“He never married,” the housekeeper said. “His nephew, Henry Dashwood—grandfather of young Mr. Dashwood here—lived with Albert in his later days. By then Henry’s son, John, was grown. Henry lived here with his second wife and their daughters, Elinor, Marianne, and Margaret. That was a happy time. The girls adored their uncle Albert, and I do believe he lived longer for the pleasure of their companionship.”
“Where are they now?” Kitty asked.
“Henry died just one year after Albert. According to the terms of Albert’s will, Henry could not divide Norland among multiple heirs. Upon Henry’s death, therefore, everything went entirely to John, so that the estate could eventually pass whole to his son, Harry. When Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood took possession of the house, Mrs. Henry Dashwood and the girls moved to a cottage in Devonshire owned by a cousin of hers.”
“Sir John Middleton,” Harry said. “You have met him.”
It did not surprise Elizabeth that the widowed Mrs. Henry Dashwood had chosen to live near the genial Sir John rather than continue at Norland with Fanny Dashwood as its new mistress. She somehow suspected that Fanny, having just come into ownership of the great house, had not been a particularly gracious hostess toward her predecessor.
“The girls are all grown now, correct?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes, and comfortably settled with husbands of their own,” the housekeeper replied.
“I invited them all to Norland this week,” said Harry. “But I believe only my aunt Elinor and uncle Edward Ferrars will join us. Margaret is in confinement, with Marianne and their mother attending her and the infant.”
Another new baby. It seemed all the world had entered an uncommon state of fecundity.
Kitty strolled farther along the gallery, studying various portraits in their turn. She stopped before a full-length painting of a young, dark-haired man with an almost tangible air of self-possession. “Is this a likeness of your father, Mr. Dashwood? His resemblance to you is striking.”
In that, Elizabeth concurred. The subject had been captured at about the same age as Harry Dashwood and bore many of the same physical characteristics. But for the clothing that clearly marked him as an inhabitant of the previous century, he and Harry could pass for twins. His eyes, however, seemed to mock the viewer with secret knowledge, and Elizabeth found his sardonic smile unsettling.
“No, my father’s portrait hangs over there. This is Sir Francis Dashwood, probably our most notorious ancestor.”
“What is he notorious for?” Kitty asked.
Darcy cleared his throat. “If Sir Francis had an estate in Buckinghamshire, as you told me, how did his portrait come to be here?”
“Perhaps it arrived on the same coach as did the looking glass I showed you.” Harry shrugged. “I discovered the two items together in the attic when I was last here, and thought it highly amusing that Sir Francis and I looked so much alike. So I had the portrait brought down and hung. As for why it may have been brought here, your conjecture is as good as my own. I understand there are numerous paintings of Sir Francis at West Wycombe—perhaps his heirs didn’t think they needed quite so many remembrances of the fellow. If I remember aright, the estate went to a half brother. Maybe the new owner wanted to clean house and live down the old chap’s reputation.”
“What reputation?” Kitty asked again. “What did he do?”
“Where did you say your father’s portrait is?” Darcy attempted to usher them farther along the gallery.
Elizabeth resisted his shepherding and instead regarded her husband closely. Had his color risen?
“Darcy, that marks the second time you have diverted attention from Kitty’s question. What, exactly, is Sir Francis notorious for?”
He hesitated. “Ungentlemanlike conduct.”
“A great many men are guilty of that.”
“Not to this degree.”
“Which degree?”
“Suffice it to say that he engaged in behavior unbecoming to himself and his associates.”
The vexing man spoke in circles. “What does history accuse him of?”
“Things unfit for a lady’s ears.”
Darcy’s prevarication only fueled her curiosity, but his tone brooked no appeal. She resolved to renew the subject later. Perhaps he would reveal more about the mysterious Sir Francis Dashwood when they were alone.
She looked to Mr. Dashwood. “Well, then. Let us see the portrait of your father.”
John Dashwood’s likeness hung very nearly in the center of the gallery, flanked on one side by a painting of Fanny in her youth and on the other by a pair of portraits depicting young boys of about six and twelve. The children’s portraits reminded Elizabeth of several others she had seen in the house.
“Who are the boys?” Kitty asked.
“Me. Both of them.” Mr. Dashwood looked sheepish. “My mother has a fixation with having my likeness drawn. She insisted I sit for another last month. I have not yet seen the final painting, though the artist seemed pleased as he worked.”
“Your mother is clearly very fond of you.” Elizabeth spoke in what she hoped was a convincing tone, though in truth she suspected Fanny of being more interested in the image of her son than in the person himself. Mrs. John Dashwood had packed her boy off to boarding school the moment he was old enough to go, apparently preferring still pictures of him to the boisterous company of a real child. Though children of the gentry commonly attended public school, Harry’s parents, like Darcy’s, could have afforded a private tutor if they had wanted one.
Now that Harry had reached adulthood, his mother’s behavior toward Kitty, the chosen object of his affections, indicated that she still valued his appearance—his advancement in society—more than his happiness. Fanny Dashwood was at once indulgent and indifferent, showering her son with all the accoutrements of his class without troubling herself to actually become acquainted with him.
As they left the gallery and returned downstairs, Fanny Dashwood’s carriage pulled up to the door. They met her in the foyer, where her rain-soaked afternoon of travel and the news of Georgiana’s absence combined to render her mood as black as the sky.
“Harry, I thought all our guests were arriving tomorrow,” she said through a frozen smile that did not reach her eyes. She reminded Elizabeth of a ventriloquist, but Harry resisted being manipulated like a doll.
“Because Miss Bennet and the Darcys come as my special guests, I invited them to arrive a day early.”
She drew him aside. “But this evening was to be reserved for family,” she whispered harshly, continuing to display her forced smile for the Darcys’ benefit.
“Yes, it is.” Harry removed her hand from his arm and stepped away. Mrs. Dashwood glared after him as he addressed Kitty and the Darcys. “My mother has just reminded me that my aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ferrars, will be joining us for dinner with their daughter.”
“Will we also have the pleasure of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Edward Ferrars tonight?” Kitty asked.
“They are expected,” Fanny Dashwood responded. The ice in her voice made Kitty look to Elizabeth with trepidation.
“Dinner is at half past five.” Without another word to her son or anyone else, Mrs. Dashwood turned and rigidly climbed the stairs. Harry offered Kitty his arm and suggested that a pot of tea might warm the damp reception Norland had given them thus far.
Elizabeth and Darcy stayed behind a moment as the younger couple walked away. “Mr. Dashwood does refer to the weather?” she asked.
“I believe so. One would use other words to describe the atmosphere indoors.”
“And we are to stay in Sussex for a full week.” She released a sigh. “Happy thought, indeed.”
“The weather might clear.” A mighty thunderclap shook the house, and rain pelted furiously against the windows. “Eventually.”
“Let us hope so.” She took Darcy’s arm and they followed their host. “For if the air within the house remains this chilly, we might be forced to fle
e to Brighton after all.”
Elizabeth chose her dinner attire carefully, though not, she guessed, with as much nervous deliberation as her sister. She ultimately selected an olive-green sarsenet gown with a short train and instructed her maid to dress her hair simply in order to spend more time on Kitty’s. As she finished her preparations alone, Darcy entered.
“You are already dressed,” she noted. He wore his dark blue coat, a favorite of hers.
He watched her clasp her necklace, his gaze lingering on her neck long after her hands had dropped to her sides. “I want only your company to complete my ensemble,” he said.
“So that I can deflect Mrs. Dashwood’s aura of ill will? You would do better to don the suit of armor in the library.”
“Too heavy. Though I do regret having left my fencing mask in London.”
She retrieved her slippers and sat near the fireplace to put them on. “One wonders how Mr. Dashwood turned out as amiable as he has, with such a parent to influence him.”
“From the sound of it, she did not maintain enough proximity during his youth to influence his disposition much at all.” He took the slippers from her hands and knelt to slide them on her feet himself.
“Fanny Dashwood does represent a good argument for the benefits of boarding school.” She studied her husband’s face as he grasped her left ankle and slid on one shoe. “Would you have wanted to attend one at such a tender age, though?”
He stopped what he was doing to consider a moment. “No. I believe the early education I received from my tutor and father superior to any I could have obtained at a public school, and had I gone away at five or six, I would hardly have known my mother at all before her death. Besides, the older boys at school are often very cruel to the younger ones, and it is hard enough for a lad twice that age to defend himself.”
“How awful! I had no idea.”
“You have no brothers.” He slipped her other shoe over her heel but remained kneeling at her feet. “I do not want to send our sons away so early.”
“Nor do I,” she said.
His words tugged at her heart. They had not spoken much about children. Though they had a tacit understanding that children were desired, she did not know whether he wished for a large family or small, whether he harbored partiality for boys or girls, how soon he hoped they would come. That he already had given thought to how they should be raised occasioned only mild surprise. Of course Darcy would afford something so important as the upbringing of their children the same careful deliberation he gave all decisions.
That he believed children a certainty touched a different response within her. They were over four months into their marriage, with no sign of increasing their family any time soon. Four months, she knew, was not cause for alarm, not long enough to fear that they might remain childless forever. Truth be told, she was rather enjoying the extended honeymoon. She and Darcy were still getting used to each other. But with reports of babies circulating on all fronts, the tiniest seed of doubt had entered her mind. It had not yet germinated, but it was there, buried in the back of her thoughts. She wondered if he felt it, too.
“Darcy, do you ever worry that—” She stopped. He waited patiently as she chose her words. “We have not talked a great deal about children,” she began again.
He smiled. “I am in favor of them.”
“I—well, I am, too, of course. But we have not yet—that is, it seems like everyone else we know has very quickly—” She let out her breath. “Four months is not such a very long time, is it?”
His gaze met hers in understanding. He leaned forward and took both her hands in his. “No, Elizabeth. Four months is not very long at all.”
“I did not think so.”
He smoothed the crease from her brow. “Then why the concern?”
“It is not concern, so much. Just something that has been on my mind since Jane wrote with her news.”
“I did not realize we were in a race.”
“We are not. Not at all! But it is not only Jane who influences my thoughts. When even Charlotte and Mr. Collins have a child so early in their marriage—”
“I hope you do not compare me to Mr. Collins?” It was not a serious question, but one delivered with a conspiratorial smile meant to lighten her mood. “Or, at least, I hope I do not suffer by the comparison?”
“Though the bliss of producing a miniature Mr. Collins could have been mine, I shall never regret turning down his proposal,” she said. Indeed, the thought of marriage to the obsequious clergyman still made her cringe. “And I compare you to no one, for in my eyes you have no equal.”
He yet held her hands, and leaned forward to meet her lips. They lingered over the kiss, wishing they were anywhere but at Norland, expected down to dinner momentarily. But obligation parted them. As he released her, she cast him a saucy look.
“If four months stretch to forty, however, perhaps you should seek Mr. Collins’s advice on the matter.”
An assortment of new persons awaited Elizabeth’s observation when she and Darcy joined the party gathered in the drawing room before dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Edward Ferrars had just arrived, their journey having been slowed by the rain, and had scarcely had time to change out of their traveling clothes. They seemed in good humor, though, despite the damp ride.
Edward expressed genuine pleasure at meeting Kitty and the Darcys. He greeted them warmly upon Harry’s introduction. His wife, Elinor, said she was also very pleased to make their acquaintance, and the kindness of her manner lent the words the sincerity they all too commonly lacked when uttered in polite society.
“When did you arrive at Norland?” she asked. “Have you had an opportunity to see much of it?”
“Mr. Dashwood and his housekeeper showed us the house this afternoon,” Elizabeth said. “It is lovely.”
“Indeed, it is. I have many happy memories of this place.” Elinor glanced about the drawing room, her expression growing wistful.
“I understand you grew up at Norland?”
“Yes, from eight to nineteen. My mother, sisters, and I moved to Barton after my father died. This is the first time I’ve returned.”
The admission startled Elizabeth. “You never visited your brother here?” she blurted out before considering a less bald way to couch the query.
Elinor met her gaze, and each woman quickly assessed the other. Though Elinor was a good fifteen years older than she, Elizabeth read in her a common understanding and intelligence that instantly identified her as a kindred spirit. Elinor seemed to sense the same.
“We occasionally saw my brother and his wife in London.” What she left unsaid, but that Elizabeth heard perfectly, was that the brief London visits had constituted enough family togetherness for all parties.
“Does Norland remain as you remember it?” Elizabeth asked.
Elinor studied a large portrait of Fanny hanging above the mantel. “In many ways, yes,” she said. “But in others, it almost feels as if I never lived here at all.”
Elizabeth suspected that was Fanny’s entire object.
Fanny Dashwood’s other brother was also present with his family. Robert, with his bold striped waistcoat and elaborate silver snuffbox, she soon dismissed as an aging fop. Elizabeth had seen Lucy and Regina Ferrars at the Middletons’ soiree, but had not gotten close enough to form an impression beyond noting a strong resemblance between mother and daughter. Both enjoyed passable looks, Lucy’s a somewhat faded version of Regina’s full bloom. They shared narrow eyes and dark, arched brows. Lucy reminded one of a cat, her bearing exhibiting a decidedly predatory aspect. Regina, in contrast, carried herself with bovine grace. She was considerably plumper than her mother, with a figure that even her high-waisted gown could not flatter. Lucy’s thin frame looked almost skeletal in contrast, as if since Regina’s birth it had been daughter, not mother, eating for them both.
An evening of Lucy and Regina’s company proved that in postponing the opportunity to become acquainted with them, Elizabeth
had not deferred any pleasure. Lucy was agreeable enough, far more so than her sister-in-law Fanny, and Elizabeth had initially struggled to pinpoint exactly what she disliked about the woman. But as the night wore on, she realized that it was precisely Lucy’s ingratiating manner—echoed to mind-numbing effect by Regina—that made her almost nostalgic for the company of Darcy’s domineering aunt, Lady Catherine. Lucy complimented Elizabeth’s dress, Kitty’s hair, the cut of Darcy’s coat. The flowers in the small alcove were lovely—were they from Norland’s greenhouse? Indeed, everything about Norland was splendid, and their host was up to the nines.
“Harry, I declare this is the best rabbit I’ve ever tasted.”
Elizabeth wondered that Lucy had much basis for comment on the rabbit or any other dish, as her steady stream of flattery prevented her from actually bringing much of the food to her mouth. Regina, in contrast, had managed to clear her plate between accolades.
When Harry denied any right to the praise, Lucy offered it instead to the superior environment of Norland Park. “Truly, nothing in London can compare, and even Norfolk don’t have rabbit this plump. Isn’t that right, Robert?”
Her husband, whom Elizabeth could have sworn was admiring his reflection in the bowl of his spoon, admitted uncertainty as to the relative plumpness of the rabbits raised on their estate.
Once the subject of rabbits had been discussed beyond endurance, conversation turned to the china. Regina pronounced the dense floral motif exquisite as she obscured it from view with a second helping of duck. “Where did you find it, Aunt Dashwood? I want the same pattern for my own hope chest.”
Fanny roused herself from the sullen silence into which she’d sunk. “It’s a Royal Worcester service. I don’t know if the company still produces it.” She cast a pointed glance at Kitty, then pulled back her lips to form what might have been a sweet smile on another person. On Fanny, it was intimidating. “Perhaps, my dear niece, this very set will find its way into your possession.”
Suspense and Sensibility: Or, First Impressions Revisited Page 8
