Pride and Prescience: Or, a Truth Univesally Acknowledged

by Carrie Bebris

  “Mr. Kendall could have orchestrated those events. Mrs. Parrish was on some sort of mysterious business with that overstuffed reticule—who is to say that her errand did not involve him? Perhaps he sought to extort the money from her that he could not legally get from her brother.”

  “And when her mission failed, she tried to take her own life?” He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead to soften his words. “My dear wife, I have long admired the liveliness of your mind, but I think it reaches too far this time. Logic does not support the connections you are trying to draw. Moreover, Mrs. Parrish’s altered demeanor since the wedding presents a much stronger case for herself as the catalyst of her own misfortunes.”

  Elizabeth’s expression grew troubled. “That supports a darker possibility.”

  “What might that be?”

  “Mr. Parrish suspects his wife may have set the fire.”

  His brows rose. “He said so outright?”

  “Indirectly. But his meaning was clear. He fears she is a danger to herself and others.”

  “Her injury upholds his misgivings. But the conflagration originated in Bingley’s chamber, not hers. How could she have accidentally started it there?”

  Elizabeth made no answer, only met his gaze. Her eyes held sadness, pity, resignation.

  Darcy shook his head. “I cannot believe Caroline Parrish would deliberately harm her brother, even in . . . an altered condition of mind.”

  “Perhaps Bingley was not her target.”

  “I cannot believe she would harm your sister, either.”

  “She has never cared for Jane.”

  The assertion was true—as Caroline Bingley’s unwilling confidante when they first met the Bennets, Darcy knew only too well her opinions about every member of the family. Miss Bingley had never considered Jane Bennet good enough for her brother. Yet Darcy could not see supercilious snipes leading to such extreme physical expression. Mrs. Parrish was far more likely to assassinate another woman’s reputation than her person.

  “Perhaps she did not care for the dress.”

  “Sneaking into someone else’s room in the middle of the night to destroy an unbecoming gown seems rather excessive fashion monitoring,” she said. “I think even Beau Brummell would draw the line at that.”

  “Brummell would impale the wearer with his wit.”

  “So would the Miss Bingley we once knew.”

  He was forced to concur, not liking the unpleasant possibilities he was starting to entertain. While he doubted Caroline Parrish capable of deliberately trying to injure others, he could envision a scenario in which madness led her to damage property—and in which carelessness led to casualty. That potential made her more dangerous than Lawrence Kendall, for one could not anticipate her behavior.

  “Mr. Parrish is wise to raise his vigilance,” he said at last. “We should as well.”

  “Agreed. We shall keep a close eye on Mrs. Parrish when she returns.” She released a sigh. “I suppose that happy task will fall largely to me, as I seem to encounter her more often than anybody.”

  “You are her most particular friend these days. Will you walk arm-in-arm during your next moonlight promenade?”

  With a saucy look, she returned his impudence in equal measure. “Just to be safe, darling, I shouldn’t wear the olive morning coat in her presence anymore if I were you. It is your least flattering.”

  Nineteen

  “I was never more annoyed!”

  Caroline Bingley to Darcy, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 6

  Vulgar woman. Insipid girls. Deadly conversation. It is good to be home.”

  Elizabeth overheard Caroline’s voice as she passed the music room. After four days at Longbourn, the family party had returned to Netherfield about an hour ago. Jane reported that upon hearing Netherfield was once again ready to receive them, the Bingley sisters had ordered their coaches with alacrity. Elizabeth wondered that Mrs. Hurst hadn’t campaigned for a temporary return to the house in Grosvenor Street rather than stay with the Bennets, but Jane said the townhouse had been shut up when the Hursts left for Netherfield.

  Major repairs to Netherfield’s east wing were under way and would continue for a long time to come. But the staff, aided by every servant who could be spared from regular duties in houses throughout the neighborhood, had worked tirelessly to restore the rest of the home to a habitable state so that their mistress and the others could return. Elizabeth and her sister were grateful for the generosity of so many nearby families, especially since results varied according to who had performed which tasks. Those undertaken by Jane and Bingley’s newest employees exhibited more zeal than skill: Smoky rugs looked like they’d been flogged rather than merely beaten; soot-stained walls had been scrubbed hard enough to reveal plaster beneath the paint.

  “Thank heaven for Frederick and Louisa,” Caroline continued. “I should have suffocated otherwise. And to be indebted to Mary Bennet for the clothes on my back until new ones can be made—it is simply mortifying! Why must she alone among my acquaintance approach my height?”

  Elizabeth steeled herself against the insults to her family. In a way, she welcomed them—Caroline sounded more like herself than she had in weeks. If her visit with the Bennets had somehow provided the push she needed toward recovery, perhaps they would all be able to return to their own lives before too much longer. Provided, of course, that no more “accidents” befell anyone.

  A series of notes issued from the pianoforte, an étude she recognized as a right-handed exercise. Mrs. Parrish yet wore a bandage on her left hand; her husband said the burn was healing slowly.

  “I can’t think how Charles and Darcy tolerate their new connections. They make the dullness of Mr. Hurst positively alluring.”

  Elizabeth chuckled softly. She’d no idea Caroline shared her opinion of Louisa’s husband. But to whom was Mrs. Parrish speaking so candidly?

  She ducked her head through the doorway, her mind rapidly assembling some excuse for the intrusion. But instead she found herself masking the surprise that had surely flashed across her face upon discovering the room’s occupant.

  Caroline Parrish was alone.

  _______

  “Mrs. Darcy, would you be so kind as to join me and Mrs. Parrish in the drawing room?”

  At Professor Randolph’s request, Elizabeth slid a bookmark into the second volume of The Italian and rose from her seat in the conservatory. “Is something amiss?”

  “Nothing of great consequence. It’s only that this is the time of afternoon when I always meet with Mrs. Parrish to take notes for Dr. Lancaster. Usually Mr. Parrish joins us, but I can’t find him, and I thought there should be a third person present for the sake of propriety. I’d ask Mrs. Hurst but I’m told she’s napping, and Mrs. Bingley—”

  “I’m happy to help you, Professor.”

  A smile conveyed his gratitude. “I’m sorry to disturb your reading. By all means, bring the book with you.”

  “You needn’t apologize. I was beginning to think a warm fire preferable to views of the bleak landscape outside.” Indeed, the only things green or cheerful about the conservatory today came from within the room. On the other side of the glass, thick grey clouds hung low in the sky, and the temperature had plummeted since morning.

  They found Caroline pacing in the drawing room. She greeted Elizabeth’s entrance with a look of uncertainty. “My husband is not coming?”

  “I could not locate him.” Randolph ushered her to the sofa. “Mrs. Darcy has consented to play chaperone.”

  Elizabeth held up her novel. “I will just sit in the corner with my book so as not to intrude on your privacy.” She settled into a wing-backed chair and opened the volume.

  “Mrs. Parrish, how are you feeling today?” Professor Randolph sat at the desk and withdrew a small notebook from one of his breast pockets.

  “My hand hurts.” She pulled at the bandage. “This is wound too tight.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Jones applied it p
roperly when he saw you this morning.” Randolph dipped a quill into the inkpot and jotted a few words. “How are your spirits?”

  “How should my spirits be? I have just spent two days with the—” She caught herself. “Away from here. All my clothes were destroyed in the fire. I am reduced to wearing borrowed cast-offs from Jane’s sister until my London modiste can produce new gowns. And everywhere I go, the staff whispers about me. How would your spirits be?”

  Elizabeth read the same paragraph for the third time and still comprehended none of it. She gave up trying to fool herself into thinking she would attend Mrs. Radcliffe’s words instead of Mrs. Parrish’s, but upheld the pretense of reading for Caroline’s benefit.

  “Have you suffered any headaches today?”

  “None but this interview.”

  “That’s a good sign—the spearmint leaves must be helping.” Randolph entered a few notes.

  “What is it you’re writing about me?”

  “Only what you’ve just told me.”

  She stomped over to him and seized the notebook. “ ‘Headaches improved, but out of sorts,’ ” she read. “Really? Is that your impression?” She transferred the notebook to her left hand and snatched the pen with her right. She dipped it into the ink hastily, scattering drops of ink onto the desk as she withdrew it. Then she scrawled something onto the page.

  “There—” She shoved the notebook and quill back at Professor Randolph. “Forward that observation to your colleague!”

  As Caroline abandoned him to pace around the room, Randolph read the words. He colored, cleared his throat, and turned to a fresh page in the notebook.

  She picked at her bandage again, this time unraveling the gauze. She then tossed the dressing into the fire. “I am taking off this bloody thing!”

  “Mrs. Parrish—”

  “Shocked you, did I? Well, I will say it again. Bloody! Bloody-bloody-bloody-bloody-bloody-bloody-bloody! I’m bloody tired of everyone in this bloody house treating me like a bloody invalid!” She tugged on her wedding ring but could not slide it off her still-swollen finger. “My hand hurts. But that is all. I am fine. I am fine!” She burst into tears, great gulping sobs that wracked her whole frame. “I am fine. . . .”

  Professor Randolph returned the quill to its stand and closed his notebook. He met Elizabeth’s troubled gaze and released a sigh. “Of course you are, Mrs. Parrish.”

  He withdrew his pocketwatch, muttered something under his breath, and glanced at Mrs. Parrish. He stared at her a long moment, then returned the watch to his waistcoat without opening it. Indeed, there seemed little point in consulting the time—Elizabeth doubted the interview had lasted five minutes.

  Caroline quieted, apparently having pulled herself together. Elizabeth offered to escort her to her chamber. With a nod, she accepted.

  As she rose and reached for Elizabeth’s arm, her ring scratched Elizabeth’s skin. Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from crying out. Good Lord, but those stones were sharp! The scratch didn’t bleed, but did leave an inch-long welt on her arm. A month ago, she might have thought the accident deliberate. But in Caroline’s current state Elizabeth doubted she was sensible of half her actions anymore.

  Mrs. Parrish came down to dinner that evening for the first time since leaving London. Her husband, his face drawn with anxiety, watched her every move and never left her side. The man looked exhausted. Elizabeth wondered if he’d allowed himself any sleep since the night of the fire.

  Caroline sat between Mr. Parrish and Professor Randolph. Mr. Kendall, still hanging around Netherfield for reasons the Darcys could only guess at, sat opposite. He lounged in his seat with the ease of someone actually welcome among the party, which he decidedly was not. His contemptuous presence smothered any gaiety that might have been felt upon the eve of the family’s homecoming. Had he conducted himself thus at Pemberley, Elizabeth suspected Darcy would have shown him the door long before now regardless of the weather or any other excuse the brute could devise. But Bingley, lacking the firmness to oust even an uninvited guest from his home, and worn down by recent events, tolerated his continued imposition with forced civility. The others followed his lead.

  Tonight, however, Kendall’s insolence exceeded all previous displays. No sooner had the soup been served than he commenced offering backhanded compliments to his hosts. The main courses saw him expanding his veiled insults to include additional members of the group. During dessert, he stared at Caroline until she became so disconcerted that her fork clattered against the plate each time she lowered it.

  Finally, she gave up eating altogether. “Have you something you wish to say, Mr. Kendall?”

  “I was just noticing how your color has faded since the London season. Perhaps it is too much bloodletting.” He cast a pointed look at her scarred wrists. “Someone should question your physician.”

  “Maybe other leeches are to blame.”

  Beside her, Parrish took her hand in his in a gesture of support. His wedding ring caught the flickering light of the candelabras. “Don’t let him provoke you, dearest.”

  She winced and brought both hands to her temples.

  “Caroline?” Bingley’s voice held concern.

  “I fear another of my headaches is coming on.” She rose to leave. When Mr. Parrish began to join her she motioned him back to his seat. “Stay. I’ll be fine.”

  Parrish looked as if he very much wanted to follow, but heeded her request. As the door closed behind her, Kendall shrugged. “Pallor. Headaches. It would seem that marriage does not agree with her.”

  Parrish locked gazes with Kendall as the rest of the company waited in strained silence to see if he would rise to the ill-mannered gentleman’s bait. They stared at each other a long moment, and Elizabeth sensed some unspoken communication was taking place. Ultimately, Parrish placed his napkin beside his plate, rose, and bowed to Jane. “Excuse me, Mrs. Bingley. I am going to check on my wife.” He departed without another look at Kendall.

  Elizabeth admired his restraint. Kendall’s presence in the house was unpleasant to all, but it must be particularly awkward for Mr. Parrish in light of his previous relationship with Kendall’s daughter.

  Bingley’s face flushed with uncharacteristic ire. “Mr. Kendall, I must insist that while you are a guest in my home, you treat my family with respect.”

  “Respect your family!” He laughed, a short burst that sounded like nothing so much as a donkey’s bray. “Do you speak of your mad sister or her fickle husband? I’m a betting man, Bingley, and I bet Mr. Parrish won’t stick around this family for long.”

  Kendall’s gaze swept the company, coming to rest on Mr. Hurst. A glint entered his eye. “Not like the steadfast Mr. Hurst here. Nothing’s more important than family in times of adversity—right, Hurst?”

  Startled by the direct address, Mr. Hurst nearly spilled his wine. “Er—right.”

  “How about it, Hurst? Care to lay a wager with me regarding your new brother-in-law?”

  “I—uh—” Hurst’s pasty face reddened. Perspiration dotted his forehead. “No, thank you,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not much of a gambler.”

  “Indeed? I thought I’d heard otherwise. I must be mistaken.” Kendall hefted his bulk to a standing position. “I think I’ll retire early this evening. The servants were unbearably noisy this morning.”

  “Perhaps you would find it more comfortable to return home and conduct any remaining business with Mr. Bingley via post,” Darcy suggested.

  “If this damnable weather would cooperate, that is precisely what I would do. Unfortunately it lingers, therefore so must I.” As Kendall sauntered through the door, the wind howled outside.

  Another storm was rising.

  Twenty

  Mrs. Hurst . . . had married a man of more fashion than fortune.

  Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 4

  The snow everyone anticipated did not come. Instead it rained: huge, angry drops that froze as soon as they reached the ground. Elizabeth wo
ke to a world encased in ice. Sunlight glinted off the crystals, lending an ethereal sparkle to the landscape that would have been beautiful had it not also provided Mr. Kendall an excuse to trespass upon Netherfield’s hospitality and patience still longer.

  “There will be no traveling today, I fear. For Mr. Kendall or anyone else.” Elizabeth left the window but did not succumb to the temptation of crawling back into her snug bed. Instead, she padded across the cold oak floor to the armoire and selected her warmest gown from among those Lucy had laundered after the fire.

  “Can we not find him a pair of ice skates and send him off?” Darcy fastened his shirt and sat to pull on his boots. “I do not think I can tolerate his company at one more meal without developing indigestion.”

  “He was insufferable at dinner, was he not? Spewing venom at everybody. I thought Mrs. Parrish might be reduced to tears for the second time in a day.”

  “He seemed to be seeking a fight from any quarter. Had I my fencing gear handy, I might have obliged him.”

  “I would like to watch you fence sometime, but against a more worthy opponent. Let Mr. Kendall exhaust his quarrelsomeness on lesser men—Mr. Hurst, perhaps. He seemed to pay that gentleman extra attention last night.”

  “Yes. I do not think Hurst saw it coming.” He approached the mirror to fold his cravat.

  “His invitation to wager struck me as odd.” So had Hurst’s reaction to it—the suggestion seemed to have made him nervous. “It reminded me of Lord Chatfield’s remark about Mr. Hurst. What was it the earl said?”

  “That Hurst’s name appears often in White’s betting book.”

  “He also mentioned losses at cards. Yet Mr. Hurst asserted that he wasn’t much of a gambler.”

  “Elizabeth, I have seen you lose at cards in your own mother’s drawing room. Does that mean I married a gamester?”