Suspense and Sensibility

by Carrie Bebris

  After Elizabeth had returned home with news of Harry’s disinheritance, a note from Edward Ferrars followed that suggested a gentleman-to-gentleman talk might prove the best way to approach Mr. Dashwood. Darcy had concurred, though he thought “man-to-man” a more appropriate term, as Mr. Dashwood had not conducted himself anything like a gentleman in weeks. Darcy half wished Mr. Ferrars would undertake the mission alone, as he himself had suffered quite enough of Harry, but he wanted to be able to assure Chatfield firsthand that every possible means of persuasion had been attempted.

  Raucous guffaws and whistles from Dashwood’s table drew Darcy’s attention to that quarter, where the betting had escalated to dizzying heights. Harry called for more wine.

  “Is that your third bottle, Dashwood?” someone called.

  “Fourth.” He raised his glass and took a long draught.

  Elizabeth was right, Darcy reflected. Harry Dashwood did look dreadful. His face had grown round and flaccid, his color bad, his girth expansive. Weeks of dissipation had wrought years of hardship on his person. But he held himself like a man without burden, someone intent to seize life’s pleasures and leave the rest for others to trouble themselves over. He was confident, he was cocky, and he was having a high time.

  “All right, Dashwood—you’ve stalled long enough,” his opponent prodded. “You heard my wager. Now what’s yours?”

  “Norland.”

  His challenger laughed. “Your Sussex estate? Are you certain that’s only your fourth bottle?”

  Dashwood reclined in a cocksure attitude. “That’s my wager, Lovejoy. Take it or leave it, for thanks to my dear mother, I’ve nothing else to offer.”

  “And what will I do with an estate in Sussex?”

  “I don’t intend to lose it.”

  The bet was accepted, and play commenced. Dashwood and his partner won the first game of the rubber; their opponents won the second. Between honors and tricks, Harry’s team was ahead by one game point. The room fell silent as Dashwood dealt the final hand.

  He turned up the ace of spades as trump. “My lucky suit,” he said.

  “Not tonight,” Lovejoy responded.

  Dashwood took the first trick, his partner, the second. The third trick, trumped with the ace, went to them, as well. After the fourth trick, however, the lead shifted to their opponents.

  And never returned.

  Short on trump and long on liquor, Dashwood forfeited trick after trick to bad cards and worse judgment. The hand ended abysmally for the owner of Norland. Or, rather, the former owner of Norland. All waited to see how Harry Dashwood would respond to having lost the rubber—and his estate.

  No one expected him to laugh.

  “Ha! You have bested me, Lovejoy.” He called for pen and paper. “Take this promissory note for now, and in the morning I will instruct my solicitors to draw up the proper papers regarding Norland.”

  Lovejoy watched Harry uncertainly as the latter dispassionately set down his debt in ink. Indeed, the victor looked more unsettled by the wager’s outcome than the loser. Dashwood’s hand moved rapidly across the paper, as if he couldn’t sign away his birthright fast enough.

  “The transfer needn’t take place immediately,” Lovejoy said. “I presume you shall want time to retrieve your personal effects and items of sentimental value.”

  “Norland holds nothing of particular meaning to me.” He continued writing, then paused midstroke. “Oh—save one object. I just sent a looking glass there from my townhouse to be stored. If I might have that back?”

  “Of course. Anything else?”

  He shook his head and went back to writing. “Just the glass.”

  The crowd soon dispersed to spread the tale far and wide; the ton would breakfast upon it along with their morning chocolate. Harry completed his note, handed it to Lovejoy with a dramatic bow, and exited the card room.

  On the way out, he passed Darcy and Chatfield. Darcy could not help feeling that he’d just witnessed a tragedy.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Dashwood.”

  “Whatever for, Mr. Darcy?” He grinned. “Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing.’ It has been a tremendously entertaining evening, has it not?”

  “I cannot fathom what my own feelings would be upon losing Pemberley,” Darcy said to Elizabeth the following morning, “but nonchalance—nay, amusement—would not number among them.”

  “You never would have risked Pemberley for so ridiculous and irresponsible an end.”

  She had heard his account of Mr. Dashwood’s latest exploit with all the amazement he’d still possessed while delivering it. The loss was as stunning as it was stupid, not at all what she would have predicted from the master of Norland who had eagerly led them about his house. The whole business supported her conjecture that perhaps another influence was at work upon Harry—if not the Mirror of Narcissus, at the very least too much brimstone.

  She poured water into the basin, splashed her face, and blindly reached for the towel. Darcy handed it to her.

  “I dread our call today,” he said. “I do not know what Mr. Ferrars and I shall say to him that has not already been said, and a man who has just lost two fortunes in two days will be unlikely to appreciate advice from any quarter.”

  “Perhaps the losses will sober him—literally and figuratively.”

  He made a sound of disgust. “I doubt anything can do that.”

  “Are you quite certain I cannot persuade you to let me accompany you?” Since yesterday’s conversation with Professor Randolph, she had tried to devise some means of obtaining a second look at Mr. Dashwood’s mirror. Darcy’s report that it was now on its way back to London lent her hope that she might get a glimpse of it yet.

  “I dislike the idea of your being in his house at all, even with me.” He washed his own face and accepted the towel from her. “He is ungentlemanly, unpredictable, untrustworthy, and unfit for the company of a lady—nay, any respectable person. Rejoice in avoiding further exposure to him. I wish I myself did not have to go.”

  She supposed the morrow was too soon to expect the mirror’s return anyway. She would wait a few days to invent some pretext to call upon Mr. Dashwood. Out of respect for Darcy’s concerns, she would not visit Pall Mall alone, but she did not plan to reveal to her husband the true reason for her errand. Darcy would consider her entire discussion with Professor Randolph nonsense and utterly dismiss the possibility that the mirror was anything more than a dusty old artifact. She did not want to hear his criticisms until she’d had an opportunity to evaluate it herself.

  “Then let us hope your sortie succeeds—and quickly, for Elinor Ferrars and I shall be waiting most impatiently for the two of you to return with news of your conquest.”

  “After subjecting myself to Mr. Dashwood, I shall be impatient to reclaim your superior companionship.”

  She took back the cloth and dabbed a few stray droplets on his temple. “Are you certain? You and the reverend won’t find yourselves tempted to prolong your visit and stay for one of Mr. Dashwood’s notorious parties?”

  He pushed damp locks from her forehead. “I have temptation enough here at home.”

  They kissed, then broke apart to continue dressing. He selected a shirt that she had recently made for him. She was pleased with the way it had turned out; it fit him well across the shoulders and its sleeves extended the perfect length. A second shirt was halfway to completion. In the weeks following Kitty’s broken engagement and the abrupt end it had brought to preparing her sister’s trousseau, Elizabeth had sought substitute employment for her needle. She’d tried to return to work on Jane’s layette, but found herself unable to muster enthusiasm for it.

  At breakfast, Elizabeth heard with restlessness the clock chime announcing that hours yet stood between the present time and the one that had been fixed upon for Darcy and Mr. Ferrars’s call in Pall Mall. She would accompany her husband as far as St. James’s, where Elinor had invited her to meet the Brandons while t
hey awaited the results of the gentlemen’s errand.

  “You and Mrs. Ferrars seem to have formed a congenial acquaintance,” Darcy observed.

  “I like her very much,” she replied. “She is an easy person with whom to converse. Had Kitty’s marriage taken place, my sister would have been fortunate in her connection to Mrs. Edward Ferrars.”

  “And what of her connection to Mrs. Robert Ferrars?”

  “Conversation with Lucy Ferrars is easy, as well. No one else in the room need speak at all.”

  The designated hour at last arrived. She and Darcy drove to the Brandons’ townhouse, where Elizabeth was shown to the drawing room and Edward Ferrars took her place in the carriage.

  Elinor’s mother, sister, and brother-in-law were gathered in the room when Elizabeth entered. Mrs. Ferrars introduced her to Colonel and Mrs. Brandon, who welcomed her graciously and apologized for having been otherwise occupied when she called the previous afternoon. Elizabeth judged the former Marianne Dashwood to be perhaps two-and-thirty, and her husband nearly twenty years older. Five minutes’ observation of the couple declared that they had married for an affection that the intervening years had not diminished.

  They spoke the pleasant nothings that fill the conversations of people first meeting, until Mrs. Brandon grew obviously weary of empty chatter and cut to the subject on all of their minds.

  “I understand your husband accompanies Edward to try to save our nephew from himself,” she said.

  Elizabeth appreciated her directness and returned it. “I am afraid we cherish little expectation of prevailing upon him. Mr. Darcy attempted to guide Mr. Dashwood while he and my sister were still engaged, without success, and their acquaintance has become less cordial since. With Mr. Ferrars’s aid, however, perhaps Mr. Dashwood may be worked upon. We can but hope, especially following last night’s debacle.”

  Marianne and the others regarded her in ignorance. “Something more occurred last night?”

  Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face. She had assumed someone would have informed Harry’s relations by now that he had lost the estate they had once called home. She certainly did not want to be the bearer of tidings that would so shock and grieve these good-hearted people.

  Fortunately, she was spared the unpleasant office by the timely arrival of Mrs. Robert Ferrars, who did not even allow the housekeeper to finish announcing her before bursting into the room with exclamations of astonishment and condolence.

  “My dear Elinor and Marianne! Dear Mrs. Dashwood! I came the moment I heard about Norland. How devastated you must be!”

  Had anyone else appeared so conveniently, Elizabeth would have marveled at the coincidence. But Lucy Ferrars was like the herald of a Greek tragedy, invested by her creator with the ability to enter a scene just when her communication could provide its most dramatic result. If only she would then exit as quickly, instead of staying on like a chorus to comment on her revelations, her dedication to performing the office might earn her more appreciation.

  All the room regarded her with dread—most in apprehension of what they were about to hear, Elizabeth in anticipation of its effect.

  “We have received no news of Norland today,” Elinor said. “Be so kind as to enlighten us.”

  “Why, I can’t believe you haven’t heard! Harry lost Norland! Gambled it away in a card game to Lord Lovejoy. The whole estate!”

  Marianne gasped. “Norland—gone?” She looked to her mother. “I cannot conceive of it. Strangers in our home?” She turned her gaze back to Lucy. “You are quite certain? There has been no mistake? You know how the ton—”

  “Oh, I’m certain! I had it from Harry himself.”

  Elizabeth wondered what occasion Lucy would have had to see Mr. Dashwood already today, but given the magnetic pull between her and tidings of misfortune, some meeting between them in the wake of Harry’s ill-fated whist game had probably been inevitable.

  Mrs. Dashwood looked as if she’d been struck. “I am thankful Henry and Uncle Albert are not alive to witness this,” she said quietly. “What an ungrateful child John and Fanny raised.”

  “Yes, poor Fanny!” said Lucy, oblivious to the fact that Mrs. Dashwood had been ascribing some of the responsibility to Harry’s parents. “As a mother, my heart just breaks for her. Don’t all of yours? Well—not yours, Mrs. Darcy, since you don’t have any children. But if you were in the family way like your elder sister, I’m sure you’d understand.”

  Elizabeth smiled thinly and said nothing. The last person from whom she cared to hear observations about her family state was Lucy Ferrars.

  “Thank heavens Fanny disinherited him before he could gamble away her fortune, too,” Lucy continued. “Mrs. Darcy, your younger sister is well rid of Harry. I’m relieved that Regina avoided connection with him. I suspected he was developing an attachment to her, but obviously that will be most soundly discouraged now. Besides, she has so many gentlemen pursuing her that she hardly need settle for her own cousin.”

  Elizabeth, still vexed by Lucy’s earlier remark, could not let this one pass unchallenged. “Indeed? I don’t recall Miss Ferrars ever mentioning a suitor.”

  “Why, we had so many callers yesterday we could paper the parlor with their cards.”

  Fanny’s bequest had evidently transformed Regina into a more eligible commodity in the marriage market. Elizabeth wondered if her newly enhanced dowry would prove enough to make up for inheriting Lucy Ferrars as a mother-in-law.

  “Had you not better return home soon, then,” Elinor suggested, “in case a caller appears whom Regina would like to receive?”

  Elizabeth knew there was a reason she liked Elinor.

  “No. I’ve told her a gentleman must come three times before we’ll admit him—to prove he’s serious.” She rose. “But I do need to supervise her toilette. We are going to Almack’s tonight.”

  She made as dramatic an exit as possible given that no one in her audience took interest in watching it. Her departure did, however, occasion a collective expression of relief on the part of those remaining.

  “Norland—lost!” Marianne said as the curtain fell on Lucy’s performance. “I still can scarcely comprehend it. I hope Edward is soundly lecturing Harry this minute. Though what further evil our nephew can commit, I cannot imagine.”

  “Nor can I,” Elinor said. “But I am sure that if he gets himself into any more trouble, Lucy will most thoughtfully keep us informed.”

  Twenty-three

  When people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from them.

  —Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 36

  “Mr. Ferrars and Mr. Darcy.” Mr. Dashwood repeated his servant’s announcement. “Come to call on me together. How congenial.”

  Harry received them in his dining room, where he sat behind a large dish of ice cream. Though the glace looked appealing on this warm June afternoon, Darcy begrudged Mr. Dashwood the simple pleasure of it. In sacrificing his estate so capriciously, he had injured not just himself and his family, but all those who relied on Norland for their livelihoods. One ought not, it seemed to Darcy, taste anything but remorse on the day following a dereliction of duty and honor such as he had committed.

  “Your uncle and I share a common purpose this afternoon.”

  “I would invite you to sit,” Harry said, “but that would suggest that I want you to stay. Which I do not.” He swallowed a spoonful of ice cream. “You are come, I suppose, to admonish me once more for my wicked ways? You should have saved yourselves the trouble. I have heard enough already from you, Mr. Darcy, and from your wife, Mr. Ferrars.”

  Edward appeared puzzled. “Elinor has been in contact with you?”

  The spoon paused halfway to Mr. Dashwood’s mouth. “Forgive me, I meant my other aunt Ferrars. One loses track of them.”

  Darcy noted the full glass and half-empty bottle beside him and deduced the nature of Harry’s genealogical imp
airment.

  “Harry,” Edward began, “all your family is very concerned about you.”

  Mr. Dashwood swallowed more ice cream. “This is splendid stuff. I cannot decide which I prefer—water ices or cream ices. I shall have to order Cook to stock both in the new larder.”

  “Harry,” Edward continued, “I did not come to lecture you about Norland, or about your mother’s fortune. Those losses cannot be restored. But the rest of it can be mended.”

  Harry tossed back his wine, or brimstone, or whatever it was he drank, and refilled the glass. “The rest of what?”

  “This ‘Hell-Fire Club’ in which I understand you have immersed yourself.”

  Irritation flashed across Mr. Dashwood’s face. “I do wish everyone would cease calling it that. I have never called it that.”

  “What do you call it?”

  He shrugged. “The Monks of Medmenham, the Friars of Saint Francis, the Knights—choose whichever you fancy. I prefer the Knights of late. But it has never been the Hell-Fire Club. That’s an old name the ignorant persist in using.”

  Darcy’s patience ebbed. He had many words to describe Mr. Dashwood, his companions, and his activities, none of which he expected Harry would care to hear. “Whatever its name, your continued promotion of and involvement with the organization threatens more than your fortune.”

  “What else do I risk, Mr. Darcy? My life? It will run out in due course. My sacred honor? In their day, many great men associated with the Knights.”

  Darcy regarded Mr. Dashwood with contempt. Naught but his respect for Lord Chatfield could compel him to carry this mission any further.

  “You are not a great man, Mr. Dashwood. Great men consider the influence they bear on those around them. If you will not check your behavior for your own sake, at least do not ruin others’ futures along with yours.”

  “My Knights are grown men who make their own choices.”

  “To the grief of those around them.” Darcy leaned on the table, so that his eyes were level with Harry’s. “Mr. Dashwood, when you broke faith with Miss Bennet, you also betrayed the friendship I extended to you. My wife and I accepted you into our home, into our family circle, and into our lives. When you came to me seeking guidance, I gave it willingly. I regarded you as my brother.”