Suspense and Sensibility

by Carrie Bebris

  She stepped round the front of the mirror. Keeping Professor Randolph’s caution in mind, she diverted her gaze from the glass and focused on the frame. Exquisitely sculpted ancient athletes stood out in relief from a background of intertwined laurel leaves. Each champion, whether gripping a javelin, launching a discus, or racing on foot, was as flawlessly formed as the last. Elizabeth’s eye roamed from one to the next, awed by the display of physical perfection, until her gaze reached the top of the frame.

  There, at the mirror’s crown, she beheld the most ideal male visage she’d ever seen. It was the face of youthful vigor, its noble cheekbones, strong jaw, and expressive eyes enhanced by Apollonian curls. The beauty of it overwhelmed her. Surely, this was the image of Narcissus.

  She looked upon the mythical youth she knew not how long, unable, like he himself in legend, to tear her gaze away. The mirror itself possessed a quality of timelessness, creating the sense that it was not the product of any one age but of eternity, and Elizabeth could well have spent eternity studying it had not a sudden noise in the hall wrenched her attention toward the door. She held her breath in anticipation of discovery, but released it when no one entered. The sounds must have come from a passing servant.

  She turned back to the mirror, but the interruption had distracted her. She forgot, just for a moment, Professor Randolph’s warning.

  It was a moment too long. She looked full into the glass.

  ’Twas not her own reflection it returned. It was Harry Dashwood’s.

  Twenty-five

  No time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth.

  —Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 37

  Elizabeth whirled around to confront Mr. Dashwood. She fought down panic at having been caught prowling where she did not belong. How had he sneaked in without her awareness?

  He hadn’t.

  She was alone in the room. The door remained shut. Nothing had been disturbed—except her ease of mind.

  Had the vision been only her own projection? She spun back around.

  “Oh!” She caught her breath.

  Again, Harry Dashwood gazed back at her.

  Repeated glances over her shoulder confirmed that he was not behind her. She stepped back, struggling to make sense of what she saw.

  He stood slumped, dejected, watching her with a resigned air. Though his gaze followed her, it was detached, as if he observed a stage actor delivering a performance in which he did not take part. Despite the events of recent weeks, somehow this sight of him caused an overpowering wave of sadness to engulf her.

  Why she should experience pity for a man who had behaved so reprehensibly toward her sister, herself, and everyone else who cared about him, she could not comprehend. Then she realized that this image of Mr. Dashwood was not that of the degenerate rake she’d left downstairs with Elinor, the man suffering disfigurement wrought by his own dissipation. It was that of the earnest young man who had wooed Kitty, the handsome gentleman who’d earned the respect and admiration of them all. Erased were the effects of excess. In his mirror image, Harry was restored to health, vigor, and—from outward appearance, at least—himself.

  How was this possible? If Mr. Dashwood was not present in the room, whom—what—did she behold?

  “Mr.—Mr. Dashwood?”

  His eyes widened. He stood up straight and moved toward her, stopping when he reached the glass barrier between them. He regarded her eagerly.

  Mrs. Darcy, he mouthed. Mrs. Darcy, can you hear me?

  His expression implored her to say yes. But she could not. The only sound she could hear was the pounding of her own heart.

  She shook her head. “Can you hear me?”

  He nodded vigorously.

  She had no idea what to say. Or to whom she would be saying it. Was this Harry Dashwood? A devil in his guise? A figment of her imagination?

  “Mr. Dashwood, what—” She gestured toward the empty chamber. “You are not present in the room with me. How is it that I can see you in the mirror?”

  He started talking, but she could not hear a syllable.

  “I cannot comprehend you. More slowly, Mr. Dashwood.”

  He nodded and took a deep breath, then tried again. Though he moved his lips with deliberate slowness, she still could not make out his words.

  She shook her head helplessly. “Mr. Dashwood, I’m afraid I still cannot understand you.”

  He ran his hands through his hair, even more disheartened than she at their inability to communicate. She wanted to know what was transpiring, and he clearly wanted to tell her. She searched her mind for some means by which he could make himself heard, but turned up naught.

  She glanced at the door. Could someone else help them? She doubted Elinor could, and even so, how would she ever get Harry’s aunt to this chamber without the knowledge of—

  She froze.

  Of whom? If Harry Dashwood was in the mirror, whom had she left downstairs? And if Harry Dashwood was downstairs, who or what was in the mirror? She didn’t know which thought disturbed her more. Of only one thing was she certain: The Mirror of Narcissus was indeed cursed. She needed to find Professor Randolph. If anyone could explain this extraordinary situation, he could.

  She turned back to the figure in the mirror. “I—I have to go,” she said.

  He shook his head vehemently. No! Please—no. He pressed his hands against the glass.

  “But Mr. Dashwood, or whoever you are—”

  Help me.

  Though the words had no sound, they reverberated in her mind. His haunted expression beseeched her. Compassion seized her, yet the fact remained that she hadn’t the power to grant his plea.

  She held up her palms. “How can I aid you if I cannot understand you?”

  His jaw and fists clenched in frustration. He broke their gaze and brought his hands up before him. He looked from his fists to the glass as if contemplating punching the barrier. He seemed about to try when his gaze shifted to her palms, still raised.

  He opened his hands and studied them. Then he raised his head and met her eyes.

  He gestured to her hands. He held his own up and pressed them to the glass. Then he nodded toward her hands again.

  Elizabeth hesitated. If Professor Randolph had warned against looking directly into the mirror, pressing one’s hands against it to commune with some image that had no original present seemed like a very poor notion, indeed. She did not know upon whom or what she gazed. Man or ghost? Benign entity or demonic creature? If she did as he bade, what would be the consequence? I seem to recall that many of its owners have met untimely ends, the archaeologist had said. She did not even have the amulet with her for protection.

  She should leave this instant. Turn her back and walk away. Retrieve help—or perhaps never return. She owed Mr. Dashwood nothing. He had ceased being an object deserving her concern the moment he first mistreated Kitty.

  If that transgressor had, in fact, been Mr. Dashwood.

  She could not ignore the nagging impression taking hold of her, that somehow she presently gazed upon the true Harry Dashwood. Nor could she ignore the desperation in his countenance.

  Elizabeth said a swift, silent prayer. Then lifted her hands to the glass.

  She is in a great, drafty room, cluttered with trunks and shrouded furniture. A large, rectangular object leans against one wall. A slightly smaller and thinner parcel rests against it. She reaches out to the smaller object. Her hands are not her own. They are larger—a man’s hands. She unwraps the item. It is the portrait of Sir Francis. She unveils the mirror. Harry Dashwood gazes back at her. But he moves as she moves. His reflection is hers. She is Harry, discovering the mirror at Norland. Experiencing his memory with dual consciousness—her own and Harry’s.

  She is in a well-appointed dressing room now. Pall Mall bustles outside the window. Her valet helps her tuck her shirt into her trousers, then offers a cravat. She approaches the mirror to tie the neckcloth and is startled to
see someone else’s face instead. Not her own—not Harry’s—but one very like his. The vision lasts but an instant.

  She is in the dressing room again. She—Harry—straightens her waistcoat before the mirror. Behind her hangs the portrait of Sir Francis, brought from Norland. She sees the face in the mirror again. It matches that in the portrait. It speaks. Come closer, Harry. Then the face is gone again.

  It is dark. She is in bed, alone. Exhausted but afraid to sleep. A voice whispers in the night. Trust me, Harry. She crushes a pillow to her ears and prays for sunrise.

  She is in her own house—her and Darcy’s townhouse. Darcy is speaking to her in the hall. Mr. Dashwood, if you would but confide in me, perhaps I can help you out of this scrape. She shakes her head. I have to go home. She returns to Pall Mall and heads straightaway for the mirror. Show yourself, Sir Francis! Nothing happens. She keeps vigil. No matter what, she cannot allow herself to fall asleep. But fatigue overtakes her, and she nods off as the candle sputters out.

  ________

  She awakens with a start. Twelve white-robed figures surround her bed, chanting. She at first takes their song to be a Gregorian chant, but soon realizes that the Latin words hold a profane undercurrent. She tries to rise from the bed, but the rhythmless song holds her immobile. One of the monks parts the curtains to admit the light of the full moon. The shaft illuminates the mirror. Sir Francis appears. And steps out.

  He stands over her. He laughs ominously, a sound that leaves her hollow. He offers a blasphemous incantation and reaches toward her. His voice rises steadily, repeating the same words until they engulf her. Reddet animam pro anima.

  He touches her chest. Her heart stops. Excruciating pain rips through her. She is rent in twain, her spirit torn from her body.

  For an instant, all goes black. Then, from the side of the room, she sees her body—Harry’s body—on the bed. It sits up and looks at her with Sir Francis’s eyes. He raises an exultant shout. I am flesh once more!

  She releases a cry of her own and charges forward. She strikes glass. She sinks to her knees, her hands sliding down the invisible barrier between herself and her self.

  The curtain is drawn. Sir Francis and his disciples file from the room, and sounds of celebration soon echo below.

  Only she remains: the newest prisoner of the mirror.

  Twenty-six

  She was mortified, shocked, confounded.

  —Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 22

  Elizabeth fell to the floor, the force of Harry’s memories literally knocking her from her feet. She curled in a ball, gasping for breath, clutching her head, willing the ache that pierced her mind to stop. She shut her eyes against the horror of what she’d witnessed.

  Gradually, the pain diminished. She opened her eyes and raised herself to her knees. She did not dare look at the mirror again. She stared at the floor, resting on all fours as she struggled to regain command over herself—to comprehend the knowledge she’d just received.

  Harry Dashwood was trapped inside the Mirror of Narcissus, and had been for weeks. While she and Darcy had maintained surveillance outside, suspecting Harry of wrongdoing, the old Hell-Fire Club had released its leader and imprisoned Harry in his stead. And while Harry’s spirit was trapped, Sir Francis roamed free in his shell.

  It was Sir Francis, then, who had hurt Kitty, who had insulted her and Darcy. Who led London’s bloods in new explorations of debauchery. Who had alienated Harry’s friends and family to the point of losing his maternal inheritance, then gambled away his estate. It was Sir Francis whom Elizabeth had left in the drawing room with Elinor, and who would come looking for her if her absence was realized.

  She pushed herself to her feet. From the corner of her eye, she detected Harry attempting to capture her attention. She averted her gaze, fixing it instead upon the door. She prayed Sir Francis would not come through it while she deliberated what to do.

  Harry must be released from the mirror. But how? His body and soul had been separated through some unholy ritual enacted by Sir Francis and twelve others—all of them practiced communicants. What could she, ignorant of their rites, unprepared for the test of spirit, accomplish alone? She regretted again the lack of Professor Randolph’s amulet. She needed its protection. She needed the archaeologist’s knowledge. She needed a plan. She needed Darcy.

  “I am leaving to summon assistance, Mr. Dashwood.” She did not know how he responded to the statement, for she yet avoided sight of the glass. “But I shall return. I give you my word.”

  She descended to the drawing room, wondering how long she’d been gone and what had transpired in the interim. Thankfully, she heard Elinor’s voice, indicating that Harry’s aunt and Mr. Dashwood—Sir Francis—were yet in conference. God willing, they remained unaware that she’d been anywhere but waiting in the hall.

  She entered to find Sir Francis well into a new bottle of brimstone. The smell of the liquor made her stomach roil, and the sight of him filled her with revulsion. She concentrated on maintaining a steady countenance so as not to betray her new knowledge of him.

  “Mrs. Darcy.” Sir Francis greeted her. “Have you elected to rejoin us?”

  “I am afraid that I feel indisposed and would like to return home. Mrs. Ferrars, if you have not completed your call, I would be happy to send my carriage back to convey you whenever you are ready.”

  “You do look rather peaked,” Sir Francis observed.

  She realized belatedly that in having so studiously avoided looking into the mirror, she had no idea whether her ordeal had left any telltale effects. But if her appearance made her look even more ill than she felt, so much the better.

  “Let us leave at once, Mrs. Darcy,” Elinor said, “for my business here is finished.”

  “Yes, my aunt was taking me to task for my irresponsible behavior, until I informed her that I shall soon be settling down. I am engaged to be married, you see.”

  Elizabeth blinked at the unexpected news. “May I ask who the lady is?”

  “My lovely cousin Regina.”

  “Congratulations.” She did her best to mask the speculation his announcement occasioned. Was this, she wondered, the subject of his earlier row with Lucy Ferrars? With Norland lost and Regina in possession of Fanny’s fortune, the match Regina’s pushy mama had once so aggressively pursued was now of advantage only to Mr. Dashwood. “I wish you better success in reaching the altar this time.”

  “Oh, I shall reach it. We plan to wed as soon as a special license can be procured.”

  Having sacrificed Harry’s estate to the pursuit of pleasure, Sir Francis would thus secure the remainder of Harry’s rightful fortune. Meanwhile the unsuspecting Regina would be trapped in a marriage with the devil in disguise.

  “That is little time to prepare for a wedding. How does Miss Ferrars feel about such a brief engagement?”

  “She is flattered by the intensity of my ardor.”

  Of course she was. The green girl had never received a second look from any man until Fanny settled her fortune upon her, and by then she’d been groomed by her mother to covet Mr. Dashwood’s addresses above all others.

  Her head yet ached, and this new intelligence only worsened it. Repeating her plea of indisposition, she departed with Elinor. She wanted nothing more than to get away from this place, to consult Professor Randolph and to confide in Darcy.

  Twenty-seven

  “You will tell me, I know, that this may, or may not have happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other understanding of this affair as satisfactory as this.”

  —Mrs. Dashwood to her daughter Elinor,

  Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 15

  Darcy glowered at Julian Randolph. “If my wife has endangered herself as the result of a conversation with you—”

  “I’m sure she has not,” the professor said hastily. “I’ve called today only as a precaution.”

  Darcy was little satisfied. Until Elizabeth returned home from her leav
etaking of Elinor Ferrars and promised to not so much as muse about Mr. Dashwood or his mirror, he would hold Randolph culpable for every moment of his own uneasiness. The archaeologist had called at their townhouse following a discussion he and Elizabeth had had several days ago, a meeting Mrs. Darcy apparently had not felt the need to mention to her husband. When Darcy learned its nature, he guessed why. Randolph had been filling her head with his supernatural nonsense again.

  He listened impatiently for sounds of Elizabeth’s return and had left the drawing room door open to aid his hearing. He was not angry with her, but he wanted very much to discuss this business with her directly. Elizabeth tended to place too much credence in Professor Randolph’s preposterous notions, and Darcy wanted to counter his influence.

  “So I am to understand that based on some half-remembered tales of an old Greek mirror, you have convinced my wife that Mr. Dashwood’s glass is a legendary artifact known as the Mirror of Narcissus? And further, that after persuading her to obtain another look at this object, you have since come to believe it is cursed?”

  “I speculated that it might be the legendary mirror, and suggested that a better description would provide more certainty. Mrs. Darcy then told me that the mirror had been returned to Sussex, making it doubtful that she’ll come into contact with it again. As it turns out, that is a fortuitous circumstance.” He tapped the cover of the book he had brought with him, a worn volume with tattered pages. “Since speaking with her, I have further researched the mirror’s history. Based on my findings, I came here to urge her to stay away from the glass altogether in the unlikely event that an opportunity to view it should arise.”

  “On that point, you and I are united. Though it is the artifacts owner that I wish her to avoid. The mirror itself cannot possibly be the one in question—its craftsmanship is too modern for it to have been fashioned in ancient times.”