by Don Jacobson
“Lizzy, what of my children? You say that Edward and I are off in London these past several weeks. Can you give me tidings of Rory and Bridget?”
Lizzy beamed at her.
“You knew that you and Edward would be too involved with Parliament to leave that pair of eight-and-ten-year-olds to their own devices in the city. You deposited them here with Darcy and I accompanied by no small amount of tooth gnashing on their part and maternal separation anxiety on yours.
“Bridget and Maddie are the best of friends. By the way, you may be surprised, but I think that your Bridgie has developed a tendre for Will and Maria’s boy, Henri. Since old Monsieur Rochet died, Will has been the Compte de Rochet! Henri, as eldest, is next in line. You may have a comtesse in your family before long.
“And Rory has been quizzing George William about Cambridge. Michaelmas term is starting in just a few weeks and Rory is terribly excited to begin his studies.
“They will be at dinner in a little while along with my two.”
Lizzy softened as she saw Mary’s face fall. How she wanted to hug the children, now all grown up!
“Oh, Mary, I wish you could greet them. But, it is impossible for every reason you can imagine.”
Resigned, Mary considered another query.
“Can you tell me if everybody is well?”
Lizzy replied, “If you mean ‘everybody’ in our generation, the answer is ‘yes.’ As of this moment in 1833, all the Bennet sisters and their families prosper and enjoy good health. I will not tell you more. Nor will I tell you about others in our family circle as they will play special roles in your future.”
The dinner gong sounded, ending any further questions. Lizzy turned back to her dressing table and grasped a small leather-covered dispatch box. She handed it across to Mary who could see the Bennet family crest embossed on the lid.
“I have put a few items you may find interesting in this case. Nothing that will shake history, mind you; rather some souvenirs of my past and your future…miniatures of the children, a few news clippings about you and Edward and a pamphlet from the Anti-Slavery Society written by your friend, Mr. Wilberforce.[lxvii]
“When you are finished with them, return the case and the papers to the Bennet Family Trust offices in Town.
“Now, I must go to dinner. It has been good to see you, little sister. I will give Rory and Bridget an extra bit of love tonight.
“And, I leave you with this tiny hint of your future. Always walk to the light. Do not allow those who would profit from ignorance to extinguish that lamp of truth. Take that truth and speak it to power.”
With that, Elizabeth rose and held out her hand to Mary. Together the two left the room and walked back to Mary’s chamber.
When they stopped at the door, Mary reached out and hugged the older version of her sister. She saw tears on Lizzy’s lashes and felt her own eyes moisten.
How is this parting full of such sadness? Lizzy knows more than she is saying about the life to be lived in the next seven-and-ten years. Or is it that she is feeling nostalgic for her/our youth? Oh, time travel is way too complicated for human emotions!
Mary squeezed Lizzy’s hand and opened the door leading back to Regency Derbyshire.
Chapter XLIII
Manchester City, August 16, 1819
The day promised to be typical of a Manchester summer—sunny, hot and clear. The crowd covering the acres of St. Peter’s Field reminded Mary of a giant tapestry flecked with clumps of color. Nearly 80,000 men, women and children had gathered to hear the great Henry Hunt speak on the demand for parliamentary reform. There was a calm and peaceful atmosphere that was also freighted with anticipation much like one of those revival meetings so favored by Americans.
Near midday, the members of Lambton Female Reform Society[lxviii] had clustered together at the edge of the mass of humanity, chatting amongst themselves. The contingent—twelve women, four teen-aged girls, and four gentlemen—had left Lambton in three wagons on Saturday afternoon. Overnighting in homes around Buxton, they had celebrated Sunday services in the open air under Edward’s leadership. By late Sunday, the caravan had arrived at Stockport. Shortly after daybreak on Monday, all the Lambton men and women had dressed in their Sunday best, the women sporting a white satin sash draped across their torsos. The men wore either a white hatband or armband. With the many thousands of fellow protestors, the small Derbyshire troupe walked the last few miles into the bustling city. Some of the tunesmiths in the throng began to strike up the old Wesleyan hymn Soldiers of Christ, Arise.
SOLDIERS of Christ, arise,
And put your armour on,
Strong in the strength which God supplies
Through his eternal Son;
Strong in the Lord of hosts,
And in his mighty power,
Who in the strength of Jesus trusts
Is more than conqueror.[lxix]
Martha Smithvale and Mrs. Tilson struggled to manage the group’s green silken banner that proclaimed in bright yellow stitching “Equal Rights for All Englishmen—Fair Elections for A Fair Parliament.” While both were worthies in their own right, they had spent their lives either as a gentlewoman schoolteacher or as a seamstress hunched over a lady’s silk ball gown rather than hoisting loads over their heads. Mary mused that the spread of tasseled silk acted like a topgallant on Captain Rochet’s battleship Nelson, catching the slightest breeze. Lydia Wickham and two of the group’s male members dashed to their sides and quickly rescued them.
Speaking of men, Mary turned to find the other two in the party—her husband and Richard Fitzwilliam. They were in a head-to-head conference. As the nominal leaders of the group—although neither would ever suggest that anyone but Mary Benton was the heart and soul of the Society along with her chief lieutenant Lydia Wickham—they had assumed responsibility for the wellbeing of the women. Both wore concerned looks as they scanned the crowd. Mary joined their conversation.
“All right Edward, Richard…what has you bothered? The crowd seems quite peaceful and the air is festive. Tell me, gentlemen, what do your informed eyes see that my weak uncorrected ones cannot?” Mary asked in a light teasing tone.
Edward rolled his eyes and responded to her remark with a light shot of his own, “Really my dear, do not go ‘Oh poor little me.’ Lizzy told me that you never needed the spectacles you forwent eight years ago. You can see just as clearly as we can that this space is packed with people, but there are a limited number of exits. If people need to leave, either slowly or, worse, quickly, there could be serious trouble.”
Richard added, “And, cousin, I have heard rumblings that the militia and yeomanry, made up of a few fools and a greater proportion of coxcombs, who imagine they acquire considerable importance by wearing regimentals,[lxx] are on hand to arrest Hunt and his comrades. Those poorly trained hussars are the most dangerous men. They wish to show off for their masters, the rich and the powerful. The problem is they are armed with sabers and lances.”
Mary turned to look over her shoulder toward Dickinson Street where she could see the huddled infantry of the 88th regiment. She could not see the horse, however, and made that fact known.
The General, dressed in mufti for the meeting, nodded, “But, they are not too far away. If I were positioning ‘em, I would keep ‘em out of sight so the horses would stay calm. Also, the streets are less busy away from the field, so when the order to move comes down, they can pick up speed before they hit the crowd.”
Mary was flabbergasted. “Hmmmpf. What are they thinking? There are thousands of people here. If they are attacked, probably more will die in the stampede than from sword or ball.”
Every fiber in her soul rebelled at the idea that a modern government would be so ready to spill the blood of its own people. She could not contain her outrage.
“Is this the Fifteenth Century when aristocrats fought over the wealth produced at harvest, by tolls on bridges, or rents generated from tenants? My God, we are forty years into a
n industrial revolution. Factory owners may treat their workers like cogs in a machine, but we are not the powerless cattle we used to be. Just look at this crowd!”
“Exactly, my love, look at the crowd through the eyes of Reverend Hay or Colonel Fletcher”[lxxi], Edward noted, “Neither are particularly imaginative men. They know who their betters are and what they want. The factory owners need docile men too frightened to raise their voices. The landowners seek to preserve their power by perpetuating the rotten borough.[lxxii]
“They will react as those with power have always reacted. If they cannot buy compliance, they will not hesitate to employ force.”
Mary worriedly gazed at her clutch of seamstresses and shop girls. How would they fare against cavalry, artillery and infantry?
“But, nobody wants violence. They are acting like they are at church,” Mary lamented, realizing that what seemed so logical in Lambton with masters like Darcy, Bingley, and Fitzwilliam would be thought treasonous radicalism by others more protective of their own self-interest and less inclined toward the welfare of the people.
Another set of eyes, ones that bore neither Mary nor the General any good will, watched from behind a black gauze screen covering a carriage window. They narrowed as they spotted the green banner carried by the Lambton delegation. Focusing on the trio standing off to the side, a snarl rose from deep inside as five years of canker exploded.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh absolutely hated Richard Fitzwilliam and his accomplice Mary Benton. If not for that dormouse Mary, another of those insidious Bennet women determined to destroy her plans, she, Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings, would have controlled Pemberley through her daughter and, with all that wealth, the ton—and beyond. But, no…her Anne would not fight for Darcy, instead letting that miniature she-wolf of an Elizabeth Bennet spirit him away using her arts and allurements.
Anne just had to fall in love. Then Richard married her, bedded her, got her with child, and that killed her. And they thought they could fool me with their coy story of naming the child after the three Protestant queens. I know they named her after the two Bennet bitches and my whore of a sister who stole George Darcy from me!
Today, she would have her revenge. And her weapon sat across from her, blissfully patting the worn squabs that graced the non-descript hired coach.
If anyone hated the Bennets as much as she, it was the disgraced, defrocked, and insane William Collins. The Darcys and their coterie had locked him away in Bedlam behind seemingly impenetrable legal and physical walls. After nearly four years and thousands of pounds spent in bribes, Lady Catherine had succeeded in finding the weak spot in the barrier—two orderlies willing to share 5,000 pounds—a veritable fortune that would set them up for life well away from their old duties. As a result, for the past two weeks, the elderly noblewoman and her fallen rector had shared her coach, her anger, and her bed.
And, she was ready to strike. She did not want to kill the pair outright. No, her plan was more elegant, more fitting for the filthy nature of those against whom she sought retribution. No, let the King’s own government hang one of its heroes alongside the wife of the rector of Kympton. Oh, people would die today, but not those two.
And, not only would she avenge Anne with the conviction of Mrs. Benton and General Fitzwilliam; but their fall would be the final disgrace of the Darcys. Never again would the stiff, proud Fitzwilliam Darcy be anything but the cousin and brother of traitors. He and his filthy brood would never again leave Derbyshire for The Season. His power would evaporate. No person of standing would ever do business with him. The doors of decent people would never open when he came calling.
Oh, it would be sweet, sweet, indeed. Elizabeth Darcy would waste away from shame. Not just one, but two sisters fallen. What better way to prove that the Bennet bloodline was corrupt? And when persons of quality remembered the role of her mad cousin Collins in today’s events, they would shudder at even a whispered mention of “Bennet.” Darcy’s children would never marry once people considered the mongrelization of their noble lines if they mixed with the Bennets.
They may even have to leave the country! Sell Pemberley! And she would be the only one left! Her final victory over her sister and her brother would become complete with the extinction of their lines and the loss of their lands!
A horrifying smile rested on Lady Catherine’s countenance as the anticipation of her satisfaction settled into her blackened heart. She looked across at Collins and cleared her throat. Gaining his attention, she spoke.
“Mr. Collins. Pay attention now! You have promised me that you are confident and capable of executing my wishes. Are you still prepared?”
He brightened visibly at her notice. In the recesses of his addled mind, there may have been some of the original William Collins left, but so little as to be unable to overcome the malevolent diseased personality that had ruled him for over 10 years. The dominant Collins wriggled as the gaze of the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh, his esteemed patroness, settled on him.
Pleasing her was everything. The past two weeks had been pure bliss. She had delivered him from Hell. Then Her condescend-sion was so great as to allow him to provide service to Her in the late-night hours. She even allowed him to remain in the room after She had finished. He curled up on a sofa, almost neglecting sleep in case She may wish him to once again use hands, lips, and tongue to bring Her relief. As a reward, She had bought him several tasty little morsels from the pimps who haunted the ale rooms of the inns where they had stayed.
Pushing his sweaty hair off of his forehead, Collins placed one hand over his heart, “Oh. My great Lady, I am but yours to command. Whatever small service you imagine me being able to do, I assure you that I will accomplish it to your highest expectations.”
Lady Catherine sniffed. She had no illusions about Collins. He was totally mad, and his usefulness to her was limited. His would be the hand that swung her hammer. What he did not know was that he would be crushed as well.
The dimensions of her plot were, at least in her estimation, nothing short of cunning brilliance. Where Guy Fawkes sought to bring down the government by blowing up Parliament, she would lay low the Bennets, Darcys, and Richard Fitzwilliam by blasting some dangerous radicals. Then she would implicate her enemies. Patting a small leather case by her side, she would be certain to have this cache of forged letters and notebooks praising bloody revolution on the scale of 1789 found on or near her two targets, preferably in Kympton.
She had posed her scheme to Collins as a plan to save Great Britain by destroying Henry Hunt who threatened the entrenched power of the aristocracy with his demands for parliamentary reform. She whispered her scheme to cut off the head of the radical movement while Collins was otherwise occupied fulfilling her need.
His slavering fealty ensured no questions. All he had to do was deliver her infernal machine. She had told him she wanted it near the hustings where the speakers would stand. What she did not tell him was that he, too, would become a martyr to her cause. As she cared little if the device went off under Hunt or somewhere in the crowd, Collins would be just one more corpse in an ever-lengthening line. That the bomb would explode while Collins carried it was a certainty that would eliminate an inconvenient loose end.
Unlike Fawkes who had to use undependable trails of gunpowder as fuses leading to huge kegs of explosive, her device was contained in a box that a healthy man could carry under his arm. Five pounds of gunpowder were tightly packed in a fine serge bag. The bomb maker, an old gunner’s mate enticed by a pouch full of new sovereigns, had then further piled musket balls around the explosive. Sewing the bag shut, he stuffed it in one end of the box. In the middle he mounted a small ladies’ flintlock pistol, primed, loaded, and cocked with the muzzle directly against the powder bag. In the far end he placed a fully wound clockwork with a string running to the pistol’s trigger.
The mechanism would be activated when a blocking pin was pulled from the outside of the box. The
minute stem would advance, winding the string and increasing the tension on the trigger until, the mate had promised Lady Catherine, after about five minutes, the trigger would release the hammer, firing the gun and igniting the main explosive.[lxxiii] He packed the open spaces with cotton batting dunnage. Then he sealed the entire parcel with brass furniture nails.
He stopped breathing about ten minutes after he delivered the fully armed bomb to Lady Catherine at her London townhouse. Two well paid footpads hired by unknown parties opened his windpipe and emptied his pockets of his final payment.
Chapter XLIV
“Mr. Collins,” snapped Lady Catherine, “Heed me. You will take this box and carry it across the field to where the speakers will stand. Place it beneath the platform and then leave. I will pull the arming pin as you exit the carriage. That should give you ample time to complete your mission and return to me.”
She had little compunction about using her arts and allurements. Even at her advanced age, she could still turn men’s heads. She understood that it was less her appearance than her title and position that attracted them. But, with someone like Collins, she could take her pleasure and still have the obsequious little man do her bidding—to his ultimate end.
She banged the head of her walking stick on the roof of the cabin. As previously instructed, the hired coach’s driver pulled the vehicle ahead, closer to the edge of the crowd. When he could go no further, he turned the coach down a side street, halting with the carriage halfway through the turn.
As the chaise ground to a halt, Lady Catherine leaned forward and placed the box on Collins’ lap. She rested her hands on his knees and looked into his eyes staring intently back at her.
“Go now. Do your work. I will be waiting for you in Portland Street.”
He nodded. Swiftly, Lady Catherine pulled the pin releasing the clockwork. She leaned back and pushed open the carriage door. Collins grasped the bomb and stepped out onto the cobblestones. He turned toward the crowd and vanished behind the carriage and out of her sight.