The Keeper- Mary Bennet's Extraordinary Journey

by Don Jacobson

  “I stand before you to admit that I was the one responsible for those men, and so, I will always bear the weight of their—his—deaths upon my shoulders. I cannot tell you how sorry I am for that and for your loss.”

  Lydia rallied somewhat as tears danced on her lashes.

  “George used to talk about commanders who would waste their men in battle, sending them into meaningless frays to reduce the ammunition in the enemy’s pouches. He called it murder. I never imagined that you were like that. Tell me truly, was it a worthwhile gambit?”

  Richard gulped. Why was it so difficult to tell this woman the comforting lie? He had written hundreds of letters to parents, wives, sweethearts, and children telling them that their loved one had died in battle facing the enemy and was killed instantly without pain or suffering. Yet, the awful truth of modern warfare was that masses of men faced one another and slowly marched through shrapnel[liv] and bounding cannon balls into the meat grinder between the lines. Men died a hundred different ways, few as sudden and painless as a ball through the head. Wickham’s death, although gloriously done, was more common than exceptional in manner.

  Mary could see Richard begin to wobble on his feet. She quickly stood and grabbed a side chair. Gently placing it behind him, she urged him to sit before continuing. The weary soldier threw a small grin her way and then turned back to Lydia.

  “Was it worthwhile, Mrs. Wickham? I am utterly convinced that without George’s actions in the orchard near the farmhouse, Napoleon would now be in Brussels, and the Government would be making plans to flee to Canada.

  “Was it worthwhile? Every man who followed Wickham deserves to be called a hero. And who would lead heroes but one of the greatest champions I have ever known?

  “When I explained to the Duke just what your husband accomplished and how he did it, his Grace simply said, ‘He saved us all.’ Then I realized, and forgive me, ma’am, but you know my previous feelings about Wickham, that we all saw his true character on Sunday.”

  “You called him ‘Captain’ earlier. George was just a lieutenant,” Lydia pointed out as she tried to sort out the thoughts colliding in her head.

  “Although Wickham never knew it, I promoted him on the spot after I learned of what he had done. Though this was not a forlorn hope, he led his detachment with valor, personally sending more than a dozen frogs to the hell they so richly deserved.”

  Lydia gripped her sisters’ hands with a ferocity that whitened knuckles as she prepared for the hardest question that she delivered in a whisper.

  “How did he die, General? Was he in pain?”

  Richard was stunned by the honesty behind the words. Young Lydia—pre- Wickham Lydia—never cared to be told the truth. Her life was a like a cruise along a tranquil stream so blissfully ignorant of anything but her own pleasure was she.

  Maybe being married to George and living in a world where she could not delude herself about her reduced station or his many failings started to change her. Although she is but nine-and-ten, I swear she has aged a decade in the last three years.

  “I cannot lie to you, Mrs. Wickham. George had several terrible wounds, any one of which had to be very painful. Yet, I have experienced the heat of battle. Something takes over and pain recedes until you leave the field. I have discovered wounds only after I have sheathed my sword. I am certain that George never realized his injuries.

  “His death will be the stuff of legends. I will write what I learned from his color sergeant. George Wickham deserves to be remembered for what he did in his last hours.”

  With that Richard picked up a small bundle, a rose handkerchief with LBW carefully embroidered on the corner. He stood and placed it in her lap. With shaking fingers, Lydia undid the knot and rifled through the meager remnants of a man’s life.

  “This is everything he had in his sabretasche. If I only had this evidence to assess a man’s character, I would say that he was a man who had come to understand the value of his wife. And, with that assumption, I would imagine his last thoughts were of you,” the General concluded, his sad mission discharged.

  Lydia scanned Fitzwilliam’s face with her emerald eyes. Weariness had settled heavily upon her.

  “Thank you for your honesty, General. I knew Wickham had his troubles. He always imagined himself to be a gentleman of the first degree. He tried to live like one, even if he really was not one. But rather than following the example of his almost-brother, Darcy, he chose to be like the worst rakes of the Regent’s set, living as if he could turn to Parliament to cover his debts.

  “I imagine he would find something amusing in that it is you, the man who wanted to put paid to his accounts, a Knight Commander and a General who is now singing his praises.

  “But, he is gone. What of me now?”

  Hearing her daughter’s plaintive query, Mrs. Bennet perked up and broke the reflective mood.

  “Why, my darling child, you are the widow of a hero. I am certain that a great number of eligible gentlemen would find that alone to be attractive. And, maybe there will be a government fund raised for your dowry. Oh, your wedding will be a national event. Such lace…”

  Mary exploded at this monologue.

  “Mama! Lydia has just been told her husband is dead! Yes, he is a dead hero, but the man with whom she has shared her life for nearly four years is gone. She simply cannot shrug off all that passed between them!”

  Fanny Bennet snapped back, “Oh, don’t be churchish with me. You always were so high-and-mighty, quoting Fordyce and looking down your nose from behind those ridiculous glasses.

  “I had nothing to do with her first wedding. Darcy ramrodded that. And, I will never plan Kitty’s because she stopped writing to me years ago. For all I know she could be married with two children.

  “As for you, Miss Bennet, I doubt if you will ever marry. That man of yours will never come back from America. He will probably find some buxom New York Dutch girl more to his taste.”

  The familiar bile, gone for these past several years, began to rise in Mary’s throat. Tears sprang to her eyes as she started to reply to her mother. Lizzy reached across Lydia to calm her middle sister, cutting short Mary’s retort. Lizzy was the one who returned fire.

  “Mama, have care here. I know you are upset with the news, just as we all are, but before you drive away another daughter, rethink your words.

  “Since Papa’s death, Mary has been the one holding this family together. Jane and I are up in Derbyshire with our families. Lydia was in Newcastle. You were here at Longbourn with Eddie. Levelheaded Mary has been the center of the Bennet family circle.

  “She was the one on the spot taking care of the disposition of Papa’s will.

  “She was the one to deal with Collins.

  “She was the one who convinced Charlotte that you, the Dowager Mistress, would be the perfect person to mentor the new Mistress of Longbourn. You have Mary to thank for the roof over your head!

  “And from her base at Darcy House, my sister made sure that Lydia came to stay with you while Wickham was on campaign. Do you think that a young married woman like Lydie with her own household would come running home to Mama? No, it was Mary who convinced her that her young back would be a big help for you and a three-year old!

  “Are you not able, at long last, to recognize the virtue of your middle child? My God, Mama, you have tortured her for years. When will you simply be quiet and love her for all that she has become?”

  A stony silence descended on the room. Richard shifted uncomfortably in his chair. All looked at the matriarch.

  Fanny Bennet was astonished. She had never been addressed with such impertinence, although as it was Lizzy, t’was to be expected. She was always the difficult one. Never listening, always racing around. How she ever captured a rich man like Darcy still puzzled her. Now, if only she was more like Lydia, a girl who knew what men wanted. She was surely her child!

  But, Fanny Bennet’s world was shortly to receive a devastating body blow.

>   “Mama—Lizzy is correct. My time away from Longbourn has taught me that there is much more to life than men in uniforms, ribbons, and pin money. Oh, a few pounds here and there are always nice. But, what about the companionship of someone you love on those quiet evenings where there is nothing to do but sit by the fire?” Lydia asked.

  “And then there are those times of trouble when you need someone to stand by you.

  “Consider this, Mama, since my spoiled nature led me to nearly destroy the family name four years ago, for me that person has been Mary. She listened to my silliness and softly smiled. She heard my complaints about being left to rot in Newcastle and wrote words of comfort. She would send me the odd pound or fiver even though she had few enough of them herself.

  “I am not saying that Mary has been a parent to me these last several years, but she certainly has been my friend,” Lydia concluded.

  At this rebuke, Mrs. Bennet’s eyes widened until all were sure they would pop right out of her head. Her favorite daughter had just rejected everything Fanny had taught her. A chill swept over her as if someone was walking on her grave. Everything she believed had been called into question. The longer she sat there thinking, the more conscious she was of just how isolated she was.

  What a fool I am. Here I am, a mother, with a child of mine right in front of me who has lost her husband just as I lost mine but six months ago. Who could better understand her pain than me? Yet, all I can think about is her next wedding!

  Then I dismiss, no, attack, another one of my own because all she has done is keep her feet on the ground rather than act the fluff-brained debutante fool. And all she has ever asked from me is what I refused to give her—a mother’s love.

  Tears began to pool in the corners of her eyes and then began to pour down her face. She gripped the edges of her shawl and pulled it up over her head as she bowed toward her knees. Deep wracking sobs could be heard along with gasps of breath punctuated by “I’m sorry.” “So sorry.” “Never thought about it.” “Forgive me.” This was no bout of the famous nerves.

  This was the sound of a woman realizing the fruits of five-and-twenty years of life.

  Mary looked at her sisters, stood, and walked over to her mother.

  Gently she leaned down and quietly said, “Mama, it is all right. I have understood your worries for years. I love you and will always love you.

  “Come, let me walk you upstairs to your room. I think that with everything that has gone on, a nice bath and a good rest will help you feel better. Maybe you would let me brush your hair for you like you did for me when I was little girl?”

  Mrs. Bennet moaned and buried her head in Mary’s skirts, wrapping her arms around her hips in a deep hug. After a few moments, she allowed herself to be led away.

  

  Lydia, Lizzy. and Richard all looked at one another. In a day of transformations, here was another.

  “Mrs. Wickham…” Lydia stopped him with a raised hand and a wry little smile.

  “General, we are in private now. You have known me for years. You are not Mr. Darcy. Propriety is not your middle name. Please call me Lydia.”

  “…Lydia, then. There is one other item. I brought George back from France. He is in London at the undertakers. We would like to bury him at Pemberley beside his parents unless you have another desire.”

  Lydia started to cry softly.

  “That would be a completion of his dearest wish. He always loved Pemberley. Whatever his problems, whatever his mood, he could always bring himself out of it by saying ‘When I was growing up at Pemberley…’ Pemberley was his ideal. He would be happiest there, I know.

  ”

  

  Darcy House, London, June 24, 1815

  Intermittent rain showers had muddied the deeply rutted road and slowed the trip back into Town. Wearied and travel-stained upon arrival, all had bathed and, after restorative naps, were seated together in the small parlor. Darcy and Edward completed the family group.

  Lydia looked across at Mary.

  “Do you think I could look at some of your full mourning outfits?” she asked, “All of mine for Papa were cut for me in Newcastle.”

  Mary smiled, “And mine, of course, were tailored by Miss Darcy’s modiste here in London. Oh, you may be different, Lydie, but there are still some things about you that remain the same. I pray they never change!

  ‘Of course you can. It has only been a few days since we went into half mourning for Papa. Everything is still up in my chambers. Pilfer away.”

  Lydia looked happier and left the room.

  Elizabeth grinned, “Remember how she would drive Kitty and Jane to distraction when she would raid their drawers for ribbons to redecorate her bonnets? And, thankfully I was tiny. She could never fit into anything of mine.”

  Mary replied, “And, she never took my clothes because everything I wore was suitable only for some dour old maid! That is what makes Lydia wanting to visit my Wardrobe even more amusing.”

  Mary chuckled, and then stopped as the mirth turned to distress. She sat bolt upright and stared at Lizzy. For her part, Elizabeth’s eyes widened, but she nodded toward the three gentlemen who were engrossed in their newspapers.

  Composing herself, Lizzy said, “Excuse us, Fitzwilliam, but I think we should check on Lydia. She has had a trying time. Perhaps the three of you could sample some of Richard’s liberated cognac before dinner.”

  The two women sedately left the room but quickened their pace after the door closed behind them. Once upstairs, they ran to Mary’s room. Clothing was strewn about on the bed.

  “Well, it is clear she was here. Typical Lydia. But, where is she now?” Lizzy wondered.

  Mary carefully closed the Wardrobe’s marquetry doors, using one hand at a time.

  I wonder…did she grab the clothes Before or After?

  As one, Lizzy and Mary left to go to Lydia’s chamber.

  They found her huddled on the bed, a pile of mourning clothes at her feet. She turned over to look their way when they entered. She clutched a framed painting, front side to her chest.

  There was a profound sadness that dimmed her green eyes and new age lines creased her face. Lydia was now deeply tanned, no, rather burned and peeling to tan. Everything about her was drawn and thinner. Normally robust, Lydia looked pinched as if she had not eaten for days. She had also shorn her long blonde locks. Her hair was pulled back and held by a simple thin band. And, t’was clear to both Mary and Lizzy that she desperately needed to bathe.

  She was wearing what looked to be high-waist men’s pantaloons that, to Mary, hugged her hips in a most improper manner. They were snagged and torn and covered with smudges. Her well-tailored shirt was made of a soft, flowing material. That was also filthy. Her footwear, though, was most unusual; she was wearing men’s boots, thick-soled and high-topped with many eyelets for the laces.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” was her anguished cry.

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Darcy House, London, Monday, June 26, 1815

  Even in death, George Wickham would disrupt the best-laid plans of the Darcys and Bennets one more time.

  Lizzy and Mary had managed the Lydia situation by explaining to the others that she had decided to seclude herself in her chamber, exhausted as she was by her distress over Wickham’s loss. Lydia said nothing more to her elder sisters about her experiences in the future. Yet it was quite clear to Mary and Lizzy that a profound change in her personality was evident. She was more serious and practical, as if she had become a hybrid of herself, Mary, and even Kitty (or so Mary thought). The familiar joie that had governed Lydia was subdued, but not extinguished. Time would tell how she would recover.

  The family had planned to depart for Derbyshire by Tuesday morning as soon as final arrangements for the transportation of Wickham’s coffin could be made. Trunks were pulled from the attics and the staff had planned to spend most of Monday packing for a lengthy stay in the North.

  Mary descen
ded from her chambers after checking on Lydia who, to Mary’s surprise, was dressed and prepared to join in the morning meal. The two were walking across the great hall entrance when Mr. Wilson purposefully turned the corner with two burley footmen in his wake. He pulled open the front doors onto a huge crowd filling the front steps of the Darcy mansion.

  “Away with you. This is private property. Clear off,” he shouted.

  “Oi—is this the Darcy House where Cap’n Wickham is to be found?” a voice called back.

  Mr. Wilson looked down at the masses in stony silence.

  “What is all this about? Mr. Wickham is of the Pemberley family, to be sure, but the poor man died in battle days ago,” the butler stated.

  “Aye, we know that. We want ta see ‘im. Ta shows our respects, like.”

  Wilson was at a loss for words. Finally, he assumed his best Master Below the Stairs’ icy mien and replied, “I am afraid that is impossible. He will be moved to Derbyshire tomorrow. The family is in mourning, and I insist that you disperse at once.” With that he posted the two footmen at the bottom of the stairs and returned inside.

  Mary asked, “What was that all about? How do they even know George’s body is here much less know enough to want to see him, a total stranger?”

  “I have no idea, Miss Bennet. Perhaps the Master will know more,” Wilson intoned.

  The two women followed the butler into the breakfast room where Richard and Darcy were already eating.

  Once they were seated, Richard rose to bring them rolls and pots of chocolate. Mary looked over at Darcy who was staring down at his plate but not eating, all the while drumming his fingers atop the newspaper that lay folded at his place. Mary cleared her throat to gain his attention.

  “Excuse me, Fitzwilliam, but Lydia and I just observed the most remarkable situation. There are dozens of people standing out in front of the house asking to see Wickham’s casket. Why would they want to do that? And how do they even know he is here?” she quizzed.