“I understand you leave on the morrow?” Mr. Dashwood asked.
“Yes.” The Darcys had extended their London stay to see Harry through his initial recovery, but now they headed back to Pemberley. They would stop en route at Longbourn to return Kitty. “But I expect it is not I to whom you particularly wished to say good-bye.”
“I hoped to see Mrs. Darcy, too, of course.”
“And no one else?”
Mr. Dashwood had enquired after Kitty at every opportunity, but the two had not yet met in person. Though free of his obligation to Regina—breaking the engagement between the cousins had seemed best for all involved—the awkwardness of seeing Kitty again, after the hurt Sir Francis had inflicted upon her, had deterred him from calling at the Darcys’ townhouse.
“She is out with Mrs. Darcy and my sister at the moment but should return soon,” Darcy said.
“I do not know what to say to her—how to begin to apologize, or even explain.”
“Mrs. Darcy told her you have been unwell but are on the mend. What you reveal beyond that is your own choice.”
“Do you think she could ever possibly believe the truth?”
“I suspect she still wants very much to believe in you.”
Mr. Dashwood avoided Darcy’s gaze. “I am unworthy of that faith.”
“Do you still care for her?”
His ardent expression said that he did, but it quickly transformed to one of misery. “I have nothing to offer her. My fortune is gone, my friends alienated, my reputation blackened beyond redemption. My very body is so changed I don’t yet feel entirely comfortable in my own skin.” He held up his hand before him. “I cannot tender her a hand I don’t even recognize as my own and a name everyone recognizes as infamous!” He slumped against the chair back and shook his head. “I have nothing to recommend me.”
“Nothing but yourself.”
“That is not enough, and you know it even better than I.”
Unfortunately, Darcy did know it. Even if Miss Bennet could overlook the alteration of Harry’s form, and her family the damage Sir Francis had done to Mr. Dashwood’s reputation, no one could ignore the loss of his fortune. Love alone could not sustain a couple, nor could the interest on Kitty’s one thousand pounds.
Mr. Dashwood rose. “I think honor requires me to distance myself from Miss Bennet, so that her heart is free to bestow itself on a more deserving gentleman. I shall leave now, before she returns.”
“Where do you go?” Darcy asked. “I speak not merely of the present moment, but of your future. Without your inheritance, how do you plan to maintain yourself?”
“During my captivity, I spent a great deal of time contemplating my life and its value—not just to myself, but to others. I concluded that I had been a rather selfish creature, though I hoped I had started to mend that deficiency under the influence of Miss Bennet’s regard. I resolved that should I ever be so blessed as to escape my prison, I would endeavor to prove a more useful human being. I have been granted salvation; I believe it now my duty to help others reach it.”
“You intend to enter the church?”
“As soon as I can take orders. I think quitting town for a quiet life as a country vicar, such as my uncle Edward Ferrars enjoys, is the very thing for me. By some miracle, he and my aunt Elinor are still speaking to me, and I plan to solicit his assistance in getting ordained and finding a modest living—provided the reputation Sir Francis left me with does not prejudice one and all against my serving as a clergyman. I hope perhaps, in some place far removed from London, there may exist a potential patron who has not heard the tales.”
A life devoted to the church, if Harry served well, could go a long way toward restoring his respectability. Darcy studied Mr. Dashwood, not in the light of the summer sun streaming through the window, but in the light of the trial he had just endured. The idle young buck Darcy had first met at the Middletons’ soiree would never have made a good minister; the gentleman who entertained them at Norland might have, but lacked any motive for entering the profession. This man before him, however—this chastened, reborn Mr. Dashwood, baptized in the mirror’s fire—he would make a very good clergyman, indeed.
“I know of a living in Derbyshire that will become vacant soon. In Kympton, a pleasant little village.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Dashwood’s interest was evident. “Do you think its patron might be prevailed upon to consider me?”
“The living is mine to grant. And yours if you want it.”
He was silent a moment. “Mr. Darcy, I hardly know what to say. I am humbled by your generosity. You have already done so much for me and are one of the only friends I have remaining. I most gratefully accept, and pledge to devote myself wholeheartedly to the parishioners in my care.”
“Do you not even wish to know the living’s value?”
“It is immaterial, but tell me if you like.”
“About four hundred a year, enough to support in comfort a man of moderate habits—” Darcy paused. “And his wife, if he happened to have one.”
Hope illuminated Mr. Dashwood’s face, but he quickly fought it back, unwilling to give himself over to it. “Do you think she would have me?” he whispered.
Below, the front door opened, filling the hall with the sound of ladies returning.
“That, Mr. Dashwood, is up to her. And to you.”
He left Harry in the library and went to the balcony. Miss Bennet was in the hall below, with Elizabeth and Georgiana. Kitty laughed at something her sister said, and Darcy reflected that during the period of Mr. Dashwood’s recovery, she, too, had begun to heal from the injuries Sir Francis had inflicted. He captured her attention.
“Miss Bennet, there is someone in the library who wants very much to speak with you.”
Curiosity crossed her countenance but did not erase her smile. She came up the stairs. “Who is it?”
He took her arm and led her into the library, closing the door behind them. “Receive him only if you wish.”
Mr. Dashwood gazed out the window, lost in thought, his back to the door. In his altered form, which Kitty had not seen in weeks and which had undergone still more changes since, it took her a moment to recognize him. When she did, she gasped.
“Mr. Dashwood.”
He turned round. Darcy had never seen a face exhibit such a range of emotions in so short a span. Joy. Regret. Hope. Grief. Longing. Sorrow. Tenderness.
“Miss Bennet.”
He went toward her. She took an involuntary step back and leaned closer to Darcy. He stopped.
“You are afraid of me.” The fact clearly wounded him, but he bore it with acceptance.
“No.” She withdrew her arm from Darcy’s supportive grasp and walked to Mr. Dashwood. Raising her chin, she looked him in the eye. “No, Harry,” she said quietly. “I am not afraid of you.”
“I cannot blame you if you are, after all that has transpired.”
Darcy retreated toward the door to grant them some measure of privacy, but he would not leave until assured that Kitty was easy in Mr. Dashwood’s company.
She studied Harry a long time. “My sister says you have been ill.”
“I was not myself when we last saw each other, and had not been for weeks.”
“And now? Are you once more the gentleman I knew at Norland?”
“No,” he said. “I fear that, like Norland itself, that man is gone forever. But I hope I am a better one.”
Her gaze darted about the room, as if she were afraid to let it rest on him too long. His, however, never left her. He drank in the vision of her, cherishing each expression, each gesture, even those unfavorable to his suit. He had not seen her in over two months, and, depending on the outcome of this meeting, might never see her again.
“Mr. Dashwood, why have you called today? Surely you realize how difficult this interview is for me. The horrible things you said at our last meeting—the wicked things you did—” Her voice broke.
“Miss Bennet, I—�
��
“We were engaged to be married, and you took a mistress!” She shut her eyes against the sight of him and turned her head. A deep, shaky breath followed. When she opened her eyes once more, she looked away from him, at the floor.
The anguish that crossed his countenance at the sight of her distress at least equaled hers. “Miss Bennet—”
“A mistress,” she repeated quietly. “Have you any idea how much that hurt me?”
He swallowed hard. “Yes.”
His own hands trembling, he reached for hers. She let him take them, but she would not meet his eyes. He dropped to his knees so that he could look up into her face.
“Miss Bennet, I have no right to beg your forgiveness, to hope that somewhere in the heart that suffered so on my account is a corner that does not utterly despise me. But Miss Bennet, if there is—if any chance exists that you might one day look upon me without revulsion—that I may someday regain your respect, if not your love—” He drew in an unsteady breath of his own. “Oh, God, Kitty—if I could but take your pain upon myself, how willingly, how gratefully, how humbly I would bear it!”
She withdrew one hand from his grasp, to wipe tears from her eyes.
“Oh, Harry, I want to believe you . . . .”
Neither of them heard Darcy open the door and close it behind him. Miss Bennet and Mr. Dashwood still had a great deal to talk through, and they did not need an audience. Darcy believed, however, that they eventually would find their way back to each other.
Elizabeth waited just outside. “You are most mysterious this afternoon.” She nodded toward the door. “Who is in there?”
“The future vicar of Kympton.”
“You filled the living? That must be a relief—I know how the vacancy has plagued you. Whom did you find?”
“A promising gentleman who plans to take orders soon.”
“He must be a younger person, then. I am glad—there is less likelihood of your having to fill the benefice again right away. How old a man is he?”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “At present, I am not altogether certain.”
“Well, never mind. I am just pleased we can leave London with that objective satisfied.” She headed back to the staircase and started to descend. On the second step, however, she stopped and turned around. “But Darcy, whatever does the new vicar want with Kitty?”
“I believe he wants to marry her.”
She regarded him in puzzlement. Then sudden understanding lit her expression. “Mr. Dashwood is in there?” she whispered excitedly.
“He is.”
“And you’ve left them alone together? Shame on you, Darcy—’tis most improper.” It was an empty admonishment—her eyes danced with delight as she returned to his side. “What is he saying to her?”
“I am not privy to that information.”
“All right—as a fellow gentleman, what do you think he is saying?”
He looked into her face and took her hand. “I think he says that if she will grant him the opportunity, he will spend the remainder of his life proving himself worthy of her.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I think he says that if she can content herself to live on a clergyman’s income, he will treat her like a duchess.” He kissed the inside of her wrist. “I think he says that—” He whispered the last in her ear.
“Mmm. I had no idea Mr. Dashwood was such a romantic fellow.” She allowed him to lead her away from the library door. “And what do you have to say, Mr. Darcy?”
“That I pray your sister consents, for I do not think I could endure another London season such as this.”
Epilogue
“Think only on the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.”
—Elizabeth to Darcy,
Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 58
Elizabeth gazed out the window, momentarily distracted from her needlework by the beckoning landscape of Derbyshire in late summer. The flower gardens called, the majestic trees beckoned, and the warm afternoon sun tempted her to abandon her needle for her best pair of walking shoes.
But she wanted to finish the infant gown today, and so would postpone her walk until later. On the desk, a note to Jane also wanted completion. Elizabeth thought of her sister often these days, wondering how her sister fared as the time of her confinement neared.
Darcy entered, a letter in his hand. “I have just received word that the old vicar of Kympton passed away yesterday. The living is now Mr. Dashwood’s as soon as he is eligible for ordination.”
“That is sad news for the vicar’s family, but Kitty will be glad to hear it. She and Mr. Dashwood can now fix upon a wedding date.”
“Do you think they will wed as soon as he takes orders?”
“I imagine so. After all, Mr. Dashwood is not getting any younger.”
She added several stitches to the bedgown. The mundane task, undertaken in the comfort and security of Pemberley, made their encounter with the Mirror of Narcissus seem as though it occurred long ago. However, one had only to recall Mr. Dashwood’s matured countenance to remember that awful day vividly. She raised her eyes to her husband, grateful for the thousandth time that she had not lost him to the mirror’s curse.
“You have a distant expression,” he observed.
“I was thinking about the Mirror of Narcissus,” she said. “I have often wondered what image held you spellbound. When Professor Randolph bade you imagine yourself as you wanted others to see you, did you create a younger representation of yourself, as had so many victims before you?”
“No, older.”
“Older?”
“Not advanced in age, so much as in understanding,” he explained. “I pictured myself the kind of man my father was, a teacher with wisdom to impart.”
“To someone like Harry?”
“To my own son. Or daughter.”
She pushed the needle through the muslin and brought it up again. Darcy sat down beside her, observing.
“That is a handsome dress—I think the finest of all you have made for Jane. Your sister will treasure it, I am certain.”
“This one is not for Jane.”
“It is not?”
She met his gaze and smiled softly. “No, it is not.”
He did not speak, only gently took the dress from her hands and set it aside so he could pull her close. As he gathered her into his arms, she looked forward to seeing him as he had seen himself in the glass—a father to the child who had been the cause of the mirror’s destruction.
A soul for a soul. That had been the mirror’s price, and all it could contain. But in that terrible moment when it had tried to claim hers, unknown yet even to herself, her body had held two.
Authors’s Note
She would, if asked, tell us many little particulars about the subsequent career of some of her people. In this traditionary way we learned . . . that Kitty Bennet was satisfactorily married to a clergyman near Pemberley.
—fames Edward Austen-Leigh,
A Memoir of Jane Austen, 1870
Dear Readers,
While Suspense and Sensibility is a work of fiction, Sir Francis Dashwood (1708-1781) was a real person who indeed founded a secret society that came to be known as the Hell-Fire Club. As many of my readers are interested in history, I thought those unfamiliar with Sir Francis might want to know a little more about him.
The two centuries since Dashwood’s death have left us with conflicting accounts of what Sir Francis was like in life. Some historians sympathize with him; others demonize him. Well traveled and widely read, he pursued varied interests with zeal. These included antiquities, art, architecture, and landscape gardening; he spent enormous amounts of money in building projects at his West Wycombe estate and nearby Medmenham Abbey. He served in Parliament for forty years and held the offices of Chancellor of the Exchequer and joint Postmaster-General. He was an intelligent man who gathered around him many of the leading minds of his day, from John Wilkes to Benjamin Franklin.
In founding t
he so-called Hell-Fire Club (a name its members did not use themselves), Sir Francis Dashwood brought together his fascinations with religion, sex, and politics. The specific activities of the group, which met over a period spanning three decades, are shrouded in legend and mystery but share a common theme of debauchery and dissipation. History charges the “Friars of Saint Francis” with crimes of conduct ranging from drunken revels, mockeries of Christianity, and orgies, to incest, Satan worship, and black magic. Yet many of its alleged members wielded considerable political influence, and some historians credit the Friars with contributing to the development of democracy in England and America.
I first heard of Sir Francis Dashwood after many readings of Sense and Sensibility, and immediately thought of fane Austen’s Dashwood family. Wouldn’t it be interesting, I thought, if the shocking Sir Francis were somehow related to Austen’s Dashwoods? Talk about two worlds colliding! fust the image of him in the same room as Austen’s characters inspired so many possibilities that the premise proved irresistible. The seed that eventually became this book was planted.
Sir Francis, however, died well before the events of Austen’s Sense and Sensibility unfold—a somewhat inconvenient fact if he was to interact with the Dashwoods of Norland. Though Austen’s book was published in 1811, it takes place in the mid-1790s: some fifteen years after Sir Francis lived, and even longer after his heyday. Meanwhile, Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, and my own Pride and Prescience, last left Mr. and Mrs. Darcy in late 1812. Aging the S&S characters to bring them into contact with the Darcys was no problem, but what to do about Sir Francis? Well, if ever there was a figure whose activities in life lent themselves to a return appearance, it was he.
Suspense and Sensibility: Or, First Impressions Revisited Page 26
