Mr. Dashwood sighed, his expression bored. Darcy swallowed both his scorn and his pride, and continued.
“In remembrance of that former esteem, I ask one boon of you. Grant it, and I will trouble you no further.”
The petition seemed to amuse him. “The righteous Mr. Darcy begs a favor from the fallen Mr. Dashwood? I am all attention.”
“Lord Phillip Beaumont.”
“What of him?”
“Drop him. From your Knights, from your acquaintance, from your memory.”
Dashwood studied him. “What is Beaumont to you?”
“He has friends who wish to avoid hearing his name linked with scandal.”
A sardonic smile twisted Harry’s lips. “And who, in turn, pressure you to intercede.” He laughed coldly. “I am afraid, Mr. Darcy, you will simply have to bear their displeasure at your failure, for I choose my own society, and so does Beaumont.”
He emptied his glass again and reached for the bottle. “You may both leave now, for I have done with you.”
Darcy and Edward stared at the rude dismissal. Mr. Dashwood waved them away. “That’s right. ‘Stand not upon the order of your going, but go at once.’ ” He returned to his ice cream, now half-melted in its dish. Darcy hoped he choked on it.
“I am astounded,” Edward said when they reached the hall. “I thought your description had prepared me for his degeneration, but I had not comprehended its extent. He conducts himself in this manner all the time now?”
“Not always. He is often worse.”
Mr. Ferrars shook his head. “He looks terrible. I have seen men whose health was ruined by drink or gluttony, but I have never witnessed an appearance deteriorate so quickly. And his eyes—his gaze is wizened, as if he possesses knowledge best left unknown.”
“Candles that burn all night dwindle faster.”
A knock at the door summoned the housekeeper, who answered it to admit, of all people, Phillip Beaumont. Providence had created a final opportunity for Darcy to fulfill his pledge to the earl. Darcy greeted Lord Phillip and presented Edward to him.
“Lord Phillip,” Darcy said, “I wonder if I might speak to you about a matter of some concern.”
Mr. Ferrars, recognizing his presence as superfluous and likely detrimental to the achievement of Darcy’s objective, excused himself to wait in the carriage. Once he departed, Beaumont regarded Darcy expectantly.
“Lord Phillip—” Darcy considered his words, conscious that he had but moments to form an argument to which Beaumont might prove receptive. If the earl’s entreaties had gone unheeded, how could the cautions of a near-stranger expect to find audience? Chatfield had already appealed to Phillip’s sense of honor, family duty, and safety. But Beaumont was young, too young to believe himself or his reputation vulnerable to harm. Harry Dashwood had believed himself similarly impervious, and look at him now.
Yes—look at him. Darcy would appeal to Beaumont’s vanity.
“Lord Phillip, I have just come from Mr. Dashwood. As his friend, I desire your opinion. Does he seem much altered to you in recent weeks?”
“Of course. He’s more lively and amusing. And he throws much better parties than he ever did at Oxford.”
“But do you not think his pursuit of pleasure has taxed his physical person?”
“Perhaps a little.”
The housekeeper hovered, obviously impatient to announce Lord Phillip to her master so she could get on with her other duties. A look from Darcy induced her to retreat a few steps.
“Only a little?”
“Well, all right—Dashwood is hardly cutting a dash these days. But what of it? He is seizing life.”
“Do you not fear that participating in his dissipation will work similar effects upon you?”
He shrugged. “It hasn’t thus far.”
From the dining room, Mr. Dashwood summoned his housekeeper. Harry probably wanted to know who had knocked on the door. Darcy had at most a minute more with the countess’s brother.
“Lord Phillip, it is not my business, but I urge you to take care in your intercourse with Mr. Dashwood.”
“You are correct, Mr. Darcy. It is not your business.”
Darcy accepted the rebuff without answer. This trip to Pall Mall had soundly thrashed his dignity. Having been curtly dismissed by both Dashwood and Beaumont, he would not tarry long enough to be run out by the housekeeper, as well. With a nod of farewell to Lord Phillip, he departed. His obligation to the earl had been discharged.
Twenty-four
Her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury had made . . . The world had made him extravagant and vain—Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.
—Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 44
Elizabeth called in St. James’s for what she expected would be her last visit to the Brandons’ townhouse. Elinor had written that morning to report that, given the failure of Darcy and Edward’s meeting with Mr. Dashwood, the Ferrars saw little reason to continue their stay in town and would depart for Devonshire on the morrow. Darcy, too, had expressed his desire to get Kitty and themselves out of London by week’s end. So Elizabeth set out to take proper leave of Mrs. Ferrars and assure her that, whatever had transpired between Elinor’s nephew and Elizabeth’s family, the Darcys valued their acquaintance with Mr. and Mrs. Edward Ferrars, and desired its continuance.
To her disappointment, she arrived to find Elinor just going out.
“You shall have to excuse me,” Mrs. Ferrars said, “but I am on my way to see Harry, and this is my only opportunity to do so.”
Elizabeth accepted this announcement as good news. Perhaps Edward, upon review of yesterday’s interview, had struck upon a novel strategy to reclaim Mr. Dashwood. She did not, however, see Elinor’s husband anywhere about.
“Does Mr. Ferrars accompany you?”
A guilty expression crossed Elinor’s features. “Edward does not know—he is out with the Brandons and my mother. From what he told me of his encounter with Harry, I suspect he would not approve of my going. But I could not come all this way to London only to leave without so much as a glimpse of my nephew—without attempting myself to prevail upon him, even though others have been unable to do so.”
“I could not either, were I you. How did you intend to get to his townhouse?”
“By hackney.”
“I will take you.”
Elinor gratefully accepted Elizabeth’s offer, and soon the Darcys’ carriage headed toward Pall Mall. Elinor seemed anxious, a mood Elizabeth jointly ascribed to apprehension over her imminent meeting with Harry and unease over the perceived deceit of making this call without Edward’s knowledge. The former, at least, Elizabeth could attempt to mitigate, and perhaps the latter.
“As I have mentioned previously, Mrs. Ferrars, you should prepare yourself for a great alteration in your nephew,” she said. “But take hope in the possibility that as a Dashwood yourself, you may succeed where others have failed in convincing him that your ancestor’s legacy is not one to be admired.”
“I pray you are correct,” she replied. “I thought I would try evoking his memories of my father and Uncle Albert—forebears more worthy of his esteem. I only hope I do not get the reception Edward and Mr. Darcy did yesterday. One hopes Mr. Dashwood retains enough civility to treat a lady with more courtesy.”
“One hopes.” Elizabeth recalled his conduct toward Kitty, and doubted it. But she kept the opinion to herself, seeing little value in amplifying Elinor’s trepidation.
“Mrs. Darcy, might I impose upon you to call on him with me? You have been in his company recently and might discern better than I an opening in the conversation that could be used to our advantage. And when I tell Edward of this visit—as tell him I must—the fact that I called with a companion might lessen any displeasure the news occasions.”
“Of course I will accompany you.” Elizabeth wo
uld have done so simply for friendship’s sake, but Elinor’s invitation also offered the potential for a glimpse at Mr. Dashwood’s looking glass—provided it had arrived from Norland, and that she could locate it within the townhouse. She didn’t imagine the Mirror of Narcissus was something likely to be left lying around the front hall.
She recalled Professor Randolph’s caveat to refrain from looking directly into the glass, and to bring his amulet with her. Unfortunately, she could not heed all of his advice. She did not have the amulet on her person at present, nor could she justify to Elinor the need to stop at her own home en route to Pall Mall so she could retrieve a pocketwatch. She would simply have to go without it, for this would likely prove her only opportunity to obtain a look at the mirror.
As they arrived and disembarked from the carriage, a woman emerged from Mr. Dashwood’s townhouse. At first, Elizabeth wondered if they beheld Harry’s mystery mistress, but then she recognized the lady as Lucy Ferrars. Lucy stomped down the steps in such a state of vexation that she did not hear Elinor’s salutation and almost strode right past them without recognition. A second greeting from Elinor slowed her.
“Elinor!” Lucy appeared startled. Her gaze darted toward her carriage as if she contemplated continuing into it without pausing to talk to them. Her sharp features tensed with impatience as the demands of common courtesy defeated the impulse. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask the same of you,” Elinor said. “Mrs. Darcy and I hope to implore Harry to come to his senses.”
“Well, good luck to you! Harry Dashwood is a knave and a scoundrel and I don’t know what else! He can go to the devil, for all I care!
“Good heavens, Lucy. What has happened?”
“He’s lost all sense of honor, that’s what. He’ll take advantage of anybody.” Her cat eyes narrowed as she struggled to check tears of anger. “I declare, Elinor, he has completely lost his conscience! Take my advice—get back in your carriage, go home, and forget you ever considered coming here. I wish I had.”
With that, she threw herself into her gig and left.
“Well!” Elinor pulled her gaze away from the receding vehicle to face Elizabeth. “That certainly makes one want to proceed, does it not?”
“It makes me wish we had arrived a quarter hour earlier.” Harry had probably grown weary of Lucy circling his townhouse to scavenge for gossip, and told her so in terms Elizabeth might have found diverting.
The housekeeper kept them standing outside while she ascertained whether the master was at home. Knowing quite well he was within, the ladies wondered whether he might refuse them entry following his row with Lucy. But the servant returned and admitted them.
There, resting in the last place Elizabeth expected to see it, was the mirror. Mr. Dashwood had indeed left it lying about the front hall—at least, temporarily. It leaned against the wall, still wrapped in the heavy blankets that had protected it during its journey from Norland. The blankets prevented Elizabeth from examining its detail, but given its size and dimensions, the object could be none other than Harry’s antique looking glass. Three footmen, the same three who had struggled with it the last time Elizabeth called, prepared to move it once more. They looked for all the world as if they would be overjoyed to never lay eyes on the massive thing again.
Wineglass in one hand and pipe in the other, Mr. Dashwood directed their efforts from the landing above. “Simply stash it somewhere convenient for now—one of the spare bedchambers, perhaps. Lord Phillip says he will come retrieve it on the morrow.”
“Yes, sir,” replied one of the men, who appeared of the opinion that lifting the mirror up two flights of stairs for a single day’s residence did not constitute his definition of convenience.
Elizabeth caught Mr. Dashwood’s last statement with interest. Why was Lord Phillip taking possession of the looking glass? Had he, like Albert Dashwood, been asked to “keep it for a little while”?
“Mrs. Darcy, you and your friend may join me in the drawing room.” Without waiting for Elizabeth and Elinor, he turned round and entered that room himself.
The ladies climbed the staircase before it became occupied by the looking glass. Elizabeth had hoped to observe the mirror’s relocation so as to determine the exact chamber to which it was being consigned, but she would have to settle for listening to the movers’ weighted footfalls from the drawing room and making her best guess.
As they entered, Mr. Dashwood refilled his glass with amber liquid that smelled of sulfur. He poured two more and held them toward the women. “Care to join me in a glass of brimstone?”
Elizabeth could scarcely stomach the odor of it. The thought of swallowing the vile brew made her nauseated. She declined, as did Elinor.
He laughed. “Probably too strong for your delicate palates anyway.” He drained one of the glasses, then the other, and set them on the table beside the empty bottle. He took his own glass in hand once more and came toward them.
Elinor gaped at Mr. Dashwood as he neared, causing Elizabeth to assess his person anew. Weeks of heavy drinking, all-night gambling, and God knew what else had corrupted his form into that of a man over twice his age. Grey touched his hairline, and his cheeks had developed into jowls. Wrinkles framed his bloodshot eyes, and a slight tremor in his hand threatened the security of the glass he held. For Elizabeth, who had witnessed his deterioration gradually, his appearance was distressing enough; she could only imagine Elinor’s shock at seeing it all at once. Colonel Brandon, at more than fifty, appeared in better health than her nephew.
And the impression did not even take into account Harry’s moral corruption. She was reminded of Milton’s Satan, whose outward appearance declined in pace with his spiritual fall until the former angel Lucifer was as ugly without as within. This was no epic poem; this was real life. Yet Harry, too, had made a hell of heaven and a heaven of hell, pushing away the fiancée, friends, and family who loved him to rule over his own profane domain.
Mr. Dashwood assessed them both with a lascivious gaze. “Mrs. Darcy, your visit today renders me all curiosity—particularly since Mr. Darcy does not accompany you. Tell me, does your husband know you are here?”
“Of course.” The lie came out smoothly.
“Truly?” He smirked. “I would have guessed him ignorant on the subject of your coming.”
“Mr. Darcy knows me well.”
“I’d like to know you well.”
Her pulse quickened, like that of prey realizing a predator lurks. Mr. Dashwood made no move toward her, but she nevertheless retreated a step.
He laughed, a scornful sound that went straight to her spine. “Is it I who threatens you, Mrs. Darcy? Or your own repressed desires?”
“Harry Dashwood!” Elinor exclaimed. “I rejoice that my father cannot hear your wicked address!”
“And who is he to me?”
“You may not have inherited your grandfather’s noble character, but you do bear his name. Perhaps you could cease dragging it through the sewers of London.”
He appraised her for a minute before finally saying, “Can I anticipate any more aunts arriving to lecture me today, or shall you be the last?”
“You should be ashamed of your behavior to Mrs. Darcy.”
He mocked them both with a bow. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Darcy.” He gestured at his glass. “‘That which makes others drunk hath made me bold’—”
She acknowledged his apology with a curt nod, but every muscle remained tense. She wanted to get away from him.
“—‘and hath given me fire’ . . . which I would be most obliged if you would quench.”
An audible gasp escaped her. She thought she’d previously borne witness to objectionable behavior in him, but his conduct in her home had been nothing compared to what he now displayed in his own. She could not even formulate a reply sufficient to express her revulsion. Still nauseated, she now believed it was not the smell of his brimstone concoction but Mr. Dashwood himself making her sick.
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“Mrs. Ferrars,” she said, “if you do not object, I think I would be more comfortable waiting in the hall whilst you visit with your nephew.”
“I understand,” Elinor replied. “I shan’t be long.”
“Take as much time as you need. I shall be quite all right.”
A sardonic smile contorted Mr. Dashwood’s lips. “I hope it wasn’t something I said, Mrs. Darcy?”
She left the room, shut the door, and leaned against it. She’d hoped the nausea would abate once she was outside Mr. Dashwood’s presence, but it did not. Her heart, however, stopped pounding in her ears enough that she could think clearly. Conscience pricked her for leaving Elinor alone with Harry, but she thought Mrs. Ferrars would be fine. As Elinor was his aunt, Elizabeth doubted she would suffer anything worse than incivility from Harry—certainly nothing approaching the insult she herself had just endured. Besides, if Elinor’s mission were going to succeed at all, it was probably best attempted without a third party present.
Her withdrawal, meanwhile, presented an ideal opportunity to obtain a glimpse of the mirror. While Mr. Dashwood’s inappropriate overtures in the drawing room had diminished her motivation to try to help him, her own curiosity over whether he indeed possessed the Mirror of Narcissus—combined with a lack of anyplace better to go for the next few minutes—proved sufficient incentive to climb the stairs.
She found the looking glass in the bedchamber most proximate to the staircase, its bearers evidently having determined it the most convenient to their interests. She shut the door behind her, in case any servants wandered past, and went about unveiling the mirror.
The process involved a good deal of exertion. Removing the coverings required her to lift the heavy frame away from the wall and support it with one hand while tugging the blankets with her other. Fortunately, the mirror had been positioned so that when the wrap at last pooled on the floor, the glass faced outward.
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