Pride and Prescience

by Carrie Bebris

  “I thank you.”

  All turned toward the doorway at the sound of Caroline’s voice. The speaker ignored their looks of surprise and ambled to the nearest unoccupied chair, upon which she seated herself with her usual grace and smoothed the skirt of her silk dress. The dark green lace-trimmed gown was too elaborate for the informal afternoon gathering, an uncharacteristic faux pas. Elizabeth suspected the costume’s chief endorsement lay in the matching spencer that hid Caroline’s wrist bandages from view.

  Mr. Parrish crossed to her immediately and raised her hand to his lips. “My dear, how delightful that you could join us. I didn’t expect to see you this afternoon.”

  “I grew weary of my chamber’s four walls.” A small ringlet escaped her otherwise perfectly coifed hair; she withdrew her hand from her husband’s to tuck the wayward strands behind her ear. Her wedding ring caught a ray of sunlight, momentarily splaying prismatic beams onto the far wall. “I didn’t realize we had company.”

  Louisa smirked. “Mrs. Bennet has just invited us all to dine at Longbourn tomorrow.” Glee flashed across her countenance as she anticipated a clever barb in response.

  “Indeed?” She turned to Mrs. Bennet with a face that reflected naught but sincerity. “I thank you for my share of the invitation, but I’m afraid I feel a trifle indisposed of late and must decline.” Amazingly, no hint of sarcasm tinged her words.

  Louisa poorly masked her disappointment, fixing her mouth in a false smile. “I thank you as well, but if Caroline cannot go, my place, of course, is with my sister.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Bennet appeared less than distraught at being relieved of entertaining the extended Bingley clan. “Perhaps another time.”

  “I look forward to it.” Again, Caroline’s demeanor gave every indication that she actually meant the words. Whatever the woman’s other problems, recent events seemed to have softened the sharper edges of her manner.

  Jane rang for tea. At her summons, two housemaids appeared almost instantly, bearing trays laden with china cups and demitasse spoons, milk, sugar, tarts, macaroons, petit fours, crumpets—everything but tea. When Jane gently drew their attention to the omission, they nearly knocked each other down in their rush to retrieve the forgotten beverage.

  “They’re new,” Jane said apologetically. “Sisters. Neither of them has any experience, but they just lost their father and needed the work. They’re very eager to learn. I’m sure once they’ve been here a little while . . .”

  Mrs. Hurst rolled her eyes.

  “Now, Jane,” said Mrs. Bennet, “mind you keep a close rein on those servants or they’ll take advantage of your generous heart.”

  Mr. Hurst, muttering something about it being a shame to let the crumpets go cold while they waited, ambled over to the trays. “What’s this? They also forgot butter knives! Hmmph! Well—no matter.” Not to be detained any longer, he pulled out a pocketknife and proceeded to slather butter over two crumpets.

  The maids returned, each with a teapot. They served the tea, then waited on the party so attentively that barely could anyone sip a drop without one of the girls warming the cup with more. The minute anyone finished a tart or other treat, the plate appeared at his or her elbow for another. Mrs. Hurst found the excessive courtesy irksome; Jane seemed embarrassed. The rest of the company looked upon it with mild amusement, except for Mr. Hurst, who was simply pleased to be able to so thoroughly indulge his fondness for petit fours at so little trouble to himself. Mrs. Parrish appeared insensible to the spectacle, eating lightly and saying little.

  The conversation meandered through the usual polite talk. Mrs. Bennet dominated it, with the Bingley sisters nodding encouragement but contributing rarely. Louisa played with her bracelets, while Caroline repeatedly spun her new wedding ring around her finger and occasionally slid it up as far as her first knuckle. Elizabeth wondered if she was trying to draw attention to the ostentatious ornament or merely enjoying its novelty.

  Once the weather had been thoroughly discussed—it was eventually decided that snow would indeed fall again before Christmas—Mrs. Bennet delineated the movements and activities of everyone in the neighborhood during the past fortnight, most particularly what all their acquaintance had said about the Bennet double wedding. Mrs. Whitingford had declared it the loveliest ceremony she’d ever had the pleasure of attending, while Mrs. Farringdale had expressed the hope that her own daughter would someday marry so well. The latter sentiment did more to placate Mrs. Bennet’s indignity over a past perceived insult to Jane than five years of apologies ever had.

  “Ha! Who’s on the shelf now, I ask you? That milk-and-water miss never could hold a candle to you, Jane, and now her mother realizes it and don’t know what to do with the girl.”

  “Miss Farringdale is perfectly pleasant, Mama,” Jane said, ever charitable in her defense of their sex.

  “Hmmph. The only thing that could improve that young lady’s disposition is a larger dowry. Mrs. Parrish, I believe you’ve met her. Do you not agree?”

  Caroline, though she had appeared to follow the conversation, stirred as if awakened from a light slumber. “I’m—I’m sorry?” She blinked twice. “Of whom do we speak?”

  “Miss Farringdale. You know, that insipid girl with the pale complexion who—”

  “I am sure your assessment is accurate.” Caroline raised a hand to her temple. “Forgive me. I suddenly have a headache.”

  Parrish was at her side in an instant. “I’ll help you back to our room. You never should have left it, my dear. You need your rest.”

  “You are right.” She rose and leaned heavily on her husband’s arm. “It was good to see you, Mrs. Bennet. Excuse my hasty departure. I wish you all a good evening.”

  Elizabeth stared after her. It was good to see you? Caroline must have hit her head when she fell to the kitchen floor.

  Eleven

  “I did not know before,” continued Bingley immediately, “that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.”

  “Yes, but intricate characters are the most amusing.”

  Mr. Bingley and Elizabeth, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 9

  Late afternoon sunlight lanced through the conservatory windows, enveloping Elizabeth in its warmth. She basked in the sensation, having missed the feel of the sun on her skin during her time in London. She suspected, with the air growing colder as each day of December passed, that the greenhouse would quickly become one of her favorite rooms during her stay at Netherfield.

  One of the properties she most appreciated about the hothouse was its fragrance. The conservatory served as a permanent home for exotic plants, a winter shelter for less hardy cultivars, and a nursery for seedlings awaiting spring planting. One corner hosted a small potted herb garden that enabled the cook to use fresh flavoring for winter cooking rather than relying on dried herbs—a treat that a previous tenant had implemented and Bingley’s staff had continued. The resulting blend of aromas created a heady perfume that she inhaled deeply.

  Long shadows stretched across the floor; the first day of their Netherfield sojourn was ending. She wondered how many more would pass until she and Darcy could leave, but was determined to make the best of this visit while it lasted.

  She wandered through the room, admiring a collection of tropical flowers. Bingley’s head gardener was a gifted grower—no wonder he was so frustrated with his inexperienced new assistants. As she passed a group of tall plants with particularly thick foliage, she sighted Professor Randolph at the end of the conservatory.

  He stood just beyond a cluster of rue, so engrossed in snipping some bright green leaves off a plant in the herb garden that he did not look up until she greeted him.

  “Oh! Mrs. Darcy!” He pushed up his spectacles, almost wounding himself with the small pocketknife in his hand. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

  “I am sorry to disturb you.”

  “Nonsense! Nonsense!” He folded up the knife and slid it into his trouser pocket. “
I was just gathering some spearmint leaves for Mrs. Parrish.”

  “I wasn’t aware she had a partiality for mint. Perhaps Jane should inform the cook.”

  He withdrew a handkerchief from one of his breast pockets and carefully folded the leaves inside. “Hmm? Oh—it’s not for her to eat. It’s for her to smell. I thought it might aid her recovery—many believe the scent sharpens mental powers.”

  “Really? I had no idea it possesses medicinal properties.”

  He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. “A little bit medicine, a little bit magic.”

  “Magic—you mean luck?”

  He shrugged. “Many of these plants are more powerful than you might imagine in the hands of an adept herbalist.”

  “Another specialty of yours?”

  “No, no. I’m just a dabbler myself. As an archeologist, most of my knowledge is of things long dead.”

  “Well, I am sure Mr. Parrish appreciates your help with his wife. Have you had much opportunity to observe her yet?”

  “A little. She has demonstrated reluctance to converse with me, and won’t discuss her injuries at all. Mr. Parrish’s presence seems to encourage her cooperation, however.”

  “She is fortunate in his devotion.” The sun dropped behind the horizon, casting the room in dusky twilight. She shivered, suddenly chilled.

  Randolph glanced out the windows, into the darkening night. “The days are growing short. Winter solstice is next week.”

  “So is Christmas.”

  Her statement received no response. Having fallen into a reverie, he stared at the waxing moon that had already started to rise.

  “Professor?”

  He shook himself. “Pardon me? Oh, yes—Christmas. We all certainly look forward to that.”

  She soon left him in the conservatory and went to dress for dinner, contemplating his casual remark about herbal magic and his greater awareness of the winter solstice than Christmas. She was beginning to consider Professor Randolph one of the most intriguing members of her acquaintance.

  “What do you read, Mrs. Darcy?”

  “The Italian.” With little reluctance, Elizabeth closed the volume and set it aside to grant Mr. Parrish her full attention. Between her own scattered thoughts and the light conversation of others in the drawing room, she’d had trouble concentrating on the book and had persevered only to have some occupation from which she could easily withdraw when Darcy was ready to retire for the evening.

  “Ah! A fellow admirer of Mrs. Radcliffe.” Parrish grinned and seated himself on the other end of the sofa. “I thought I was alone in that guilty pleasure among this company.”

  She glanced round the room. Randolph and Parrish had just abandoned the card table, where the Hursts, Jane, and Bingley still played loo. Darcy sat at the desk penning a letter to Georgiana. A sense of déjà vu seized her as she recalled a similar scene from her first visit to Netherfield, only this time Caroline was not present to laud Darcy on the speed of his writing and evenness of his lines. The lady in question had not left her chamber since her afternoon headache came on, but now, according to her husband, at least slept peacefully.

  “Why do you say so?” she asked. “Because no one else is presently reading?”

  “Two reasons. First, I thought my partiality outdated—Mrs. Radcliffe has not published a new novel for some years. I wonder that you have not read this one before now.”

  “Oh, I have. I chose it because it is an old favorite.”

  Parrish picked up the volume. As he thumbed the pages, she noticed the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. Similar in style to Caroline’s, the wedding band lacked gems, but its engraved sunburst detail marked it as a companion piece. Her chest tightened at the sight of it—a reaction, she supposed, to the strong attachment it symbolized. Double-ring wedding ceremonies were rare. The display of loyalty was especially moving in the face of such early and unexpected marital challenges.

  “Elizabeth is too kind in her excuses,” Bingley called from the card table. “She rereads the book because my library lacks many alternatives. I apologize, my new sister, for not yet amending that deficiency.”

  Darcy blotted his paper. “Such endeavors take time to carry out properly, Bingley. First find your family a permanent home. Then start collecting books to fill it.”

  “Again the subject of an estate arises! It seems none of my friends will rest until Jane and I quit Netherfield.”

  “It’s not every day a man gets to spend a fortune,” Parrish said. “Perhaps they want to experience the thrill vicariously. Or they can’t stand the thought of all that money just lying around.”

  “Well, it’s in the five percents, so it’s hardly just lying around. But I do realize land would make a better investment. Now that my mother-in-law and closest friend are in collusion—an event I thought I’d never see—I’ll quickly indulge their hopes as well as my own. Jane, shall we visit Haye Park tomorrow on our way to Longbourn?”

  Jane expressed delight at the prospect. Elizabeth mused that Haye Park might prove a little too close to their mother, but kept the thought to herself. Instead, she returned to the book discussion.

  “You said you had two reasons for surprise at our shared enjoyment of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. What is the other?”

  “I feared my tastes unrefined. Novels are entertaining but hardly hold the intellectual weight of poetry.”

  Professor Randolph took a chair beside the fire. “There is nothing wrong with reading simply for pleasure.” He leaned back and stretched out his legs.

  “I agree,” said Darcy, “though Mrs. Radcliffe and her imitators do give ‘pleasure’ a curious form. Readers come to their novels wanting to be scared, wanting to lie awake at night wondering what that noise was on the other side of their own doors.”

  “Nonsense, all of it,” Mrs. Hurst declared. “An utter waste of time.”

  Elizabeth, despite the reverence in which she held Mrs. Hurst as an authority on the meaningful employment of one’s time, forbore enquiring whether it was gothic romances in particular or reading altogether that she held in disdain. “Professor, do the tales have any merit, in your estimation? I speak not of literary merit, but credibility. Of course they are works of imagination, but . . .”

  “But could supernatural events really occur in our world? Right here, in King George’s England?” Randolph chuckled softly. “They do every day, dear lady. But most people look right past them, seeing only what they want to see, believing only what they wish to be true. Even for those who delight in stories like Mrs. Radcliffe’s, the otherworldly must always be a foreign thing, something that happens somewhere far removed from one’s present place or time.”

  “To think otherwise causes one too much discomfort?”

  “Precisely. So they block their own awareness and use science to explain anything impossible to ignore. Educated people, at least. Reason has become the new god among the upper classes. Your lower classes, your unrefined societies, these are far more likely to accept the presence of the preternatural in their daily lives—to believe in miracles, or ghosts, or magic.”

  Darcy stopped writing in midstroke. “Oh, come now. When one of my tenants tells me his neighbor has cursed his cattle, am I to accept this accusation as the cause of his animals dying? Is it not more likely that some disease has stricken them?”

  “Whence does the disease derive? And why has it stricken only his herd and not those of other farmers?” Randolph shrugged. “It may indeed have occurred naturally. I merely point out that it’s your illiterate tenant who considers more explanations than you do.”

  “But your ‘mysterious articles,’ at the museum,” Elizabeth said. “Some looked quite valuable, like they were created by or for people of great means.”

  “Indeed, they were. Most of them date back to times when belief in magic was more common and embraced by wealthy and poor alike. The more recent items belonged to exceptional individuals attuned to the presence of the extraordin
ary in our world.”

  “In other words, modern people who still believe in hexes and sorcery?” Darcy asked.

  “You say that in a tone laced with ridicule. But I have seen enough evidence of such things that I cannot deny their existence. Why, just last month, an aristocratic lady of whom you have all heard, but whose identity I shall protect, pointed out to me the unusual cornerstone of her country house. Inscribed beneath the date were some Latin phrases. The lady told me that according to family legend, the mansion had been built on land that had once been a druid grove. Romans seized it, razed the trees, and erected a fortification on the site. Within a year of its completion, every occupant was dead of a mysterious fever. More soldiers came. They, too, died, and the fortress was abandoned. The elements wore it down, but in Henry the Sixth’s time a new manor was raised. Fever plagued its occupants for decades, claiming heirs one by one. The family, in danger of its lineage ending, leveled the building.

  “Again, the site lay unused for many years, but eventually the land passed to a younger son who wanted to develop the property. He constructed the residence that stands there today and, with the help of a local wisewoman, inscribed and laid the cornerstone himself. At the time I spoke with the current mistress, the house seemed to have escaped the doom of its predecessors. No fever had troubled the family for five generations.

  “She and her husband, however, were improving their estate and the stone was part of a wall scheduled to be removed. ‘Revise your plans,’ I urged her. ‘Don’t disturb the cornerstone. Those words are a charm—the stone protects the occupants of this house.’ She didn’t heed my advice, and within a week of its removal her eldest son took to bed with a putrid fever. The stone was quickly set back in place, and he recovered.”