Prologue
Selkirk Castle, Matlock, December 10, 1827
Spice's sharpness filled the air and rubbed its wispy shoulders against his nose. His home always smelled of something: Papa's leather tack, his gun cleaner, Mama's favorite perfume—roses in morning dew—or the oil rubbed on wood paneling. Selkirk Castle's air was filled with aromas. This time of the year, though, looping evergreen garlands, plump baked goods, and steaming warm drinks colored the scent-scenery the youngster moved through.
'Twas easy for a resourceful child, used to making his own fun, to picture himself a knight wending through a cathedral of towering trees, their bark-covered columns disappearing in the milky mists overhead. One of Derbyshire's great houses, Selkirk's depths were nearly impossible to warm during December's dim days. Hearths filled with buckets of sea coals or split oak barely kept pace with what inevitably snuck past double windows, shutters, and thick drapes. The enforced closure against northern frost turned grand hallways into subterranean passages and captured every smell, sweet or sour, to be spread along unstoppable drafts from cellar to cornice. Sir Walter's Ivanhoe fired his imagination, first read to the viscount by the author himself. Adventure beckoned around every corner in worlds built from blocks made of every sense he owned.
Deep runners cushioned the youngster as he crept along the dim corridor. Henry Fitzwilliam pretended to be a Spartan boy or an Anglo-Saxon squire sent to sneak into the enemy camp. Success would bring food, but failure's humiliation would be driven home through an empty bowl and a severe beating.
A rambunctious boy's fancy ran down such channels, especially that of a child who lived in a bona fide castle. Henry, forced into snowbound entertainment as the Five Families gathered in Matlock for the festive season, had been left to his own devices. At the same time, the earl and countess did whatever adults did when their brothers and sisters descended upon their home.
Henry's transit, though, was not solitary. His squad attacked their objective from multiple directions. Henry's twinand chief lieutenant, George, and cousins Ellie Fitzwilliam and Carrie Bingley worked through Selkirk's corridors. Carrie—Caroline Jane—although a girl, was a dab hand at rangering as the earl called it. George's interest in all things military had grown past toy soldier armies. Ellie was, well, Ellie.i
Wearying of governesses, the quartet had escaped Mama's rule that seen and not heard was the appropriate way to behave. She could be touchy about what was proper. At seven—all born in 1820's lambing season before the fever time—they were too young for the parlor and too old for the nursery's playroom. They preferred to adopt Sergeant Wilson's dictum that unseen and unheard was the way His Majesty's scouts put paid to crapaud pretensions. Henry took puerile pleasure in rolling that word over in his mind.
Adult activities held little interest for younger children. Older brothers and sisters found refuge away from small fry. Men and boys down from Cambridge or Eton—George William Darcy, Rory Benton, Tommy Bingley, and Eddie Gardiner—joined their fathers at the hunting lodge in a glen above the castle. Adolescent ladies—Annie Fitzwilliam, Maddie Darcy, Bridgie Benton, Lou and Lizzy Bingley, and Emmy Gardiner—would sit near their respective mamas in the countess's private parlor. Missing were Maria Rose Collins and Eddie Bennet. The distance from the ancestral home in Hertfordshire was too great for a snowy trip to Derbyshire, or so deemed Aunt
None of the girls were out. Louisa Jane was Aunt Jane's oldest at fifteen. Henry's Mama, as the highest-ranked lady of the four remaining Bennet sisters, had forbidden any females of the clan to make their curtseys before age eighteen. 'Your grandmother, God rest her, insisted that country girls came out at fifteen. Look how that worked out for me!'
Henry knew his mother had had another husband before Papa—how or why remained closely held by his aunts and uncles, although Henry suspected it had something to do with being out. That man, Captain George Wickham, now lay in a hero's grave in Pemberley's cemetery. The family visited the gravesite every year on Waterloo's anniversary. Mama became quiet as Papa laid a large wreath at the obelisk's base. She, though, always took a small bouquet of the cardinal roses—tangerine, blush, white, yellow, and crimson—and laid it next to a tiny heart and the script GHW engraved on the plinth invisible to all except those who knew it was there. Her sad contemplations were curious as Henry's mother was typically
The viscount pushed aside thoughts that did not contribute to the current caper. Their goal was Aunt Mary's suite. Her lair held secrets unimagined, mystic riddles that entranced the boy. Curiosity overwhelmed strictures about the sanctity of other people's chambers. However, the red letter injunction against entry into Aunt Mary's rooms was too much temptation for adventurous offspring. Of his aunts, Mrs. Benton was held in deference by everyone in the Five Families. Even his mama, one of the Patronesses, went silent when Aunt Mary took the floor. A word—keeper—floated about his aunt's shoulders like a robe of state.
He dragged himself into the present. The boy owned the Bennet talent to split his mind and focus on questions unlinked to the task before him. This he did now.
The great gateway to the Regent Queen's apartment lay ahead.
Gathering around the apartment's door, the youngsters looked at each other. Henry, the acknowledged leader, nodded and gripped the brass handle. As with everything at Selkirk, this bolt was just so, kept that way by a flotilla of maids. The latch slid silently from its seat, and the door whispered back. Four figures slipped into the darkened sitting room, dimly lit by the sputtering remnants in the hearth. Care needed to be taken lest the youngsters be discovered by a servant entering to top up the firebox.
There, in its niche, hulked their objective—Aunt Mary's Wardrobe. Why she always traveled with the massive cabinet tickled young minds. Adult eccentricities were the stuff of imagination. Henry had settled on his aunt's attachment to Grandfather Bennet—The Founder—a legend who left this world twelve years ago, as the motive. Otherwise, why would anyone have a special crate built to protect and transport something that graced every dressing room?
All Five Family homes—Pemberley, Thornhill, Longbourn, Rosings, Darcy and Matlock Houses, and even Aunt Georgie's Beach House—had an alcove that fit Aunt Mary's Wardrobe like a glove. That intentional feature said much about the cabinet.
Henry was too young to understand precisely what Rory and Bridget's mama and papa did when away from Kympton. He had heard some of Papa's friends—usually the Duke and Marquess, great men much older than Papa—grumble about Aunt Mary's "damnable campaigns." Henry was unsure what his aunt did to earn their anger; they were always nice to him and George. The Marquess found Mama's company particularly pleasing, and the family had visited several Paget homes in the past few
The countess, Henry's mama, though, threw the wardrobe into a sinister and intriguing light. She would grip a youthful arm with her warm hand and intone, 'Beware of the Wardrobe. Do not touch it, for it has a nasty sense of humor.' The countess's favorite epigram did nothing but fire her son's imagination, making the Wardrobe a temptation that rivaled Pandora's Box.
A siren's song drew the children to the enormous cupboard. Inlaid wood strips created an intricate pattern—Mama called it marquetry—that shimmered in the dying fire's orange glow. Two high-cuffed gauntlets were draped over the pulls, calling out to be worn to shelter the Wardrobe from careless handling—or were they to protect the wearer? The gloves were thick like the mitts Cook used when pulling trays of biscuits from the oven.
Impetuous George bravely reached out. The pattern shivered as his hand came near. The girls gasped and clutched each other's hands; Ellie leaned into Henry for security. Henry tried to caution his brother with a touch. The younger Fitzwilliam dodged away.
"Easy, George," Henry whispered, "If anything happens to Aunt Mary's wardrobe, we will never see Christmas! Papa will send us off to be cabin boys in Uncle Will's West Africa Squadron."
George gamely replied, nervous at violating his mother's orders but mot admitting anything could go awry, "I only want to peek inside to see what Aunt Mary has hidden, probably nothing more than bonnets, gloves, and slippers. But I will take care since I look forward to seeing your face when Black Pete leaves you a pile of coal."
The boy's chin firmed, and he grabbed the gloves and tossed them aside before he leaned toward the cabinet. George planted both hands on the door handles and made to pull.
A thousand bees buzzed, and the pressure built…
Book One
Of Travels and Invitations
Chapter One
The Beach House at Deauville, August 22, 1919
Once again, she sat in the study, water's sibilant swish outside the French doors the background for her early-morning reverie. Once again, she faced questions destined to set the Universe's sinews humming. Once again, an unexpected visitor had been inserted into The Beach House's routine. Such were the intrigues of The Old One.
Routine was why she sat at the desk in The Beach House library: ledgers and correspondence, often neglected during les grandes vacances, demanded her attention. As had become habit, she had slipped away from Henry—home now but still recovering from the disappointment of Versailles—to pad across the House and into the study. Pre-dawn wakefulness had sent dozens of thoughts spinning through her head like messages flying between Whitehall departments. Her mind's minions treated each idea with the same dispassion as a ministry's bureaucrats, weighting equally the reimbursement to a second secretary in Mexico City for a ten-and-six fountain pen or the expenditure of a nabob's ransom for a battleship's turrets. Pounds and pennies were emotionless, as were sunrise's first ruminations. Returning to sleep was a forlorn hope. Her open eyes were needed to sift the dross from golden flecks.
And such they were doing until her concentration was broken by a thud and a high-pitched 'ooof' as the doors to the Wardrobe banged open. She knew the exclamation was the final link in a chain of events leading to a traveler's arrival. The transition that began with a Bennet touching the Wardrobe's marquetry doors concluded with an undignified entry into the where/when in which the man or woman—boy or girl—would learn what they needed to know.
Papers were neatly piled to await her visitor's approach. Then she ordered refreshments, knowing the housekeeper would ignore any child with the countess. Wondering which niece or nephew her mistress entertained was not in Madame Boulanger's remit.
Catherine Marie Fitzwilliam, née Bennet, the eleventh Countess of Matlock, pinched the fag end from the onyx cigarette holder and opened a drawer to dig out her pack of Gitanes. This little conceit—hiding the gaspers rather than leaving them atop the desk—was her attempt to follow Dr. Campbell's advice to cut back. As with all endeavors involving vices, Lady Kate's won't power withered in the face of her need to indulge.
Unlike many Deauville neighbors, the Matlocks, protected by wealth, did not endure post-war shortages. Thus, Kate could enjoy her preferred smoke rather than make do with Jacques' wretched floor-sweeping Caporals. Yet, she could not begrudge her old friend the foul cloud he left in his wake, not after Maggie wasted away the summer before Sarajevo. Cancer was filthier than any smoke Jacques could spread. The square-cut Lorrainer had shrunk into himself, mourning his lost love. But for Henry's lengthy absences in London and Washington during the war, Kate was convinced the old paysan would have followed his beloved into the grave if not for his sense of responsibility for her well-being. Instead, Monsieur Robard guarded the House—and her—like one of those sharp-eared Belgian Malinois. That probably prevented him from walking into the surf lapping the shingle stretching away from the rear piazza.
How alike we are, although I have not suffered as much as he. We are both alienated from our homes: he from above the Meuse, a land torn into dark, poisonous clods by artillery and infantry. For me, Meryton's bucolic scenery is reduced to impressionistic daubs on memory's yellowed canvas.
The Matlock earldom had avoided the dolor of war's half-empty beds and vacant chairs, the agonizing aftermath of four years of carnage. Dozens of the commune's young men—and many older—had been taken into the army as Verdun's meatgrinder exacted its toll. Their legacy was too many blackbirds drifting through Deauville's streets. Her son Michael had been posted safely to the East Africa Command's headquarters, far from the trenches, thanks to an unasked favor granted by those seeking Matlock's patronage. Eloise continued her Swiss education alongside her cousin—now the Countess of Pemberley—Georgiana.v
There was guilt, nagging and gnawing, at her good fortune. The countess was still the girl from Longbourn, unaccustomed to privilege even after thirty-plus years on this timeline. She could not act like so many women of her station—Clarrissa Dalloway came to mind—who floated above the pain surrounding them while a hidden but sublime agony ate away at their souls. Too many sons in low-numbered regiments had been swept from their horses and vanished in those heady, tragic days when a glorious Christmas return had been guaranteed. Kate Fitzwilliam could not hold up a mask and unsee the
She looked across the desktop at the young intruder, peacefully seated on the great Chesterfield, greedily snacking on Madame Boulanger's lemon bars. That, if anything confirmed him as a sprig on the Bennet family tree. His appetite was a curious confirmation of what her eyes told her. She saw Mr. Darcy's cousin—she always called him the Colonel—General Fitzwilliam, her Henry's great-grandfather. But the boy was the image of her beloved Lydia, although his eyes were the colonel's storm gray. That squeezed her heart; the last time she saw her sister in any form was nearly forty years ago, wizened and tiny, a feather waiting for Life's last breeze to swirl her into Heaven's
George Fitzwilliam could be nobody other than who he said.
A strange compulsion overtook her. She smiled and closed her eyes. The world receded.
Now you reach into my world. To what end?
tristesse you have.
Sad? I am not sad. Just thoughtful
child, no. wistful mauve tinged with brown of no happiness
the boy
ask
What about the boy? Why does he sadden me? Lizzy did not.
knew sister's future
all years to wedding day
brown guide's love story
her happiness
for boy, he shows the child china-blue was
shadows of boy's future words alone
he becomes you
lamentations of lost times before
Before? You mean before I came here?
The voice sounded weary, almost impatient, as if her confusion also dragged on it.
china-blue mourns lost innocence
childhood ending too soon
see his possibilities
see his mother
That was when she knew what she needed. Kate opened her eyes, ending any further intrusions. However, as with everything rubbing on real and imaginary surfaces, a residue remained that could bear fruit.
Lighting the cigarette, the lady leaned back. George continued munching, demonstrating the single-mindedness of youth until he felt her gaze. He quickly reached down and pulled a serviette free. He swallowed and dabbed his lips with the cloth.
A platoon of nannies had drilled good manners into George Fitzwilliam. A second son attuned to hierarchy, Lord George sensed that she was his social superior. He slid off the couch and stood straight. "Excuse me, madam, but as my mama is not here, might I be permitted to introduce myself to you?"
He paused, her smile that appeared so much like his mother's setting him at ease. Putting aside the smoking object from which she had puffed—the aroma smelled like Papa's cigars, but ladies did not smoke cigars, although he had caught Mama puffing on what she called a cigarillo—the lady nodded. George brushed his pantaloons, attempting to smooth a morning's worth of wrinkles, and pulled his sleeves taut, seating the cuffs about his wrists. "Thank you: I am George Thomas Fitzwilliam of Matlock. My papa and mama are the Earl and Countess of Matlock. I am sure I am pleased to make your acquaintance." He executed a credible bow.
A troubled look crossed his face. "My brother and cousins will be worried by my absence. Ought I return to ease their minds?"
Again, the woman nodded, her eyes glittering with unshed tears, although George could not understand why she was sad. Her reply was ragged and caught on each word. "You will be sent home soon enough, so quickly that they will not notice you are gone.
"Master Fitzwilliam, you are well met and welcome in my home. I fear I cannot give you a similar pretty introduction."
She offered a hint of misdirection. "I am sure that even at your age, you know that much of what your father undertakes for the King cannot be revealed. I am in a similar business. I ask that you accept that I cannot tell you my name or where you are. I also cannot answer many of your questions about how you arrived.
"I can provide some hope. You will be told more if it is deemed useful when you attain your majority.
"I can tell you that you have landed in a family gathering. Perhaps you would be more comfortable calling me Aunt Kate."
Pursing his lips, George pondered for a moment. Then he gave the lady a slight grin. "I am most happy to accept your conditions."
He continued, boyish enthusiasm encouraged by his hostess's widened china-blue eyes. "At the risk of being boastful, I know where I am: Miss Darcy's Beach House in France."
The lady pounced. "How can you say that? You have seen only this room and just a few feet of it at that."
"You may be correct, Aunt Kate, in that I have no idea what lies behind the door opposite. However, I think the front foyer and main stairs are there," George opined.
He continued, "Many of my cousin's houses have the library directly off the main entrance, so my claim, if true, does not prove we are in France. This library," he swept his hand around the room, "looks identical to the one found at Miss Darcy's house."
George reached deep and dug up a memory of when his mother had turned the tables on Papa when he had been most sure of himself. He could feel a presence pushing aside curtains to bring him the clarity to drive home the final nail. "Similarity is not proof. Two libraries could have doors and windows positioned alike—although I cannot account for the unusual candle holders," he pointed to the electric wall sconces, "mounted on the walls.
"However, what I think is impossible is that two libraries with similar appearance should also open onto the seashore and own a specially constructed place for Aunt Mary's Wardrobe.
"So, while I cannot explain how I went from my castle in Derbyshire to Miss Darcy's Beach House, that must have happened."
His opponent's eyes flicked from the Wardrobe to the French doors. She dipped her head in defeat. "You are a clever lad, George Thomas. You have put Mr. Holmes's dictum to good use. Many rules you cannot know constrain me, and thus, I cannot confirm your deduction. However, I will not, cannot, reject
"Now, though, we must speak of what you were doing immediately before you landed on my doorstep."
i Anne Eleanor Fitzwilliam (1820-1877) was the daughter of Earl Richard Fitzwilliam's older brother, Viscount Reginald Fitzwilliam (1780-1820) and his wife Eleanor (1797-1820). Lady Anne married Viscount Henry Bennet Fitzwilliam (1820-1871) in 1842 and bore a son, Reginald, in 1843. She succeeded Countess Lydia Fitzwilliam as the ninth countess upon Old General's death in 1857. For more see Epilogue One in The Pilgrim: Lydia Bennet and a Soldier's Portion. George Thomas Fitzwilliam (1820-1863), the Young General, never recovered from the shame of the disaster in Crimea. His descendants stepped back from participation in Five Family activities although some did serve on the Board of Life Directors of the Bennet Family Trust.
ii Anne Elizabeth Mary Fitzwilliam (1814-1867) was the daughter of Brigadier Richard Fitzwilliam (1781-1857) and Anne de Bourgh Fitzwilliam (1784-1814). Heiress of Rosings, upon her mother's death, "Annie," later wed Sir Edward Gardiner Jr. Bart. Their son married Francine Bennet, the daughter of Edward Bennet (adopted), and Maria Rose Collins Bennet, bringing Bennet Eyes into the Gardiner line.
iii Georges Henri Wickham (1940-1943) was Lydia and George Wickham's only child. Please see The Pilgrim.
iv The Duke of Wellington and the Marquess of Anglesey (formerly the Earl of Uxbridge) with whom in 1815 General Fitzwilliam had sat atop the rise above Waterloo's fields.
v The Pemberley Earldom was unentailed and could pass to the eldest surviving child. Georgiana Darcy (1902-1976) became the Fourth Countess upon her father's death, Edward the Third Earl, in 1917. Her two elder brothers had died with their regiments in 1914 and 15 on the Western Front. She married David Cecil in late 1919.
vi A double literary allusion on Lady Kate's part: first from the novel Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf, and the second was the play The Fantastiks by Harvey Schmidt and Tom Jones. Lady Kate was acquainted with Clarissa Dalloway. See the Prologue of Volume Five of the Bennet Wardrobe The Exile: The Countess Visits Longbourn.
vii General Lord Richard Fitzwilliam became the eighth Viscount Selkirk upon the death of his brother in 1820. Rising to earl shortly thereafter, his and Lydia's eldest twin son, Henry, eventually succeeded to the title as the ninth earl. Kate Fitzwilliam's father-in-law, Reginald, was the tenth earl.
viii Sherlock Holmes was a long-time friend of the House of Matlock and was consulted by the earl in Volume Three of the Bennet Wardrobe, The Exile: Kitty Bennet and the Belle Époque. In The Fate of the Evangeline (1885) Holmes's chronicler Arthur Conan Doyle first recorded the great consulting detective as saying, "Exclude the impossible and whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth."