The sound of a hackney coach pulling up signaled the arrival of a visitor. Kitty rushed to the window.
“Oh! It is only that odd scholar fellow you know.”
“Professor Randolph?”
“Yes, him. I needn’t stay, Lizzy, must I?”
Elizabeth dismissed her, as interested in a private conversation with Julian Randolph as Kitty was in granting one. She had not seen the archaeologist since just before Christmas, when he’d helped the Darcys rescue the Bingley family from a murderous houseguest. Randolph’s professional knowledge of mysterious antiquities had proven critical in apprehending the villain, who had been using a centuries-old artifact with unusual properties to enact his scheme.
From the safety of Pemberley, and now their London townhouse, Elizabeth sometimes still could not quite believe that the eerie events they’d experienced at Netherfield had not been simply a midwinter night’s dream brought on by reading too many gothic novels. But she had only to pull out the protective amulet Randolph had given her to remind herself that not everything in this world—or the next—could be rationally explained. Darcy, on the other hand, had gone back to dismissing the professor’s supernatural studies as nonsense almost as soon as they’d been proven otherwise. There was little room in his world for things from beyond it. In logic he trusted.
She rose to greet her visitor. “Professor Randolph, what a lovely surprise!”
“I heard you and Mr. Darcy were in town.” He looked the same as she remembered, from his slender build to the spectacles that had a habit of sliding down his nose. He wore a new suit, a consequence, she presumed, of the poor scholar having at last found steady employment. Like his other clothing, the suit exhibited an unusual number of pockets. She’d seen him pull everything from pocketknives to candles from his costume.
“How do you like your new post?” she asked. Under the patronage of Darcy’s friend Lord Chatfield, Professor Randolph had recently secured a position as the British Museum’s resident archaeologist.
“I could not be happier. I have just returned from examining a formation of standing stones in the North Country, and there is talk of sending me to the Continent as soon as the war is over. I would love the opportunity to return to Athens and Rome.”
“Return? I know you came here from America, but I did not realize you were so well traveled.” Upon reflection, there was much she didn’t know about Professor Randolph.
“This would mark my third expedition to the sites of those ancient civilizations.”
She rang for tea. As they waited for the refreshments, he enquired after her and Darcy. She reported that they’d enjoyed a quiet sojourn at Pemberley since the archaeologist had last seen them.
“You appear happy,” he said, “which I am glad to witness after the troubling events that transpired right after your marriage. Do you still have the amulet?”
“Indeed, yes. I would not part with such a generous present.” When she’d first met the professor, he’d carried a silver pocketwatch with ancient protective symbols he’d specially commissioned engraved upon it. Following their ordeal at Netherfield, he’d given it to her.
“Do you carry it on you?”
She felt a pang of conscience. “No,” she confessed. “But please don’t think it goes unvalued. I keep it safely in a drawer. I am afraid my husband does not care for the sight of it.”
Randolph chuckled. “I am little surprised. He does not seem to be a man who possesses much tolerance for things he does not himself believe in.”
“Either that, or he prefers gold timepieces to silver.” They shared a smile. Then she added, “Mr. Darcy, like many people, trusts only what he can observe with his own five senses.”
“And you?”
The arrival of tea prevented immediate reply. She was more willing than her husband to accept the inexplicable, to concede that science had limitations and that sometimes the ability to see a thing had nothing to do with eyesight. She had long relied on instinct in addition to reason when forming judgments and making decisions. In her experience, an impression unsupported by objective evidence could nevertheless be accurate. But she’d also seen some of her impressions proven false in the end, and so hesitated to place all her faith in them.
“I believe in intuition,” she said when the servant withdrew, “but I know it is not infallible.”
“Many people—women especially—are perceptive,” the professor said. “But you seem unusually so. It may merely be that your acknowledgment of the unknown makes you more aware of subtleties that can be observed but that go unnoticed by those who do not look. In any event, don’t be afraid to trust your intuition. Or to carry the amulet, if it won’t cause trouble with Mr. Darcy. You never know when it might come in handy—if only to keep track of the hour.”
The sound of another carriage pulling up brought the breathless entrance of Kitty a moment later.
“Lizzy, he is here!” Kitty stopped short upon realizing that the archaeologist was still in the room.
“Miss Bennet.” Randolph rose and bowed.
She made a hurried curtsy. “Lizzy, Mr. Dashwood climbs the stairs even now!”
“Gracious, Kitty. With you to announce all our callers today, I should have given Mrs. Hale the day off.”
The long-anticipated gentleman appeared at last in their drawing room. He greeted Elizabeth warmly, then had eyes only for Kitty. He took her offered hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Bennet. I would have come sooner, but my mother summoned me to Harley Street this morning and has occupied me all afternoon. I hastened here directly I concluded with her.”
Kitty’s smile suggested that she would have forgiven Mr. Dashwood a detour to the moon, now that he was finally come. “Of course your mother has a superior claim on your time.” She went to the sofa, where he sat down beside her. “I was so happily occupied in recalling our dances last evening, I hardly noticed the hour.”
Elizabeth refrained from observing that Kitty’s serene reflections on the previous evening’s entertainment had nearly worn out the carpet. She instead introduced Mr. Dashwood to Professor Randolph. “Mr. Randolph is an archaeologist with the British Museum,” she said.
“Indeed?” With apparent reluctance, he withdrew his gaze from Kitty to afford the archaeologist something that passed for polite interest. “Do you dig up old bones? Mummies? That sort of thing?”
“I prefer to leave the dead at rest. My interest lies primarily in art and ritual objects.”
“Why, then, I should have you out to Norland sometime to have a look through my attics. There are all sorts of musty old items gathering cobwebs up there.”
“I think his studies tend toward more ancient artifacts,” Elizabeth said. “Do they not, Professor?”
“Actually, some astonishing treasures turn up in the attics and cellars of old houses.”
“I think an ancestor or two of ours did a good deal of collecting. Lots of sculptures and such. An old looking glass, some Chinese vases. Mother doesn’t care for any of it, so it’s never left the attics since we took possession of the house. Huh! I haven’t thought about that stuff in years. I used to explore up there when I was a boy—it was a good place to hide from my nurse.”
“I should very much enjoy the opportunity to see your collection,” Randolph said.
“As would I,” Kitty echoed.
Mr. Dashwood laughed. “You would like to traipse through my dusty attics, Miss Bennet?”
“I would love to see all of Norland.”
Elizabeth winced at Kitty’s boldness but, not wishing to correct her before the gentlemen, let it go unchecked.
Mr. Dashwood seemed surprised and flattered by her interest. “I confess, the house never held much appeal for me. I’m hardly ever there, and when I am I soon grow bored.”
“The country can be tiresome,” Kitty agreed, expressing an opinion Elizabeth had never before heard her utter. “But any place can be made more pleasant by pleasant company.”
> “Miss Bennet, I believe your company could make even a month in the country tolerable.”
Kitty ducked her head, unused to receiving compliments from handsome gentlemen.
“Fortunately,” Mr. Dashwood continued, “I shan’t be gone that long this time.”
His statement brought Kitty’s head up sharply. “What did you say, Mr. Dashwood?”
“I’m afraid I must leave town tomorrow. My mother is of the opinion that I have delayed for too long some duties of estate since my father’s death. That is what she wanted to speak to me about today. She insists I take care of matters at once.”
Kitty’s countenance held the look of a girl who’d been given a new ball gown, only to have it taken away before she could wear it. “How long will you be away?”
“I hope to conclude my business within a week.”
“A whole week?” Kitty said the word as if it had been a twelvemonth.
“Sooner, if I can.” He rose and held out his hand to draw her up. “Might I call upon you when I return?”
“Most certainly—the minute you arrive in town.”
“Kitty,” Elizabeth gently admonished.
“I shall. I promise.” He seemed about to say more, but then became conscious that others observed them. And that he still held Kitty’s hand. With obvious reluctance, he released it.
Professor Randolph stood. “I’ll take my leave, as well. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dashwood.”
“Likewise. While I’m at Norland, I shall have a look about the attics to see if I spot anything worth your notice.”
“I’d be honored to examine whatever you find.”
The ladies escorted their callers to the door, where they collected their greatcoats and walking sticks. Kitty sighed heavily as the gentlemen departed.
“A whole week,” she repeated. “How shall I ever survive?”
“Kitty, a se’nnight ago—no, a mere two nights ago—you did not even know Mr. Dashwood. I’m sure that in all of London you can find something to occupy yourself.”
Four
“Nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age.”
—Mrs. Jennings to Elinor,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 30
“Good match.”
The Earl of Chatfield removed his fencing mask to reveal damp, dark blond locks pressed against his forehead. He offered his hand, which Darcy grasped heartily.
“Indeed,” Darcy agreed. Their bout had proven an intense contest. Both he and his friend Chatfield were men of varied interests who did few things by halves, and their mutual pursuit of perfection extended to their training at Angelo’s fencing school. Several years ago they had established a standing weekly appointment to cross foils whenever both were in town, an engagement Darcy considered one of the highlights of any trip to London.
“When you left town with Mrs. Darcy in December, I did not expect to enjoy the challenge of your blade for some time,” the young earl said. “I hope nothing urgent called you from Pemberley?”
Darcy laughed. “That is a matter of opinion. To my mother-in-law, chaperoning my wife’s sister through her first London season is a matter of utmost urgency.”
“Ah, the obligatory premarital promenade! You have my deepest sympathy. How many times have you endured Almack’s thus far?”
“None.”
“You truly lead a charmed life. You cannot avoid it all season, you know.”
“I can if Miss Bennet meets an acceptable gentleman elsewhere.”
“Any prospects yet?”
“Perhaps. A Mr. Harry Dashwood has come to call. Do you know him?”
“Dashwood,” Chatfield repeated as he and Darcy removed their gloves. “I think he’s a friend of my wife’s youngest brother, Phillip. Bit of a wild bunch, their set. Most of them barely finished university—more interested in learning sixteen different ways to tie a cravat than in learning anything from a book. Tumbled out of Oxford and into town to pursue a full-time occupation of general carousing. Too much money and not enough responsibility. You know the type.”
Unfortunately, Darcy did; it was all too common among his peers. Born into privilege and untempered by duty or conscience, many of his fellow “gentlemen” behaved like anything but. They lived lives of self-absorbed leisure, frittering away their time and fortunes on meaningless pursuits. The worst of them carried this extravagance to excess—slavish attention to clothes, overindulgence in drink, high-stakes games of chance, fast horses, faster women—and in many cases ultimately found themselves undone by it.
“I am sorry to hear this of Mr. Dashwood. For Miss Bennet’s sake, I had wanted to like him.”
“Those are just my general impressions of Phillip’s crowd, Darcy. I’ve heard no genuine harm of Mr. Dashwood in particular,” the earl said. “Say, he isn’t related to old Sir Francis Dashwood, is he? Now he was a hell-raiser.”
“Let us hope not.” Sir Francis Dashwood, though dead more than thirty years, had been a libertine so notorious that schoolboys still talked of him in the dormitories of Eton and Westminster when they wanted to impress younger schoolmates with their worldly knowledge. Perhaps, Darcy mused, that is why Mr. Dashwood’s name had sounded familiar.
“So, you are here long enough to find a husband for Mrs. Darcy’s sister, and then it’s back to Pemberley. Is that the scheme?”
“Essentially. I do hope to locate a good clergyman while in town. I recently received word that the vicar of Kympton is taken quite ill, so the living will likely become vacant by year’s end.”
“How much is it worth?”
“About four hundred a year.”
“You have not already sold it? A living that valuable? I should think someone would have paid you handsomely to hold it for him.”
Darcy had never much cared for the practice of accepting payment from a gentleman or his family in exchange for appointing him as a parish priest. Fortune and connections had their place in the worlds of business, law, politics, and the military, but not, he believed, in matters of the spirit. The men who guided their parishioners from baptism through death, who married and buried them, who counseled and consoled, should be selected for their office on the basis of merit alone.
“According to my father’s will, it was to be held for an individual who has since elected not to take orders,” Darcy said. “When the living became vacant about three years ago, I granted it to the best candidate I could find, despite his advanced age. Now that his health is in decline, I once again wish to select a clergyman based on aptitude alone. I would grant the benefice free and clear to the right person.”
“Simply circulate that fact, and you’ll have half the clerics in Christendom knocking on your door.”
“I would settle for a single good one.”
As they left the fencing club and entered the street, the earl invited Darcy to dinner. “Lady Chatfield wishes very much to see your wife again. Can you come round on Wednesday?”
“Only if you engage to be our guests the Wednesday next. I believe Mrs. Darcy and I are already one dinner in your debt.”
“Agreed. Bring Miss Darcy and Miss Bennet, too. We’ll invite some young gentlemen. Perhaps, Darcy, we can save you from Almack’s this season after all.”
Though the Chatfields’ dinner party was a success by all other standards, it failed to interest Kitty in any gentleman lacking the name Dashwood. Even the attendance of Lady Chatfield’s brother, Lord Phillip Beaumont, could not excite her beyond his status as a friend of Mr. Dashwood’s. From this association, they all managed to learn that Mr. Dashwood preferred faro to hazard, surtouts to box coats, and curricles to gigs. He bought his boots at Hoby’s, rode a thoroughbred stallion named Dionysus, and was among the thrusters in any foxhunt.
And so it was that Kitty left the earl’s home satisfied that she knew all the essentials of Mr. Dashwood’s character, and the Darcys, none of them—a deficiency they undertook to correct as expediently as possible.
“Your report first,” Elizabeth said to Darcy. She sank into a chair before the fire in their bedchamber, looking exhausted by their seemingly endless social engagements. The week of Mr. Dashwood’s absence had seen them attending soirees, assemblies, and dinner parties every night. The events had helped keep Kitty occupied and had also provided the Darcys with opportunities for discreet enquiries regarding Mr. Dashwood. Between evening events and daytime conversations—Darcy’s at various clubs, Elizabeth’s in social calls—they had learned all they could about the gentleman.
Darcy stirred the fire. He’d heard enough about Mr. Dashwood to form an opinion of him already, but he wanted to hear what Elizabeth had discovered. “I defer to the superior communication of women in matters of gossip. What have you learned?”
“Harry Dashwood is the son of Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood of Norland Park in Sussex. He is twenty years old and will reach his majority next month. Upon his father’s death last autumn, he came into possession of Norland, which provides him an income of four thousand a year. John Dashwood’s remaining estate, a sizable fortune inherited from his mother, went to his widow, Fanny Ferrars Dashwood. As Harry is an only child, this fortune, along with Fanny Dashwood’s own legacy of ten thousand pounds, presumably will pass to Harry upon her death, adding another two thousand a year to the income derived from Norland.”
He took the other chair and sat facing her. “This confirms what I heard. What have you learned of his connections?”
“Mr. Dashwood’s mother has two brothers. Edward Ferrars, a clergyman in Devonshire, is married to John Dashwood’s half-sister, Elinor. They have two children, or perhaps three—the couple never come to town and Fanny Dashwood seldom talks about them. Her other brother, Robert, though the younger of the two, became the heir to the Ferrars estate following a breach between Edward and his mother. Apparently, the family row somehow involved Robert’s wife, the former Miss Lucy Steele, but that story could fill a book by itself. Lucy Ferrars brought to their marriage no fortune or connections of her own. The couple have a house in Norfolk and one daughter. Regina Ferrars came out this season, and by all reports, her mother is promoting her prospects quite aggressively.”
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