Suspense and Sensibility

by Carrie Bebris

  The mirror would not permit her.

  It held her in its sight. Invisible claws raked her, rent her, trying to claim her soul for the one she had denied. She felt a tear, a grasp, as the mirror prepared to consume her spirit. The flames leapt in anticipation of their feast.

  Still on the floor, Darcy pushed himself to a sitting position. He moved groggily, as if awakening from slumber. She could not even see his face. With a swift prayer that this would not be her last vision of him in this lifetime, she steeled herself against the mirror’s imminent pull.

  She felt its grip—strong, overpowering, cold for all the heat of its fire. Then, suddenly, it released her.

  The wails of every soul the Mirror of Narcissus had ever held flooded the air, centuries of tormented shrieks and cries that had gone unheard in their glass prison. The flames burned blue, then black. Mr. Dashwood’s image had disappeared, no doubt consumed by the raging inferno.

  The mirror’s surface wavered, losing solidity, threatening to send molten glass oozing across the floor. The wails grew so loud she had to cover her ears or go mad. As they reached a crescendo, a mighty roar sounded. The mirror shook violently. Elizabeth feared it would come away from the wall and topple over to crush her. But it did not.

  It imploded.

  Thirty-one

  “Thank Heaven you are what you always were!”

  —Marianne Dashwood to Edward Ferrars,

  Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 35

  The sudden silence was almost more disturbing than the howls of the damned.

  Only the sound of the rain, falling gently once more, penetrated the stillness. No one spoke. No one moved. All simply stared at an empty gold frame. The glass had collapsed in on itself, disappearing into whatever plane of hell it had occupied and leaving nothing but a tarnished shell behind.

  Elizabeth shuddered—from horror or chill, she knew not. Probably both. The room had returned to a normal temperature, leaving her cold in her perspiration-drenched gown.

  Darcy came to her. He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly enough to assure her that he was, indeed, her Darcy—unscarred, if not untouched, by their ordeal. His whispered enquiries and her murmured responses reassured him of her own wholeness.

  Though the dimness of the room granted them partial privacy, they soon grew conscious of their audience and separated. Professor Randolph had crossed to the table, where he was tactfully taking his time relighting the candelabrum. When he finished his task, the tapers emitted a gentle glow, comforting in contrast to the blaze just extinguished.

  Randolph assessed them. “You both appear all right.”

  “We are,” Darcy confirmed.

  “Then I think we must consider the end result of this enterprise a success, even if we failed to rescue Mr. Dashwood.”

  Dread washed over Elizabeth at the mention of Harry. She glanced at his body, still lying on the floor. “Is he lost forever?”

  “The mirror is destroyed. I can only assume that his spirit perished along with it.”

  She swallowed a lump in her throat. Sadness settled upon her as she thought of the lost potential Harry’s death represented. How extraordinarily unfair it was, that he should have the simple pleasures of one life stolen from him, so that Sir Francis could indulge in the guilty pleasures of a second.

  Darcy, noting her distress, touched her cheek. “Perhaps instead of being destroyed along with the mirror, his spirit found rest.”

  She released a heavy sigh and turned to look at Harry’s body once more. “I shall hold out hope of that.”

  Viewing Mr. Dashwood now, she could believe he had, indeed, somehow found rest. He posed as if in slumber, his limbs having fallen into more natural positions when his body warmed. He lay on his side, his knees slightly bent, his left arm tucked under him and his right gently draped. She imagined his chest lightly rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

  She caught her own breath. ’Twas not her imagination.

  “Darcy, Mr. Dashwood is breathing.”

  Incredulous, they all gathered round Mr. Dashwood’s form. Elizabeth extended her hand, but Darcy captured it and instead felt Mr. Dashwood’s chest himself.

  “His heart beats, and he is as warm as you or I.”

  She pressed Darcy’s hand at the news but hesitated to celebrate. She raised her gaze to Professor Randolph. “Is he Harry—or Sir Francis?”

  “Harry,” Mr. Dashwood murmured.

  His eyes opened. He slowly rolled to his back and blinked, trying to focus his gaze as it shifted among the three of them.

  “I’m afraid I’ve been a neglectful host today,” he said. His voice was feeble, but he sounded more like himself than he had in weeks. “Do forgive me—I’ve been away for a while.”

  The rain had ceased, and a ray of evening sunlight slanted through the window. Elizabeth smiled.

  “It is good to have you back, Mr. Dashwood.”

  A quarter hour saw Harry sufficiently recovered to transfer from the floor to a chair, and another quarter hour beyond that brought his request to remove from the chamber altogether. Though only the mirror’s frame remained, the sight of it distressed him far more than the exertion of changing rooms. His own chamber having also been the scene of unpleasant memories, Mr. Dashwood chose to relocate to the drawing room.

  They assisted him downstairs, where they found most of the servants milling around, speculating about what had transpired above. Elizabeth supposed a little curiosity was the natural result of all the wailing and roaring they must have heard issuing from the spare bedchamber. At the sight of Mr. Dashwood—whom they had last seen stone-cold dead—all gasped, a few crossed themselves, and one maid fainted.

  “Mr. Dashwood has recovered from his indisposition,” Elizabeth announced.

  The four of them ignored the servants’ bewildered gazes and continued to the drawing room, where they settled Harry in a comfortable chair. Mr. Dashwood’s ordeal had left him weak, but he showed signs of steady improvement. In fact, Elizabeth thought his visage already looked better than it had when she’d last spoken to Sir Francis. Confident that some nourishment would further speed his revival, Elizabeth called for a light supper to be brought up.

  “Shall I also send for something fortifying to drink?” she asked Harry. “Wine, perhaps?”

  Mr. Dashwood grimaced. “Tea. I think in recent weeks this body has taken in quite enough spirits, in every sense of the word.”

  The tea arrived first. Its delivery required two maids—one to carry the tray, the other to look busy while casting furtive glances at Mr. Dashwood.

  “Will your servants speak of this outside the house?” Darcy asked when they departed.

  “They are not my servants. Sir Francis replaced my staff with his own, and paid them well to keep silent about anything they might observe. Startling as my apparent resurrection is, I’m afraid it’s not the most shocking thing that has taken place in this house.”

  Elizabeth poured tea and placed the first cup in Mr. Dashwood’s hands. Then, still feeling a bit indisposed herself after their ordeal, she poured a cup of her own and swallowed a sip. “What did happen?” she asked. “I know what you revealed to me when I discovered you in the glass yesterday—” Good heavens, had that been only yesterday? “But all the rest?”

  A shadow passed across his countenance, and she immediately regretted the query. “Do not speak of it, if doing so will cause you distress,” she hastened to add.

  “No, I—I want you to know,” he said. “I want to assure you that whatever indignities you or anybody else suffered, they were not my doing.”

  “We understand you are not to blame.”

  “Oh—I accept the blame as my own. It was I who brought the glass here, I who brought the portrait. Had I not wanted to show off with the former and insult my mother with the latter, none of this would have happened.”

  “Until some other unsuspecting person stumbled upon those objects in the future,” Professor Randol
ph said. “Cursed artifacts seldom allow themselves to remain in obscurity forever. Had you not found the glass, your son, or his son, might have become the mirror’s next victim. Let it bring you some measure of peace to know that you have spared your progeny the misery you endured.”

  “All the same, I wish I had invited you to examine my attic discoveries, as I had promised,” he said. “I almost did solicit your assessment of the glass, but I feared you would think me mad. Heavens, I thought I was mad—hearing a voice coming from the glass, seeing a face that was mine and not mine. Sir Francis haunted me awake in the mirror and asleep in my dreams. Then people started seeing me in places I had not been, and I wondered if he’d found a way to roam about while I slept. Even when I was in Devonshire, if I so much as dozed, his spirit wandered London free.”

  “And eventually he grew dissatisfied with that?” Elizabeth asked gently.

  “After more than thirty years of imprisonment, he was like a child on holiday. He sought pleasure, but his lack of substance limited his enjoyments. He could not hold cards, consume food or drink, or satisfy his . . . more carnal interests.” A hint of red crept into his cheek, and his teacup became a sudden subject of rapt attention.

  The arrival of Harry’s supper broke the awkwardness. Two different servants, probably having won at straws the privilege of ogling Mr. Dashwood up close, delivered the repast. When they had served the food and retreated, Harry continued.

  “After the—after Sir Francis and I exchanged places, he gave free rein to his hedonistic impulses. You cannot imagine my torment! To have not only lost my freedom, but to watch helplessly as my relationships, reputation, fortune, and physical person suffered irreparable damage!”

  “You know the extent of his transgressions?” Darcy asked.

  “I probably do not,” he said. “But I know a good many of them. He would gloat to me about his exploits—found my horror and dismay exceedingly amusing. And what went on in my own bedchamber, where he relished the presence of a captive audience, defies description. I would turn away, cover my ears, and retreat to the mirror’s farthest recesses.”

  “Could none of his”—Darcy cleared his throat—“visitors see you in the glass?” Darcy asked.

  “Until Mrs. Darcy saw me yesterday, none but Sir Francis ever detected me. Believe me, I tried to draw attention to myself! Every servant, every woman who entered inspired shouts and frantic waving, but for naught. Once I thought my aunt Lucy had noticed me. She gazed into the mirror a terribly long time, but it turned out she was only admiring herself. The incident unnerved Sir Francis enough, however, that he shipped the mirror back to Norland the next day.”

  Elizabeth, who had been refilling Harry’s teacup, paused to regard him closely. “Mrs. Robert Ferrars was in your—Sir Francis’s—bedchamber?”

  “Mrs. Robert Ferrars was Sir Francis’s mistress.”

  “Oh, my!” Elizabeth required a moment to absorb that intelligence. “I suppose that explains how she was always in possession of the latest news about you—I mean, him. Sir Francis must have taken her into his confidence, for surely Mrs. Ferrars would not have entered into an affair with her own nephew.”

  “Unfortunately, she was quite of the belief that it was I who seduced her. I shall never be able to hear my name on her lips without the sound giving rise to memories I would much rather forget.”

  “As someone who knows you well, she did not find Sir Francis’s actions so contrary to your nature as to make her question them?” Darcy asked.

  “My aunt is not possessed of the strongest perception,” Harry said. “Indeed, she was flattered by his advances.”

  “It is little wonder Miss Ferrars’s engagement so enraged her.”

  “My cousin Regina is engaged?” Harry asked. “To whom?”

  Elizabeth hesitated. “To you, I fear.”

  Mr. Dashwood looked a little ill. “I knew I had lost Miss Bennet. I saw the three of you arrive at the townhouse as the mirror was being prepared for transport to Norland. I caught a glimpse of Kitty—what a blessed gift that was! But I feared for her. When I heard you speak of the broken engagement as you left, I rejoiced that she had escaped Sir Francis’s taint.” He poked at his food, apparently having lost his appetite. “To now find myself engaged to my cousin—well, it is most surprising news. I am not certain what attraction she held for Sir Francis.”

  Elizabeth exchanged glances with Darcy. If Harry had been at Norland since Kitty ended the engagement, he had been absent when Sir Francis gambled away his estate and Fanny settled his remaining inheritance on her niece.

  “Mr. Dashwood, I’m afraid we must advise you of additional unpleasant occurrences,” Darcy said.

  Harry bore with dignity the news that Sir Francis had left him penniless. He became very quiet, and the others allowed him the privacy of his own thoughts. At last he said, “I am glad he has left this world, for otherwise I might have killed him myself.”

  “Someone did,” Elizabeth said. “The servants found him trapped in the larder this morning.”

  “Indeed? I had wondered at his odd position when you brought him upstairs. Will there be an investigation?”

  “Unfortunately, there is nothing to investigate,” said Darcy. “With you here, there is no corpse, and hence, no murder. I would guard my back, however, were I you, for Sir Francis managed to offend a great many people in your name.”

  “After what you all endured to restore my life, I do not intend to lose it easily. Mere words can never express the measure of my gratitude. When I consider what you almost sacrificed—”

  “Almost,” Elizabeth emphasized. “All turned out well in the end.” She looked to Professor Randolph. “Though, Professor, I do not understand what happened in the final moments. A soul for a soul—was that not the mirror’s price? Obviously, Mr. Dashwood’s spirit was released. In exchange, I saw the glass try to steal Darcy’s, and I felt it try to snatch my own. What caused it to destroy itself instead?”

  The archaeologist pondered her question a moment. “Maybe the mirror tried to take too much at once.”

  She shook her head. “No—Darcy was out of its range in the end. I was alone before it.”

  Professor Randolph regarded her, his expression inscrutable. Finally, he said, “I have no other explanation to offer at present. Perhaps in time you’ll find the answer within yourself.”

  They were interrupted by a voice rising from below, where someone sought admittance. Mr. Dashwood rose and opened the drawing room door to better hear the visitor. Her voice was familiar to them all.

  “What dreadful news about my nephew! I came as soon as I heard . . . .”

  Mr. Dashwood winced. “I do not think I can cope with my aunt Lucy just yet.”

  After what she had learned today, Elizabeth did not know whether she would ever again be able to greet Mrs. Robert Ferrars with a placid countenance. She was curious, however, as to the nature of the news to which Lucy alluded. To Elizabeth’s knowledge, word of Mr. Dashwood’s supposed demise had not traveled outside the house.

  “Will you allow me?” she asked.

  “By all means.”

  Elizabeth left to receive the visitor. As she headed down the stairs, Lucy’s voice continued to resound in the hall.

  “As his kin, I wonder that you did not send me word immediately,” Lucy admonished the housekeeper. “I will, of course, handle all the arrangements, in consultation with his mother.” She tried to push her way past the servant.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Ferrars,” Elizabeth greeted her. The housekeeper looked as if she had every intention of staying, but Elizabeth dismissed her. “What arrangements would those be?”

  “Mrs. Darcy” Lucy opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. It was the first occasion Elizabeth could recall of her being at a loss for words. “I did not expect to find you here,” she said finally.

  “I did not expect to be here myself today, but necessity required it.”

  Lucy nodded sympathetically. “I
t was good of you to come. Those senseless servants obviously didn’t know who to summon. But I’m here now. Where is the—where is poor Harry?”

  Mr. Dashwood’s aunt had hardly referred to him as “poor Harry” the last time Elizabeth had seen her.

  “In the drawing room.”

  “The drawing room?” She appeared puzzled. “Well, I suppose that’s as good a place as any. Is he—is he quite dreadful to look at?”

  Actually, Elizabeth reflected, Harry’s appearance had continued to improve dramatically since he’d regained consciousness. At present, he didn’t look a day over fifty.

  But to Lucy she said, “How did he look when you last saw him?”

  An expression of guilt flashed across her face. It lasted the merest fraction of a second, but it was long enough. “Oh, you know . . .” Lucy shrugged.

  Yes, she did.

  Thirty-two

  “Tell her of my misery and my penitence—tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.”

  —Mr. Willoughby to Elinor,

  Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 44

  “I came to bid you farewell,” Mr. Dashwood said as he entered Darcy’s library.

  Darcy greeted Harry, though not the cause of his call, with genuine pleasure. In the three weeks since Mr. Dashwood had been restored to himself, Darcy had come to hold him in esteem surpassing that of their earlier acquaintance. His ordeal in the mirror had purged him of those flaws of character Darcy had previously defined as a want of seriousness, leaving him instead a sober young man mature beyond his years. In fact, both Elizabeth and Darcy worried that he had grown a little too serious and hoped that eventually the passage of time would lighten his spirits.

  He invited Mr. Dashwood to be seated. “You look very well today.”

  “I am, thank you.” In physical appearance, Mr. Dashwood had remarkably improved. The effects of premature aging that Sir Francis’s tenancy had wrought upon his person had receded beyond anyone’s expectation. He had appeared gradually younger each day for a fortnight, until settling into the form of a man perhaps in his mid-thirties. Professor Randolph theorized that when his soul reentered his body, it had yet borne the image of a child, and that this fortunate circumstance had somehow countered the years Sir Francis had added. He still looked considerably older than he ought, and probably always would, but his appearance was superior to what could have been.