Suspense and Sensibility: Or, First Impressions Revisited

by Carrie Bebris

  —Mr. Willoughby to Elinor,

  Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 44

  “What is he, six?”

  “Four. It was the only one she had.”

  Elizabeth sank onto the sofa, having returned victorious from her deployment to Harley Street. Fanny Dashwood had loaned them a small portrait of a very young Harry, which Darcy now held. He was proud of his wife—he could never have charmed Harry’s mother into cooperating, let alone in the mere half hour Elizabeth had required. She had spent more time traveling there and back than in the call itself.

  “How did you justify our need for it?”

  “Good heavens, I told so many falsehoods that I shall never be able to remember them all. And when those ran out, I flattered her in a manner that would put Mr. Collins to shame. You can imagine how much I enjoyed begging a favor of her—she was exceedingly condescending the whole while. Before I escaped, I had agreed to sponsor her membership in the Rose Garden Club and make a donation in her name to the Ladies’ Benevolent Aid Society. Oh—and I hope you have no plans for Friday?”

  “I do not believe so.”

  “Good. You are engaged to polish her silver.”

  The door opened to admit Professor Randolph. He appeared pleasantly surprised to find Elizabeth in the drawing room. “You have returned already, Mrs. Darcy? And with a portrait, I see. Capital!”

  “Is Mr. Dashwood in place?” Darcy asked.

  Relocating Harry’s body had proven more awkward than anticipated. He was so stiff from cold that his limbs were stuck in their huddled position—knees up, arms wrapped around legs—until he had an opportunity to thaw. The servants had carried him thus curled from the subcellar to the upper spare bedchamber.

  “He is. With the portrait now here, we can begin any time.”

  “We should start immediately, then. I overheard the servants questioning why no one else has been summoned. I announced that Mrs. Darcy had gone to inform Mr. Dashwood’s mother, which seemed to satisfy them, but now that Elizabeth has returned, they will start to wonder what we are about.”

  “Let us say that Mrs. Dashwood is so overcome with shock that she cannot leave her bed, but requested the authorities not be called until she could lay eyes upon her son,” Elizabeth said. “Say further that I promised we would sit with him until she came, and we would like to commence our mourning undisturbed.”

  Darcy regarded her with admiration. “I had no idea you could spin tales with such facility.”

  “Nor did I,” she responded. “I think I am still recovering from my call upon Fanny Dashwood.”

  Once they were upstairs, the mood became heavier. The light rain that had been falling at breakfast time had grown stronger throughout the day, and now dark grey clouds cast the chamber in gloom. Darcy had hardly noticed the weather earlier, so preoccupied had he been with the business of Mr. Dashwood’s death, but as they prepared to challenge the Mirror of Narcissus for Harry’s soul, the steady patter of raindrops seemed an appropriate prelude.

  Or perhaps requiem. Mr. Dashwood’s balled-up body lay on its side on the bed, his face toward the mirror. Darcy watched Elizabeth’s countenance. He expected her first sight of the corpse to disturb her, but she only regarded it sadly.

  “Poor Mr. Dashwood,” she said. “Even if we succeed, he will never be the same.”

  Indeed, at one-and-twenty, Harry would inhabit a body he should not have had until his mid-fifties, and a very roughly used one at that.

  “It is not a form I would wish to bear at this time of life,” Darcy admitted.

  “But it is life,” she said.

  Professor Randolph entered with a lit candelabrum and the portrait of Harry. The candles he set on a side table, where their flickering glow illuminated the room just enough to keep their party from stumbling in the dark as the sky rumbled outside. He shut the door.

  “Are we ready?”

  Elizabeth continued to gaze at the lifeless form on the bed. “Let us proceed.”

  “I’m sure I need not remind either of you to avoid looking directly into the glass,” said Randolph. “Mrs. Darcy, do you still wear the amulet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you see Harry in your peripheral vision?”

  “Yes. He is trying to get my attention again.”

  Darcy interposed himself between her and the mirror. He did not want Elizabeth glancing into the glass again, accidentally or intentionally. Nor did he want her close to the artifact if anything unusual did happen. Not that anything would.

  “Mr. Darcy, can you perceive Harry?”

  He stole sideways glances at the mirror, but detected nothing but an ordinary-looking glass. “No,” he said. And the fact troubled him. What he could not see, he could not defend against.

  “Nor can I,” said Randolph. He walked to the bed and propped the portrait against Mr. Dashwood’s body so that the likeness faced the mirror. “What is Mr. Dashwood doing now, Mrs. Darcy?”

  She leaned backward, trying to see around Darcy while using her side vision to answer the professor’s question. Darcy knew he was making her job difficult, but he felt better standing between her and the glass.

  “He is staring at his body on the bed.”

  “I would, too,” Randolph said. “Probably quite a shock, seeing oneself displayed in such a state. Can he hear me?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good.” He crossed to the mirror and stood beside it, offering a three-quarters profile. “Mr. Dashwood, we are going to try to release you from the glass. I would like you to concentrate very hard on this portrait of yourself.”

  “He is listening,” Elizabeth said.

  Randolph nodded. “Mr. Dashwood, imagine yourself as that child again. Before all this happened. Before the weight of worldly cares settled upon you. You are that child. Those are your innocent eyes. Those are your soft curls . . .”

  Randolph continued in a slow, soothing voice, weaving mesmerizing words until Darcy was almost ready to believe he was the boy in the portrait.

  “Now, Mr. Dashwood, I would like you to step out of the glass and into your body there on the bed.”

  Darcy fought the urge to look at the mirror and see whether anyone emerged. He suspected the temptation was worse for Elizabeth. He took her hand and gripped it, willing her to look at him instead. Their gazes met.

  And then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a small figure dart across the room.

  It was the boy Harry—the child of the portrait. Or rather, the ghost of a boy. Darcy could at once see him and see through him as he climbed onto the bed. The bed did not respond to his movement. He added no weight; he made no impression on the counterpane.

  The child crawled to his lifeless adult body and threw himself over it. He lay on top. He pushed himself down. He passed through it and out. He tried again.

  And again. Spirit and shell would not merge.

  He moaned, a wail of desperation and anguish. “What do I do?” He spoke in his own voice, not a boy’s. Yet the image was that of a tormented child, a little boy in dire need of aid and protection. It was a sight heartbreaking to behold.

  Randolph raised his hands helplessly. “I do not know.”

  Harry looked up at Darcy. “Mr. Darcy?” His round child-eyes regarded him imploringly. “Can you help me?”

  Darcy was suddenly reminded of Harry at Norland, Harry as he had been just hours before all these terrible events were set into motion. Harry had been a fatherless boy seeking guidance as he matured and accepted his adult responsibilities. He had turned to Darcy then, just as he turned to Darcy now, and Darcy had tried to teach him through example how a gentleman takes care of those dependent upon him.

  Whatever had transpired in the intervening weeks, this child, this man, this spirit now before him was that Harry. Until this moment, Darcy had not believed he existed any longer. And once again, Harry was depending on him.

  The young Harry jerked as if tugged. “The mirror! It pulls me back!”

&nb
sp; Before Darcy could respond, Elizabeth tore herself away and rushed to the bed. “Fight it, Harry! Fight it!” She extended her hand to grab his. Harry reached toward her.

  But her fingers closed around air, and the little boy was gone.

  “Oh!” Elizabeth took a shaky breath and stared at her empty hand. “Oh, Harry . . .” She choked back a sob.

  Darcy approached from behind. He put his hands on her shoulders. He consoled her thus—consoled himself—a moment, then bent his head to her ear.

  “Give me the amulet.”

  She turned, her face full of confusion. Her hand went to the silver watch that hung round her neck, her fingers brushing the symbols engraved upon it. She looked at him searchingly. “The amulet? Why?”

  He gazed into her eyes, which held the only reflection of him that mattered. He reached for the chain and gently lifted it over her head. Then he slipped it around his own neck.

  “Professor Randolph,” he said, his eyes never leaving his wife. “Tell me more about this idea of a ‘false exchange.’ ”

  Thirty

  The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them.

  —Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 35

  Elizabeth held her breath as Darcy walked to the Mirror of Narcissus. She would not look directly at the glass—’twas especially reckless to do so now that she no longer wore the amulet—but she would not take her gaze off Darcy if Hades himself sprang from the mirror.

  “You are certain?” Professor Randolph asked.

  Darcy nodded.

  “Bear in mind that the amulet lends some protection but does not make you impervious.”

  His lips crooked into a wry half-smile. She knew he doubted the silver watch possessed any powers of protection at all. “I understand.”

  “All right, then. Help me move Mr. Dashwood’s body to the foot of the mirror.”

  The two men lifted Harry’s huddled form and sat it upright in front of the glass. Still stiff with cold, the body held its position. Mr. Dashwood hugged his legs; his forehead rested on his knees.

  “Stand behind Harry’s body so that when his spirit emerges from the glass, his own shell is the first available receptacle he encounters, and he enters it instead of attempting to enter yours.”

  “Harry would not steal Darcy’s form,” Elizabeth asserted.

  “Perhaps not intentionally,” said Randolph. “But he may have little or no ability to control the transfer. Remember—we actually know very little about the mirror’s workings. Most of this is conjecture.”

  Rather than remember that uncertainty, she wanted to forget it. Just now she shared Darcy’s preference for hard facts and indisputable truths. She wanted a detailed chronology of every incident that was about to unfold, with annotations, illustrations, and an index. She wanted a guaranteed outcome, assurance that when this ordeal ended, Darcy would still be Darcy—safe, and whole, and hers.

  She knew Darcy was not nearly as concerned. He thought his skepticism would grant him immunity to whatever power the mirror might indeed hold. If Elizabeth’s willingness to believe enabled her to see into the glass, his disbelief would protect him from its hazards. Or so he had assured her. She prayed he was right, that his trust in his own invulnerability would not prove misplaced. That on this day, at least, pride would not go before a fall.

  Darcy moved into position. He stood about three feet from the mirror, just behind Harry’s curled form. He turned to Elizabeth and regarded her as if committing to memory every nuance of her countenance. “Naught will happen to me,” he insisted once again. “I am not about to become trapped in the glass.”

  “Take care that you don’t.” She tried to smile. “It does not match the décor at Pemberley.”

  He held her gaze a moment longer before Professor Randolph coughed self-consciously.

  “Shall we begin?”

  Darcy nodded and turned to face the professor. Randolph took up his position at the mirror’s side and moved the artifact slightly away from the wall.

  “As we discussed, when the moment of transference approaches, I shall tilt the mirror toward Mr. Dashwood’s body on the floor to further focus his spirit’s destination,” he said. “For now, however, I’ll hold it upright. Gaze into the mirror whenever you’re ready.”

  Darcy looked into it immediately. His stance was relaxed, his expression calm—just now he seemed more unflappable than Beau Brummell himself. Merely an ordinary English gentleman looking into an ordinary glass.

  “What do you see in the mirror?” Randolph asked.

  “Myself.”

  “Harry?”

  “Only the one at my feet.”

  Elizabeth could discern Harry moving in the glass, his still-childlike image crossing that of Darcy. One moment Darcy stood out more strongly; the next, Harry did. ’Twas frustrating to observe by indirection. She kept her gaze on Darcy—the real Darcy.

  “Do you see anyone or anything else?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Of course! I had not considered that the glass would capture the whole room, depending upon the angle of the viewer. Mrs. Darcy, come stand on the other side of the mirror. You can help me hold it.”

  She repositioned herself so that she flanked the glass along with Professor Randolph. Though she gripped the frame, he supported most of the mirror’s weight. From her present angle, she could no longer see images in the glass at all.

  “Mr. Darcy, do your best to block us from your thoughts and focus only on your own reflection. As you look into the glass, hold in your mind an image of yourself as you would like others to see you. The mirror should respond by reflecting that image back at you.”

  “Must it be an image different from what I see now?”

  “I believe so. The mirror preys upon those who are discontent with themselves.”

  “But I am not discontent.”

  “Everybody wants something, Mr. Darcy.”

  Thunder rumbled outside. The rain fell harder, its patter the only sound in the room.

  Darcy gazed into the mirror. She wondered what image he had conjured, what desire as yet went unfulfilled.

  “Concentrate on that ideal,” Randolph said. “Allow yearning for it to envelop you. It will shimmer and tease; it will offer a tantalizing vision of what was or could be. Let it tempt you.”

  The drumming of the rain increased, competing in volume with the sound of Elizabeth’s own breathing. Tension raised the temperature of the room. She wanted to open a window, to admit cool mist and fresh air.

  Darcy did as the professor bade. His expression at first exhibited his natural resistance, but the longer he gazed into the mirror, the more he yielded. She wondered again what vision held him transfixed.

  “Let the image lure you. Let it whisper its promises.”

  She grew warmer. Her muslin dress stuck to her chest and back. Moisture beaded her upper lip. She longed to wipe it away, but held still lest she distract Darcy. He appeared warm, as well; damp locks clung to his forehead. But he seemed oblivious to discomfort.

  The rain cascaded now, pounding on the cobblestones and splattering the windows. Gusts of wind shook the panes of glass that revealed a sky as black as night. The candles flickered, their dim offering barely sufficient to combat the darkness. Shadows skipped like dark elves in the corners of her vision, illusory representations of her own foreboding.

  “The image will beckon. Answer its call—but for only a moment.”

  The room grew unbearably hot. Droplets ran down her temple. She wiped her brow—she could not help herself; it was either that or be blinded by her own perspiration. The movement went unnoticed by Darcy. The mirror held him completely in thrall. At his feet, Mr. Dashwood’s body slumped over. Thawed by the intense heat, it now lay on its side in a state of repose.

  The wind howled, and a huge thunderclap shook the house. The candles sputtered and died, but a glow brightened the room.

  It ca
me from the mirror.

  The glow illuminated Darcy, curling around his contours, grazing every muscle and sinew. It danced across him, bathing him, caressing him, dancing and wavering like—

  Flames.

  A powerful sensation of evil assailed her with such force that she nearly collapsed under its magnitude. She let go of the frame and staggered forward, weaving to the side to avoid tripping over Mr. Dashwood’s body. The mirror tugged at her mind, inviting—directing—demanding that she look. She need only turn her head.

  She turned.

  Mr. Dashwood, still bearing the image of a child, clawed the glass in silhouette. The fires of hell were behind him.

  She looked to Darcy. He remained enthralled, transfixed by something she could not see.

  “Mrs. Darcy, stand back!” Professor Randolph cried. He spread his feet wide and began to tilt the mirror.

  Thunder boomed. The room was so hot she could hardly breathe.

  Darcy shifted. Or appeared to. Then she realized he had not moved at all, but had developed a double profile. The narrow gap between outlines slowly widened, the fainter one moving toward the glass.

  It was Darcy’s soul.

  Why did Darcy himself not move? It was time! He must break contact now, or the false exchange would become true.

  The gap increased. The Mirror of Narcissus summoned, demanding its tithe. But she’d be damned before she allowed it to take Darcy’s soul. That belonged to God. And to her.

  With a cry, she hurled herself against her husband, knocking him to the floor. She held him, and her breath, while she waited in agonizing helplessness to see whether she also held his spirit. Its outline remained separated from that of his body for what seemed an eternity until, blessedly, they merged.

  Darcy’s gaze, however, found the glass once more and locked upon it.

  “Darcy?” she shouted. “Darcy!”

  She could not command his attention, nor, she discovered, could she physically turn his face from the glass. Professor Randolph abandoned his post. He pushed the mirror upright and rested it against the wall, where it continued to bathe the room in the glow of hell-fire. He rushed forward and dragged Darcy out of the mirror’s range. She stood and tried to follow.