She encountered Lady Chatfield in the hallway behind the boxes, the young countess having left hers on the same errand. Her ladyship moved with a natural grace Elizabeth knew she herself could never hope to achieve.
"Mrs. Darcy, I was just coming to bid you good evening." Her smile at their meeting was genuine, lighting her delicate features. Her eyes, however, betrayed a hint of anxiety. "Are you and your sisters enjoying the performance?"
"It is diverting," Elizabeth responded. Similar conversations babbled around them in the busy hallway. "Though perhaps not quite enough so, tonight."
The countess drew her toward the wall, where it might be hoped that they could converse unheard. "You and Miss Bennet have heard the news, then? It must have been a terrible shock to her. I am so terribly sorry."
Foreboding swept through her. "No, we have not heard the gossip) — only surmised from everyone’s behavior that it had something to do with Kitty. I hoped perhaps you could tell me what is being said about her."
"Oh, dear." Lady Chatfield’s smooth brow wrinkled. "I do not want to be the bearer of ill tidings."
"Better for me to hear them from a friend."
"I suppose so." They stood near a column that isolated a small pocket of the corridor from the rest. No one else lingered by it, as it would obscure from view anyone so positioned and most of the ton lived to be seen. The countess led her to the column, a move that made Elizabeth’s chest tighten. Whatever she had to impart must be dreadful indeed. After all, everyone else in the theatre had already heard it, so Lady Chatfield sought privacy not to protect the intelligence itself from eavesdroppers, but to protect Elizabeth from being observed during the moment of revelation.
"Mr. Dashwood has taken a mistress."
Elizabeth was rendered speechless for a moment. When she recovered, she reminded herself that rumor and fact often were not closely acquainted. Her eyes roamed the crowd, seeing not individuals, but a great monster with a small mind and a thousand mouths that fed on innocent people such as her sister in its quest for entertainment and self-aggrandizement. It had seized upon Harry’s recent licentiousness and invented a scandalous tale for its own amusement.
"The report cannot be true. What a horrible falsehood to spread before someone’s wedding!"
The countess appeared more grave than Elizabeth had ever seen her. "Mrs. Darcy, I’m afraid it is no lie. I learned it this afternoon from my brother Phillip, who had it straight from Mr. Dashwood himself. The gossip started yesterday — rumors of a liaison between Mr. Dashwood and a nameless woman. Phillip took no heed of it when he heard it at the club. But he called upon Mr. Dashwood this morning and found him at breakfast with his paramour."
"Could not the woman he saw simply have been invited to breakfast?" Such an invitation still raised questions but offered a more palatable explanation than the alternative.
"I understand she was in a state of extreme dishabille."
"And Mr. Dashwood allowed her to be seen that way by his friend?"
"Phillip said the lady was concerned by their discovery, but Mr. Dashwood was shameless as could be. In fact, he found the whole scene highly amusing."
Elizabeth’s stomach sickened. Her sister’s fiance had taken a lover. The faithless Harry Dashwood had not only broken his vows before even speaking them, he had flaunted his infidelity before his friend — and, it seemed, before all London. She recalled his recent claim of indisposition, and her discomfort gave way to disgust. Was this how he had occupied himself the past three days? Disinclined to leave his bed, indeed!
"Who is the lady?" Her emphasis on the last word revealed how lightly she used it.
"Phillip did not say, I did not ask, and so far the beau monde does not know. My brother did divulge to me, however, that she is married."
So Mr. Dashwood had managed to damage someone else’s marriage, to injure another spouse, in addition to his own. No — not his own. A marriage between Harry and her sister now was out of the question. Her heart ached for Kitty.
Around them, the crowd started to file back into the auditorium in anticipation of the second act. She gazed at the entrance to her own box, dreading the conversation she must have with her sister tonight. It would not come until she’d whisked her safely out of this place, but come it must. Mr. Dashwood’s association with their family was ended.
Seventeen
"Much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his character had been delayed to a later period."
— Elinor Dashwood to her sister Marianne,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 29
"I wish she would allow me to handle this for her."
Elizabeth wished so, too. Darcy would deliver the set-down that Harry Dashwood deserved. Kitty’s heart still lay in too many pieces for it to have hardened against him enough to fully castigate him for his villainy, and Elizabeth feared the imminent conversation would only lead to its being shattered twice in four-and-twenty hours. She would be happier not to provide Mr. Dashwood that opportunity.
"Kitty wants to break the engagement herself." Needed to do so, in fact. Needed to see his expression when he issued an explanation, or uttered more lies, or brazenly mocked her naivete — whatever response the increasingly unpredictable Mr. Dashwood might offer. Though Elizabeth’s first instinct was to protect her sister from the unpleasant encounter ahead, she was glad to see Kitty taking a stand for herself. No matter what words fell from Harry’s lips, the engagement was over; to that much, Kitty had committed. She would leave Pall Mall minus a fiance but with her self-respect intact.
Elizabeth and Darcy waited in their foyer for Kitty to come downstairs. The three of them would go together to Mr. Dash-wood’s townhouse. He was not expecting them, but he would receive their call. On that point, Darcy and Elizabeth were determined. This matter would be resolved today. All that remained was to establish how much Kitty would rue ever having met Mr. Dash wood in the first place.
"Here she comes," Darcy said.
Though Kitty had risen puffy-eyed from a sleepless night, Elizabeth’s maid had taken such care with her appearance that she looked every bit a young lady worth any gentleman’s notice. She carried herself with dignity as she descended the stairs, and held up her chin with barely a tremble.
"I am ready."
If Harry Dashwood was still capable of regret, Elizabeth hoped it would pierce him at the sight of her sister this morning.
"This interview will go quickly, Kitty," Elizabeth said. "And should it become too unpleasant, Darcy will intervene."
Kitty merely nodded her agreement.
The ride to Pall Mall was quiet, especially in contrast to the bustle in which they found Harry’s townhouse upon their arrival. Sounds of construction below and rearrangement above resonated throughout the residence. The subcellar larder project was well under way, and Mr. Dashwood apparently intended to celebrate its installation by reorganizing his furniture.
The housekeeper, a dour woman who looked as if she’d been in service forever, admitted them. Her gaze assessed them as they entered. Elizabeth instinctively disliked her.
"Did you not say a manservant turned you away when you last called?" she asked Darcy.
"Perhaps he has exchanged his salver for a shovel."
They were forced to wait in the foyer ten minutes before being shown to the drawing room, as the staircase was monopolized by the removal of a very large and — from the groans it forced from the three footmen who struggled with it — very heavy mirror. The style of its detailed gold frame suggested it might be an antique and piqued Elizabeth’s curiosity. She felt at once drawn to and repelled by the looking glass; a sudden urge to gaze into it seized her, but her feet remained rooted to the floor. It was as if her body refused to follow where her mind would go, forbidding her to take close interest in anything having to do with Harry Dash wood.
As the servants wrestled the mirror down the stairs, it caught a beam of sunlight lancing the transom window. Gol
den arcs bounced off the varied surfaces of the gilt frame to splay upon the walls, and the glass itself reflected a fiery glow. The burst of brightness temporarily blinded one of the footmen, who cried out and stopped short. His sudden halt unbalanced his assistants, and for a few heart-stopping moments it appeared that the servants and treasure would tumble down the stairs together.
"Don’t drop it, you fools!" Mr. Dash wood’s voice echoed from above. "That glass cannot be damaged!"
The men somehow regained their grips and footing. Elizabeth exhaled. As they slowly continued their descent, she raised her eyes to see Mr. Dashwood monitoring the proceedings from two flights up.
"Careful!" He bounded down to hover over them as they negotiated the final few steps. When they reached the base of the stairs, they gingerly leaned their burden against the wall and paused to catch their breaths.
"Pack it up securely for the journey. I do not want it arriving at Norland in pieces." Mr. Dashwood then acknowledged Kitty and the Darcys. "Your visit is a pleasant surprise," he said. "Do come upstairs."
They followed him to the drawing room. He offered them a drink — some sort of sulfur-smelling liquor he called "brimstone" — but they declined. While he poured a glass for himself, Elizabeth noted the portrait of Sir Francis above the fireplace, as Fanny Dash wood had described. She was struck, on this viewing, by how very much Harry resembled his ancestor not only in physical person but also in character. Their bearing at this moment was identical, their facial expressions the same, their countenances nearly indistinguishable — and their reputations more alike every day. Sir Francis may have been rich, but Harry had chosen the poorest of his relations to emulate.
"You must be feeling better if you plan a trip to Norland," Elizabeth observed. In truth, however, he did not look altogether well, and had she not learned from Lady Chatfield the real reason he’d lain abed the past three days, she would have believed his recent claims of indisposition. His complexion seemed paler, and his jaw more slack than when she’d seen him last. Dissipation was not a flattering cosmetic.
"The glass is going. I am not."
"I thought you were enamored of it?" Darcy asked.
"It has become rather too familiar to me." Mr. Dashwood tossed back his drink. He poured a second, then sat on the sofa and patted the place next to him. "Kitty, love, come sit beside me."
She instead moved one step closer to Elizabeth. "I think I shall stand."
He shrugged and rose. "As you wish. I would never deny a lady her pleasure."
"Miss Bennet has a matter she needs to discuss with you," Darcy said.
"Indeed? I am all attention."
Kitty looked uncertainly at Darcy and Elizabeth, then took in a deep breath and began. "Mr. Dashwood, it has come to my knowledge that — " Her gaze slid back to Elizabeth, who nodded in encouragement. "That is, I’ve been given to understand that — " She became flustered.
Amusement played at the corners of his mouth. "God’s teeth, child! Spit it out before we all die of old age."
Kitty squared her shoulders. "Mr. Dashwood, do you have a paramour?"
He did not so much as blink. "Yes. Do you?"
Her eyes widened, and she took a step backward. Elizabeth caught her elbow to steady her.
Darcy approached him. "You insult Miss Bennet with the very — "
"I believe this conversation is between me and my fiancee."
"Former fiancee."
"Indeed?" He glanced from Darcy to Kitty. "Is this your wish? To break our engagement?"
She swallowed. "Can you explain why I should not?"
"So I have taken a lover. Take one yourself, if you like."
"Mr. Dashwood!"
"Mr. Dashwood!"
The first exclamation was Darcy’s; the second, following hard upon, was Kitty’s. Darcy appeared ready to choke the cocky youth. He opened his mouth to say more, but Elizabeth stayed him with a look. "Go on, Kitty," she said.
"Mr. Dashwood, I hardly know you anymore." Kitty repeated the words she’d rehearsed with Elizabeth this morning. "You are not the man I consented to wed. Ever since we returned from Norland, you have treated me and my family with disrespect."
"How so?"
"Through your conduct toward me and your falsehoods to me. You lied about being indisposed these past three days — "
"I said I could not rise from bed. What you inferred from that is your own misconstruction."
"You lied about not seeing me at Grafton House."
"I acknowledged you as soon as you spoke to me."
"You lied about having gone to Devonshire — "
"Devonshire? Why the devil would I go to Devonshire?"
"That is the very thing I wondered as you stood before us insisting that you had." Her voice wavered. "Mr. Dashwood, I don’t understand what has come over you. My affection for you would have enabled me to bear a great deal, but I cannot, and will not, tolerate a mistress."
"Then I hope you enjoy leading the apes."
Kitty looked as if she’d been slapped. Indeed, indignation stained her cheeks red. "I do not intend to die a spinster."
"Oh, Kitty, you are so green! That’s what I found charming in you. Your husband, whoever he is, will have a lover — perhaps a dozen of them. And if you think he does not dally, that only means he is less honest about it than I."
Kitty’s face contorted at the bleak portrait Mr. Dashwood painted of men’s fidelity Even Elizabeth cringed at his cynicism.
"Not all men share your dishonorable nature," Darcy said.
"Of course you would say that, Mr. Darcy. You must — your wife is present."
"I think we have all said quite enough," Elizabeth declared. She took her sister’s hand. "Come, Kitty. Mr. Dashwood can add nothing worth your hearing."
Kitty stood motionless, seemingly unable to wrest her gaze from Mr. Dashwood’s face. It held complete indifference. Her own exhibited an expression so full of sorrow and incomprehension and hurt and grief that Elizabeth suffered to witness it.
"Come," Elizabeth repeated gently.
They went downstairs, where Mr. Dashwood’s footmen were covering the mirror in preparation for its transport to Norland. Kitty paused to cast a final look of regret toward the drawing room above.
Elizabeth put her arm around her sister’s waist and directed her toward the door. "You are better off without him, Kitty," she said. "Though the broken engagement pains you today, you shall be relieved by it tomorrow."
Kitty nodded and allowed herself to be led away Elizabeth’s own gaze rose one final time to the drawing room door. Her mind’s eye compared again the Dashwood on the sofa to the Dashwood above the fireplace. Their uncanny resemblance struck her. Which one of them would time prove the greater miscreant?
Her money said the one swallowing brimstone.
Eighteen
"As he required the promise, I could not do less than give it."
— John Dashwood to Fanny Dashwood,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 2
"You returned home early." Darcy, having himself just en-tered the townhouse, helped his wife remove her wrap.
"Mr. Dashwood was there."
"I see."
He had expected to arrive home to an empty townhouse but had found the ladies returning at the same time. Elizabeth had escorted Georgiana and Kitty to a ball, where all hoped the amusement would elevate Kitty’s spirits. In the fortnight since she broke her engagement, Kitty had done her best to project an air of cheerfulness to those around her, but she was a poor actress. Anyone could see that Mr. Dashwood’s mistreatment had left wounds that would not soon heal.
Kitty said little as she and Georgiana removed their own wraps. He’d never known a young lady to return home from a ball in such subdued spirits. Out of deference to Kitty’s feelings, Darcy withheld further comment on the owner of Norland in her presence. But he gave free rein to his own thoughts. A plague take Mr. Dashwood! The scoundrel had also been the reason Darcy cut short his evening at
White’s.
In a span of mere weeks, Mr. Dashwood had risen to prominence as the Bacchus of the beau monde and had attracted to himself an entourage of like-minded new friends bent on testing the limits of how far decent society would excuse dishonor in men of fortune and rank. The Polite World was at once repulsed and fascinated by the new Pied Piper of London, scandalized by the spectacle but unable to tear away its attention. Drawing rooms and coffeehouses reverberated with tales of his exploits — speculation as to the identity of his mistress, lurid accounts of parties he’d hosted, amazed descriptions of his capacity for drink and boldness at games of chance. It was said his appetites, for everything from wine to women, were insatiable.
The Darcys were no longer the only ones drawing comparisons between Harry Dashwood and his notorious ancestor. Sir Francis enjoyed fresh renown in the discourse of the ton, and it was speculated that Harry would achieve even greater heights — or depths — of infamy. The Hell-Fire Club was openly discussed in gentlemen’s clubs, and even ladies became acquainted with its name, if not its more salacious details. It was even said that Harry was Sir Francis reborn, his new band of merry men the former Monks of Medmenham, all reincarnated from the ashes of the underworld to fan the flames of Hell-Fire on earth once more.
That last, of course, was fiction surpassing anything Mrs. Radcliffe could write, but the gentlemen at White’s Club tonight had talked of little else. Darcy had quickly become weary of the subject and departed.
Kitty and Georgiana bade them good night almost immediately and went to their own chambers. When Elizabeth’s sister was out of auditory range, he turned to his wife.
"How was Mr. Dashwood this evening?"
"About the same. No — worse. Poor Kitty couldn’t bear to be in the same room with him. Fortunately, he spent most of his time at the card tables."
"He gambles so much at the clubs that I wonder he troubled himself to attend a private ball to hazard his fortune."
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