Pride and Prescience: Or, a Truth Univesally Acknowledged Page 6

  She shook her head slowly. “No, I just . . . No.” She straightened in her seat, as if remembering her posture. Her chin recovered its usual tilt. “Thank you, though, for interceding.”

  Elizabeth waited, hoping Caroline would now offer some explanation of what she had been doing on the street in the first place. Where was her husband? Had the couple gone out together and become separated? Had she fled their house—the marriage? This was all so exceedingly strange.

  When no account appeared forthcoming, she ventured the subject herself. “We were surprised to see you as we passed. Does Mr. Parrish wait for you at home?”

  Caroline raised a hand to her temple. “Forgive me, Mrs. Darcy,” she said, her voice as haughty as ever. “I feel a headache coming on.”

  The remark silenced Elizabeth as effectively as it no doubt had been intended. She withdrew into the corner of the carriage, the rebuff having smothered all sympathy toward her seatmate. In the year or so she’d known Caroline Bingley Parrish, she’d never aspired to enter the woman’s confidence, never wished to number her among intimate friends. But really! When concerned acquaintances rescued one from robbery and who-knows-what-other harm, some word of explanation seemed a not-unreasonable expectation.

  She was tempted to leave Mrs. Parrish and her “headache” to face alone whatever predicament had led to her midnight stroll. Obviously, Elizabeth’s concern was neither solicited nor welcome. Yet she sensed something different about tonight’s rudeness—that it stemmed not, as usual, from disdain toward herself, but from a desire to keep some private anxiety private. For that she could not fault her.

  The fact did, however, set one’s mind to wondering what could so trouble a woman who, twelve hours earlier, had declared herself the happiest, most fortunate bride in all England. A glance at Darcy’s face revealed that he, too, knew not what to make of their companion’s behavior. He started to speak, stopped, then began once more. “Mrs. Parrish, is everything quite all right?”

  Caroline met his gaze. For a moment, confusion clouded her countenance, and she looked as if she might confide in Darcy. But then her features smoothed and she tilted her chin once more.

  “Yes, Mr. Darcy. Quite.”

  Mrs. Parrish asked to be dropped off at her door, but Darcy insisted on escorting her into the house. Elizabeth concurred, curious to witness the bridegroom’s reaction to his wandering wife’s homecoming.

  Upon opening the door, the butler stepped back, unable to conceal his surprise at the sight of his new mistress standing on the stoop. “Madam! I thought you were within.”

  Caroline walked past him without a word and climbed the stairs to the drawing room.

  “Is Mr. Parrish at home?” Darcy asked.

  “Yes—at least, I believe so.”

  “Summon him.”

  The butler escorted Elizabeth and Darcy to the drawing room, then continued up to the second story. Caroline waited inside, her back to the door.

  It was a good-size room, with furnishings that reflected French taste. While Elizabeth knew the style was not of Parrish’s choosing but his landlord’s, the elegant pieces adorned with boulle marquetry and brass inlay seemed well suited to both master and new mistress. A few ornamental items, such as a small wooden statue of an eagle and a heavy earthenware vase, contrasted but did not clash with the main décor. The accents reminded Elizabeth of the American objects she had seen in Professor Randolph’s exhibit. She wondered if these mementos of home had been gifts from the archeologist.

  Rapid strides on the stairs soon brought Mr. Parrish to them. He raked a hand through elevated locks of hair; his shirt, coat, and breeches appeared hastily donned. His face betrayed utter astonishment. Obviously, their arrival had roused him from bed. “Mr. and Mrs. Darcy.” He acknowledged them with a brief bow before quickly moving to his wife’s side.

  “Caroline?” When she did not immediately turn around, he laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “Oh, Frederick!” Mrs. Parrish spoke so softly that Elizabeth heard only with difficulty. “I’ve had such a fright.”

  His expression became still more confused, but he drew her into his arms. “Whatever has happened, you’re safe now, my love.” Despite the presence of the Darcys, Caroline did not resist the tender display. Elizabeth surmised she was still in a state of shock over the robbery attempt.

  Nevertheless, the embrace disconcerted their guests. Elizabeth and Darcy averted their gazes, suddenly seized by a compelling mutual interest in a painting that hung above the fireplace. The illustration depicted a large white classically inspired mansion, situated atop a graceful hill, surrounded by magnolia trees and great oaks with Spanish moss cascading from them. Four columns encompassed the two-story house on each side and supported wide porches on both levels. Deep green ivy and bright pink roses climbed the columns to wind through the rails of the veranda balustrade. An engraved plate centered at the bottom of the frame read Mont Joyau.

  Frederick Parrish’s plantation appeared an idyllic, peaceful place. Elizabeth wondered whether he regretted its impending sale. Only the strongest affections toward a spouse could induce her to relinquish such a home. The spelling, she noted, differed from her previous assumption. She would have to ask Darcy about the accuracy of her translation sometime when she wasn’t struggling to eavesdrop on a conversation in which she pretended no interest. Unfortunately, she could make out little more than assorted whispered endearments.

  She stole a glance at the couple. The embrace had ended, but Caroline yet leaned on her husband’s arm for support. “I don’t know what came over me—”

  “Hush, sweetheart,” he murmured, slipping Darcy’s cloak from her shoulders and folding it over the back of a chair. “We’ll sort it out in the morning. You should rest now.” He cleared his throat, signaling that the Darcys could curtail their spontaneous art appreciation. “Pray excuse me while I attend my wife to her chamber.”

  “Of course.” Darcy donned his hat, which in the confusion of their arrival the butler had neglected to take. “We’ve intruded on your privacy too long as it is.”

  “No—not at all! I am most grateful for your interest in Caroline’s welfare.” In the foyer below, the grandfather clock struck half-past one. “I know the hour grows late, but if I might presume upon your kindness further I would like to speak with you before you leave. Meanwhile, my man will see to your comfort.”

  The butler, apologizing for his forgotten duties, collected their cloaks and Darcy’s hat while Parrish escorted Caroline upstairs. Elizabeth easily forgave the domestic’s earlier oversight—the reunion had made her and Darcy self-conscious about the propriety of their own presence; the scene had hardly needed a servant in the audience as well.

  Now alone in the drawing room, the two of them regarded each other with all the astonishment they’d labored to suppress. “What do you suppose she was doing?” Elizabeth asked.

  Darcy shook his head. “I cannot begin to guess. She seemed relieved to return, so I do not think she was running away.”

  “Then what errand called her out?” She could not imagine any business so vital that it needed to be conducted on one’s wedding night. Yet something more than a handkerchief and a few coins had swollen the sides of Mrs. Parrish’s reticule—something important enough to be remembered while half her clothes had been forgotten; important enough that she had risked her safety rather than surrender it to a thief. What could the small handbag have contained? Elizabeth glanced to the part of the room where Caroline had stood, hoping perhaps it had been left behind, but the owner had taken the reticule upstairs with her. Just as well—she could never have so boldly invaded the woman’s privacy.

  Elizabeth also wondered how Parrish had failed to realize his bride’s absence. Though society couples commonly maintained separate chambers, Darcy had not left her bed on their wedding night, or any night since. She’d like to think that if she’d slipped out of the house for a moonlight stroll, her new husband would have noticed. The Parrishes se
emed equally attached to one another. Surely the marriage had been consummated? Miss Bingley had never struck her as a warm person, but the embrace the couple had just shared suggested the bride was comfortable receiving physical affection from her husband. Elizabeth dismissed any conjecture that fear of marital duties might have inspired Caroline’s flight. What, then, had compelled her to rise from bed for a midnight promenade through London?

  The butler returned with wine. He set the tray on a small table behind the sofa and poured two glasses from a crystal decanter. Elizabeth and Darcy accepted the glasses but declined his offer of other refreshment. As soon as the servant departed, Darcy rose and moved about the room, his mind apparently too agitated for the rest of him to relax.

  “Her manner, when we first discovered her . . .” he said. “She is usually so self-possessed.”

  “She almost seemed not to know us at first. And then she called me ‘Miss Bennet.’ Do you think it was merely shock from the robbery attempt?”

  “Perhaps. She is fortunate that you sighted her when you did. A woman alone on that street . . .” Delicacy prevented him from finishing the sentence, but he did not need to. She realized full well that Caroline Parrish could have suffered a worse fate than the loss of her reticule.

  Mr. Parrish’s return suspended further speculation. His face reflected bewilderment equal to their own; lines of care marred his smooth features. “She’s resting now.” He poured himself a glass of wine and swallowed a fortifying draught. “Said she suffers from a headache, so I didn’t want to badger her for details. But can you tell me what happened? The last I knew, Caroline was asleep in this house. How came my wife to be with you tonight?”

  “We saw her walking down Bow Street as we drove home from Drury Lane,” Darcy said.

  “Bow Street? Good God! Bow Street? By herself? At this hour?” Parrish combed his hair with unsteady fingers. Apparently, even the American knew the dangers of that district, so infamous that it had inspired the establishment of investigators known as the Bow Street Runners in an attempt to deter crime. “When I think what could have befallen her—what nearly did, for she told me someone tried to rob her?”

  “Mr. Darcy intervened. As far as we can tell, she was not hurt.”

  “Thank heaven you arrived when you did! Sir, please know that you shall always have my deepest gratitude. As do you, Mrs. Darcy. Caroline is fortunate in your friendship.”

  “We are glad to have been of use,” Darcy said.

  Mr. Parrish set his glass on the tray and lifted the decanter to refill it. “Did she say anything to explain why she was on that street—any street—in the first place?” His countenance, which had been so happily animated only that morning, now appeared grave.

  Darcy declined Parrish’s gestured offer of more wine. “No. She volunteered no account, and we did not press her for one.”

  “How did she seem? Was she—was she quite herself?”

  Elizabeth searched for words to accurately describe Caroline’s state without further alarming the distressed bridegroom. “When I first saw her, before the robbery attempt, she appeared . . . unaware of the circumstances in which she had placed herself. She progressed steadily down the road, but her gait held no sense of purpose.” In her experience, Caroline Bingley did nothing—even take a turn about the room—without purpose. “Afterward, in the carriage, she seemed shaken by her encounter with the thief, but otherwise acted herself.”

  Parrish nodded pensively and looked to Darcy. “This was your observation as well?”

  “It was.”

  He released a heavy sigh and slumped into a nearby chair. “Caroline told me just now that she cannot recall leaving the house, nor anything about her journey until the moment the thief accosted her. I had hoped you might be able to provide some insight. As it is, I’m not even sure how long she was gone. She must have departed after I fell asleep, for I didn’t hear her. What time did you find her?”

  Elizabeth sat down across from him. “Shortly after midnight. Perhaps quarter past.”

  “I don’t know what time I fell asleep. Half-past ten?” He glanced from Elizabeth to Darcy and back. “You are wondering, but too polite to ask, if I know whether Caroline was yet awake when I nodded off.” He rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his eyes with one hand. “I know for certain that she fell asleep before me. I then retired in my own chamber. Forgive me if I speak too openly about delicate matters, Mrs. Darcy. I seek only to comprehend what happened to my wife this evening, not to embarrass you.”

  “I understand.” Far from suffering embarrassment, she was grateful to have her curiosity satisfied on this point. She, too, wanted to solve the puzzle of Caroline’s actions, and Parrish was right—she never would have voiced such a question. They now knew that Caroline had not deliberately remained awake to leave after her husband retired.

  Darcy, however, appeared discomposed by Parrish’s candor. He stiffened, and a slight flush of displeasure crept into his cheek. Elizabeth sensed what he was thinking: A gentleman did not allude to certain subjects in front of a lady, and chief among them was whether he had spent the evening in conjugal activities. No doubt he was also contemplating the notorious vulgarity of Americans.

  “You say she doesn’t recall leaving the house?” Darcy asked. She knew he was trying to steer the conversation back to more appropriate territory.

  “Not a moment of it. Somehow she rose, dressed, walked out the door and traveled all the way to Bow Street without consciousness of having done so.” Parrish studied his wineglass, tracing the rim with his index finger. “This is probably a question better suited to her brother, but since he is not here and you are, I will ask it. Is Caroline in the habit of sleepwalking?”

  “Sleepwalking?” Darcy blinked in surprise, then pondered a moment. “Not to my knowledge. I have been a guest in the Bingleys’ home many times, and they in mine. Never have I witnessed or heard of anything like this.”

  “Back in Louisiana, there was a young woman—Marie Chevenier—who used to sleepwalk every time she visited her cousins on the plantation next to ours. Sometimes she’d wander so far that we’d find her sleeping on our porch early in the morning. They said she never did it at home, only her first few nights in a strange house. I thought perhaps this being Caroline’s first night here . . .” An expression of anguish, tempered by hope, flashed across his face.

  Elizabeth felt herself moved by the unveiled, unintentional display of Parrish’s distress. What an inauspicious start to his marriage!—spending his wedding night talking to near strangers in a desperate attempt to interpret his new bride’s peculiar behavior. Sleepwalking may indeed have caused Caroline’s bizarre journey; it provided as good an explanation as she could devise. But even if it hadn’t, right now Parrish needed to believe it possible.

  “I think perhaps you are correct,” she said. “Not only is she in an unfamiliar house, but I’m sure the strain of planning such a grand wedding in little over a week taxed her nerves. In a few days she will be fine, and in a month you won’t remember this incident, either.”

  “Do you really believe so?”

  “I do.” Then, sympathy overtaking self-interest, she added, “May we call tomorrow to enquire after her?” A glance at Darcy revealed his approval. The call would mean changing their travel plans yet again, but it was the proper thing to do. Mr. Parrish needed the support of friends at present, yet would not wish to disclose tonight’s events to others. Chance had made them confidantes in the matter; they had an obligation to carry through their involvement.

  Parrish’s face brightened. “May you? I would consider it the kindest attention. But don’t you leave for Pemberley tomorrow?”

  “A day’s delay is of no consequence,” Darcy said. “Besides, we cannot be easy at home until we know Mrs. Parrish is all right.”

  However true that might be, Elizabeth could not help but feel disappointment settle upon her heart even as she smiled reassuringly at poor Mr. Parrish. She was beginning to
think she and Darcy would never reach Pemberley.

  Seven

  “And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses.”

  Miss Bingley to Darcy, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 10

  Elizabeth slept late the next morning, Caroline Parrish’s escapade having kept her awake much longer into the night than she generally retired. She awoke to find Darcy standing before the mirror, tying his cravat. He had already dispatched a servant to the Gardiners’ house with a note informing Georgiana of their delayed departure.

  “What did you tell her?” She sipped her chocolate in bed, a post-nuptial addition to her morning routine that Mrs. Hale had introduced and to which she had readily become accustomed.

  “That we found Mrs. Parrish wandering the streets in a scandalous manner last night, and remain in London to circulate gossip.”

  She nearly dropped her cup before realizing he jested. As much as she delighted in their banter, it was usually she who initiated its more preposterous turns. “I trust you also included details of the duel you nearly fought with that ruffian, not to mention Mr. Parrish’s account of the couple’s sleeping arrangements?”

  “In the postscript.” Having achieved a passable trone d’amour with the neckcloth, he abandoned the mirror and came to lean against the bedpost. “I thought Mr. Parrish’s intelligence in particular the very thing for a young lady to read before breakfast.”

  She set aside the cup. “You blushed to hear Mr. Parrish speak of it.”

  “A good many individuals who purport to be genteel talk too openly about affairs that should remain private.”

  She sighed dramatically. “Then I suppose I should withdraw the notice I sent to the Times announcing the reason we arrived late for last night’s curtain.”

  “No, let it run. I am sure the ton will be fascinated by how long it took you to dress your own hair.”