The Keeper- Mary Bennet's Extraordinary Journey

by Don Jacobson

  The Master of Pemberley in his most stern and displeased manner, unhappy at being made the center of a public spectacle, handed her his copy of The Times. With a long forefinger he pointed to the leader on the front page.

  Waterloo Hero Rests

  In Grosvenor Square

  Our correspondent has discover-

  ed from sources in Horse Guards

  that Cap’n. George H. Wickham

  the hero of the orchards

  by Chateau Hougoumont in

  Sunday last’s great battle now

  lies in his coffin at Darcy House

  in Grosvenor Square. Rumor

  has it that the Darcy family,

  with which the hero has had

  a long connection, and with whom

  his young widow resides, plans

  to move his body to Lambton,

  Derbyshire to be laid to rest

  in his family plot. Wickham’s

  heroism has inspired the people

  of Great Britain. One of our

  scribes has created a ballad to

  uplift us in this time of

  victory and sadness.

  

  The Ode of Wickham’s Stand

  The fruits of ages swayed and shone as

  Advancing Eagles gleamed toward British Oaks

  Soft June sun lit the verdant grass all too

  Soon Glitter’ng with droplets red

  ‘neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees.

  Orchard’s rows stood sentinel

  Watching with care as swords were bared

  Or cannons charged to rend the lion’s bowels—

  Or rip its eyes away

  ‘neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees.

  All that blocked the roiled river of

  Grizzled blue were the clean skinned

  Clear eyes of thin lines of youthful

  Forlorn hopes standing true

  ‘neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees.

  As the June shadows lengthened long

  The Iron Duke fear’d the Tyrant, our

  Ancient foe would bury Britain’s song

  Silencing Arthur at last

  ‘neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees.

  So turned he to the giants by his side.

  Uxbridge bowed with no horse left to ride

  But the son of Matlock had foot remaining

  To dispatch, to send

  ‘neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees.

  The files stood straight and firm as if on drill

  As regiments they marched down that hill

  Into slopes wreathed in clouds of iron

  That swirled and twisted

  ‘neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees.

  At their fore was a single man,

  A lowly lieutenant of inferior lines

  Who’d shaken his chains of circumstance

  To raise his rude sabre high

  ‘neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees

  Gray it was, this common blade

  Yet in Wickham’s hands it shone

  As if borne by Lancelot, no not he, but

  Rather the loyal Galahad in quest

  ‘neath the bough’s of Hougoumont’s trees.

  Was it days or only minutes in that battle flow

  That spelled the difference foretold

  The Ancients assayed that one would

  Rise to lead, but then to fall

  ‘neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees?

  As if at Merlin’s hands, the fogs blew

  Away and show’d the victory of the day

  The Red had rul’d and Wickham had prov’d

  The yeoman’s power o’er the Emperor

  ‘neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees.

  But, in glorious state did Wickham lie,

  Eyes clos’d, blade shatt’r’d, blood still’d

  Surrounded by Old Guard Blue, proof

  He pull’d us back from the Abyss

  ‘neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees.

  First Fitzwilliam and then Wellesley

  And then all the others bow’d before the

  Catafalque of honor that held the new

  Captain who’d saved all

  ‘neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees.

  Sword gripped in both hands cross’t

  His pierc’d chest that had swelled at

  The sound of horns of Valhalla’s Hall

  With thoughts of none but the fair

  ‘neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees.

  Now we bow our heads for this simple man

  All England—Praise and Pray for his eternal peace

  Who saved us all from the Beast

  Wickham of the Woods, hero

  ‘neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees.

  No, this epic was neither Wordsworth nor Blake or very good at all, but the verses were sure to move the masses. Mary handed the newspaper to Lydia who read the column silently. As she made her way through the roughly written but heartfelt ballad, tears began to course down her cheeks. She looked at the faces around the table.

  “We have to do something. I doubt if the crowd will be satisfied unless they see the casket. Could we not put it on a stand under the front portico? They could file past on the street without coming onto the property.”

  Darcy sat back, shaking his head.

  “Everything I had ever thought of Wickham has been turned upside down. I had always expected lines of people wanting to see him, but only to demand payment of his debts. Oh, my apologies, Lydia. I am just not used to this new image of George.”

  “Mr. Darcy, you need not ask forgiveness. Your true words cannot injure me. We all knew what George was about,” she soothed.

  Darcy planted his hands on the white linen tablecloth and rose. “Well, let us see what we can arrange. Even if most people cannot read that epic poem, there are more than enough street-corner barkers who will do the job. If we do not try, we may have a riot on our hands. Richard? Can you organize a suitable pedestal? Drape the coffin with the Union flag, too.”

  Within an hour, the body of George Wickham, late Captain in His Majesty’s Army, lay in state under the front portico of Darcy House. The coffin was draped with the crosses of St. Andrew and St. George. Two captains of Wellington’s Own—the 33rd Foot—stood at attention flanking the casket. The crowds began to file past without uttering a sound except a periodic “God, bless you Mr. Wickham.” And “You was a great ‘un Cap’n Wickham.”

  Over the course of the next several hours, the line flowed along in front of Darcy House. Self-appointed marshals kept people on the walk and moving along past the house. Flowers littered the steps. Maids came out from time to time and gathered the bouquets, piling them up around the catafalque.

  Lydia stood in the parlor window peering out through carefully parted curtains. She was astonished at the outpouring of emotion for a stranger—one whose true nature was known by very few. The queue was a cross-section of London life. Tattered street vendors stood in front of more substantial merchants. There were women of quality in their tailored dresses standing beside seamstresses who may have sewn the garments. Sad were the maimed veterans with pinned up sleeves or hobbling on pegs. But, most heart-rending were the widows—some old, but far too many young, few if any north of twenty.

  Turning to Mary, she quietly asked, “Why are these people here? This is not morbid curiosity like a hanging at Tyburn. They are standing for hours to take a few seconds as they pass by. They bow their heads, doff their hats, toss their flowers. I don’t get it.”

  Mary, having grown used to Lydia’s new speech pattern, thought for a moment before answering. “We have been at war for over twenty years. Many have never known peace. Now they are beginning to comprehend that it is over. I think that George and his story is allowing them to come to terms with all of the destruction…”

  “And, they can honor their own losses, to find some closure,[lv]” Lydia
finished.

  Turning back to the window, Lydia was startled when she recognized one of the women in widow’s weeds. She grabbed her skirts and ran from the room, out through the door, past her husband’s casket and down the steps. The crowd parted, and the line stopped. “That must be Mrs. Wickham!” “His wife has come out!” Scattered cheers broke out.

  Lydia accosted the little lady, “Martha…Martha Smithvale? Is that you? Marty…oh my, I never knew that you had lost Billy. I am so sorry. How are you doing?”

  Martha Smithvale raised her thin, hungry face up to Lydia’s, her hollowed cheeks bruising delicate features.

  “Oh, Lydie, darling. You have my condolences. George did his best in the end, did he not? Billy has been gone over a year. He died in front of Toulouse the first time the Duke beat that bastard.”

  Mrs. Smithvale seemed to deflate as she ended her speech and wobbled a little. Lydia grabbed her to keep her on her feet. As it was a typical steamy London June day, Martha had come out without stays. Lydia was astounded that she could feel every rib and vertebrae in the young woman’s body. She was starving.

  Turning to look up the stairs where Mary and Mr. Wilson stood having followed her out, Lydia yelled, “Get Mrs. Wilson and a doctor now. Mrs. Smithvale needs to come inside and be looked after. Broth first. Food later once the doctor agrees.” Glaring at one of the startled footmen on the steps, she forcefully growled, “I am going to drop her if you don’t move your ass. Get over here now! Move it!” I will ask forgiveness later.

  

  Once Mrs. Smithvale had been carefully escorted to a guest room, she was bathed and dressed in a fresh night rail and tucked into bed. Lydia ran into Mrs. Wilson as the housekeeper was leaving the room with Martha’s clothes bundled in her arms.

  “Are those Mrs. Smithvale’s clothes?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Wickham. I was going to take them downstairs to wash them, but I fear they are so old they may not survive the soap. They are even thinner than the poor thing.”

  Lydia took Martha’s dress and held it up in front of her. The light from the windows behind showed through the worn muslin. She grabbed the stockings. They are more darning and patches than hose. And her shoes—the uppers are split and sewn together with butcher’s twine. She pulled carefully cut pieces of newspaper out of the inside from where they had covered the gaps in the soles.

  “Mrs. Wilson. Burn her smallclothes, and gently…very gently…soak and wash the dress and the stockings. When they are dry, please put them and her shoes in a box in my chamber. Mrs. Smithvale won’t wear these clothes again. But, I want them as a reminder.

  “When she is ready to move about, we will find some of Mrs. Darcy’s older clothes for her. They are about the same size.”

  Turning away from Mrs. Wilson, Lydia knocked on the door. A maid opened it. Lydia entered and saw Martha propped up in bed looking tiny against the fluffy pillows. The doctor was angrily packing his bag. He looked at Lydia.

  “Mrs. Wickham, is it? My condolences about your loss,” he said gruffly, “I am Angus Campbell, physician.” He bowed. “And I am appalled. I spent my past years with the Highlander regiments sewing up men who were fighting so their wives and lovers could live and enjoy the bounty of a free people.

  “Then I see this” pointing at Martha, “A wee small lady in her prime. Her only misfortune is that her husband accepted the King’s Shilling to keep her safe from the frogs. He takes a bullet and that is it. We forget all about her.

  “Thank God you saw her. Another week livin’ like this, an she would have blown away in the next strong wind.”

  Lydia began to cry. The Scot softened. His brogue deepened even more as he calmed.

  “Ach, lass, I am so sorry. I ken how much strain ye bin under. But this sort of thing stirs my haggis. We’re no’ speakin’ o’ thousands o’ pounds here, but even a hundred a year could keep her from dyin’ in a gutter.”

  Lydia gulped and asked, “What must we do right now, doctor? Don’t worry about my friend’s future. I will take care of her. But, how can we pull her back to us?”

  Campbell smiled, “Well, t’is a gran’ hotel ye have here at Darcy House. I’d say a few days of broth and soft food like a good scotch egg an’ some porridge should get her back in fine fettle. Advance her diet if she seems to tolerate it. No big fancy meals, though. Just honest food. I’ll check back every day.” Turning to Martha, he smiled, “Your job now, my little one, is to rest an’ eat an’ get some meat back on your bones. Ye’ll be dancin’ the jig in no time.

  “I will be takin’ my leave now. Ladies.” He bowed and left the room. Lydia sat on the bed next to Martha.

  “Oh Marty. What happened to you? When you left Newcastle to go to your parents after Billy went with the First Battalion for France, I lost touch.”

  Martha weakly replied, “For the first few months, t’was all good. Mama and Papa and I picked up just like before I married Billy. The estate was not large, but it did turn about 1,500 a year…enough to live comfortably. I got the news of Billy’s death in the spring of ’14.

  “Then the fever came in summer. Both Mama and Papa died. Still, I thought I was secure. The estate was not entailed. All would come to me. Except, it turned out that Papa was not as good a manager as I thought. He had been borrowing money for years against the estate. When the will was read, and his debts became known, I lost everything to the creditors—everything except the clothes on my back and a tiny fifty-pound annuity from my grandmother.”

  She began to weep. “I tried, Lydie. I tried. I could not stretch fifty pounds to last a year. I could not find employment because even though I am a gentlewoman, I had neither connections nor references. Nobody would even speak with me, much less hire me.”

  Lydia could not help but think how closely her story ran to Martha’s, although for Martha, her situation was caused by poverty not silliness. Well, it need not be the case.

  “Marty…you are here now. And we widows must stick together. You’ll stay with me. We’ll figure out this facing the world on our own thing. You just rest now. You are safe and home.”

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  Lydia returned to the parlor as the clock in the hall struck three.

  Suddenly the crowd became very animated as a troop of Life Guards clattered into Grosvenor Square immediately followed by the Carriage of State.

  “The Prince Regent!” “It is he, the Prince!” “He is here!”

  The coach clattered to a halt and more members of the Life Guards dismounted and made a path from the coach to the front stairs of Darcy House.

  Mr. Wilson raced into the parlor and skidded to a halt, his eyes wide. “It is the Prince Regent. He is here and waiting in his coach. What are your instructions Mr., Mrs. Darcy?”

  Richard jumped to his feet. “Oh Lord, he has decided that his image could use a polishing. So, he’s shown up to get an inoculation from George’s acclaim.”

  Darcy looked at him, “Well, whatever his motives, they matter little. He is the Prince Regent. Near as good as the King. At our house! Wilson! Get the red carpet my mother kept in the cabinet in the library. Roll it out from steps to coach. Now!

  “Family,” he commanded, “Attend me now. Especially you, Lydia. I do not know what he plans but follow his lead.

  “Elizabeth, get the kitchens going. We will need something suitable. Cold would be best. Set it up in like one of those French Buffets in the back of the parlor.

  “Lydia, it is your husband out there, so the Prince may very well want to talk with you. Be polite but speak only when spoken to as if you were in court. Oh, I forget, you never were presented. Never mind.

  “We will go outside and descend the stairs before he exits the coach. Bow and curtsey everybody. Mary, could I leave you here to manage the rear guard? Wilson, gather the staff! I know you are in the midst of your workday, so please dispatch everybody not in their best uniforms to the private areas of the house.”

  He and Elizabeth used each other as loo
king glasses, she straightening his tie and brushing back stray hairs dangling over his forehead; he tucking a few loose curls back into her chignon. Lydia shook out her inky skirts and pulled a shawl over her shoulders. As she would be only on the front steps, she decided to ignore a veil.

  Adjustments made, the family faced each other. Darcy extended an arm for Elizabeth, and Richard escorted Lydia. They exited the house and descended the steps to await the Prince.

  George Frederick Augustus, Prince Regent of Great Britain since the Year 11, although a shrewd politician and nationalist, was seen as a sybaritic fop, caring only for his own enjoyment and freely draining the national purse. His image—and that of the monarchy—suffered greatly: terribly dangerous in a world of revolutionary change. While caring little for the murdered French aristocrats, the wetting of Madame Guillotine’s blade with the blood of top-tier men and women set a chilling image in the minds of the British ton. The Prince realized that public perception was all that kept the crown on his father’s head. Best he act to keep that head—and his—on its shoulders!

  He would follow the example of Henry II who, after implicitly ordering the murder of Thomas À Becket, did penance in Canterbury and was absolved of his sins.[lvi] While his Government and generals had defeated Napoleon, George would bow before the bier of the hero who embodied the hopes of England’s strength, its commoners. The Prince Regent would show his British Heart of Oak[lvii] and honor Wickham of Hougoumont.

  Once the family had assembled, the Prince nodded to his Chamberlain who opened the coach’s door. The crowd “ooohed” as he stepped down. The Prince was dressed as a General of the Life Guards. Laden with gold braid, his uniform sparkled in the afternoon sun. His broad chest and ample midriff were covered with jeweled medals.

  Turning around he acknowledged the people with a solemn nod. Then he faced Darcy House. At that moment, the Darcys and Lydia bowed and curtsied. Richard snapped a rigid parade ground salute for his liege Prince. The Regent advanced and stopped in front of Lydia. Reaching a hand down, he took hers and bade her rise. He addressed her in his public voice so the crowd and scribbling reporters could hear him.