by Don Jacobson
Under no circumstances should an increasing woman, be she a Bennet or carrying a Bennet babe, touch the wardrobe lest both be transported because of the closeness of their bond.
Chapter VIII
Longbourn Estate, Hertfordshire, May 5, 1779
The gibbous moon was waning in the darkened sky over the fields outside of Meryton as a lone figure walked slowly along the lane, head down, paying no attention to the star-filled sphere overhead. The dew-drenched meadows sparkled in a monochromatic splendor unnoticed by the cloak-wrapped young man. His feet knew from over 20 years of habit where every rut, root and rock waited to trip an unsuspecting wanderer. This allowed him to pass on his way without concern for his path, allowing him to concentrate on the quandary that roiled his soul.
Yesterday had been Edward Bennet’s birthday. He had turned one-and-twenty. He had been looking forward to both his family’s festivities as well as gathering with his friends at the Meryton Inn. That was to have been the plan…and all of it had happened, but Edward had not experienced the pleasure he had expected, especially after his conversation with his father.
In mid-afternoon, Samuel Bennet had asked his son to join him in the Library. There, over the next several hours, the two senior Bennets had discussed Edward’s responsibilities as the heir to Longbourn. The conversation ranged from property to tenants to caring for distaff family members, the disposition of the family’s seat in Parliament, and the need to marry. All these topics were familiar to Edward, but they had cut him deeply in ways his father could not know.
Edward did not want to manage the estate. He did enjoy the perquisites of being a gentleman, but he could feel deep in his bones that if he became ensconced behind the worktable in the Longbourn Library, his soul would corrode, and he would live a hollow life and die unfulfilled. Since his adolescence, Edward had felt the call of a different voice.
From his earliest days, he had found both peace and joy when he sat in the family pew at Longbourn Chapel. As he matured, he discussed sermons with the rector. Edward found a soul-settling contentment as he undertook commissions to bring food and clothing to the families of the workers flocking to the new factories springing up along the banks of the Mimram.
They were the tips of another revolution happening on top of the one currently ripping through the American colonies. The very fabric of Britain’s society was transforming as money flowed in new channels, funding new ideas and pressing the old orders of the nation. Edward understood that, to survive, the Church of England would have to modernize its view and change its position in the State-Church-People matrix. No longer could it be an arm of the privileged few, keeping common people subservient by controlling the pathway to salvation. No longer could the goal of those taking holy orders be to secure a living, especially if it meant kowtowing to aristocrats whose egos needed to be stoked by sycophantic preachers.
The Wesley brothers and other Non-conformists had already begun that uprising. Methodists and others, like the Puritans and Quakers before them, refused to participate in the charade that was the hierarchy of the church. They simply walked away and formed their own free churches. The government sought to suppress these knots of independent thinkers, but to no avail. In fact, exclusion had the opposite of its intended effect. Just as the Jews centuries before them had gone into banking, medicine, and law because those professions were deemed unsuitable for fine upstanding Christians, many of the Non-conformists became leaders in the new world of manufacturing and transportation because they had been barred from more traditional means of financial gain by an established landed gentry and aristocracy unwilling to soil their hands by engaging in trade.
While by no means a Non-conformist, Edward believed that change was necessary—and coming. The idea that the tradition of Master and Servant, always so unequal with no recourse for the lesser, grated on every sensibility he held. Edward dreamed of a life of service that would allow him to shepherd a flock in this new landscape. The answer turned on Edward passing his responsibilities for Longbourn to his half-brother Thomas.
Yet, that seemed utterly impossible. He could spend his time at Cambridge studying to enter the Church—as he had. He could even take Holy Orders upon graduation—as he had. He could serve as Longbourn Chapel’s curate, taking no pay—as he had been. But, in the end, his father Samuel Bennet would die and, as first-born son, Edward would become the Master of Longbourn, dog collar or not. He would be forced to leave his parish, his congregation, and his mission behind as he would.
His life was impossible. The path forward was fixed. Any escape seemed unlikely…at least until yesterday.
As the discussion about Edward’s future neared its end, Samuel Bennet leaned back and fixed his son with a piercing glare. The years had been harsh to Sam Bennet, his body already bent by his war wound. Sam had suffered greatly when the whooping cough epidemic had hit Meryton in 1777. Barely surviving himself, he had sadly added another name to his side of the family monument when he buried his beloved Lizzie. Now aged just one-and-forty and weakened from the trial, Sam could feel the unseasonable weight of years bearing upon his body and his soul. He longed to let go of the reins, but he had to be certain that Edward and, if needed, Thomas, would be ready to carry on the Longbourn heritage. And that was the point of the conversation he needed to have with his eldest son.
“We have spoken of finances and yields and rents. Anything else, ask Mr. Wheatfield. He has served as Longbourn’s steward since I was a child. If he does not know about something, it is probably not worth knowing.
“But, there is ONE item about which Wheatfield knows nothing,” Mr. Bennet stated.
He then proceeded to explain about the Wardrobe. What happened with Edward’s Grandfather and Thomas’ mother were only two of the moments in what became a two-hour talk. He showed him the documents and the secret compartment. He explained the intricacies of the manner in which the Wardrobe worked. And, at the end, after he had exhausted all of Edward’s questions, he added one more thought.
“Considering that the user is sent to the where/when the Wardrobe deems best, as the Keeper of the Wardrobe, I have started a practice of leaving a letter in the secret compartment. It is nothing particularly extensive, just the year’s date on the outside of the envelope and a brief letter inside explaining current conditions—where the Wardrobe is located, who is the Keeper and so on.
“That way the user can have some awareness of the world,” Sam noted.
He showed Edward the most recent envelope.
1775 S. Bennet 1777 S. Bennet 1779 S. Bennet
1776 S. Bennet 1778 S. Bennet
Edward had quietly absorbed it all.
As he prepared to leave the house after dinner, his father had reached out and pulled his son into an uncharacteristic hug. Edward noticed that his father’s cheeks were damp, and his eyes held a strange, faraway look.
“Go with God, my son,” Sam intoned. And then he turned away into the library, closing the door behind him.
Now in the darkling hours before dawn, Edward slowly walked back to Longbourn, a powerful resolve having formed in his mind. The lights of home had long been extinguished except for a single torch by the front portico under which Edward could see the figure of George Hill reclining on a bench, softly snoring as he awaited Edward’s return. As he closed on Hill, he could see a pipe, cold now, but previously charged with some fine Virginia tobacco, one of Hill’s few vices, resting on the bench beside the sleeping footman.
Edward slowed his steps so as not to startle his old playmate.
“Hill,” he hissed, “Wake up, I have returned. You should have gone to bed. I could have let myself in as easily as I have let myself out a hundred times.”
The servant stretched his lanky frame for a moment before his eyes focused on the dark figure rising out of the mist before him.
“Me dah would have had me hide, Mr. Edward, if I had tucked in before you was home. Was your gathering all you expected?�
�� Hill asked.
“It went well enough. Mr. Philips, Gardiner’s clerk, enjoyed too much punch and had to be carried home by my cousin, Will Lucas. Then Henry Long insisted that we play some sort of foolish drinking game. Edward Gardiner won. Luckily his walk home was the briefest of all. overall, it was everything I could expect for a fête celebrating my birthday,” Edward reported.
“But, now to bed with you. I want to do a bit of reading in the library before I seek my rest. I will see you anon, my old friend,” he finished.
Hill nodded, and together they passed through the front door, one to proceed to the back of the house and then below into the servant’s quarters. The other turned to his right and entered the library.
Edward walked around the worktable, removed his cloak and shed his outer coat. He then seated himself in his father’s chair. He lit the candle in the lace maker’s lamp, casting a strong light onto the surface. Over the course of the next two hours, he wrote two letters—one to his father and one to his half-brother. The first he leaned against the lamp on his father’s desk. The second he secreted in the Wardrobe’s hidden compartment.
His work completed, Edward Bennet cast one final look around the book-lined sanctuary. He straightened his waistcoat and pulled on his coat. He crossed the room and stood in front of the Wardrobe. The first traces of dawn coloring the sky outside of the French windows cast a rose-hued glow on the intricate pattern just inches from his eyes.
He gulped and moistened his lips. Slowly he raised his arms from his sides. Closing his eyes, he brought his hands forward until they hovered just above the surface. He could feel an attraction akin to Mr. Franklin’s electricity charging his hands.
With a sudden move, Edward closed the gap and pressed his palms to the wood.
A thousand bees buzzed. His stomach wrenched. And he felt no more in this time.
A scullery maid lighting the fire in the kitchen fireplace heard a soft “pop,” but thought nothing of it and continued to begin her day’s labors.
From The Public Advertiser, May______, 1784
News from St. Albans Spring Assizes...Agreed to the petition that Mr. Edward Bennet of Longbourn Estate, Meryton, Hertfordshire, having vanished or run away these five years past has been determined to be derelict or dead and is disinherited in favor of his younger half-brother Thos. Bennet of Cambridge as requested by their father Mr. Samuel Bennet.
Gibbon’s Rules of The Wardrobe
Only blood descendants of Christopher Bennet of Longbourn Estate, Meryton, Hertfordshire will be able to utilize the Cabinet to visit the future. No other person will be able to activate the forces channeled by the Wardrobe.
Time transit will be accomplished from the Wardrobe in the present to the Wardrobe in the future. If the Wardrobe is altered, damaged or destroyed in the future, travel beyond that point in time will be impossible.
Each time voyage is a cycle that must be completed. A cycle is one trip to the future accompanied by a return trip to moment of departure. The Bennet cannot use the Wardrobe to jump to one future and then jump to another future beyond.
Time travel will only be undertaken based upon the expressed desire of the Bennet. However, the Wardrobe will interpret that desire and ascertain what is best for the Bennet, the Bennet family and the Wardrobe itself.
Travel forward in time does not stop the progression of time in the Universe. If the Bennet spends a year in the future and returns, the Bennet will have aged one year.
No travel to any past before the immediate present is possible.
No male Bennet will be able to sire offspring in the future having travelled to that future through the Wardrobe in order to prevent improper relations. No female Bennet can increase in the future and then return to the past while awaiting confinement. Bennet children born in the future will not be able to return to the past with their parent.
Other rules may be discovered that will modify these strictures.
Book Two
Becoming Miss Bennet
December 1811
Chapter IX
Longbourn Estate, Hertfordshire, December 11, 1811
There is that moment between being asleep and being awake in which dreams become as reality and what is solid likewise assumes the substance of fantasy. Poets like Mr. Coleridge[xii] have discovered entire mysterious worlds as they started to rise from their nightly ensorcellment. The brain has yet to switch on inhibitions driven by form, habit, or emotion. Instead the mind is at its most open. New possibilities can stretch before the awakener like a golden field of oats stretching to the horizon.
Miss Bennet. Miss Mary Bennet. No, Miss Bennet is so much better. Hello, Miss Bennet. Welcome, Miss Bennet. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Bennet. Would you play for us, Miss Bennet? Oh, must you return home so soon, Miss Bennet?
The words echoed in her head. Awareness was slowly worming its way into her mind. Dawn’s early light filtered gently through the filigreed scrim of her eyelids. The crisp air in her bedchamber touched her cheeks for only a moment before she burrowed deeper under the comforting quilts. She stole a few more minutes because she wanted this day to move slowly after all the bustle of the past four weeks.
Because today was Tuesday, December 11, 1811: this was her first day as the most senior unmarried Bennet daughter.
Yesterday, as Mary stood in Longbourn Chapel as Miss Mary Bennet, attending Lizzy as she recited her vows with Mr. Darcy while Jane blushed sweetly (did Jane ever not do anything sweetly?) at Mr. Bingley, she mused about the changes wrought in the Bennet family in a few short months. First Lydie, that foolish girl, had nearly ruined all of them only to be rescued by Mr. Darcy, Father, and Uncle Edward. Oh, she knew that Darcy did the lion’s share of the work convincing Wickham to be leg-shackled. But, little could have happened without Uncle Gardiner’s resources and Papa swallowing his pride and consenting to allow Lydia and Wickham to marry. Now both Jane and Lizzy had joined their beloveds at the altar. Three daughters gone in less than a season—Mama’s raptures had been most singular even for a woman whose nerves were always agitated.
That her mother blissfully continued to wax poetic about Wickham’s handsomeness and gentlemanly demeanor was an embarrassment compounded only by her adoration of the depth of Mr. Darcy’s pockets. She was always going on about gowns and pin money and carriages; never a single word about love, fidelity, friendship, comfort. Mama reduced marriage to a crass commercial transaction, at least to Mary, utterly ignoring the biblical admonition from Peter the Great Disciple…
Your beauty should not come from outward adornment,
such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes.[xiii]
Mary frowned into her pillow, feeling the knot in her stomach begin to grow. Over the years, that pain in her midriff had been a constant reminder of just how much her mother’s barbs and silliness had roiled her life. T’was all of them—Jane, Lizzy, Kitty (less so because she, too, was plagued by Mama and Lydia), Lydia, and, yes, even Papa—who ground her spirit like the giant wheels at the gristmill. Sometimes she would be in the sitting room surrounded by her chattering sisters and her gorge would rise into her throat. Quietly excusing herself, she would hurry to the necessary to cast up her accounts which were often tainted with flecks of what looked like the used coffee grounds Cook would spread on the herb garden. Pain and frustration were her constant companions.
Now, SHE was at the top. Jane the Beautiful, Lizzy the Impertinent, Lydia the Selfish were all gone. She, Mary Bennet, always the middle one, the plain one, the bookish one, did not have to fight any longer and she did not have to hide any more. And that resolution began to drive away the pain and relieve the tension.
A lot of the healing had begun yesterday as the wedding parties stood in front of the canopied entrance of Longbourn waiting for the two couples to climb into their waiting carriages. Caroline Bingley was looking particularly brittle, having already caused a scene a
t the wedding breakfast. Mr. Hurst, his face still marked by the imprint of Caroline’s hand, stood closely to her left, trapping her arm above the elbow in a vice-like grip, as Louisa flanked her on the right. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty were talking to the Longs. Father was occupied in a conversation with a young man Mary did not recognize. Their heads were close together as Papa thrust an envelope into the other’s hand. Mr. Hill hovered nearby looking strangely at the pair.
Mary’s attention shifted back to the guests of honor as first Jane and then Lizzy came over to her. Both were dewy-eyed as expected of freshly minted brides. Both also had the same message delivered in the ways with which Mary had become so familiar over her nine-and-ten years.
Jane, tall Jane, the ever-serene and beautiful Jane, enveloped her in a deep hug.
“Oh Mary, thank you so much for being a part of our ceremony. You were so calm, standing by Lizzy. Every time my heart started to flutter, I looked over to you and could see this deep reserve of, oh I do not know, peace, or resolve.
“And, I think that is your strength. I cannot imagine how it must have been for you trailing behind Lizzy and me. But you never complained. And when Kitty and Lydia would fuel Mama’s outbursts, you sat quietly. I tell you, if Charles and I ever have a crisis, I would want you standing by us like a rock in a crashing sea,” Jane glowed.
Lizzy, as usual, was more direct. As Jane had stood taller than she, Mary tended to tower over Lizzy. The darker elder sister stepped back and considered her nursery-mate earnestly, her rich brown eyes boring into Mary’s lighter ones, exposed, defenseless without her usual spectacles. Then she gripped Mary’s hands and began her speech.