“Nothing. Idle musings.” He reached for the candle snuffer, but she stayed his hand.
“Darcy?”
He sighed. “Many an engaged young man has spent his last precious days of bachelorhood sowing wild oats.”
Her brows rose. “And you think Mr. Dashwood—”
“Not necessarily. Mr. Dashwood seems to have settled down since meeting Kitty.”
“But now that he has secured her hand, perhaps he indulges his more carefree impulses?”
“London offers plenty of temptation to a young man about to lose his freedom.” The clubs abounded with tales of prewedding excess on the part of prospective bridegrooms. Were dissipated nights of drinking, gaming, or worse to blame for Harry’s recent fatigue?
“We shall give Mr. Dashwood the benefit of the doubt,” Elizabeth declared. She released his hand, freeing him to extinguish the candles. She watched as he snuffed out all but the one beside their bed.
“So, how did you spend them?” she asked.
“Spend what?”
“Your last precious days of bachelorhood—before you lost your freedom?” She gave him an insouciant look. “Another wife might take language like that amiss, you know.”
“Then thank heaven I have only one.” He blew out the last candle. “For if I had two with tongues as saucy as yours, I should never be able to keep up.”
Ten
The imaginations of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances.
—Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 36
“Now Kitty—I may call you Kitty, mayn’t I, since we are to be family soon? Kitty, dear, I wouldn’t bring this up to save my life if I didn’t think it was something you ought to know. But people are talking.”
Lucy Ferrars, her daughter in tow, had called upon Kitty and Elizabeth early. This was their second visit to the Darcys’ townhouse, the first, motivated far more by duty than delight, having taken place the day Kitty and Harry’s engagement announcement appeared in the papers. It had been returned with equal brevity and palpable lack of interest. Today, however, Lucy had made a dramatic entrance, announcing that she had desperately important news about Harry to impart.
Kitty held her breath, unable to utter a syllable as she sat beside Lucy on the sofa. Elizabeth had ordered tea, but no one save Regina partook of it. Kitty simply regarded Lucy in bewilderment as Harry’s aunt completed her oratorical warm-up exercises, priming her audience with avowals of her reluctance to speak. As Miss Ferrars helped herself to a third jam tart, Elizabeth poured the last of the tea into Regina’s cup and motioned the maid to bring more refreshments. She could only hope Lucy’s gossip would run out before their provisions did.
Finally, Lucy got to the substance of her report. “At Almack’s yestereve, Lady Pendleton told me that she saw Harry in Bond Street one night earlier this week, wearing the most peculiar clothing. A long coat with a full skirt and huge, embroidered cuffs—a ruffled shirt—high heels. The fashionable Harry Dashwood, in a suit so out of style it could have belonged to his great-grandfather! She could only surmise that he wore a costume. What else could she think? But when she encountered him in Hyde Park the next day and asked if he’d participated in a theatrical, or attended a masquerade, he claimed to have no idea what she was talking about.”
This was Lucy’s momentous news? “How well does Lady Pendleton know Mr. Dashwood?” Elizabeth countered. “She spied the costumed gentleman on a dark street. Can she be certain that it was he?”
“Quite certain.”
“Lady Pendleton’s youngest daughter’s brother-in-law went to Eton with Harry,” Regina declared with the air of one revealing profound truths. Unfortunately, the effect was marred by her need to dab jam from the corners of her mouth.
Elizabeth slept with Darcy, and she wasn’t confident she could with certitude identify him so attired in a casual sighting on a dark street. She sensed, however, that any further attempts on her part to add intelligence to Lucy’s “intelligence” would prove equally ineffectual.
“Well, then,” Elizabeth conceded, “there is no denying her authority.”
“None.” Lucy shook her head sadly at Kitty. “I wouldn’t trouble you with the incident, curious though it may be, for all the world. But it happened a second time. Mr. Sutton saw Harry the following night, dressed the same way. And in the morning, he denied it again!”
Elizabeth emitted an exaggerated gasp. “No!”
“Yes! And I’m afraid there’s more.” Lucy leaned toward Kitty, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “I do so hate to be the bearer of ill tidings, my dear Kitty. It pains me beyond anything. But it is best you hear of this from someone who loves him.” She took a deep breath and touched her hand to Kitty’s. “William Middleton encountered Harry on Wednesday evening outside Boodle’s Club, and Harry gave him the cut direct—walked right past him without acknowledgment!”
“Not the cut direct!” Elizabeth said, her sarcastic tone completely lost upon Lucy.
“Indeed!” Lucy pressed a hand to her chest. “Can you believe it? Our Harry!”
Regina started on a fourth tart.
Kitty looked to Elizabeth, at last finding her voice. “William Middleton is one of Mr. Dashwood’s particular friends. Neither could have mistaken the other.”
“I am certain some explanation exists,” she assured her sister. Elizabeth had her own theory about the events—if “events” they could be called without investing them with more significance than they deserved. She suspected Lucy still harbored ambitions of a union between her simpleminded daughter and the very eligible Mr. Dashwood. With Harry’s mother now united in purpose, she had called this morning to launch a campaign against Mr. Dashwood’s character in hopes that Kitty would cry off. Every charge Lucy had brought forth would be forgotten by the ton in less than a fortnight, but if in the meantime she could convince the inexperienced Kitty that his offenses held greater import, the way might be cleared for Regina to ease the sting of a broken engagement.
Elizabeth could see that tiny seeds of doubt had already taken root in Kitty’s mind. It was time to end this interview. “Mrs. Ferrars, we are most grateful for your kindness in coming to us with these reports. Is there anything further we must hear?”
“Gracious me, I hope not. You don’t know how I pray that these are Harry’s only transgressions.”
Lucy looked as if she wished she had more bad news to spread so reluctantly, but having run out, she had little excuse to prolong her call. She soon rose and pressed Kitty’s hand as she took her leave. “Do not let this morning’s communication lead you to doubt Harry. What are a few barefaced denials and the mistreatment of a childhood friend? Try to disregard these incidents as you prepare for the wedding.”
Regina cast a look of sympathy at Kitty, and one of regret at the remaining tart, before following her mother out the door.
Kitty sank back onto the sofa. “Lizzy, whatever can this mean?” Her voice trembled.
“It means nothing,” Elizabeth responded vehemently.
“But Mr. Dashwood’s behavior—”
“We have no assurance that these tales even involve Mr. Dashwood. We have never seen him in anything but up-to-the-minute attire. Whatever would he be doing going about dressed that way? More likely, Lady Pendleton and Mr. Sutton saw an actor who bears resemblance to Mr. Dashwood. And even if the gentleman in question were he, the only crime he stands accused of is going out in public unfashionably dressed. Howsoever that may constitute a hanging offense among the beau monde, within our own circle, I think we can forgive it.”
“But what of his rudeness to Mr. Middleton?”
“All London has been cloaked in fog for the better part of this week. Perhaps Mr. Dashwood simply did not see his friend. Regardless, you should ask Mr. Dashwood himself about these incidents the next time he calls. He will soon be your husband—you owe him the opportunity to explain himself, and he may reveal info
rmation to you that he would not share with others.”
She sagged in relief. “Of course you are right. Either his friends are mistaken, or there is some reasonable explanation for his conduct that will make perfect sense once we hear it. I only needed you to say aloud what I secretly hoped.”
“Mr. Dashwood is a good man, Kitty. You could not have fallen in love with him otherwise.”
Darcy, having left the townhouse before Lucy’s arrival, missed the performance she gave the ladies, but he, too, heard news of Mr. Dashwood that day. He arrived early at the fencing club for his standing appointment with Lord Chatfield. While Darcy waited for the earl, an older gentleman enquired whether anyone in the room knew the present whereabouts of Mr. Dashwood. Darcy said he did not, but that he anticipated dining with him that evening and would be pleased to convey a message.
“Tell Dashwood that Felix Longcliffe doesn’t appreciate being stood up. We were to match swords today.”
“Perhaps there has been some confusion about the designated time,” Darcy suggested by way of apology.
“He seemed perfectly clear about it at the Pigeon Hole last night.”
Darcy hoped he misunderstood Longcliffe. “The Pigeon Hole?” He had heard of the notorious hell in St. James’s Square. In addition to being a seedy gaming house that catered to a low clientele, it was said that one of the owners also operated a house of ill repute.
“Tumbled in with a bunch of rowdies, after they got tossed from one of the clubs,” Longcliffe said. “A pretty high-flying crowd. Most of them were too foxed to hold on to their money long.”
“How did Mr. Dashwood do?”
Longcliffe’s brow creased. “I don’t think I saw him actually play. Perhaps he was already cleaned out when he arrived. Anyway, he and his friends were obnoxious, even by the standards of that establishment. When I suggested their conduct interfered with the pleasure of other patrons, he informed me in most impolite terms that none but his own pleasure was of consequence to him. I thought he was going to challenge me to an affair of honor, but then he looked at me closely and said, ‘I know you—Felix Longcliffe.’
“How he knew my name, I cannot fathom, as I knew his only from hearing his companions bandy it about. It caught my ear because I knew another Dashwood years ago. Well, he stood there staring at me until he finally says, ‘You’ve grown old.’ ‘I’m two-and-sixty,’ says I. ‘And still agile enough to cross swords with a young whelp who needs to learn a thing or two.’ He said he wouldn’t engage in an affair of honor with a man my age, but he would meet me for a sporting match if I named the place. So here I am, and he is nowhere to be seen!”
So troubled was Darcy by Longcliffe’s account that he could not concentrate on his own match with Chatfield. The earl easily bested him in half the time of their typical contests.
“Care to try again?” Chatfield offered.
Darcy shook his head. “I have a dinner guest coming this evening for whom I need to prepare.”
The earl regarded him quizzically. “Are not such matters Mrs. Darcy’s province?”
“Not tonight.”
“How intriguing. Perhaps I should drop by to see how things turn out. What is on the menu?”
“One young buck.”
Eleven
“A plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour.”
—Elinor Dashwood to her mother,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 15
Mr. Dashwood did not come to dinner that night.
Or the following.
Or any night that week.
He sent his regrets, explaining only that urgent business would prevent him from enjoying the pleasure of Miss Bennet’s company for at least a se’nnight, perhaps longer.
Elizabeth often caught her sister looking out the window down to the street, as if willing Harry’s carriage to appear. Kitty maintained her belief in Mr. Dashwood’s character, but with each passing day, uncertainty pressed more heavily upon her. Her confidence, which had blossomed in the warmth of his regard, now withered in his absence. Determined not to doubt him until he could defend himself, she began to doubt her own ability to hold his interest.
It did not help that each day brought more accounts of inexplicable conduct on his part. Whatever “urgent business” kept Mr. Dashwood from Kitty apparently did not prevent him from being sighted by everyone else all over town. Lucy’s reports were echoed by others of a similar nature, and while none of them accused Harry of any real harm, they combined to create an increasingly unbecoming portrait and a most perplexing puzzle. Lucy herself figured in some of the tales, apparently having been observed in deep conversation with Harry on several occasions after her call at the Darcys’. News of the tête-à-têtes confirmed Elizabeth’s conviction that Mrs. Robert Ferrars schemed to alter Mr. Dashwood’s marriage plans in her daughter’s favor.
The story Darcy had heard at the fencing club constituted more worrisome intelligence. Not only did it reflect poorly on Mr. Dashwood’s integrity, but as the week wore on it also seemed that Longcliffe’s encounter had not been an isolated incident. Rumor said that Harry visited different clubs and gaming hells each night, and had begun to amass an odd assortment of new companions. Some were young men like himself, some were old, and a few bordered on ancient. But all of them were rakehells with devil-may-care attitudes and reputations Darcy only delicately hinted at to Elizabeth. She suspected that much of what he heard, he left unsaid to her, and to Kitty he said nothing at all.
Though Kitty’s faith in Mr. Dashwood remained steadfast, Elizabeth’s and Darcy’s began to falter. Their greater knowledge of his alleged activities rendered them even more impatient than his fiancée for him to explain himself, and his reluctance to face them—for what else could be keeping him away?—only added to their misgivings.
“I declare, Kitty spent the better part of the day at that window,” Elizabeth said. She and Darcy were alone in the drawing room, she halfheartedly working a satin stitch upon a handkerchief, he writing a letter at the corner secretary. Kitty had retired to her chamber immediately after dinner, and Georgiana had gone to a concert with the Gardiners.
“It is a shame you could not persuade her to join Georgiana and your aunt and uncle.”
“She did not want to leave the house. It seems to me, however, that she stands a better chance of seeing Mr. Dashwood about town than by staying at home waiting for him to arrive at our door.”
“If he does not present himself here on the morrow, I am going to call upon him again,” Darcy said. He had gone to Harry’s townhouse on Tuesday but had been forced to settle for leaving his card when Dashwood’s butler told him the master was not at home. As Darcy retreated from the door, he’d spotted Mr. Dashwood in an upstairs window. While he understood the servant’s statement had meant Dashwood was not receiving visitors—the ton drew a distinction between being physically at home and being socially “at home”—Dashwood’s avoidance had not raised him in Darcy’s esteem. Nor had the fact that four days later, Dashwood still had not returned the call. “Perhaps this time he will receive me.”
Elizabeth struggled to loosen a knot in her thread. “I simply cannot reconcile these unfavorable accounts of Mr. Dashwood with the man we know. But the longer he stays away, the more I wonder if we ever really knew him at all.” The whole matter had created dissonance within her. She had liked Harry, trusted him, but the facts surrounding his recent conduct cast him in an increasingly unflattering light. Had her instincts been that far off the mark?
The knot refused to unravel, and she set aside the needlework in frustration. She hadn’t really felt like working on it; she’d taken it up this evening just to have some occupation beyond contemplating Mr. Dashwood’s movements. As the handkerchief, however, was intended for Kitty to carry on her wedding day, the project only vexed her by reminding her of the doubts plaguing them all.
The sound of a visitor at the door drew curiosity from them both. “Who calls at this
hour?” she asked.
Before Darcy could reply, Kitty rushed into the room. “Mr. Dashwood is here! I saw his carriage arrive.”
Harry entered a moment later. The housekeeper trailed behind, belatedly announcing him. He immediately fixed his attention on Kitty.
“Miss Bennet.” An air of weariness enveloped him. His eyes were red, with puffy circles beneath them that made them appear smaller. Faint stubble lined his cheek. His posture, though not stooped, failed to exhibit its usual erectness. As he beheld Kitty, however, his shoulders lost their slump.
“Mr. Dashwood.” Darcy greeted him stiffly. “How good of you to call.”
Harry wrested his gaze from Kitty to acknowledge Darcy and Elizabeth. “Forgive the lateness of my visit. I have been out of town and just now returned. I could not wait until morning to see Miss Bennet again.”
“You are indeed tardy in presenting yourself here.”
Mr. Dashwood glanced nervously from Darcy to Elizabeth. Darcy was using his most formidable tone, one that had intimidated older and more worldly individuals than Harry. When Darcy adopted that demeanor, even Elizabeth hesitated to cross him. She almost felt sorry for Mr. Dashwood. Almost. He still owed Kitty—owed them all—an explanation.
“I have missed you, Harry,” Kitty said. “Where have you been?”
“In Devonshire. I visited my Dashwood relations.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Edward Ferrars?”
“Yes. Also my aunt Marianne Brandon, and their mother.”
Elizabeth regarded him skeptically, disliking the mistrust growing within her. “Mrs. Edward Ferrars told me she lives three days’ journey from London. When did you leave for Delaford?”
“Friday last.”
“And you returned today?”
“This moment,” Harry said. “I did not even stop at my own residence, but came here straightaway.”
The cool cast of Darcy’s countenance revealed his displeasure. “We are to understand that you have not been in town these past nine days?”
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