their wedding trip to Spain and Portugal with the other newlyweds, the Baron and Baroness St. Jean. Upon their return, they moved into rooms at Thornhill.
They resided there for ten months while their own home, later known as Hedgebrook House, was constructed on a freehold within the Thornhill estate. The bulk of the costs were defrayed by the sale of the remaining bits of Spain’s treasure that Henry had found on the fields of Vitoria. The Wilsons moved into their spacious red brick Georgian shortly after Easter 1817. Mr. Wilson made certain that a large hammered copper tub with hot and cold running water had been installed in the bathing room adjacent to the couple’s
bedchamber. One of his wife’s pleasures was her (sometimes twice) daily bath.
They were graced with good health throughout their days unto their final illnesses. They shared the joy of their children—three sons and two daughters—who blessed them with many grandchildren, at least enough, in Henry’s words as he was an avid aficionado of England’s national obsession, cricket, “to fill out a side for some very powerful innings.”
Each of the Wilson’s sons graduated from university and went on to noted careers in business, finance and the law. One loved a daughter of Pemberley, another a woman from the Lucas family in Hertfordshire. The third, who became a Red Judge, remained a lifelong bachelor. Subsequent generations were often called upon to serve the nation in both official and unofficial capacities. As social mores changed, the station of the family’s founders was seen as only a curiosity that amused rather than one that stigmatized.
Henry and Annie’s daughters found love with wonderful men—one with the heir of Lydia and Jeremy Poldark of Nampara…the other with the eldest son of the Baron and Baroness St. Jean. Both young women showed their breeding and social consciousness as they became beloved members of their communities and British society while campaigning against the injustices and inequalities growing out of the Industrial Revolution.
That the Wilson children made what may be seen by some as matches well beyond their sphere can be explained as a fortunate side effect of their parent’s association with the Baron and Baroness. Over the early years of their childhoods, as the four adults frequently travelled far and wide, notably to Washington City, Rio de Janeiro, Algiers, Sydney, Calcutta and Cape Town, the Wilson and Fitzwilliam children were necessarily sent to stay with the Darcy, Poldark, Bingley and Fitzwilliam families. Ultimately, close and enduring bonds were formed beyond those of casual acquaintance or friendship. Outside of matrimony, the children of that first generation served as godparents for one another’s offspring and were always referred to by subsequent descendants as “Aunt” or “Uncle.”