Pride and Prescience: Or, a Truth Univesally Acknowledged Page 19

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

  Elizabeth regretted having told him—or at least, having added to the burden of cares he already bore. “I’m sorry for alarming you. And I certainly don’t wish to make you doubt your friend. I just—I thought you should know.”

  “I thank you. It is good to know that Caroline and I have a true ally in you. Please—may I have your assurance that if you witness anything else unusual concerning Randolph, you will tell me immediately?”

  She promised. Outside the wind moaned as it pelted sleet against the windows. A draft caught her, chilling her through her thin muslin gown.

  Surely that’s why she shuddered.

  “. . . think you’re doing. Whatever it is had better stop right now.” Mr. Parrish’s voice, though hushed, was forceful enough to carry from the hallway through Elizabeth’s cracked door. She paused, her hand on the latch, reluctant to interrupt his argument with Professor Randolph to continue on her way to tea.

  “But we never—”

  He cut off Randolph. “No excuses. No discussion. We had an arrangement, and it didn’t include you muttering mumbojumbo around Caroline without my knowledge. You are not to meet with her again unless I am present. Is that understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “I don’t know what game you play, but it ends now.” Parrish brushed past Randolph, nearly knocking him down. He stopped just long enough to help Randolph regain his balance, then continued toward the stairs without another word.

  Twenty-three

  “Without scheming to do wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery.”

  Elizabeth to Jane, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 24

  It is abominably rude of them to keep us waiting.” Mrs. Hurst gestured toward the empty seats. Mr. and Mrs. Parrish, Mr. Kendall, and Professor Randolph were all absent from the dinner table. “Charles, let us start on the soup.”

  The rest of the party—namely the Darcys, the Bingleys, and the Hursts—had gathered in the dining room fifteen minutes earlier, though to hear Louisa one would think it had been an hour.

  Actually, so incessant had been Mrs. Hurst’s discourse on tardiness that to Elizabeth the brief period felt like an hour. She would sooner listen to the sleet pelting the window glass. Bingley had tried to divert his sister to another topic of conversation, while Jane, Elizabeth, and Darcy made occasional nods and polite listening noises. Mr. Hurst sat in stupid silence, exerting himself only to raise his glass in a mute demand for more wine. His hand shook so much that the housemaid, instead of giving the glass back to Mr. Hurst after refilling it, set it back on the table lest she take unfair blame for an accidental slosh on the tablecloth.

  Jane nodded her permission to the servants to serve the soup. No sooner did a footman bring the tureen to the table than Mr. Parrish entered.

  All gasped at his appearance.

  Three deep scratches ribboned his face, including an ugly gash perilously close to his right eye. The bleeding had stopped, but the fresh wounds yet shone.

  “Good Lord!” Louisa blurted. “What happened to your face?”

  “I had a little accident.”

  Bingley jumped from his seat. “Was Caroline with you? Where is she?”

  “She will not be joining us this evening.” Parrish slumped into his chair. His whole countenance expressed defeat.

  Bingley regarded Parrish uncertainly. No other information appeared forthcoming. He addressed the nearest housemaid. “Go to Mrs. Parrish’s room and enquire whether she needs anything.”

  “Don’t bother, Bingley. She’s sleeping now.”

  Jane waved her hand, dismissing the servants. “Mr. Parrish? Will you now relieve our anxiety?”

  Parrish hesitated. “This is not an easy thing for me to say.” He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, gripping the locks at his crown. “I believe Caroline’s condition is worse than we imagined. Indeed, I fear her mind too disturbed to recover.”

  Mrs. Hurst issued a small mewing sound. “My poor sister!”

  “Dear Caroline.” Bingley slowly sank back down onto the chair. “What leads you to say so?”

  “Less than an hour ago, she attacked me.”

  The table erupted in exclamations. Mrs. Hurst denied it was possible; Jane thought perhaps Mr. Jones ought to be summoned. Bingley looked as though he were going to be sick. Mr. Hurst swallowed more wine.

  When Caroline’s aggrieved family had quieted, Parrish continued. “I entered our chamber to dress for dinner. She was unusually agitated—pacing, talking to herself. When she saw me, she flew across the room at me in a frenzied rage and struck me repeatedly. I was so shocked that I scarcely defended myself. I called out for help and fortunately her lady’s maid heard me. We managed to subdue her.”

  He stared, unseeing, at a spot on the tablecloth as if trying to reconcile himself to the image of his wife having completely lost control. “The whole while, she looked at me as if she didn’t even recognize me.” He met Bingley’s gaze. “Me—her husband! I gave her some laudanum to calm her down. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “None of us would have been prepared for such a scene,” Jane said. “You handled it as well as could be expected.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bingley. I wish your kindness could relieve the heaviness of my heart. She rests now, but what new trouble will confront us when she wakes? She has become utterly unpredictable—God help her, she has become violent!” He glanced at each of them one by one. “You are her family. You love her as I do. What is to be done?”

  Elizabeth wished she had an answer for the unfortunate Mr. Parrish. Every attempt to check Caroline’s advancing illness had proven futile. Apparently, even the locket he’d petitioned the family for help to create—as unlikely a source of aid as he’d conceded it to be—had failed . . . if he’d followed through on it at all. She couldn’t recall having seen Caroline wear such an article since Parrish had requested the locks of hair. He must have given up on the far-fetched idea.

  “Whatever we do, it must be done quietly,” Mrs. Hurst declared. “I cannot bear the thought of my poor sister becoming an on-dit at Almack’s.”

  Parrish nodded. “We must protect her as much as possible,” he said. “But not just from gossip—from herself. And . . .” His voice broke. “I’m afraid we must protect others from her. Removing to Netherfield has not had the effect we’d hoped. We must consider a more drastic alternative.”

  “Do you speak again of taking Caroline to America?” Bingley asked.

  “I think she is even less capable of such a journey now than she was before,” Darcy declared.

  “I agree. How I wish a retreat to my home could cure what ails her! But no—unfortunately, I fear we must investigate another type of home for her.”

  “You mean an asylum.” Louisa made the statement without emotion.

  Parrish let silence serve as his affirmation. Outside the wind howled its own protest.

  Elizabeth’s mind revolted at the notion. She bore no love for Mrs. Parrish, but cringed at the image of her in such a place. The hospitals, with their inhuman conditions, were holding cells, not places of healing, a last resort for families who had given up not just hope but also conscience. Once Caroline entered, she would be lost to them forever.

  “Surely there exists a less extreme solution?” Darcy asked.

  “If I could think of a better plan, I’d offer it.” He threw out his hands in despair. “This is not the marriage I envisioned when I took my vows less than a fortnight ago. I married Caroline for better or worse, in sickness and health, and I meant those words when I spoke them. Sickness has come. Worse has come. And I remain steadfast. But I cannot allow her to endanger all of you any longer. We cannot wait until she assails someone with a more deadly weapon than a wedding ring. Or until the next house burns all the way to the ground. Or until she . . . finishes what she attem
pted back in London.” His voice shook. “Standing by her doesn’t mean turning a blind eye to peril. It means making decisions in her best interest even if doing so breaks my own heart.”

  Elizabeth wondered anew how Caroline had managed to win such devotion. For a time no one spoke. All were visibly moved by his passion—except for the red-faced Mr. Hurst, who appeared only marginally aware of what was being discussed.

  “You are her husband. It is your choice,” Bingley said finally. “I will support you in whatever course of action you deem best.”

  “As will I,” said Mrs. Hurst. Jane concurred. Mr. Hurst downed another glass of wine.

  Affecting as Parrish’s speech had been, Elizabeth was yet troubled by the idea of committing Mrs. Parrish to a mental hospital. She wondered that no one but Darcy had offered the slightest resistance. Back in London, when Randolph had suggested sending Caroline to Louisiana, the entire family had engaged in considerable debate. Yet now that an even worse fate was contemplated, no one voiced an objection. She could only surmise that in Jane and Bingley’s case, the ordeal of the fire, not to mention their carriage mishap, had worn down their ability to cope with other matters. The Hursts’ complacency she attributed to the laziness and selfishness that motivated most of their decisions.

  In Elizabeth’s opinion, what Caroline needed most was to escape Professor Randolph and his “help.” His motives were suspect, his methods objectionable. Whether he possessed real power or only delusions of it, his attention seemed of little benefit—and perhaps considerable harm—to Mrs. Parrish. Free of his proximity, how rapidly might she improve?

  “Maybe Mrs. Parrish could take up residence in a quiet cottage with a full-time companion?” Elizabeth suggested.

  “All of us together have been unable to chaperone her here at Netherfield,” Parrish replied. “How could a single companion—along with myself, of course—keep up with her?”

  “Multiple companions, then,” Darcy said. “Well-trained nurses devoted to her care—and supervision.”

  Parrish shook his head dismissively, but then paused as if reconsidering. “A secluded cottage . . . The idea does bring a feeling of peace with it, doesn’t it? And with the right sort of help . . . Perhaps—perhaps—Mrs. Darcy, you are invaluable! I shall start looking for just such a place directly.”

  They were joined presently by Professor Randolph, who apologized profusely for his lateness. “I lost track of the time,” he explained.

  How could he, Elizabeth mused, with that pocketwatch he constantly employed? At least his ability to influence Mrs. Parrish with it would soon come to an abrupt end.

  “No matter, Professor,” Jane assured him. “Dinner has been delayed anyway.”

  He took his seat and nodded at the others in greeting. When his gaze landed on Parrish, he started. “Good heavens, Mr. Parrish! Are you all right?”

  “Caroline has suffered a setback.”

  His shoulders sagged. “I thought I’d observed some improvement of late.” He began to rise. “I will go speak with—”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Randolph sat back down. “But if I could meet with her yet this evening—”

  “She rests. In the morning, I intend to search for a quiet cottage for us to retire to, one without the distractions of Netherfield.”

  “Indeed?” He pushed his spectacles to the bridge of his nose. “Well, I can certainly post my observations to Dr. Lancaster from one location as well as another.”

  “I appreciate your offer to continue meeting with Caroline, but I think she needs solitude.”

  “Surely her withdrawal from society should not include me?”

  “You have your next expedition to think about.”

  “A delay is of no consequence if by postponing those plans I can be of service to Mrs. Parrish.”

  “Your service is no longer required.”

  Elizabeth inwardly applauded Parrish. Apparently, she and he were of like mind where the eerie archeologist was concerned.

  Randolph seemed about to protest further, but then thought better of it. “I see.” He cleared his throat. “Yes—well, then.” He glanced nervously around the table, conscious that all eyes were upon him. “As soon as the storm breaks, I’ll return to London.”

  Twenty-four

  “When persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things,—and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object.”

  Mr. Collins to Mrs. Philips, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 16

  London

  21 December, 18——

  My dear friend,

  I confess myself surprised by your ignorance of the tales circulating about Mr. Hurst, for I know you to be far better acquainted with him than I. Perhaps that intimacy is precisely why the story has not reached your hearing. Or is it that the new bridegroom has ears only for the sound of his lady’s voice?

  Regardless, I am happy to oblige your request for information. The report first came to me by way of a peer whom I consider a reliable source. I have since heard it repeated by others, leading me to believe it has attained the status of common knowledge amongst the regulars at White’s.

  As you know, Hurst has long frequented the club’s card rooms. During this past season, Beau Brummell himself, short a fourth for whist, invited Hurst to join a high-stakes game. Hurst, cup-shot and not nearly the player he thinks himself, lost famously. But he was flattered by Brummell’s notice and bitten by the gambling bug. In a vain attempt to court the Beau’s favor, Hurst returned nightly for more high-stakes cardplay. Brummell, of course, has no use for one as dull as Hurst and never repeated his invitation to the bow window, but Hurst found other high-flyers willing to endure his company for a chance to take his money. When Hurst began voweling his debts, he found himself unwelcome among the green baize brotherhood and took to entering wagers in the betting book. Even in this form of speculation, however, few will now accept a challenge from him.

  Bearing in mind your desire for discretion, I have taken the liberty of making a few cautious enquiries into the extent of Hurst’s losses. General consensus estimates his debts in excess of eighty thousand pounds. At least a dozen gentlemen held IOUs bearing his signature until last month, when Mr. Lawrence Kendall (you will recall him from our last dinner party) bought up the notes, relinquished by most at reduced value in despair of ever collecting the full sum from Hurst.

  That is all I know of the matter. Do return to London soon with your charming wife. Lady Chatfield and I were both taken with Mrs. Darcy, and hope to enjoy the pleasure of your company often. I am yours, etc., etc.—

  James, Lord Chatfield

  Elizabeth handed the letter back to Darcy. “Eighty thousand pounds! Can he ever hope to make good half that sum?”

  “If he depletes his own inheritance and Mrs. Hurst’s settlement entirely, he will still fall short of the full debt.” Darcy refolded the letter and put it in his breast pocket. It had arrived in the morning post; once everyone else had left the breakfast parlor, he’d lost no time sharing its contents with Elizabeth. He had thoughts of his own about the news but was eager to hear her opinion.

  “And Mr. Kendall now his chief creditor!”

  Darcy found that bit of intelligence equally shocking—and alarming. Hurst would almost be better off dealing with a moneylender. At least they would know such a man’s motivation. “Kendall’s interest in Hurst’s financial affairs can have no good purpose.”

  A servant entered to clear the breakfast dishes. Darcy rose. “Come, let us walk.” The cough he and Kendall had heard outside the billiards room yesterday had reminded him that no room of a great house was truly private. Moreover, he had not seen Kendall since their game ended; Darcy’s valet had lost track of him, so nobody knew where the weasel skulked. If he and Elizabeth kept moving as they talked, no one could overhear more than a brief snatch of conversation.

  They headed for the staircase. Weak daylight struggled throug
h the windows, casting a dreary pallor over the hall. Last night’s storm had abated, but ponderous clouds blotted out the sun, and an atmosphere of gloom pervaded the entire household.

  “What do you think Kendall wants?” she asked in a loud whisper.

  “To use his power over the Hursts to force Bingley’s hand. He has already threatened Bingley with public scandal in the form of a court battle if he does not comply with his demands. The ability to ruin Hurst provides still more artillery in the war he seems bent on waging against the family.”

  “Charles won’t surrender his rightful inheritance, Caroline stole his daughter’s beau, and now Louisa’s husband owes him a fortune. No wonder he won’t leave Netherfield—maintaining all his grievances against the Bingleys keeps him too busy to travel.” She stopped at the first-floor landing and looked down the passage to the blackened east wing. “Perhaps very busy indeed.”

  He caught her meaning. “The link to Hurst provides yet more reason to suspect Kendall of orchestrating the family’s recent troubles. Though yesterday he gave me to understand that it was he, not Parrish, who ended the courtship with Miss Kendall. He accused the American of being far too forward in his attentions.”

  “Regardless,” Elizabeth said, “Mr. Kendall has a connection to every branch of the Bingley family, and doesn’t wish any of them well. Do you think he pressures Hurst for payment yet?”

  Darcy recalled Kendall goading Hurst at dinner two nights previous, and their talk of stakes in the billiards match he and Bingley had interrupted. “He plays some sort of cat-and-mouse game with Hurst. I do not believe the rest of the family knows of Hurst’s debt. In addition to demanding payment, he may also be threatening to expose Hurst to his wife or to Bingley.”

  They turned their footsteps toward the west gallery. Like most of Netherfield’s furnishings, the majority of the artwork there belonged to the landlord. But a few Bingley portraits, including one of the late Charles Bingley, hung on the walls. Elizabeth studied the painting of Bingley’s father. “Kendall cannot touch Bingley’s estate to collect Hurst’s debt, can he?”