Suspense & Sensibility m&mdm-2

by Carrie Bebris

  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 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, migln 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 would 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 ihe 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, 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 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 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 cheeks had developed into jowls. Wrinkles framed his blood-shot 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 fiancee, 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 grandfathers 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.

  "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 ovenures 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 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.

  She stepped round the front of the mirror. Keeping Professor Randolph's caution in mind, she diverted her gaze from the glass and focused on the frame. Exquisitely sculpted ancient athletes stood out in relief from a background of intertwined laurel leaves. Each champion, whether gripping a javelin, launching a discus, or racing on foot, was as flawlessly formed

  as the last. Elizabeth's eye roamed from one to the next, awed by the display of physical perfection, until her gaze reached the top of the frame.

  There, at the mirror's crown, she beheld the most ideal male visage she'd ever seen. It was the face of youthful vigor, its noble cheekbones, strong jaw, and expressive eyes enhanced by Apollonian curls. The beauty of it overwhelmed her. Surely this was the image of Narcissus.

  She looked upon the mythical youth she knew not how long, unable, like he himself in legend, to tear her gaze away.

  The mirror itself possessed a quality of timelessness, creating the sense that it was not the product of any one age but of eternity, and Elizabeth could well have spent eternity studying it had not a sudden noise in the hall wrenched her attention toward the door. She held her breath in anticipation of discovery, but released it when no one entered. The sounds must have

  come from a passing servant.

  She turned back to the mirror, but the interruption had distracted her. She forgot, just for a moment. Professor Randolph's warning.

  It was a moment too long. She looked full into the glass.

  'Twas not her own reflection it returned. It was Harry Dashwood's.

  Twenty-Five

  No time was to be lost in undeceiving her, to make her acquainted with the real truth.

  — Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 37

  Elizabeth whirled around to confront Mr. Dashwood. She fought down panic at having been caught prowling where she did not belong. How had he sneaked in without her awareness?

  He hadn't.

  She was alone in the room. The door remained shut. Nothing had been disturbed — except her ease of mind.

  Had the vision been only her own projection? She spun back around.

  "Oh!" She caught her breath.

  Again, Harry Dashwood gazed back at her.

  Repeated glances over her shoulder confirmed that he was not behind her. She stepped back, struggling to make sense of what she saw.

  He stood slumped, dejected, watching her with a resigned air. Though his gaze followed her, it was detached, as if he observed a stage actor delivering a performance in which he did not take part. Despite the events of recent weeks, somehow this sight of him caused an overpowering wave of sadness to engulf her.

  Why she should experience pity for a man who had behaved so reprehensibly toward her sister, herself, and everyone else who cared about him, she could not comprehend. Then she realized that this image of Mr Dashwood was not that of the degenerate rake she'd left downstairs with Elinor, the man suffering disfigurement wrought by his own dissipation. It was that of the earnest young man who had wooed Kitty, the handsome gentleman who'd earned the respect and admiration of them all. Erased were the effects of excess. In his mirror image, Harry was restored to health, vigor, and — from outward appearance, at least — himself.

  How was this possible? If Mr. Dashwood was not present in the room, whom — what — did she behold?

  "Mr — Mr Dashwood?"

  His eyes widened. He stood up straight and moved toward her, stopping when he reached the glass barrier between them. He regarded her eagerly

  Mrs. Darcy, he mouthed. Mrs. Darcy, can you hear me?

  His expression implored her to say yes. But she could not. The only sound she could hear was the pounding of her own heart.

  She shook her head. "Can you hear me?'

  He nodded vigorously

  She had no idea what to say. Or to whom she would be saying it. Was this Harry Dashwood? A devil in his guise? A figment of her imagination?

  "Mr Dashwood, what—" She gestured toward the empty chamber. "You are not present in the room with me. How is it that I can see you in the mirror?"

  He started talking, but she could not hear a syllable.

  "I cannot comprehend you. More slowly, Mr. D
ashwood."

  He nodded and took a deep breath, then tried again. Though he moved his lips with deliberate slowness, she still could not make out his words.

  She shook her head helplessly "Mr. Dashwood, I'm afraid I cannot understand you."

  He ran his hands through his hair, even more disheartened than she at their inability to communicate. She wanted to know what was transpiring, and he clearly wanted to tell her. She searched her mind for some means by which he could make himself heard, but turned up naught.

  She glanced at the door. Could someone else help them? She doubted Elinor could, and even so, how would she ever get Harry's aunt to this chamber without the knowledge of—

  She froze.

  Of whom? If Harry Dashwood was in the mirror, whom had she left downstairs? And if Harry Dashwood was downstairs, who or what was in the mirror? She didn't know which thought disturbed her more. Of only one thing was she certain: The Mirror of Narcissus was indeed cursed. She needed to find Professor Randolph. If anyone could explain this extraordinary situanon, he could.

  She turned back to the figure in the mirror. "I–I have to go," she said.

  He shook his head vehemently No! Please — no. He pressed his hands against the glass.

  "But Mr. Dashwood. or whoever you are—'

  Help me.

  Though the words had no sound, they reverberated in her mind. His haunted expression beseeched her. Compassion seized her, yet the fact remained that she hadn't the power to grant his plea.

  She held up her palms. "How can I aid you if I cannot understand you?"

  His jaw and fists clenched in frustration He broke their gaze and brought his hands up before him. He looked from his fists to the glass as if contemplating punching the barrier He seemed about to try when his gaze shifted to her palms, still raised.

  He opened his hands and studied them. Then he raised his head and met her eyes.

  He gestured to her hands. He held his own up and pressed them to the glass. Then he nodded toward her hands again.

  Elizabeth hesitated. If Professor Randolph had warned against looking directly into the mirror, pressing ones hands against it to commune with some image that had no original present seemed like a very poor notion, indeed. She did not know upon whom or what she gazed. Man or ghost? Benign entity or demonic creature? If she did as he bade, what would be the consequence? I seem to recall that many of its owners have met untimely ends, the archaeologist had said. She did not even have the amulet with her for protection.