Pride and Prescience

by Carrie Bebris

  “If we don’t go today, perhaps we should just spend Christmas here.” As much as she’d prefer to be in Derbyshire, at least they could settle into the townhouse and begin holiday preparations instead of endlessly expecting to depart.

  Darcy set aside the Times and motioned the footman to refill his coffee cup. “I thought you wanted to be at Pemberley?”

  “I do. I’m just trying to be practical.” She glanced to the window. Light snowflakes merrily bobbed through the air, oblivious to the disappointment their presence caused those on the other side of the glass.

  “Leave practical to me. If Pemberley is where my wife wants to spend Christmas, we will get there.”

  “If we stay here any longer, we really ought to invite poor Georgiana to come back.”

  His brows rose. “Are you saying the honeymoon is over?”

  “Certainly not. I think only of your sister’s comfort. Though she and the Gardiners report they are having a lovely visit, one is never as completely at ease in someone else’s home as in one’s own.” She pushed aside the plate of cold food and set her napkin on the table. Perhaps she would write a letter to Charlotte this morning.

  “Precisely why we should preserve our plan to celebrate Christmas in Derbyshire. London is home to too many—a noisy, crowded boardinghouse compared to the tranquility of Pemberley.”

  “Yet you maintain this townhouse, and permit Georgiana to pass most of the year in it.”

  “Out of necessity. Business often calls me here, and the city offers cultural and educational opportunities unavailable in the country. It also provides more varied society.”

  She cast him an arch look. “Now it is my turn to ask if the honeymoon is over—I hope you don’t grow weary of my company already?”

  “Quite the reverse, Mrs. Darcy. Once we do reach Pemberley, I may never wish to leave it again.”

  They were interrupted by the entrance of a servant. “A letter for you, madam. Just arrived—the rider waits for a reply.”

  She exchanged a puzzled glance with her husband. Whatever could be so urgent? As she reached for the note, she recognized the handwriting immediately. “It’s from Jane.” She broke the seal and quickly scanned the contents. “Caroline Parrish has suffered an accident. A surgeon has seen to her injuries but Jane and Bingley desire our counsel. They ask us to meet them at the Parrishes’ townhouse as soon as possible.”

  She looked into her husband’s face, which mirrored her own concern and confusion. What could have happened that required their opinion on the matter?

  He turned to the servant who had brought the letter. “Tell the messenger we will meet them directly.”

  The Darcys arrived to find Parrish, Jane, Bingley, and the Hursts all gathered in the drawing room. Parrish, his face in profile, stared outward as he leaned against the window. He had been speaking softly to Bingley, who stood beside him, but stopped as the butler entered with Elizabeth and Darcy.

  As soon as the servant departed, Jane, her face more grave than her sister had ever seen it, immediately crossed the room and took Elizabeth’s hands in her own. “I’m so glad you are come. The most shocking thing has happened—we don’t know what to make of it.”

  Elizabeth glanced from Jane to the others. Bingley stood stiffly, his normally carefree countenance clouded by anxiety that matched his wife’s. He exchanged a glance with Parrish, who pushed away from the window to stand with a defeated posture. Louisa, hands in her lap and fingers unconsciously playing with her rings, studied the floor. Mr. Hurst sprawled on the sofa, a degree of seriousness quickening his usual bored expression. An unnatural silence hung in the air as all seemed reluctant to speak of the situation that had brought them here.

  Jane drew her toward the sofa. “Come sit down.” Elizabeth, her curiosity mounting, sat beside Jane as advised.

  Darcy followed her to the sofa but remained standing. “Mr. Parrish? Bingley? Could someone tell us what has transpired?”

  Parrish cleared his throat. “Forgive me. I still find it difficult to give voice to this incident. Early this morning, my cook found Mrs. Parrish lying on the kitchen floor with two knife wounds.”

  Elizabeth gasped and looked to Jane, who nodded in confirmation of the incredible news. “Is she—will she recover?”

  “The surgeon thinks so. Her injuries are painful but not very deep. She’s resting now.”

  Her mind struggled to comprehend the intelligence. Caroline Parrish had been attacked in her own home? “How—Who . . .?”

  Darcy’s hand touched her back. “Has a constable been summoned?” London’s feeble police force wasn’t renowned for its competence, but Elizabeth supposed the assistance of some authority figure was better than nothing.

  “He’s been here and gone. Pompous lout.” Parrish crossed to a vacant chair and slumped into it. His red eyes and accompanying dark circles testified to a long night with little sleep. The once lighthearted American seemed to have aged years in the two weeks Elizabeth had known him. “He declared that all the evidence points to a desire for self-destruction.”

  She could scarcely believe the words. “A suicide attempt?”

  Darcy’s unguarded expression revealed equal bewilderment, but he quickly recovered his composure. “What led him to such a conclusion?”

  “The location of the wounds—her wrists. And we found the knife still in her hands.”

  “Perhaps she struggled with her attacker and wrested the knife from him before losing consciousness,” Jane offered.

  “Perhaps,” Parrish said flatly. But no one, Jane included, appeared to think that explanation probable.

  “What has Mrs. Parrish said?” Darcy asked.

  “She was unconscious when the cook found her. She roused briefly while the surgeon attended her injuries, but had no recollection of events. She’s been sleeping since.”

  “Did the surgeon also believe her wounds to be self-inflicted?”

  “He was too tactful to say so outright, but I sensed by his manner that he did.”

  A small cry from Louisa Hurst drew the party’s attention toward that quarter. “This is all just too terrible.” She dabbed dry eyes with a handkerchief to underscore her distress. “The scandal! That horrible constable and the surgeon are no doubt even now gadding about town trumpeting the news. None of us will be able to show our faces in society again.”

  Ah, yes—the scandal. Of course that would be uppermost in Mrs. Hurst’s thoughts while her sister lay bleeding into her bandages. Elizabeth was no stranger to the disgrace into which younger sisters could plunge their relations, but she liked to think that even during the Wickhams’ elopement she’d maintained concern for Lydia’s well-being along with the family’s reputation. But then, she’d always known the Bingley sisters to demonstrate different priorities. She wondered anew that Charles, whose face registered a blend of sadness and disgust at Louisa’s outburst, had sprung from the same stock.

  After an embarrassed silence, Darcy continued as if the utterance had never taken place. “What were your own observations last night?” he asked Parrish.

  “Very few, I’m sorry to say. Professor Randolph joined us for dinner but did not stay late. Once he departed, Caroline retired early—as you know, she hasn’t been feeling quite herself these past few days. I grew restless and went down to White’s, where I wound up in a political debate the others wouldn’t let drop. By the time I returned, it was nearly five in the morning, and I no sooner reached my bedchamber than Cook discovered Mrs. Parrish on the kitchen floor. I sent one man for the surgeon, another for the constable, and did my best to staunch her wounds while awaiting their arrival.”

  Bingley, who had been slowly shaking his head in disbelief during Parrish’s narrative, threw himself into a chair and rubbed his forehead. “I just don’t understand this. Less than a week ago, my sister was the happiest woman on earth, and now she’s tried to—to—it’s so awful, I can’t even say it!”

  “It was even worse to behold,” Parrish said
quietly.

  “What did you mean about her not feeling quite herself lately?” Bingley asked. “Has she been ill?”

  “There have been episodes—” Parrish looked to Elizabeth and Darcy. “Your friends can bear witness. Caroline’s behavior has been erratic. Sleepwalking, losing control of her horse, trouble remembering events.”

  “Good grief! Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I hoped it would pass, or that things were not as they seemed. But this latest incident . . .” He leaned toward Bingley, elbows on his knees, fingers forming a pyramid. “Charles, I understand this is information a family wouldn’t wish to share with a young woman’s suitors. But Caroline is my wife now. I need to know—has she a history of unusual actions? Behavior that suggests a troubled mind?”

  “No—I tell you, this is not like her at all. I am most distressed!”

  “As am I. It grieves me to see—” Parrish cut his words short at the butler’s entrance. Not, Elizabeth supposed, that there were many secrets about the household’s mistress unknown to the servants at this point.

  “Professor Randolph has arrived, sir.”

  “Show him in.”

  Elizabeth wondered that Parrish would welcome the intrusion into their family council of a person so unconnected to Caroline. The expressions of the others revealed they were of like mind. The unfortunate professor therefore entered a room oppressively silent.

  He appeared, however, not to notice. He nodded in brief acknowledgment to the assembly, then crossed to their host. “I came as soon as I received your summons. What has happened, and how can I help?”

  That Parrish had actually requested Randolph’s presence amazed Elizabeth still more. They must be intimate acquaintances indeed for Parrish to reveal to him the details of Caroline’s recent behavior. Perhaps Parrish sought the moral support of his own friend in the midst of this conference with his new wife’s family.

  As if answering the unspoken question, Parrish addressed the party. “I asked Randolph to come because I value his opinions and connections as a man of science. Though he has not directly studied nervous disorders, he has colleagues who specialize in that field, and may know of someone who can help restore my wife to herself.”

  “You are most welcome indeed, sir,” said Bingley. “I hope my sister benefits from your attention.”

  “Though I’ve not yet heard the particulars, I hope I may be of service.”

  Randolph listened solemnly to Parrish as he described Caroline’s unusual activities and demeanor since the wedding. When the narrative concluded, the professor, like Parrish, enquired whether Bingley or the others were aware of previous occurrences. All denied knowledge of any such behavior until now.

  He pondered their replies a moment. “Has the lady resided in London long?”

  “Off and on since our father’s death a couple years ago,” Bingley said. “Before her marriage, Caroline stayed with our sister, Louisa, and Mr. Hurst in their townhouse when she wasn’t helping me oversee domestic matters at Netherfield. That’s my country household.”

  “Did London agree with her?”

  “Oh, yes!” said Mrs. Hurst. “She’s quite popular here in town—you saw how many friends attended the wedding. When she stays with us, not a day goes by without an invitation arriving, or Caroline making a social call.”

  “And Netherfield—was she comfortable there?”

  Bingley suddenly appeared uncertain. “She always seemed so to me.”

  Louisa cleared her throat. “She did find the society a bit—shall we say—confining.”

  “I don’t know why,” replied Bingley. “She never complained about country society during our visits to Darcy’s estate.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip and deliberately avoided making eye contact with Jane.

  “Have you had many callers here since the wedding?”

  “A fair number,” Parrish said. “Most of my wife’s friends are in London presently, and I haven’t discouraged visitors as I didn’t want anything to appear amiss.”

  Randolph removed his spectacles and wiped them with a handkerchief. “From what you have told me, and from my own observations yesterday at dinner, I think perhaps Mrs. Parrish is simply suffering from nervous exhaustion resulting from the excitement of the wedding and the weight of her social obligations. My advice is to remove her from London to a quieter setting where she can catch her breath.”

  “Such as Netherfield?” Bingley asked.

  “Actually, I have another suggestion.” He returned the eyeglasses to his face, where they immediately slipped halfway down the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Parrish’s plantation, Mont Joyau. It’s a beautiful setting. Very peaceful, and at this time of year the weather will be far more pleasant than at Netherfield. New Orleans is close enough to offer interesting society, amusements, and other benefits of a large city as she feels up to circulating, yet she won’t be in the middle of the bustle as she is here.”

  “Mont Joyau?” Parrish perked up; some of the defeat left his countenance. “Mont Joyau—of course! I like that idea, Randolph. I should have thought of it myself. What better place to mend one’s spirit? Caroline could see where I grew up. And I could roam its fields once more before selling it.”

  “Mont Joyau holds an additional advantage,” Randolph continued. “I have a colleague, Dr. Lancaster, who lives in New Orleans and specializes in nervous disorders. He would be able to assist and perhaps hasten Mrs. Parrish’s recovery.”

  “Indeed?” Parrish’s brows rose. “I had no idea you were so well connected, Randolph.”

  Elizabeth studied once more the Mont Joyau painting above the fireplace, trying to imagine the former Miss Bingley living in Louisiana. She doubted the lady would like it one bit. The place seemed too foreign, too alive for a woman whose blood, though not blue, ran cold as ice. The fair English rose—for so Caroline perceived herself—would wilt in the American South. She would find the landscape too exotic, the weather too hot, New Orleans too primitive, society too uncultured. Though as for that last point, perhaps the sheer wealth of Parrish’s fellow plantation owners would prove enough to overcome her snobbishness.

  A frown creased Bingley’s brow, indicating his equal lack of conviction that Caroline would thrive in the new environment. “It’s so far away.”

  “Consider the distance a benefit,” said Randolph. “Mrs. Parrish will be able to retreat completely from whatever it is here that weighs so heavily upon her. The change of scene will do her good—after all, doctors recommend warm destinations as the cure for many ailments. Instead of the south of France, she’ll see the French Quarter.”

  “But at least southern France is civilized,” Louisa sputtered. “The people she’d encounter in Louisiana—the—the—darkies she’d have to oversee as servants, for heaven’s sake! My poor sister!” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes again with the handkerchief. “The conditions would be barbaric.”

  “This is my home we’re talking about,” Parrish said in a tone far more civil than would have been justified.

  Louisa’s hands fell to her lap, but she otherwise gave no indication that she’d heard him. Elizabeth grew embarrassed on Mrs. Hurst’s behalf, since the woman hadn’t the sense to feel shame herself. As for Louisa’s anxiety, Elizabeth imagined Caroline would have little trouble adjusting to the experience of ordering slaves about.

  Darcy broke the dead silence. “With all respect to you, Mr. Parrish”—he acknowledged him with a bow before turning his attention to the professor—“will not the unfamiliar setting add further strain to Mrs. Parrish’s nerves? To be apart from everyone she knows excepting her husband, in a place she’s never visited before?”

  Randolph chuckled. “I believe it’s called a honeymoon, Mr. Darcy. And contrary to your concern, I’m suggesting that’s just what the lady needs—to be away from all the familiar people and pressures, in a place where she can relax and ease into her new life.”

  “Even so, would not the journey itself unduly tax M
rs. Parrish? Can her nerves withstand the privations and confinement of life aboard ship for a prolonged period of time?”

  “Though it’s a major voyage, I believe she would be more comfortable and able to rest better aboard a ship than if she were to undertake an overland trip by coach to a warmer climate. Once she’s on the boat, it needn’t repeatedly stop to change horses or subject her to a different inn every night.”

  Parrish rose. “You have convinced me, Randolph. And I think the sooner Caroline and I set out, the better. Are we all in agreement? Bingley?”

  “I—I’m not quite—that is—” Bingley’s gaze darted to Darcy. “She’s my sister—I cannot be objective. Do you think this is best?”

  “No.” Darcy gestured toward the painting. “While I believe Mont Joyau holds all the advantages enumerated by Professor Randolph, I think a trip and extended stay there also pose disadvantages for Mrs. Parrish that exceed the benefits. The hardships of an ocean voyage, the prolonged isolation from her friends, the foreign environment—I cannot think upon these factors but as obstacles to her recovery. I would much rather see her recuperate at Netherfield, or even Pemberley, where she can rest among friends in a place already comfortable to her.”

  At Darcy’s implied invitation to Pemberley, Elizabeth forced her lips into a bright smile . . . and inwardly cringed at the thought of Caroline Parrish moving into her home for a prolonged convalescence before she herself had even settled in as mistress of the estate. Only her love for Jane, whose heart would be made easier by Bingley’s relief at the arrangement, could make such an ordeal bearable.