The Keeper- Mary Bennet's Extraordinary Journey

by Don Jacobson

  What began as the winter sniffles two weeks ago had brought her here to this bed in their room at Matlock House. They had been living with Lydia and Richard since Edward’s retirement last year.

  Only one year. I thought we had more time. We were going to travel…take a boat to Spain. Oh, to be in Spain right now rather than in the cold, dank confines of winter-bound London.

  She felt Edward grip her hand tightly as if he could hold her here.

  “Mary, my love, the children are here.”

  Oh, even he has lost hope!

  She nodded with effort and opened her eyes to see the sad faces of her darling twins. Rory stood grief-stricken with his wife Margaret by his side. Bridget stood with her husband Henri Rochet, one of Maria and Will’s boys. In the background hovered Bishop Newman, Jane, Lydia, and Richard.

  Summoning every ounce of strength, she pushed herself up on her pillows and rasped, “Oh…this…must be…really…serious if…you have…dragged Bishop John…out of his…study.

  “Come here…children…Know that you…are the loves of...my life…after your father…I have…loved being…your…mother…Raise your little…ones righteous…like your…father…and the…Bishop. I love you…now go to your children…remember our fun…in Kympton…let them…be…children.”

  She paused as the room dimmed around her from the effort.

  “Father John…come closer…care for them…and Edward…he will miss…me too…much.”

  The priest bowed his grey head, “Sister Mary, you have worked so hard for all. Now is the time for you to rest in Jesus’ gentle arms. Go with God, my child. I will watch over your loved ones.” He pulled away and Lydia and Jane stepped to the bedside.

  “Sisters…Janie…so sad to…leave you alone…since Charles…gone…but I will…see him… Lizzy…soon.

  “Lydie…love you…you need…to be…strong…Be The Keeper. You…must wait…for…Kitty…Promise me…you will…wait…for her!”

  Lydia buried her face in the covers over Mary’s heaving chest. “I won’t forget, Mary, I will wait as long as I can.” Mary gently touched Lydie’s graying locks.

  Mary subsided into the pillows. Edward sent all from the room except her sisters. Edward leaned in. His hands, so soft and gentle as they had been since that first night at the Fire, caressed her face.

  “My darling. It is time.”

  “No…Edward…do not…want to…leave……...just….yet....Need to….say….so…much…to you……

  Cannot keep my eyes open…. must sleep.

  “Oh, my sweet Mary, I know and have known all these years. Hold on for a moment longer.

  “Jane, Lydia—if we are going to do this, we must do it now.”

  The voices came to her as if from the bottom of a well, tinny and oddly distorted.

  [Lydia]: Edward, you cannot go forward…only back.

  [Jane]: Recall the notes Grandfather left after Grandma Lizzie touched the Wardrobe when she carried Papa. It may work if he holds her tightly.

  [Edward]: All I know is that Mary will go forward to where/when the Wardrobe thinks best. I think I will go, too. It may sense she will need me.

  [Lydia]: But what if she is destined to die now? Will it matter?

  [Edward]: If I arrive with her and she lives for five more minutes it will be enough. I will have tried. But, I think the Wardrobe will only transport her if she will benefit.

  [Jane]: You cannot be the one to touch it, only Mary. Lydia, you hold one hand with your left. I will hold the other. We will press them to the Wardrobe at the same time.

  [Lydia]: And if you go with them you can come right back with a message from Edward.

  [Edward]: End of discussion. Now!

  Mary felt Edward pull back the blankets and sheets. He picked her up and cradled her in his arms. He still smelled the same. Witch hazel. She smiled, feeling safe.

  [Lydia]: I love you, Mary. I will wait for Kitty.

  Hands—one soft and tender, one hard and wooden—held her wrists. She felt cool wood under her palms.

  The 1,000 bees buzzed, the pressure built, and the bubble popped.

  

  Notice Published in The Times, February 21, 1856

  From The Palace

  The Queen and His Royal Highness,

  the Prince, announce with regret the

  deaths of retired Canon the Reverend

  Edward Benton and his wife Mrs.

  Mary Benton late of Matlock House,

  Grosvenor Square, Belgravia, London.

  The Canon who retired from his

  position at Windsor Castle last year

  and Mrs. Benton were lost when

  their sailing vessel foundered in storms

  in the Bay of Biscay whilst they

  traveled to Spain on vacation.

  [flashes of light]

  [She is slippin….

  More Oxygen….}

  [She needs more oxygen….]

  [suction…clear the fluid]

  [More Flashes of Light]

  [coolness under her nose]

  {a sense of calm}

  [floating]

  [Edward’s voice in the distance] “Stay with me, my love.”

  {Climbing up toward the light!}

  She gradually became aware of cool sheets against her face. Her eyes seemed to be glued shut. But, she could breathe without pain. She felt ice against her lips. It was heavenly! She sucked.

  “Doctor. Mr. Benton. I think she is awake!” Mary heard quick footsteps cross the floor. She smelled him! Witch hazel…that’s it!

  A cool, damp cloth softly rubbed across her eyelids. Popping first the right and then the left eye open, Mary beheld Edward’s face. Her heart leapt.

  She focused on the room around her. All manner of unusual looking contraptions were everywhere. Lights flashed. There were clicking noises. She shifted her view and looked out through a rain speckled transparent wall that stretched from floor to ceiling. A giant wheel with cars suspended from it turned lazily across one corner of her view. Directly across from her was a pointed blue structure…it looked like a bullet from one of M. Minie’s rifles.

  She looked back at Edward. “Where am I?”

  “This, my darling, is London.”

  Chapter L

  The Penthouse, Canary Wharf, London March 23, 2013

  In the three years that Mary and Edward had lived in the City, they had gradually acclimated to life over 150 years in their futures.

  On this late afternoon, they were relaxing in their 43rd floor living room. Edward had recently discovered the Eames chair and was enjoying a snifter of 18-year-old Oban Single Malt while Mary, wearing an Anne Klein tailored blouse, a dark grey cashmere sweater and a long black skirt, settled in a corner of the couch with a goblet of 2009 Dariousch Napa Valley Cabernet that they had purchased when they had flown to California last year. Her only jewelry was her ebony cross, still on Jane and Charles’ gold chain. Aaron Copeland’s Appalachian Spring filled the room as the couple gazed out at the London Skyline glistening in the early spring sunset. Once again it was golden time.

  “Mary, have you thought about what you would like to do for your birthday this year? Last year at the Deauville House was pleasant, but I imagine you might like something in Town.”

  Mary paused, her glass a fraction from her lips, “Well, I wonder if we could do a little pilgrimage to our old haunts. My heart wishes for a low-key birthday service in a country church. You could officiate. I wonder if we could get the Darcys to open Pemberley’s family chapel. We owe the Countess a visit anyway.”

  Edward marveled that his nearly 67-year-old wife, now so cosmopolitan, still had the tastes of a simple Regency era country gentlewoman. On that visit to Pemberley, now owned by the National Trust, Mary probably would camp out in the big library, oblivious to the public tours, taking full advantage of her family privileges to handle the priceless book collection, so coveted by the Bodleian. Then it would be a walk on the property, still
one of the largest single landholdings in Britain—the Darcy’s investments having allowed them to avoid the fate of so many other great families who sold off their heritage piece by piece until nothing was left but the house. However, even the Darcys could not avoid death duties that frequently amounted to millions of pounds. That is why the Countess Georgiana had transferred ownership to the National Trust after World War II. The current Countess, her granddaughter, husband, and children still occupied the Family Wing.

  Benton considered the woman with whom he had shared his life. A beauty and an accomplished woman, she had bounced back from her near-fatal bout with pneumonia thanks to the advanced medical equipment that had been waiting for them. Well, sort of.

  When Edward, Mary, and Jane had popped out of the Wardrobe, it was in one of the bedrooms of this penthouse complex. Through the open door they spied what he now called a monitor on the wall opposite that was telling them the Where/When was London, June 18, 2009. But, the room was otherwise empty.

  Edward had sheltered with Mary back in the cabinet while Jane stepped out, closed the doors and bounced back to her time. She must have left a message for future Keepers because the pop of Jane leaving instantly was replaced with voices and the sounds of equipment. It was a fight, but they saved Mary using the tools of 21st Century medicine. He quietly blessed Monsieur Lavoisier’s discovery of oxygen.

  Both had agreed that they needed to retire from their social activism. While the Bennet Family Trust had arranged complete legends for each of them rivaling anything MI6 could create because the trust had over a century to plan, Mary had argued that any identity could crack if subjected to too much publicity. So, while they disliked Mr. Cameron’s policies, they could only exert indirect influence through the good offices of the Trust.

  Edward brought himself back to the moment. “I was considering something like that, but would you mind terribly if we did something here before we traveled north?”

  He reached over to the side table next to his chair and picked up a folder. Passing it over to Mary, she saw that it was a program for the London Symphony. A page was marked with a red plastic paper clip. She opened it to see:

  The London Symphony Orchestra

  Special Benefit Concert

  Presented by the Bennet Family Trust

  For the Prince’s Trust

  April 23, 2013

  Mr. Michael Tilson Thomas, Guest Conductor

  Mr. Daniel Barenboim, Piano

  A Program of Gershwin and Ravel

  George Gershwin. Piano Concerto in F: Rhapsody in Blue; an

  American in Paris.

  Maurice Ravel. La Valse

  ………

  Mary looked up at her husband and smiled. “Do you think Barenboim will match Georgie? Edward, this is beautiful. I would love to have this be my birthday.” She stood and walked over to him, bending down to kiss him.

  Suddenly, there was a clatter in the adjacent den. An incoherent male scream interrupted the lovers. Mary looked at Edward, reached across him and opened a drawer in the side table. From it she pulled a bright yellow pistol-like device labeled Taser X26.

  As she headed toward the closed door behind which all sorts of babbling noises could be heard, Mary Amelia Bennet turned to her husband and said, “Edward, be a dear, and grab the note from the drawer. We don’t want to keep Mr. Collins…waiting.”

  Fin

  Dear Reader: If you choose not to engage with the following back material, please scroll past to the end of this e-book and leave a rating/review.

  Please enjoy

  The following excerpt from the next

  Bennet Wardrobe Novel

  “The Exile: Kitty Bennet and the Belle Époque”

  Prologue

  Longbourn Estate, Hertfordshire, December 11, 1811

  Kitty Bennet was furious. Papa was being thoroughly unreasonable. Why punish her when it was Lydia who had run off with Wickham? In fact, Lydia getting to marry her dear Wickham only rubbed Kitty even more. She was older. She should have married before Lydia! She wrapped her arms around her waist and huffed as Papa droned on about sending her off to a seminary in Cornwall. Cornwall? Why not Van Diemen’s Land? Just as far away. And just as much punishment.

  OOOOH. She could just spit!

  Jane and Lizzy got married yesterday. And today, the axe falls on the sweet neck of Catherine Marie Bennet. God!

  Papa had risen from his leather armchair and was staring out the window at the front drive. Kitty stormed around the room, first looking out the French windows, then at the bookshelves. She was so angry—so angry. She wanted to pick up something and throw it. Or at least punch something. She turned and saw Papa’s Wardrobe. Why he kept it in the library, she could never figure out.

  It did not matter. This was to be her victim. She stood in front of it. Words jumbled through her mind. Cornwall! Horrible. I am sick of everybody. I wish they were dead! Anywhere but there! Anywhere but here!

  She slammed both fists against the doors.

  A thousand bees buzzed.

  

  Matlock House London, May 17, 1886

  Henry Fitzwilliam quietly closed the door as he slipped out of Gran’s room. She was resting now, looking withered and tiny in the middle of her ancient four-poster bed. How she held on was beyond him. She was a tough old bird, to be sure, but with the 20th century looming on the horizon, he realized that there were very few Englishmen or women alive who could look backwards to the pre-industrial 18th century as being part of their lives.

  Now twenty-four years old, Henry was a man of good height, just short of six feet tall, with broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. Like most young men of his class, he enjoyed athletic pursuits including cricket and hunting, but he supplemented these with a fascination for living the rugged life. He had emulated the German wanderkinder and hoisted his rucksack onto his back and trekked along the highways and byways of England, Wales and Scotland. Henry had clambered to the heights of the Peak District that cast their sunset shadows over Pemberley and Matlock. He dreamed of taking a steamer across the Atlantic to dive into the wilds of the American West: to see the undulating furry carpet of the gigantic herds of bison rolling across the landscape.

  He had been inspired by Theodore Roosevelt’s Hunting Trips of a Ranchman, published just last year. Like Roosevelt, young Fitzwilliam had weak lungs, and also like the twenty-eight-year-old American, Henry refused to allow his infirmity to hold him back from showing that he knew no limits.

  But Roosevelt was born with chronic asthma. Me? I earned mine thanks to the ‘genius’ of German chemistry.

  He pulled his pocket watch, checked the time and snapped it closed with authority. I have just enough time to go to the club and see if I can work in a few rounds with Billy Johnson or Eddie Darcy. With that thought about his cousins, Henry straightened up, shot his cuffs and tugged his vest to smooth out any wrinkles over his muscular midriff. He strode down the hall.

  And skidded to a halt when the sound of a tinkling bell broke through his musings.

  The warning signal was a result of Gran’s insistence that the Keepers be alerted when the doors on the Wardrobe opened. She feared Bennets from the past, disoriented and frightened, would wander off before they could be intercepted and comforted.

  The Wardrobe was installed in Henry’s bedroom. Servants knew to never disturb the contents of the young Master’s cabinet. So, the only reason the doors would move was if someone had just arrived.

  Conversations with his Great-Grandmother floated to the surface of his mind. Caution in handling the pilgrim seemed to be the first rule.

  Gran had said, “The person who arrives will be young, inexperienced, and without knowledge of the powers of the Wardrobe. She will be terribly upset. She will certainly have difficulty grasping what has just happened.

  “You, Henry, have to be gentle. Ignore whatever she may throw at you. Help her to relax. Tea may be best. Offer some cakes. She always liked sweets. Try
to keep her calm.

  “Eventually, you will have to explain how she ended up here at Matlock House. That is liable to set her off again. Once she has settled, bring her to me if I still live.”

  Great Grandmother Lydia then revealed the secret. And why she was so confident in the use of the feminine pronoun for the traveler.

  “Henry, remember our policy about Wardrobe use? Since my Papa’s time, every Bennet user has been required to leave a note attesting that they left. That document along with any details of the cycle is then archived at the Bennet Family Trust offices. From your own experience, you know that most users have been quite forthcoming with information. That allows us to prepare future Keepers to receive their ancestors.

  “After my unplanned trip over 70 years ago, the family agreed that access to the Wardrobe must be limited. That put an end to accidental journeys.

  “But, there is one wandering Bennet left sliding along the strands of time, unknowing that her fate is yet to be rewritten. That person of whom I speak is my sister, your Grand Aunt, Kitty.”

  With that, Gran had given Henry a locked dispatch box with the crest of the Bennet Family trust embossed in gilt on its tanned leather lid.

  

  Opening the case in the privacy of his room, Henry had discovered a thick file labeled Catherine Bennet.

  Inside he found a summary of the case of Kitty Bennet as compiled by Thomas Bennet, Mary Benton and Lydia Fitzwilliam over the course of more than 7 decades.

  What he learned was that seventeen-year-old Catherine Bennet had, in a fit of pique, activated the Wardrobe in December 1811. She completed her cycle, but not until she had aged well over 40 years…so she had spent considerable time on the future timeline. The report mentioned a longer letter written by Kitty to her father. It was this letter along with the contents of what Mrs. Benton called The Ravel Portfolio that allowed the three senior Keepers to calculate Kitty’s approximate arrival date as being sometime in the mid-1880s. But Henry, having searched the file two times, could not locate Kitty’s letter.