Pride and Prescience

by Carrie Bebris

  Darcy really hadn’t given Parrish much thought at all. Since his engagement to Elizabeth, his own affairs had been foremost in his mind, with the Bingley family’s recent troubles occupying the rest of his attention. Whether Parrish had been too ardent a suitor with Miss Kendall neither concerned nor interested him. Though the American might exhibit a little less polish when compared to his English counterparts, overall his conduct had been what Darcy would expect of a gentleman. Which is more than he could say for Kendall, and why he had no inclination to discuss his perceptions of Caroline’s husband with him.

  “I am pleased to know him.”

  “You might change your mind upon closer acquaintance.”

  First marital guidance, now social counsel. Darcy had heard as much of the man’s smug blather as he could tolerate for one afternoon. “Is there some point you wish to make, Mr. Kendall?”

  They were interrupted by the entrance of the very person under discussion. Mr. Parrish popped into the room. “Darcy, I just saw Mr. Morris arrive. I thought Bingley might wish you to join them.”

  Bingley probably did, but Darcy would seize upon the opportunity to escape Kendall regardless. “Thank you, Mr. Parrish. He comes to discuss plans for demolition work in the east wing. Have you and Mrs. Parrish retrieved all that you care to from your former chamber?”

  “I believe so.”

  “If not, have the servants do it today. Morris may choose to begin as early as tomorrow.”

  Kendall observed their exchange with quiet interest. Darcy replaced his cue stick on the rack.

  “Do you concede?” Kendall asked.

  “The game is yours.” Though he had been winning, Darcy was happy to forfeit the victory along with Kendall’s company. Had he accepted Kendall’s proposal of a wager, he would have gladly relinquished that, too.

  “How about you, Parrish? Care to play?”

  Parrish appeared even less inclined to subject himself to Kendall’s society than Darcy. “Billiards is not my forte.”

  “No, you excel at other games, don’t you?”

  Parrish stared at him a long moment. “Yes, I do,” he said finally.

  They left Kendall in the billiards room alone. “My courtship with Juliet is ended,” Parrish said to Darcy as they walked. “I’ve married someone else. I wish Mr. Kendall and his daughter would just reconcile themselves to that.”

  Darcy thought of the wrath he himself had incurred when he’d disregarded someone else’s unofficial “understanding” and chosen to marry Elizabeth over his cousin Anne. His aunt, Lady Catherine, was still so affronted that, despite Mr. Collins’s speculations to the contrary, he doubted she’d forgive him to the end of her days.

  Hell hath no fury like the parent of a woman scorned.

  Elizabeth retraced her steps, trying to recall where she’d left her bonnet. She had brought it with her when she came downstairs that morning in anticipation of taking a walk directly after breakfast. Jane, however, had distracted her by soliciting an opinion of the garland that had just been hung on the staircase in the hall. One end of it drooped drunkenly, its tail dangling to drape a suit of armor in an evergreen boa.

  “Is it very noticeable?” Jane had asked. “The servants have been working so hard to put the house back in order. I hate to criticize them about Yuletide decorations.”

  “Jane—it’s noticeable.”

  Then it had been on to the parlor, where holly hung so thick that its pointed leaves threatened to draw blood from all who entered. “I said I thought a little holly might be nice. . . .”

  “Apparently, a little more is nicer still. I hope you made no similar suggestion about mistletoe, or we’re all in trouble.”

  Jane’s eyes had grown wide. “I have not yet seen the drawing room!”

  They had found that room converted into a bower capable of staining even Cupid’s cheek with a blush. Now, as thick clouds gathered and threatened to cut short her walk, Elizabeth headed back there in hopes of finding the door frames clear and her bonnet lying in the only remaining place she could think to look for it.

  She heard Professor Randolph’s voice coming from the room and recalled that this was his usual meeting time with Mrs. Parrish and her husband. She opened the door quietly, intending to duck in, retrieve her bonnet, and exit without disturbing them. When she entered the room, however, she stopped suddenly.

  Randolph and Caroline were alone. And they were engaged in no ordinary interview.

  Twenty-two

  “Disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.”

  Darcy to Elizabeth, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 34

  Caroline lay on the sofa, arms crossed over her chest, head tilted back, eyes closed. Small bluish green leaves were scattered on her forehead. Professor Randolph stood over her, chanting foreign words and pressing some sort of object into her left hand.

  From where she stood, Elizabeth could not identify the item. It was small and round, and flashed in the strong late afternoon sunlight penetrating the south windows. Nor could she identify the language he spoke—it sounded like none of the Romance languages she’d heard.

  Utterly absorbed in his ritual, Randolph didn’t notice her entrance. He continued his chant, moving the object to Caroline’s chest, her forehead, her lips. His voice, lower than usual, rose and fell in volume like the swell of waves against the sand. All the while, Caroline lay still. Unnaturally still.

  A cloud passed over the sun. Goosebumps raced across Elizabeth’s skin. The chant seemed to swirl around her, its cadence dulling the edges of her consciousness. Lethargy took hold of her body; her limbs weighed more than she could lift.

  What was happening to her? To Caroline? She forced her jaw to work, her tongue to speak.

  “Professor?”

  He whirled around. “Mrs. Darcy! I did not hear the door.”

  She blinked. Her mind was clear, her body perfectly normal once more. Had she only imagined the previous sensations? Regardless, she had not imagined Randolph’s actions. “What are you doing?”

  He palmed the mysterious object and brought his hand to his hip. “Doing? Oh—the song? That was a canticle from ancient times, said to bring peace to troubled minds. A lullaby, if you will. Mrs. Parrish said she has not been sleeping well.”

  “It did not sound like a lullaby.”

  “Yes, well . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid you have found out my secret, Mrs. Darcy.”

  Startled by his directness, she held her breath and waited for him to continue. Her heart pounded so hard she thought its beat would drown out his admission.

  “I am an exceedingly poor musician.”

  And an even worse liar. “Where is Mr. Parrish? Does he not usually join you when you meet with his wife?”

  “He was unavailable. I could find no substitute, and the hour grew late.”

  She pointedly eyed his hand. “What is that you hold?

  “Nothing, madam.” He turned up two empty hands as proof. “What do you think you saw?”

  He must have slipped the item into his trouser pocket. “I know not.”

  “Perhaps it was a trick of the light.”

  She studied his face, a mask of pretended innocence. “Yes—I am certain it was indeed some sort of trick.”

  She entered the room further, wanting a better look at Mrs. Parrish. As she approached, she noticed bluish green sprigs on the floor that matched the leaves on Caroline’s forehead. It looked like rue from the herb garden. The sprigs formed a circle around the sofa; another sprig rested in a small bowl of water on a side table. “What is the rue for?”

  “Another cure for headaches.” Mumbling something under his breath, the professor knelt to retrieve the sprigs from the floor. When he had gathered them all, he set them on the table. “After last night, I thought Mrs. Parrish needed something stronger than spearmint.”

  She removed the leaves from Caroline’s forehead herself. Mrs. Parrish still did not move. Her continued stillness alarmed Elizabeth as much as R
andolph’s equivocation. “I have never heard of a physician using rue in this manner.”

  “Rue has many uses in folk medicine. It is believed to aid the mind.”

  “As I recall, it didn’t do Ophelia any good.” Distrust made her reluctant to return the leaves to him. She instead withdrew her housewife and dropped them inside, watching for his reaction. He said nothing, only met her gaze with a look that indicated he understood her motive perfectly. If only she could comprehend his.

  The room grew dimmer as frozen droplets pinged against the glass. The sound captured his attention. He stared through the windows at the incipient storm. “Winter announces its arrival.”

  His statement reminded her that it was the twenty-first of December—the winter solstice, a date he had mentioned the last time they had discussed herbalism. What was it he had called the art? A little bit medicine, a little bit magic.

  What was this man truly about? As she studied him, his features seemed to shift in the grey light, recasting themselves into something not quite of this world. An overwhelming urge to flee seized her. But before she could act on it, Mrs. Parrish stirred. Caroline winced and brought her hand to her temple; her eyes fluttered open. When her gaze lighted upon Elizabeth and the professor, she bolted upright and swung her legs to the floor.

  “What is going on? How came I to be lying here?”

  “You nodded off, Mrs. Parrish.” Randolph walked to the wine decanter and poured a draught. “Here—sip this. How do you feel? You complained of a headache earlier.”

  Caroline accepted the glass. “It’s better. Not gone, but better.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” Randolph turned to Elizabeth. “See, Mrs. Darcy? Naught is amiss. You needn’t concern yourself—or anyone else—with what you observed. Or, rather, thought you observed. Moreover, I’m sure Mrs. Parrish wishes her interviews with me to remain confidential.”

  “Of course.”

  “I assure you, Mrs. Darcy—I am only trying to help Mrs. Parrish.”

  She forced a smile. “Pray, forgive the intrusion. I came in here seeking my bonnet, but now that the weather has turned I believe I’ll instead walk in the gallery. Would you care to join me, Mrs. Parrish?”

  “What time is it?”

  Randolph withdrew his pocketwatch from his trousers. “About half-past three.”

  Elizabeth started, but quickly recovered her composure. The watch—she recalled the strange markings on it that she’d noticed at Lord Chatfield’s dinner party. Was this the object she had just seen him using? Didn’t he usually keep it in the fob pocket of his waistcoat? Sure enough, that was the pocket to which he returned it.

  Caroline declined Elizabeth’s invitation, citing a desire to take her time changing her gown for tea. Elizabeth was just as happy to escape her company without leaving her alone with the professor. The three of them exited the room together. In the hall, where garland now drooped on two sides, they parted. Mrs. Parrish and Professor Randolph headed upstairs.

  Elizabeth headed straight for Darcy.

  She shivered. Darcy’s embrace, strong as it was, could not suppress the dread that suffused her.

  What had she witnessed? More than Randolph’s weak explanation suggested. She had not merely fallen prey to a trick of light; her ears had not mistaken a lullaby for something more potent.

  Professor Julian Randolph. Who was he, really? She had liked him, found his eccentricity charming. He was different from anyone else in her acquaintance and she considered his uniqueness refreshing.

  Now it alarmed her.

  What did any of them actually know about him? That he studied the supernatural and drifted from job to job. What manner of man was he? He claimed to be motivated by academic enquiry, but did he have an ulterior purpose for his specialty? Was he some sort of practitioner of the dark arts? Elizabeth had heard of such people—in stories. Not in real life. But folklore sprang from grains of truth. If, in fact, individuals existed who could manipulate unseen forces, and if Randolph were such a man, what power did he hold? And to what purpose did he use it?

  As shadows overtook the sitting room, Darcy led her to the chaise longue and pulled her down beside him. “Elizabeth, I have been waiting patiently for you to speak, but you are starting to worry me.”

  She tucked her head in the crook of his neck. “I’ve just had the most strange encounter with Professor Randolph. I believe we have been deceived in his character.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. He seemed an honest fellow, if misguided. Tell me.”

  She related the incident—the mysterious object, the rue, the chanting, the dissembling. “How stupid does he think I am?” she asked at the conclusion. “He was doing something to her, Darcy. Casting a hex or laying a curse or practicing God-knows-what ritual.”

  “What he was doing was muttering a string of nonsense and touching a pocketwatch to her. Mrs. Parrish seemed unaltered by the event?”

  “To all outward appearance.”

  “Then it sounds as if he did not actually harm her.”

  “This time. But he meets with her every day—he has unlimited opportunity to attempt again what I interrupted this afternoon.”

  “Then he has had ample opportunity before today. Yet Mrs. Parrish does not seem to be suffering the effects of any spell.”

  “Doesn’t she? She has not been herself since—well, since Randolph stood up at her wedding. What if her behavior is not caused by nerves at all, but some sort of supernatural influence, directed by him?”

  “With the help of a timepiece?” Darcy shook his head. “Elizabeth, Randolph can no more practice magic than I can. If he could, would he not use it to generate wealth? Or at least remain employed?”

  She wasn’t ready to give up her theory of Randolph’s mystical connections, but let it drop for now. Surely, however, Darcy could not deny the alarming nature of whatever she had observed in the drawing room. “You cannot believe his actions benign?”

  “I believe them mundane. His charms cannot really work. But if he believes they can, he might attempt to use them. Or if Mrs. Parrish believes in them, she might be susceptible to suggestion. We must, however, ask ourselves to what purpose Randolph abuses his knowledge of the supernatural. What has he to gain from manipulating Mrs. Parrish?”

  What indeed? She burrowed against him once more, wishing they were anywhere but Netherfield, discussing anything but Caroline Parrish. Caroline’s crisis was an inconvenience to all: Darcy and her, Bingley and Jane, the Parrishes themselves—all of them were trapped in a state of suspended animation, unable to truly begin their new lives as married couples until the situation reached a resolution. All hoped Randolph’s correspondence with his American colleague would yield a cure. But the recent bad weather had made posting letters to London, let alone abroad, difficult—Darcy’s enquiry to Lord Chatfield had just gone out this morning. Who knew when they might hear from Dr. Lancaster? Meanwhile, the questionable professor was the closest thing to an expert they had at their disposal.

  Perhaps that was it.

  Elizabeth caught her breath. Darcy had joked about Randolph using his supernatural expertise to find employment, but in effect Caroline’s “nervous condition” had created a living for him—secured him a place in Parrish’s daily life, his home, his gratitude. Randolph had said he hoped for Parrish’s patronage; Caroline’s illness had given him just that. “Perhaps Professor Randolph seeks to make himself indispensable to Mr. Parrish.”

  Darcy’s eyes flashed immediate understanding. “The poor scholar has enjoyed a comfortable life since Mrs. Parrish fell ill. Her condition earned him an invitation to Netherfield.”

  “Which not only provides him free bed and board, but puts him in close quarters with you and Bingley—two more potential benefactors. And Bingley is so generous, and easily guided . . .”

  “Mrs. Darcy, I do believe you may be on to something.”

  She left Darcy to change for tea. Encountering Mr. Parrish in the great hall, she begged a word wi
th him as they climbed the staircase together.

  “You, Mrs. Darcy, may have two or even three,” he said gallantly. “I am your humble servant.”

  “I have a question concerning your friend Professor Randolph. I wonder how well you know him?”

  “We met about a year ago. He’s a fine fellow—a bit odd, maybe. But kind, and generous with his time and knowledge.”

  “You trust his assessment of Mrs. Parrish’s condition?”

  “Indeed, yes. He has proven himself invaluable since Caroline . . . fell ill.”

  They paused at the top of the stairs. “Perhaps too valuable,” Elizabeth said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did you miss their session today?”

  “No, I was present. For most of it, at least—I left while Randolph was finishing up his notes. I had a letter to write to my solicitor.” His brows drew together. “Why do you ask?”

  “I happened to enter the drawing room while they were still together and found him engaged in strange behavior—scattering rue and reciting some sort of chant as Mrs. Parrish slept. He also seemed to be using his pocketwatch somehow—surely you have seen it, the one with the runes inscribed? I wasn’t sure if he did so with your knowledge.”

  His expression darkened. “No, he did not. What sort of chant? What were the words?”

  She shrugged. “A foreign tongue.”

  He stared at her, incredulous. “I can’t believe Randolph would—” A muscle in his jaw tensed. “I trusted him!”

  “The professor assured me he was only trying to help Mrs. Parrish.”

  In the space of a heartbeat, his expression changed from angry to panicked. “Caroline—how was she? How did she respond?”

  “She seemed all right. Better, in fact—she indicated her headache had subsided.”

  “Well,” he said with forced brightness, “I’m glad of that.” But anxiety soon overtook his features once more.