“Then why have you done nothing about it?”
“We have tried. But Mr. Dashwood, as you know, has his own mind, and at present seems disinclined to take direction from others.”
Fanny regarded Kitty with disdain. “I should think a man’s fiancee would possess some ability to influence him.”
A few minutes ago, Kitty had exerted so much power over Harry that she was entirely answerable for his behavior; now she was condemned for not wielding enough.
“I should think his mother would, as well,” Elizabeth said.
Fanny sputtered. “I cannot believe you would show me such disrespect as to—”
“It is no more than you yourself have demonstrated.” Elizabeth had heard more than enough. While she did not want to damage Kitty’s bond with her future mother-in-law, Fanny was already so decided against her sister that Elizabeth doubted any incivility on her own part could further fracture their relationship. She crossed to the drawing room door and opened it wide. “Come, Kitty. Mrs. Dashwood is leaving now.”
Sixteen
“This seems to have been a day of general elucidation.”
—Elinor Dashwood to Colonel Brandon,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 30
The whispers began in the theatre lobby.
The sounds of conversation and gossip always filled London’s theatres before, after, and even during productions. Rumor and repartee supplied lines that rivaled those of the playwrights, while their speakers paraded in finery as elaborate as any costume. The audience itself—who was there, with whom, speaking to whom—formed as much of the spectacle as props and scenery, and often as much drama took place in the boxes, galleries, and pits as on the stages themselves.
This evening marked the first time, however, that Elizabeth sensed her own party was the subject of the ouï-dire that burbled through the theatre. She, Kitty, and Georgiana had taken a private box, and all hoped Miss Bennet would find some distraction from the fact that for three consecutive days, notes of regret instead of Mr. Dashwood himself had arrived at their door. He pleaded indisposition, claiming a disinclination to leave his bed. Elizabeth hoped the malady that kept him away might derive in part from embarrassment over his conduct the last time they had seen him, but she somehow doubted his ability to feel that much shame. Whatever the origin of his present excuse, she wished it swiftly dispatched, as she had seldom known the principals of a love match to spend so comparatively little time together during their engagement as Kitty and Mr. Dashwood had.
They’d arrived at the theatre to find it crowded. Tonight’s comedy had opened the previous week to excellent reviews, so now it was a point of status among the ton to be able to boast of having seen the play before the rest of one’s acquaintance. Elizabeth saw many faces she recognized, and many more she did not. She and her companions greeted those they knew and submitted to the usual small talk about the weather and Beau Brummell’s latest bon mot.
As Elizabeth chatted with Mrs. Farringdale, a neighbor from Longbourn, she experienced an increasing sense of being watched. Surreptitious glances to the side and over Mrs. Farringdale’s shoulder revealed that she was not imagining the attention. There were indeed gazes upon her—many gazes that darted away when challenged by her own.
Not until she and the girls climbed the grand columned staircase and entered their box did Elizabeth realize that she owed the notice to Kitty, whose share of it far surpassed her own. Throughout the theatre, furtive glances and open stares accompanied hushed dialogue and sympathetic head shakes. Georgiana was aware of them, too. Kitty held up her chin and did her best to ignore the attention, but something about her had captured the transient interest of the beau monde tonight.
“Lizzy?”
She patted Kitty’s hand as she answered the unspoken question. “I do not know, Kitty. But I am sure we shall hear it ourselves soon.”
Lord and Lady Chatfield entered their box, separated from the Darcys’ by three others. Elizabeth nodded in greeting at the countess and privately resolved to speak with her during the interval if possible. Perhaps their friends had heard the gossip circulating about Kitty and could enlighten them as to its nature.
At the close of the first act, Elizabeth stated her intention of seeking out the Chatfields and invited the girls to join her. Kitty vacillated. Staying in their box insulated her from having to speak directly with anyone they might encounter in the corridor, but at the same time prominently displayed her to the rumormongers. Georgiana suggested that they two remain together. They would create the appearance of being too engrossed in conversation to notice the twitters, and Kitty would turn toward Georgiana so as to offer most of the house only a profile view of her face. In that posture, though she might still be observed by those who would dissect her every expression for hidden meaning, she at least would not be forced to witness their scrutiny. Kitty gratefully seized upon the solution, and Elizabeth headed off.
She encountered Lady Chatfield in the hallway behind the boxes, the young countess having left hers on the same errand. Her ladyship moved with a natural grace Elizabeth knew she herself could never hope to achieve.
“Mrs. Darcy, I was just coming to bid you good evening.” Her smile at their meeting was genuine, lighting her delicate features. Her eyes, however, betrayed a hint of anxiety. “Are you and your sisters enjoying the performance?”
“It is diverting,” Elizabeth responded. Similar conversations babbled around them in the busy hallway. “Though perhaps not quite enough so, tonight.”
The countess drew her toward the wall, where it might be hoped that they could converse unheard. “You and Miss Bennet have heard the news, then? It must have been a terrible shock to her. I am so terribly sorry.”
Foreboding swept through her. “No, we have not heard the gossip—only surmised from everyone’s behavior that it had something to do with Kitty. I hoped perhaps you could tell me what is being said about her.”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Chatfield’s smooth brow wrinkled. “I do not want to be the bearer of ill tidings.”
“Better for me to hear them from a friend.”
“I suppose so.” They stood near a column that isolated a small pocket of the corridor from the rest. No one else lingered by it, as it would obscure from view anyone so positioned and most of the ton lived to be seen. The countess led her to the column, a move that made Elizabeth’s chest tighten. Whatever she had to impart must be dreadful indeed. After all, everyone else in the theatre had already heard it, so Lady Chatfield sought privacy not to protect the intelligence itself from eavesdroppers, but to protect Elizabeth from being observed during the moment of revelation.
“Mr. Dashwood has taken a mistress.”
Elizabeth was rendered speechless for a moment. When she recovered, she reminded herself that rumor and fact often were not closely acquainted. Her eyes roamed the crowd, seeing not individuals, but a great monster with a small mind and a thousand mouths that fed on innocent people such as her sister in its quest for entertainment and self-aggrandizement. It had seized upon Harry’s recent licentiousness and invented a scandalous tale for its own amusement.
“The report cannot be true. What a horrible falsehood to spread before someone’s wedding!”
The countess appeared more grave than Elizabeth had ever seen her. “Mrs. Darcy, I’m afraid it is no lie. I learned it this afternoon from my brother Phillip, who had it straight from Mr. Dashwood himself. The gossip started yesterday—rumors of a liaison between Mr. Dashwood and a nameless woman. Phillip took no heed of it when he heard it at the club. But he called upon Mr. Dashwood this morning and found him at breakfast with his paramour.”
“Could not the woman he saw simply have been invited to breakfast?” Such an invitation still raised questions but offered a more palatable explanation than the alternative.
“I understand she was in a state of extreme dishabille.”
“And Mr. Dashwood allowed her to be seen that way by his friend?”
“Phillip said the lady was concerned by their discovery, but Mr. Dashwood was shameless as could be. In fact, he found the whole scene highly amusing.”
Elizabeth’s stomach sickened. Her sister’s fiance had taken a lover. The faithless Harry Dashwood had not only broken his vows before even speaking them, he had flaunted his infidelity before his friend—and, it seemed, before all London. She recalled his recent claim of indisposition, and her discomfort gave way to disgust. Was this how he had occupied himself the past three days? Disinclined to leave his bed, indeed!
“Who is the lady?” Her emphasis on the last word revealed how lightly she used it.
“Phillip did not say, I did not ask, and so far the beau monde does not know. My brother did divulge to me, however, that she is married.”
So Mr. Dashwood had managed to damage someone else’s marriage, to injure another spouse, in addition to his own. No—not his own. A marriage between Harry and her sister now was out of the question. Her heart ached for Kitty.
Around them, the crowd started to file back into the auditorium in anticipation of the second act. She gazed at the entrance to her own box, dreading the conversation she must have with her sister tonight. It would not come until she’d whisked her safely out of this place, but come it must. Mr. Dashwood’s association with their family was ended.
Seventeen
“Much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his character had been delayed to a later period.”
—Elinor Dashwood to her sister Marianne,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 29
“I wish she would allow me to handle this for her.”
Elizabeth wished so, too. Darcy would deliver the set-down that Harry Dashwood deserved. Kitty’s heart still lay in too many pieces for it to have hardened against him enough to fully castigate him for his villainy, and Elizabeth feared the imminent conversation would only lead to its being shattered twice in four-and-twenty hours. She would be happier not to provide Mr. Dashwood that opportunity.
“Kitty wants to break the engagement herself.” Needed to do so, in fact. Needed to see his expression when he issued an explanation, or uttered more lies, or brazenly mocked her naïveté—whatever response the increasingly unpredictable Mr. Dashwood might offer. Though Elizabeth’s first instinct was to protect her sister from the unpleasant encounter ahead, she was glad to see Kitty taking a stand for herself. No matter what words fell from Harry’s lips, the engagement was over; to that much, Kitty had committed. She would leave Pall Mall minus a fiancé but with her self-respect intact.
Elizabeth and Darcy waited in their foyer for Kitty to come downstairs. The three of them would go together to Mr. Dashwood’s townhouse. He was not expecting them, but he would receive their call. On that point, Darcy and Elizabeth were determined. This matter would be resolved today. All that remained was to establish how much Kitty would rue ever having met Mr. Dashwood in the first place.
“Here she comes,” Darcy said.
Though Kitty had risen puffy-eyed from a sleepless night, Elizabeth’s maid had taken such care with her appearance that she looked every bit a young lady worth any gentleman’s notice. She carried herself with dignity as she descended the stairs, and held up her chin with barely a tremble.
“I am ready.”
If Harry Dashwood was still capable of regret, Elizabeth hoped it would pierce him at the sight of her sister this morning.
“This interview will go quickly, Kitty,” Elizabeth said. “And should it become too unpleasant, Darcy will intervene.”
Kitty merely nodded her agreement.
The ride to Pall Mall was quiet, especially in contrast to the bustle in which they found Harry’s townhouse upon their arrival. Sounds of construction below and rearrangement above resonated throughout the residence. The subcellar larder project was well under way, and Mr. Dashwood apparently intended to celebrate its installation by reorganizing his furniture.
The housekeeper, a dour woman who looked as if she’d been in service forever, admitted them. Her gaze assessed them as they entered. Elizabeth instinctively disliked her.
“Did you not say a manservant turned you away when you last called?” she asked Darcy.
“Perhaps he has exchanged his salver for a shovel.”
They were forced to wait in the foyer ten minutes before being shown to the drawing room, as the staircase was monopolized by the removal of a very large and—from the groans it forced from the three footmen who struggled with it—very heavy mirror. The style of its detailed gold frame suggested it might be an antique and piqued Elizabeth’s curiosity. She felt at once drawn to and repelled by the looking glass; a sudden urge to gaze into it seized her, but her feet remained rooted to the floor. It was as if her body refused to follow where her mind would go, forbidding her to take close interest in anything having to do with Harry Dashwood.
As the servants wrestled the mirror down the stairs, it caught a beam of sunlight lancing the transom window. Golden arcs bounced off the varied surfaces of the gilt frame to splay upon the walls, and the glass itself reflected a fiery glow. The burst of brightness temporarily blinded one of the footmen, who cried out and stopped short. His sudden halt unbalanced his assistants, and for a few heart-stopping moments it appeared that the servants and treasure would tumble down the stairs together.
“Don’t drop it, you fools!” Mr. Dashwood’s voice echoed from above. “That glass cannot be damaged!”
The men somehow regained their grips and footing. Elizabeth exhaled. As they slowly continued their descent, she raised her eyes to see Mr. Dashwood monitoring the proceedings from two flights up.
“Careful!” He bounded down to hover over them as they negotiated the final few steps. When they reached the base of the stairs, they gingerly leaned their burden against the wall and paused to catch their breaths.
“Pack it up securely for the journey. I do not want it arriving at Norland in pieces.” Mr. Dashwood then acknowledged Kitty and the Darcys. “Your visit is a pleasant surprise,” he said. “Do come upstairs.”
They followed him to the drawing room. He offered them a drink—some sort of sulfur-smelling liquor he called “brimstone”—but they declined. While he poured a glass for himself, Elizabeth noted the portrait of Sir Francis above the fireplace, as Fanny Dashwood had described. She was struck, on this viewing, by how very much Harry resembled his ancestor not only in physical person but also in character. Their bearing at this moment was identical, their facial expressions the same, their countenances nearly indistinguishable—and their reputations more alike every day. Sir Francis may have been rich, but Harry had chosen the poorest of his relations to emulate.
“You must be feeling better if you plan a trip to Norland,” Elizabeth observed. In truth, however, he did not look altogether well, and had she not learned from Lady Chatfield the real reason he’d lain abed the past three days, she would have believed his recent claims of indisposition. His complexion seemed paler, and his jaw more slack than when she’d seen him last. Dissipation was not a flattering cosmetic.
“The glass is going. I am not.”
“I thought you were enamored of it?” Darcy asked.
“It has become rather too familiar to me.” Mr. Dashwood tossed back his drink. He poured a second, then sat on the sofa and patted the place next to him. “Kitty, love, come sit beside me.”
She instead moved one step closer to Elizabeth. “I think I shall stand.”
He shrugged and rose. “As you wish. I would never deny a lady her pleasure.”
“Miss Bennet has a matter she needs to discuss with you,” Darcy said.
“Indeed? I am all attention.”
Kitty looked uncertainly at Darcy and Elizabeth, then took in a deep breath and began. “Mr. Dashwood, it has come to my knowledge that—” Her gaze slid back to Elizabeth, who nodded in encouragement. “That is, I’ve been given to understand that—” She became flustered.
Amu
sement played at the corners of his mouth. “God’s teeth, child! Spit it out before we all die of old age.”
Kitty squared her shoulders. “Mr. Dashwood, do you have a paramour?”
He did not so much as blink. “Yes. Do you?”
Her eyes widened, and she took a step backward. Elizabeth caught her elbow to steady her.
Darcy approached him. “You insult Miss Bennet with the very—”
“I believe this conversation is between me and my fiancée.”
“Former fiancée.”
“Indeed?” He glanced from Darcy to Kitty. “Is this your wish? To break our engagement?”
She swallowed. “Can you explain why I should not?”
“So I have taken a lover. Take one yourself, if you like.”
“Mr. Dashwood!”
“Mr. Dashwood!”
The first exclamation was Darcy’s; the second, following hard upon, was Kitty’s. Darcy appeared ready to choke the cocky youth. He opened his mouth to say more, but Elizabeth stayed him with a look. “Go on, Kitty,” she said.
“Mr. Dashwood, I hardly know you anymore.” Kitty repeated the words she’d rehearsed with Elizabeth this morning. “You are not the man I consented to wed. Ever since we returned from Norland, you have treated me and my family with disrespect.”
“How so?”
“Through your conduct toward me and your falsehoods to me. You lied about being indisposed these past three days—”
“I said I could not rise from bed. What you inferred from that is your own misconstruction.”
“You lied about not seeing me at Grafton House.”
“I acknowledged you as soon as you spoke to me.”
“You lied about having gone to Devonshire—”
“Devonshire? Why the devil would I go to Devonshire?”
“That is the very thing I wondered as you stood before us insisting that you had.” Her voice wavered. “Mr. Dashwood, I don’t understand what has come over you. My affection for you would have enabled me to bear a great deal, but I cannot, and will not, tolerate a mistress.”
Suspense and Sensibility: Or, First Impressions Revisited Page 15
