Suspense & Sensibility m&mdm-2

by Carrie Bebris

  She should leave this instant. Turn her back and walk away. Retrieve help — or perhaps never return. She owed Mr. Dashwood nothing. He had ceased being an object deserving her concern the moment he first mistreated Kitty.

  If that transgressor had, in fact, been Mr. Dashwood.

  She could not ignore the nagging impression taking hold of her, that somehow she presently gazed upon the true Harry Dashwood. Nor could she ignore the desperation in his countenance.

  Elizabeth said a swift, silent prayer. Then lifted her hands to the glass

  She is in a great, drafty room, cluttered with trunks and shrouded furniture. A large, rectangular object leans against one wall. A slightly smaller and thinner parcel rests against it. She reaches out to the smaller object. Her hands are not her own. They are larger — a man's hands. She unwraps the item. It is the portrait of Sir Francis. She unveils the mirror. Harry Dashwood gazes back at her. But moves as she moves. His reflection is hers. She is Harry, discovering the mirror at Norland. Experiencing his memory with dual conciousness — her own and Harry's.

  She is in a well-appointed dressing room now. Pall Mall bustles outside the window. Her valet helps her tuck her shirt into her trousers, and offers a cravat. She approaches the mirror to tie the neckcloth and is startled to see someone else's face instead. Not her own — not Harry's — but one very like his. The vision lasts but an instant.

  She is in the dressing room again. She — Harry — straightens her waistcoat before the mirror. Behind her hangs the portrait of Sir Francis, brought from Norland. She sees the face in the mirror again. It matches that in the portrait. It speaks. Come closer, Harry. Then the face is gone again.

  It is dark. She is m bed, alone. Exhausted but afraid to sleep. A voice

  whispers in the night. Trust me. Harry. She crushes a pillow to her ears and prays for sunrise.

  She is in her own house — her and Darcy's townhouse. Darcy is speaking to her in the hall. Mr. Dashwood, if you would but confide in me, perhaps 1 can help you out of this scrape. She shakes her head. I have to go home. She returns to Pall Mall and heads rightaway for the mirror. Show yourself. Sir Francis! Nothing happens. She keeps vigil. No matter what, she cannot allow herself to fall asleep. But fatigue overtakes her, and she nods off as the candle sputters out.

  She awakens with a start. Twelve white-robed fibres surround the bed, chanting. She at first takes their song to be a Gregorian chant but soon realizes that the latin words hold a profane undercurrent. She tries to rise from the bed. but the rhythmless song holds her immobile. One of the monks parts the curtains to admit the light of the full moon. The shaft illuminates the mirror. Sir Francis appears. And steps out.

  He stands over her. He laughs ominously, a sound that leaves her

  hollow. He offers a blasphemous incantation and reaches toward her. His voice rises steadily, repeating the same words until they engulf her. Reddet an imam pro amma.

  He touches her chest. Her heart stops. Excruciating pain rips through her. She is rent in twain, her spirit torn from her body. For an instant, all goes black. Then, from the side of the room she sees her body — Harry's body — on the bed. It sits up and looks a her with Sir Francis's eyes. He raises an exultant shout. I am flesh once more!

  She releases a cry of her own and charges forward. She strikes glass. She sinks to her knees, her hands sliding down the invisible barrier between herself and her self.

  The curtain is drawn. Sir Francis and his disciples file from the room, and sounds of celebration soon echo below.

  Only she remains: the newest prisoner of the mirror.

  Twenty-Six

  She was mortified, shocked, confounded.

  — Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 22

  Elizabeth fell to the floor, the force of Harry's memories literally knocking her from her feet. She curled in a ball, gasping for breath, clutching her head, willing the ache that pierced her mind to stop. She shut her eyes against the horror of what she'd witnessed.

  Gradually, the pain diminished. She opened her eyes and raised herself to her knees. She did not dare look at the mirror again. She stared at the floor, resting on all fours as she struggled to regain command over herself — to comprehend the knowledge she'd just received.

  Harry Dashwood was trapped inside the Mirror of Narcissus, and had been for weeks. While she and Darcy had maintained surveillance outside, suspecting Harry of wrongdoing, the old Hell-Fire Club had released its leader and imprisoned Harry in his stead. And while Harry's spirit was trapped. Sir Francis roamed free in his shell.

  It was Sir Francis, then, who had hurt Kitty, who had insulted her and Darcy. Who led London's bloods in new explorations of debauchery. Who had alienated Harry's friends and family to the point of losing his maternal inheritance, then gambled away his estate. It was Sir Francis whom Elizabeth had left in the drawing room with Elinor, and who would come looking for her if her absence was realized.

  She pushed herself to her feet. From the corner of her eye, she detected Harry attempting to capture her attention. She averted her gaze, fixing it instead upon the door. She prayed Sir Francis would not come through it while she deliberated what to do.

  Harry must be released from the mirror But how? His body and soul had been separated through some unholy ritual enacted by Sir Francis and twelve others — all of them practiced communicants. What could she, ignorant of their rites, unprepared for the test of spirit, accomplish alone? She regreted again the lack of Professor Randolph's amulet. She needed its protection. She needed the archaeologist's knowledge. She needed a plan. She needed Darcy.

  "I am leaving to summon assistance, Mr. Dashwood." She did not know how he responded to the statement, for she yet avoided sight of the glass. "But I shall return. I give you my word."

  She descended to the drawing room, wondering how long she'd been gone and what had transpired in the interim.

  Thankfully, she heard Elinor's voice, indicating that Harry's aunt and Mr. Dashwood — Sir Francis — were yet in conference.

  God willing, they remained unaware that she'd been anywhere but waiting in the hall.

  She entered to find Sir Francis well into a new bottle of brimstone. The smell of the liquor made her stomach roil, and the sight of him filled her with revulsion. She concentrated on maintaining a steady countenance so as not to betray her new knowledge of him.

  "Mrs. Darcy" Sir Francis greeted her "Have you elected to rejoin us?"

  "I am afraid that I feel indisposed and would like to return home. Mrs. Ferrars, if you have not completed your call, I would be happy to send my carriage back to convey you whenever you are ready"

  "You do look raiher peaked," Sir Francis observed.

  She realized belatedly that in having so studiously avoided looking into the mirror, she had no idea whether her ordeal had left any telltale effects. But if her appearance made her look even more ill than she felt, so much the better.

  "Let us leave at once, Mrs. Darcy." Elinor said, "for my business here is finished."

  "Yes, my aunt was taking me to task for my irresponsible behavior, until I iniormed her that I shall soon be settling down. I am engaged to be married, you see."

  Elizabeth blinked at the unexpected news. "May I ask who the lady is?"

  "My lovely cousin Regina."

  "Congratulations." She did her best to mask the speculation the announcement occasioned. Was this, she wondered, the subject of his earlier row with Lucy Ferrars? With Norland lost and Regina in possession of Fanny's fortune, the match Regina's pushy mama had once so aggressively pursued was now of advantage only to Mr Dashwood. "I wish you better success in reaching the altar this time"

  "Oh, I shall reach it. We plan to wed as soon as a special license can be procured."

  Having sacrificed Harry's estate to the pursuit of pleasure, Sir Francis would thus secure the remainder of Harry's rightful fortune. Meanwhile the unsuspecting Regina would be trapped in a marriage with the devil in disguise.

  "That is
little time to prepare for a wedding. How does Miss Ferrars feel about such a brief engagement?"

  "She is flattered by the intensity of my ardor."

  Of course she was. The green girl had never received a second look from any man until Fanny settled her fortune upon her, and by then she'd been groomed by her mother to covet Mr. Dashwood's addresses above all others.

  Her head yet ached, and this new intelligence only worsened it. Repeating her plea of indisposition, she departed with Elinor. She wanted nothing more than to get away from this place, to consult Professor Randolph and to confide in Darcy.

  Twenty-Seven

  "You will tell me, I know, that this may, or may not have happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other understanding of this affair as satisfactory as this."

  — Mrs Dashwood to her daughter Elinor,

  Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 15

  Darcy glowered at Julian Randolph. "If my wife has endangered herself as the result of a conversation with you—"

  "I'm sure she has not." the professor said hastily. "I've called today only as a precaution"

  Darcy was little satisfied. Until Elizabeth returned home from her leavetaking of Elinor Ferrars and promised to not so much as muse about Mr. Dashwood or his mirror, he would hold Randolph culpable for every moment of his own uneasiness. The archaeologist had called at their townhouse following a discussion he and Elizabeth had had several days ago, a meeting Mrs Darcy apparently had not felt the need to mention to her husband. When Darcy learned its nature, he guessed why. Randolph had been filling her head with his supernatural nonsense again.

  He listened impatiently for sounds of Elizabeth's return and had left the drawing room door open to aid his hearing. He was not angry with her, but he wanted very much to discuss this business with her directly. Elizabeth tended to place too much credence in Professor Randolph's preposterous notions, and Darcy wanted to counter his influence.

  "So I am to understand that based on some half-remembered tales of an old Greek mirror, you have convinced my wife that Mr Dashwood's glass is a legendary artifact known as the Mirror of Narcissus? And further, that after persuading her to obtain another look at this object, you have since come to believe it is cursed?"

  "I speculated that it might be the legendary mirror, and suggested that a better description would provide more certainty. Mrs Darcy then told me that the mirror had been returned to Sussex, making it doubtful that she'll come into contact with it again. As it turns out, that is a fortuitous circumstance" He tapped the cover of the book he had brought with him, a worn

  volume with tattered pages. "Since speaking with her, I have further researched the mirror's history. Based on my findings, I came here to urge her to stay away from the glass altogether in the unlikely event that an opportunity to view it should arise."

  "On that point, you and I are united. Though it is the artifacts owner that I wish her to avoid. The mirror itself cannot possibly be the one in question — its craftsmanship is too modern for it to have been fashioned in ancient times."

  "That may not necessarily be true "

  Darcy heard a carriage arrive, followed by the front door opening. The welcome sound meant Elizabeth had returned, for Kitty and Georgiana had gone to spend a few days with the Gardiners before leaving London and thus were not expected home. He relaxed in anticipation of momentarily laying eyes on his wife and putting an end to this whole discussion.

  When she entered the drawing room, however, his disquiet increased rather than diminished. She seemed pale and looked as if she'd just come in out of a strong wind. She also moved more slowly than usual and had an air of anxiety about her.

  He rose and went to her immediately. "Are you well?"

  "I am fine. Though I have just returned from a distressing meeting and am glad to find you at home." She turned to Randolph. "Your being here is also most fortunate, Professor, as we are going to want your assistance."

  "It shall be given most willingly."

  Darcy look her hand and led her to a chair. "What is the trouble? Did you find Mrs Ferrars unwell?"

  "Mrs. Ferrars is quite well. Her nephew, however, is in grave danger."

  "No doubt of his own making." Darcy declared. "I cannot pity Mr Dashwood."

  "You will. Darcy. when I tell you what was happened to him."

  Thereupon she commenced a tale he could not have countenanced the telling of, had it come from anyone but his wife. Only the vision of her sitting immediately before him, safe now, enabled him to attend her in patience. He heard with displeasure her confession that she had gone to Dashwood's townhouse, with foreboding the news that the mirror had arrived just before her, and with incredulity her account of what had transpired after that.

  Mr Dashwood's spirit, imprisoned in his mirror? The very idea was beyond absurd.

  "Mr Dashwood must have practiced some deceit upon you," he pronounced when Elizabeth finished her narration. Grateful that she had escaped the ordeal unharmed, he sought a rational explanation of it. Harry Dashwood was a man without honor or conscience; morally, Darcy considered him capable of anything,

  What he had not yet determined was how the rogue had created a ruse elaborate enough to convince Elizabeth. His wife was an intelligent woman; mere sleight of hand would not suffice.

  "How, Darcy? How could he have embedded an old image of himself in the mirror?"

  "There — you have struck upon it exactly. It is an old image. He used his birthday portrait; he secured it in place of the glass. That is why you could not see your own reflection, because it is no longer a mirror. In fact, perhaps that is why the mirror was out of his possession recently. He sent it to Norland, where he had left his birthday portrait, and a cohort performed the modification."

  "I could believe that if the image had been fixed," she said. "But it was animated. It spoke to me — or tried to, at least. How could Mr. Dashwood accomplish that?"

  "I am still working that out."

  "Well, while you ponder, poor Mr Dashwood remains trapped in the glass."

  "Elizabeth, people do not become trapped in looking glasses."

  Randolph cleared his throat. "Perhaps in this one, they do."

  He pushed his spectacles up and opened his book to a page with several illustrations, including one Darcy had to admit looked familiar, even from his vantage point "Mrs. Darcy, is this the mirror you saw today?"

  She studied the drawing. "Yes. It's not an exact rendering, but there's no mistaking it."

  "The artist never saw the original; he sketched it from description." He offered the book to Darcy. "Mr. Darcy, does the picture match your recollection of Mr. Dashwood's mirror, as well?"

  Darcy accepted the volume, discovenng as he did so that it was older than he had realized. Its leather cover was worn smooth; many of its pages were mottled and warped. The metal lock that once guarded its contents looked to have lost its clasp long ago. From the style of the illuminations and hand-lettered text, he judged the book to be at least three or four centuries old. He handled it with reverence, appreciating its age and artistry.

  "What is this book?"

  "Mysteries of the Ancients, a text that describes numerous artifacts from Italy, Greece, and Egypt thought to have found their way to Britain."

  Darcy examined the illustration Randolph had indicated and grudgingly conceded its similarity to his memory of Harry's looking glass. While he had the book in his hands, he skimmed words. The text itself was Latin; annotations in multiple hands and languages covered the page margins.

  The writers offered an explanation for the mirror's anachronistic construction, but one in which Darcy could not invest any credence. Apparently, however, many others had. He gave the original myth only a cursory glance and skipped to later accounts of the glass. The legendary Mirror of Narcissus had already earned a deleterious reputation by the time of the book's authorship, one amplified by successive owners of the volume.

  "The text and notes speak o
f the mirror's owners meeting untimely deaths." Darcy said, "yet also state that they died of old age. How is such an end unanticipated?"

  "If you read more closely, the authors indicate that those owners lived few years. They were young men and women who died elderly."

  Elizabeth regarded the professor in puzzlement. "I do not understand."

  "Let us start at the beginning." Randolph accepted the book back from Darcy. "According to legend, the Mirror of Narcissus was created for a vain king who could not bear to see the changes time naturally wrought upon his face and form as he aged. He commanded his best craftsman to design a mirror that would reflect him as he had appeared in his prime. The crafts-

  an, unable to follow this order, turned to Aphrodite for aid. He prayed to the goddess of beauty to enable him to create the most beautiful mirror in Greece.

  "After weeks of supplication, the goddess granted his request. Through her power, the artisan crafted a mirror unlike any ever seen before. When he had finished, he brought the mirror to the Temple of Aphrodite, made an offering of gratitude to the goddess, and begged one last petition: that she invest his creation with the power his master demanded.

  "The goddess appeared to him. She praised his work and blessed the hands that had produced it. But she denied his request, explaining that eternal youth, even in image only, was a privilege reserved for the gods.

  The craftsman thanked her and returned to the palace with the mirror. He presented it to the king and related Aphrodite's words. The king was angry. As he raged at the craftsman, he caught sight of himself — old, bent, and ugly with wrath — in the glass and grew still more furious. He cursed the mirror and ordered the craftsman's hands cut off as punishment for his failure.