The Avenger- Thomas Bennet and a Father's Lament

by Don Jacobson

  Now halfway through the Twentieth Century, in an era where all British women had the vote, with another set to ascend to the throne, and when female cultural icons like Tandy, Hepburn, Christie, O’Keefe, and Buck determined the consciousness of millions, Mrs. Bennet was taking charge of her own life. And, Tom Bennet could not have been happier. He finally had discovered for himself what Darcy and Lizzy had established in the few years since their wedding once they had learned to tolerate the other—an equal relationship, an entity all the greater because each partner compensated for the other’s deficiencies.

  Throughout those years I ignored, no, disdained, my wife. I refused to see her true worth, arrogantly assuming my intellectual superiority, confirmed by a Cambridge degree, trumped anything she could offer. What I neglected to consider was that she was a fount of common sense—yes, Fanny Bennet overflows with that rare commodity—buoyed by native intelligence.

  I now depend upon her insight and discerning eye to add depth to observations rendered grey by too much data and conflicting information. She has a way of boring straight to the heart of the matter.

  When he looked around the doorframe before entering the library, Mrs. Bennet was standing behind the battered grey metal desk, rescued from some soon-to-be made redundant ministry office. She was bent over something on the desktop, peering at it through a magnifying lamp. From time-to-time she gripped it—clearly a fragment—with tweezers. So deep was her study of the artifact that she was unaware that she was being observed.

  Rather than startle the lady, Bennet gently rapped on the wood trim.

  Quickly lifting her head, Fanny myopically blinked a few times before her eyes focused on Bennet. A welcoming bright smile transformed her visage. Then she looked down and, with a few quick movements, consolidated that over which she had been poring intently. She flipped a grey cloth over those materials. Mrs. Bennet surely had adopted security as her watchword, the deeper she had been drawn into the quest for her family’s enemy.

  She crossed the floor to where Bennet stood, his pant cuffs darkened by residual rainwater shed from his Mackintosh, and enthusiastically hugged him before turning up her face to give and accept a kiss.

  Then she held him out at arms’ length, impudently exclaiming, “Why, Mr. Bennet sir, I am surprised at you. Here you are, coming into a fine London townhouse with your pantaloons soaked six inches deep! Surely you would not wish to set the example for our godchild, little Henry Thomas Fitzwilliam, with such an exhibition?”

  Eileen Fitzwilliam had added to the burgeoning coterie of post-war babes during the last lambing season, ensuring the Matlock succession for another generation.

  By now used to his wife’s confidence, the level of which had been increasing like that of an alpine lake in springtime, Bennet feigned outrage and responded, “Certainly not! I would sooner imagine him slopping the pigs behind Longbourn than consider such a disgraceful display of dishabille on the part of one who would be Earl!”

  Fanny laughed, the crystalline tones bouncing around the room and filling many empty spaces in Tom’s heart, worn after another fruitless day in the Anubis conference room. Bits and pieces, scrubbed from ash heaps and failing memories, nagged at his mind. All too often he would sit staring at the picture with no caption: the red neckcloth embroidered with boar’s heads, but without an owner: and papers that had looked promising when first uncovered, but now seemed meaningless, existing only in their individuality and without connection.

  The only relief for his frustration was the time he spent in the company of his wife and descendants. The exigencies of the Anubis quest diminished when he played Poppa to the legions of curly-haired kinder who clustered about him in Deauville’s gentle surf begging to be lifted so high and then gently tossed into the water to be rescued by Nonna Fanny.

  Life had never held so much appeal to Tom Bennet. Yet, he sadly acknowledged, the Wardrobe had exercised great patience in his search for the one who had ripped a gigantic hole in his family. There would be a point where the Universe would demand that he complete that which he had been deputed to accomplish and, in the process, learn that final lesson toward which this whole escapade had been leading.

  He had inklings of the canvas upon which the eternal artist had daubed colors in feathered gouts. Yet, like the critic who focused on the nudity of Manet’s Olympia and ignored the dark spaces surrounding her, Bennet felt that his nose was two inches away from the landscape, able to apprehend the nature of the brushstrokes, but unable to comprehend the complexities of the expanse leaping away to his left and right.

  As with many men of his time, he had never considered his wife to be a worthy helpmeet. While he had overcome many of his prejudices—for what man born in 1760 did not carry a few antiquarian notions—he still found himself surprised when his wife of over seven and twenty years would pierce through another social-constructed metaphor that seemed to serve well in 1805 but was woefully antediluvian in 1950.

  Little did he know that Frances Bennet was preparing to do that again, and, in the process, illuminate that mission for which the Wardrobe was demanding results of a uniquely close nature.

  After greetings and genial ribbings had been exchanged, Mrs. Bennet eagerly grasped her husband’s hands and pulled him to the desk. Her exuberance was contagious as she positioned him to her left and turned his way. She planted a protective hand on the cover. Everything about her posture spelled out her belief that she had learned something earth shaking.

  After a few preliminary umms and ahhs, Fanny launched into her speech, “As you may be aware, Tom, while you have been buried in your Anubis work, I have been engaged in a bit of research of my own.” Bennet shifted uncomfortably, a motion not missed by his wife.

  She continued, “No, please, my dear man, I am not chiding you or accusing you of excluding me. On the contrary, I am explaining that I have learned that I, too, can exercise my mind in ways outside of menu planning, household management, or matchmaking.” This last led Bennet to dip his head as a rich smile exposed his teeth.

  Mrs. Bennet took advantage of his relaxed attitude and breathlessly forged ahead, “While Lord Tom wrote a biography of his parents and Lord Acton used his considerable talents to position Mary and Mr. Benton in the panoply of social reformers, our other girls have attracted less attention. Oh, Jane and Lizzy certainly have received their due in the annals of the Trust and DBE.

  “And, I love those two, I do. However, you must agree that Lydia has always been closest to my heart. She is my baby! I would know more of her…certainly more than appears in the sanitized histories approved by the Fitzwilliams.

  “As such, I have been working with the Archivists at the Trust. Being The Founder’s Wife and, thus, Mistress of the Wardrobe, does have its privileges! Oh, I know that they must be circumspect about revealing too much to me lest I upset apple carts that need must remain on their wheels. One of them…a Reynolds…do you realize how many men and women named Reynolds work in Research…even suggested that when dealing with documents of such delicacy, the guiding principal must be too many butterflies. Everything I have received relating to Lydia’s life has been picked clean to prevent me from spilling the beans when we return Home to Longbourn.

  “However, Tom, even the most diligent miss little bits of this-and-that.

  “In this case, though, even if it had been caught, I wonder if Mr. or Miss Research Reynolds would have appreciated the amazing nugget they held in their hands.”

  So saying, Mrs. Bennet carefully folded back the cover to reveal a single envelope resting upon the salmon-colored blotter paper.

  Benet’s heart clenched at the sight of the cream-colored masterpiece of the stationer’s art. He had last seen its twin back in January 1812. He knew that, if flipped to its opposite side, the rich blue letters CMF would be revealed.

  Trusting himself to utter only single syllables, he nearly grunted, so winded had he been left by the revelation, “How-did-you-come-by-this?”

  Fanny,
understanding his shock, toned down her reply, dropping the dial from a nine to a more neutral five, “T’was thanks to a mother’s eye.

  “When the Trust Archives delivered another paperboard carton of Lydia’s papers,” at this she pointed at the item on the floor next to the desk, “I was prepared to empty it completely, as is my usual practice, when I stopped.

  “The papers—so yellowed that they had to be impossibly old as was clearly the container—were dumped in the case in a higgledy-piggledy manner. That was completely unlike the curated collections I have been receiving from Research: always so neat and orderly with every file and sheet of paper placed just so.

  “This chaos was unlike anything I had seen before.

  “Actually, that is not true. The last time I saw it was when Lydia and Wickham visited Longbourn after their wedding.

  “You may recall that I went upstairs with her to assist with her trunk. Lydia ordered me to sit on her bed while she ‘packed.’ I use that word loosely. You know Lydia: where Lizzy and Jane would have carefully folded their gowns in tissue paper, Mrs. Wickham, always in a hurry to get somewhere else before she even left the place she was in, tossed gowns, shoes, small clothes, and pelisse into her valise before slamming the lid.

  “I would wager my next quarter’s allowance on this next, Tom. This case was packed by Lydia herself sometime after Waterloo…and that not a single soul, Lydia included, has opened it since!

  “It probably slipped from her ken and off the map as she shifted from Town to Pemberley and finally Selkirk. She was always busy…first as a child: then as a wife: and finally, a Countess.

  “How it slipped by the Archivists, though, is beyond me.”

  Bennet reflected upon his earlier considerations about the Wardrobe.

  As each day passes, I understand the otherworldly power of that blessed cabinet! I would wager my own allowance that, if quizzed, every ‘Research Reynolds’ going back 120 years would truthfully deny any knowledge of this box. The Wardrobe has its ways of drawing a cloak of confusion over that which it wishes obscured.

  His wife, understanding that his attention had been focused on her own question, cut short his ruminations by adding, “I felt like I was Mr. Carter in the Valley of the Kings. I gently probed through the papers, which were in remarkably good condition given their age. Oh, there was foxing on the edges and other spots where the acid—I have become a bit of an archivist myself—in the paper of the time had damaged the documents.

  “But, this envelope stood out. Even at something more than 130 years of age, it was unblemished. The paper held its color…”

  Bennet interrupted, “And the monogram was still a rich blue, belying something originally created in our time.”

  Fanny’s shocked look caused him to briefly continue, “What you may not know, but which I have recently learned, is that an envelope of this nature could not have existed until the late 1800s, some eighty years after we left Longbourn. Likewise, the paper was of a much lower acid content than even the finest sheets in our time.”

  Her lips formed an “O” of astonishment as pieces clicked into place, “Which means that the envelope came from Lydia’s future. And, you have seen this specific item before.”

  Her unspoken question forced his response, “This was Kitty’s. The monogram is hers—Catherine Marie Fitzwilliam.

  “Do you recall Kitty’s headstone in Deauville where there is an ‘L’ engraved in a small heart down by her death anniversary? That initial stands for ‘Lydia’ who spent four years by Kitty’s side during the war. She was away from home the day the Germans came for our dear girl. She told Commandant Maxie—the General and Denis’ father—to add that totem to the memorial to ensure that Kitty would not rest alone in the Dunes without her beloved sister. She must have brought the envelope back with her when she returned home.”

  Mrs. Bennet looked discontented and replied sharply, “What other secrets have you hid from me, Mr. Bennet? I have spent years thinking that Kitty was all alone during her final days. Oh, I am not ignoring that dear gentleman, Monsieur Robard, but he was not her nursery-mate!

  “How sorely grieved I have been. Now, you tell me that Lydia was by her side?”

  Bennet’s eyes clouded behind his spectacles which he removed to rub the unshed tears which had collected upon his lashes.

  In a strained voice, lowered in contrition, “Please forgive me, Fanny, for I did not consider Lydia’s history to be of importance, so consumed I have been with Kitty’s trials. Perhaps it is once again some of that indifference with which I viewed our youngest child.

  “I thought I had flushed myself of those toxins.”

  Mrs. Bennet put her anger on hold, an alteration in her self-control over the past years which she welcomed, and quietly considered her husband.

  He has changed profoundly in the past six years—three in our where/when and three in this here/now. The old Tom Bennet could have been counted upon to ignore all but the deepest provocations, so determined was he to insulate himself from the world in general and the females of his family in specific.

  Yes, he is human and subject to failings like each of us. He did not prevaricate, did not seek to deceive me, or even to exclude me. I believe him when he says he did not consider Lydia’s story to be meaningful and, thus, never thought to bring it to my attention.

  She reached out a hand to grip his arm and applied a healing balm to his aching soul, “Perhaps, my dear, if I had spoken of my pain about Kitty, you would have reached into your memory’s hoard to bring Lydia to the surface.

  “You and I still have a distance to travel as we relearn how to be completely transparent with one another.”

  Bennet mouthed thank you, so moved was he by her forgiving nature. He captured her in his long arms for a rejuvenating hug.

  Two small hands eventually pushed him away.

  He cleared his throat and quizzed, “I doubt if you were excited by the uncovering of only an envelope—even one from Lydia’s future. Might I assume that you found something inside that tickled your fancy?”

  Fanny planted her hands on her hips, pursed her lips, and assayed an exasperated look before mock-waspishly saying, “If you are determined to spoil a lady’s fun, maybe I will just stop, and you can return to your musty conference room!”

  If Bennet thought his wife was finished tilting his world, he was to be sorely surprised.

  At his pleading look, she deigned to continue, “You will have to tamp down your natural impatience. All will be revealed in due course.”

  She reached down to the desktop and gripped the envelope. Turning it over to show Bennet the monogram adjacent to which was a small inscription “August 22, 1944,” she flipped open the flap and reached inside with her tweezers. She pulled out a small piece of charred paper. She held it under the magnifier and motioned her husband over.

  On one side Bennet could read, even though the remnant was browned and blackened from its aborted immolation, words of hard counsel:

  “… must recognize the greatest of all of the Rules…that Destiny once written cannot be altered…so you have a lonely path to walk…and you cannot deviate, I fear, without upsetting too many apple-carts…”

  After giving him a chance to absorb its implications, she flipped the piece in his field of vision showing three words, alone on the fragment, stark in their simplicity.

  Then she asked, “Riddle me this, Tom Bennet, what did you mean when you wrote ‘beware the winters’ to one of our girls?”

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Bennet started and then quickly asked, “Whatever do you mean?”

  Fanny moved the scorched paper beneath the magnifier and bade him to take a closer look.

  “I have seen your hand for decades. You wrote this without a doubt. The only remaining questions are when and to whom?

  “Based upon what you have revealed about the workings of the Trust, I have to believe that this is a bit of a Founder’s Letter.

  “And the way you a
re reacting tells me that this is a letter that you have yet to write.”

  He peered at the magnified image for a long time. Then he stepped away, leaving Fanny by the desk. He walked over by the hearth in which a coal-fed fire snapped and crackled, drying the air and relieving the near-winter chill that pervaded every corner. If he had been dressed as the Regency gentleman he was, he would have hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat’s pockets as he pondered the implications of what had been revealed to him.

  However, he was not wearing 1814’s height of male fashion for a country squire. Rather, he was arrayed in a Saville Row bespoke double-breasted suit whose design precluded a vest. Thus, he unbuttoned his jacket and thrust his hands into his pants’ pockets.

  Like the daughter who had been the center of his concerns, Tom Bennet also enjoyed remarkable powers of concentration. He did not notice his wife sliding over to an armchair facing the same fireplace. He did not hear her settle into the butter-soft leather upholstery. He did not sense her eyes surveying his shoulders or his lowered head.

  First one minute, then five, passed.

  As if the fire and his mind agreed that a conclusion had been found, the blaze collapsed in upon itself the moment Bennet’s head snapped up and he faced his wife. Evidence had been considered. Probabilities had been weighed. Conclusions had been made.

  He began speaking almost upon turning away from the hearth, although he scanned the room before allowing his eyes to settle on the feminine figure awaiting his statement, “There is something that has been niggling around the corners of my brain for months. The word ‘winters’ has occurred over-and-over again, but never within the context of a Founder’s Letter.

  “For that is what I am sure you have discovered. The paper is time-period-correct, and the hand that wrote those words is undoubtedly mine.

  “Your earlier admonition caused me considerable pain as I acknowledged the truth of your criticism. And, as such, there is another truth I must reveal to you.

  “Not another soul is aware of this, but the last Founder’s Letter has already been delivered, at least I thought that to be the case until you showed me that shard of paper. There were none dated after 1932. There could not have been, for while I was not the author of those remarkable missives, I was the copyist.