The Keeper- Mary Bennet's Extraordinary Journey

by Don Jacobson

  Over the next two days, rumors of a great battle having been joined across the Channel swirled throughout the capital. Life otherwise proceeded normally. The ladies attended Mrs. Adams’ tea. The men conducted their business. The only clues that something had happened were the wigwagging arms of the semaphores atop Horse Guards and the sight of uniformed messengers galloping through the streets. Nervous ministers and lords were clustered in the lounges and dining rooms of clubs along St. James Street. With the mid-summer sun setting well after nine o’clock these nights, full darkness was pushed back into the late hours. Residents of the great metropolis flooded boulevards and squares awaiting any information about the fate of Wellington’s forces.

  Late on Wednesday the news of the first true peace Europe had known since 1792 resonated throughout the capital.

  The Duke’s official dispatch declaring final victory was presented to the Prince Regent at a dinner party along with two captured French Eagles. A generation of Britons had been born and grown to maturity never knowing anything but armed truces at the best and all-out war at the worst. Other generations had grown old in the service of their King. Still more had been crippled. Far too many never returned; their mortal remains buried in foreign soil or hidden under distant seas.

  

  Darcy House had nearly settled in for the evening when Mr. Wilson knocked on the Master’s chamber door. Still clad in his shirt and pantaloons, but in stocking feet, Darcy turned when his valet admitted the butler.

  “Sir, General Fitzwilliam has just arrived. He is presently to be found in your study.”

  “What? Richard is here? Elizabeth! Richard is home!”

  The uproar pulled Mary and Georgiana from their rooms and all four dashed downstairs as one.

  They came upon the soldier leaning against the mantle, staring pensively into the fire. He held a very full tumbler of what Darcy knew to be his best brandy. Richard looked up at his family, weariness etched on his usually cheerful face. His uniform was stained and muddy. He still wore his thigh-high dragoon boots. Above them, his white buckskins were ruddy with blood. Every eye in the room was drawn to the carmine gouts. Richard glanced down.

  “Oh, this. I was next to Uxbridge when a cannon ball took off his leg at the end of the battle. Another two feet to the left, and it would have been me.”

  He took a long pull on his brandy, his hand shaking slightly.

  “I have just gotten back from accompanying Percy as he delivered Nosey’s dispatch to the Prince. Bonaparte is done. We met him at Waterloo and broke The Old Guard. Mrs. Boehm was thoroughly upset that the French ruined her dinner party.”

  Darcy crossed the last few feet separating himself from his cousin.

  “But, you are safely home. Thank God you live,” said the normally staid Darcy, his voice husky as ten years of worry slid away. He then embraced his cousin.

  Mary, Georgiana and Lizzy stood to one side as Darcy broke the hug, tears sparkling on his lashes in the firelight. Then the women advanced and welcomed the warrior home.

  

  Once family greetings had been completed, the entire group repaired to the dining room where a cold collation had been laid. Richard was installed in the master’s seat. As he tucked into his meal, eating even more than he normally was known to consume, Lizzy leaned over to Darcy and whispered something. He nodded, and she turned to the butler.

  “Mr. Wilson, we think it would be proper to have all of the household attend here to listen to the General’s story of the Duke’s triumph. I know that many have relatives in the King’s service and others have had family members make the supreme sacrifice. Mr. Darcy and I want them to be part of the telling of the glorious conclusion. Would you ask those who are currently working and even those who are abed to come here?

  Mr. and Mrs. Wilson chivied house boys, scullery maids, chambermaids, footmen, stable hands, and gardeners—many of whom came above stairs only on Boxing Day—into the dining room. Fitzwilliam suggested, after he had looked out at the crowded audience, that the entire assembly be moved into the ballroom. Then, from an easy chair placed atop a small riser, the General related the story of the four-day cataclysm that forever ended the French threat.

  His tale of bravery and sacrifice was peppered with names soon to be on the tips of every Briton’s tongue—Wavre, Quatre Bras, Ligny, Hougoumont, Mont St. Jean, and La Haye Sainte. There were soft cries around the room as he described the carnage endured by both sides. There were exclamations when he talked of the glory of the charge of the British Heavy Cavalry; but he neglected the gruesome fact that few if any returned from their foray onto the muddy spaces between the lines.

  In the wee hours of June 22nd, Fitzwilliam brought his epic recitation to a close with Wellington’s immortal words

  “It was damn close run thing. The nearest run thing you ever saw in your life."[li]

  With that, the General subsided into silence. The servants were dismissed, and the family gathered around the dais.

  Richard looked up at the four faces glimmering in the candlelit twilight of the massive hall.

  “There is one more thing.

  “George Wickham is dead.”

  A collective gasp and a great exhaling echoed in the empty room. He continued, his voice taking on a dreamlike monotone as he narrated his memories.

  “His regiment was part of my division on the right of the line up on the heights behind the farm house and orchard at Hougoumont. The battle flowed back and forth around that spot all day long. While Napoleon originally planned his attack as a diversion, eventually more and more of the French forces were committed until it became one of the decisive points across the entire front.

  “The Duke ordered me to reinforce the Guards’ positions in the orchard. I sent Wickham’s regiment in. That was all I could do. We were stretched thin as it was.

  “It must have been about two or three hours, close to the end of the battle, before I was able to tour of that part of the line. When I came into the orchard by the chateau, the dimensions of the melee became apparent.

  “It started early on as a musket duel. Bodies were stacked like cordwood between thirty and fifty yards apart—piles of French blue across the way, stacks of British Red by my feet. They must have joined forces eventually in hand-to-hand combat with swords, cutlasses, and bayonets. There was no time to reload.

  “You grab-and-stab, grab-and-stab, slash and cut, club and kick.”

  He dragged a hand across his face, shuddering as he did so.

  “I found George laying in the lap of a color sergeant, the largest man I had ever seen. This giant was in tears, sobbing like a babe. He cradled Wickham as one would a child. I dismounted and went to him.”

  Here Richard’s voice underwent an eerie change as if another soul now possessed him.

  “The Colonel ordered us ahead, sor, and we went down the ‘ill toward the orchard. The men were anxious, but Lieutenant Wickham, ‘e just walked around to the front like ‘e were promenadin’ a lady in ‘yde Park. ‘e ‘ad ‘is sword in one hand an’ ‘is musket in t’other.

  “I remember ‘im saying sumthin’ like ‘All right boys, seems the Guards are having a hot time with the frogs so they need some good Northerners to help pull their high-bred chestnuts out of the fire. What say you?’

  “Then ‘e stepped out front of the men by maybe five or ten yards. That pulled the entire company down the hill faster than the Cap’n who was ridin’ safe behind found to his likin’. ‘e kept yellin’ at the Lieutenant to hold back. But ‘is nibs weren’t having none of it.

  “When we got down to the orchard, the Guards’ Cap’n folded us into ‘is line. We got off one full volley before the Frenchies hit us. The Lieutenant was everywhere at once ’t’seemed. ‘e was rallyin’ the men, pulling wounded out of the line. Then they was at us.

  “We couldn’t get into a square before their cavalry slammed in, but the Lieutenant pulled his two pistols. ‘e put a ball through the ‘ead of the lea
d ‘orse. The second took out the ‘orse be’ind. As the animals collapsed, ‘e spitted one ‘ussar then t’other.

  “Those two dead ‘orses became the center of our line. T’others shied away and went across our front, where our wings and the Guards ripped ‘em up.

  “But cavalry was easy when compared to the French infantry. They come at us in columns not lines, so we could sure kill ‘em, but only five or ten at a time not fifty likes we can with three-rounds a minute.[lii] We was losin’ the orchard and that would start the rollin’ up of the flank.

  “The Lieutenant ordered us to push deeper ahead to give some relief to the Guards on our right. It was a suicide mission, but ‘e grabbed the colors and advanced.

  “Mr. Wickham looked like a man seeking to recapture a lifetime of honor in five minutes.

  “The entire company, then the whole damned regiment followed ‘im. ‘e tossed the colors to one of the drummer boys and went into the French line with those American tomahawks ‘e was allus carryin’. ‘e was grunting and cursing with every cut. ‘e was covered in blood, more of theirs than ‘is…but plenty of ‘is.

  “I lost sight of ‘im. I could hear ‘im. ‘e was screaming some sort of mad war cry. Sounded like “D’-a-r-c-y”…almost French. Whatever, it fired ‘im up. Then I dinna ‘ear it anymore. I took a musket butt to the ‘ead and that was that.

  “I came around after things ‘ad quieted a bit. It was about over there under them trees where I found ‘im. He was leaned up against one of ‘em. There were three or four dead Frenchies around him. ‘e had one by the throat. But, the bastid had done ‘im, too.

  “There was nuthin’ I could do. ‘e was gone. Bravest man I’d ever seen. ‘e fought like ‘e knew ‘e were never comin’ back. Without Mr. Wickham, those frogs would have pushed all the way ‘round the farmhouse. Bravest, kindest man. Never killed ‘is soldiers without cause ‘less’n ‘e was goin’ out hisself. There won’t be ‘nuther like Mr. Wickham. I couldn’t leave ‘im for the blackbirds to pick ‘is pockets.”

  Richard shook himself and returned to the present.

  “I could not count the wounds George had taken. But, strangely, his face was unmarked. Lying there in the sergeant’s lap, he looked at peace, his cares gone for the first time in years. He was unblemished, almost beautiful, looking like a child.

  “That is the look of a hero’s death. A good death. A death that, I swear, washed him clean of all his sins.

  “I knelt beside him and pulled off his sabretasche. Inside I found a bit of money, a few coins really, a miniature of Lydia, a few letters from her, her handkerchief, and his pocket watch… the one your father gave him, Darcy. That was it. So little. It was pitiful until I realized that this was his center— his wife, Pemberley, and your father.

  “We all thought that he barely tolerated Lydia because we could not imagine anyone standing for her selfishness. But, maybe they were suited. Whatever, he died with her picture in his pack.

  “I gave him a field promotion to Captain and then mentioned him in my dispatch to the Duke. I am sure that notice will make the official record. Mrs. Wickham will probably receive a hero’s pension. I gathered his body and brought him home. I could not leave George there to be dumped into a pit. He deserves to be where we can honor him for how his life ended.

  “He may have been a scoundrel for most of his life. He was certainly despicable to you, Georgie, but he found what so few of us ever discover—true valor. And, in the end, he recaptured his honor as he dueled the French. I hope you, sweetling, can find a way to forgive him now that he is gone.

  “He deserves to be buried at Pemberley, Darcy. But, if you cannot have him there, I will take him to Matlock. T’would be my honor to rest near him someday.”

  The three women were weeping as Richard finished his story. Even the stoic Darcy had tears coursing down his unshaven cheeks. After a few gulps and clearing his throat, the Master of Pemberley spoke.

  “He was always of Pemberley even if he could not be at Pemberley. We honor our own. Take him to the undertakers, Richard. Get him a new uniform, a new saber. Do what you can to enable us to bring him to Derbyshire. We will lay him by his parents. A big monument may be too much for some of his victims in the neighborhood, but we will remember him every 18th of June in our own way.

  “How odd that he should have used our name as his battle cry. Perhaps he needed to get pumped up by thinking of the man who had wronged him.”

  Elizabeth looked up at her husband through reddened eyes. “There I think you are wrong, dearest. George did not hate you. He hated that he could not be you.

  “He shouted your name because he believed that he was a Darcy. Rightly or wrongly, that was the central focus of his life. I think he took us, his imagined family, with him to battle to give him strength.”

  Mary moved to Richard’s side. Placing her hand gently on his shoulder, she asked, “Have you advised your parents that you are in town? If you wish, we can send a message to Matlock House to let them know you are sleeping here tonight.”

  The weary soldier nodded his head at the suggestion and allowed the family to lead him upstairs to his bath and bed.

  Chapter XXXVII

  Longbourn Estate, Hertfordshire, June 23, 1815

  Once Richard had rested in his rooms throughout Thursday, he, along with Mary and Lizzy, departed Town early Friday morning taking the Darcy coach to Longbourn to see Lydia. How she would take Wickham’s death, none could imagine. She had, after all, been the daughter who most took after Mrs. Bennet, although her nerves did not betray her as much as her mother’s did. Instead she approached life with a peculiar joie de vivre. Mary prayed that her natural buoyancy would help her handle this most difficult of news.

  The party passed through Meryton in the early afternoon. The shopkeepers clustered on the walks, heads bent over the broadsheets brought out from the city. At the sight of the Darcy equipage and recognizing the General, Meryton’s residents flooded the street, slowing the carriage to a crawl. All wanted to see and hear the doughty Fitzwilliam whose name had been mentioned in connection with Wellington’s message to the Regent.

  Knowing how starved country folk were for news, he exited the coach and spoke once more of the battle. Then, as gently as he could, the General disengaged himself and his party, commenting only that they had urgent business at Longbourn.

  As the carriage clattered down the shaded lane toward the manor house, Mary pulled her betrothal ring from her finger and tucked it away in her reticule. No need to have Mama start asking questions about her intended. Let Mrs. Bennet become totally absorbed into Lydia’s tragedy.

  Pulling into the familiar pebbled drive, all the occupants took a few moments to adjust gloves and bonnets or uniform coat and KCB[liii] sash. The final stop left the coach rocking gently on its springs. Then Richard descended to hand down first Mary and then Lizzy. As one they turned to see Charlotte and Mrs. Bennet standing by the front portico.

  The duo took in the black armband worn by the general and the somber garb that darkened Lizzy and Mary. All sense of joy fled in anticipation of bad news. Hands clapped to their mouths, Longbourn’s mistresses advanced on the traveling party.

  Charlotte curtseyed in response to Richard’s bow. Mrs. Bennet’s knees barely broke vertical. Where was Jane? Was it one of the children? Her brother Edward?

  Richard set some of their concerns at ease.

  “We are here on sad business, ladies. We will need to see Mrs. Wickham…about her husband.”

  Of all standing in the small knot on Longbourn’s drive, only Mrs. Bennet let out a gasp. Her own loss, now six-months old, overcame many years of good sense allowing the old Fanny Bennet to gallop across the stage, first fluttering and then scheming.

  “Oh, my poor Lydia. A widow. And so young. Well, t’is a good thing. At least there are no children. So young and beautiful, she should be able to snag someone pretty quickly.”

  The last sentence was delivered with by a knowing glance at t
he General’s splendid uniform dripping in braid.

  Fitzwilliam was having none of this.

  “Mrs. Bennet! I am here on military business. I have been ordered by Horse Guards to apprise Mrs. Wickham of the circumstances of her husband’s death in the King’s service. I need to speak with her immediately.”

  Mrs. Collins took control, firmly gripping her best friend’s mother by the arm and steering her back into the house. Depositing a somewhat surprised older woman in the parlor with a telling glare, Charlotte returned to Richard and her cousins.

  “General Fitzwilliam, Lizzy, Mary…please go through to the parlor. I will have tea sent in unless you think something stronger may be in order? No? I will get Lydia and bring her to you. Then you shall have privacy to discuss your family business.”

  

  In an almost exact recreation of a parlor scene from three years ago, Lydia sat on the sofa with Lizzy on one side of her and Mary on the other. Facing them was Richard Fitzwilliam, wearing the dress uniform of one of King George’s generals, drawn to his full height, hand resting upon the pommel of his dress sword. The three women, two somber and one wide-eyed in awe of the knight standing in front of her, were dwarfed by Richard’s martial presence.

  At her expectant and curious look, Richard began to break his news to Lydia.

  “Mrs. Wickham—it grieves me to be the bearer of sad news. Your husband, Captain George Wickham, gave the ultimate measure of devotion to his King and country this past Sunday on the fields of Waterloo.”

  Lydia gave a small cry and slumped back into the settee.

  He continued, “I was not there at the end, being elsewhere on the field carrying out the Duke’s orders. But, one of those commands led me to sending Wickham and his men into the most heated part of the battle.