Pride and Prescience

by Carrie Bebris

  Darcy did not envy his friend the ordeal of this meeting. What little they had to tell her—that her father’s business dealings and conduct had ultimately made him reprehensible enough that no one had realized his death for hours and the killer could be one of several people—would not be pleasant for her to hear, and would no doubt elicit a response equally unpleasant. Darcy would sooner debate with Elizabeth the likelihood of Randolph’s occult powers.

  “My father was murdered under your roof. I want to know by whom.”

  “As I wrote in my letter, the local authorities are still investigating the matter.”

  “Yes, I have already met with the constable. He believes Professor Randolph was involved. Where is he? I demand to speak with him.”

  Bingley sent for the professor. As they awaited him, Miss Kendall repeated her questions, as if asking them enough times would somehow yield an answer where moments before none existed. The constable, it seemed, had spared her the more gruesome details of the crime, and Darcy and Bingley endeavored to keep those facts secret. Other information they truly did not possess.

  Miss Kendall grew increasingly irritable. “Did no one see anything?” she asked for the fourth time. “Hear anything? A man died among you, and no one noticed?”

  Bingley cleared his throat. “It is a large house. . . .” He glanced to Darcy with an expression of entreaty.

  “I assure you, Miss Kendall, that we are doing all we can to learn what happened,” Darcy offered.

  She ignored him. “Mr. Bingley, this is your house. Until the murderer’s identity is ascertained, I hold you responsible for my father’s death.”

  “You have my most sincere condolences—”

  “I don’t want condolences. I want answers. And then I want someone’s head on a platter.”

  After fifteen excruciating minutes, the servant returned. “Mr. Bingley, sir, I cannot find the professor.”

  “Where have you looked?”

  “Throughout the house.”

  “Check the grounds. Perhaps he has gone for a walk.”

  More time passed. Eventually Miss Kendall’s shrill voice lapsed into hostile silence. At last the servant reappeared, but with disappointing news. The search had turned up no Randolph.

  “His trunk is still here but his greatcoat and traveling clothes are gone,” the footman reported. “So is one of the horses.”

  Randolph had fled during the night. To escape the consequences of his crime? Though Darcy still struggled to pinpoint a motive for the professor to kill Kendall, evidence against Randolph was mounting. He silently berated himself for his stupidity—why had he not taken steps to have the archeologist watched more closely after the murder?

  Miss Kendall regarded Bingley accusingly. “You are going to pursue him, aren’t you?”

  “I—well, of course. We’ll send a rider out toward . . .” He looked to Darcy for guidance. “He said at dinner the other night that he would return to London?”

  “Yes, but that was before the murder was discovered and he became a suspect. As he left his trunk here and disappeared without taking leave, there is no reason to believe he still intends to go there.” Darcy frowned as he considered the possibilities. A lone rider on horseback, Randolph could be headed anywhere. Perhaps a port city, seeking passage to America? “Let us summon Mr. Parrish. They are friends—or were. Perhaps he can guess where Randolph might go. The professor may have even spoken to him before he left and dropped some hint.”

  Parrish came at once. He hurried into the room, his countenance anxious. “Bingley? Your servant said you needed me urgently.” He stopped short upon sight of the lady present and regarded her warily. “Miss Kendall.” He bowed. “I did not know you were at Netherfield.”

  “I have only just arrived.”

  He took a step toward her. “I am sorry for the loss of your father. He—”

  “Save your pretty words, Mr. Parrish. Perhaps your wife wants to hear them. I don’t.”

  Bingley cleared his throat. “Mr. Parrish, the professor has left Netherfield. We wonder if perhaps you know where he went.”

  Parrish blinked. “Randolph is gone? I had no idea. He said nothing to me about it.” He sank into a chair, his face clouding with chagrin. “He said a couple days ago he would leave, but to depart so abruptly, without telling anyone . . . Surely you don’t think it was he who—” He cut his words off as he glanced at Miss Kendall. “Yet it must have been. The symbols that were found—it all points to him, yet I didn’t want to believe it. Randolph, the murderer!”

  “We do not know with certainty that Randolph is guilty.” Darcy wished fervently that Parrish hadn’t brought up the pentagrams before Miss Kendall. He hadn’t even known that anyone beyond himself, Elizabeth, and the constable knew that the symbols had been found on and around Kendall’s body. He supposed he had the servants to thank for that.

  “What symbols?”

  “There were some markings on the floor.” Darcy sought to redirect her attention. “Miss Kendall, did your father know Randolph well or have cause to associate with him often? Perhaps he considered financing the professor’s upcoming archeological dig?”

  “My father would never have speculated on such a losing enterprise as backing that man’s pursuits,” Juliet said. “Professor Randolph always gave me the shivers. He is an oddity.”

  “I thought him a harmless eccentric.” Parrish shook his head in disbelief. He rose and walked to the window, stared at the light snow that had started to fall. “But the unusual nature of his studies must have worked upon his mind in insidious ways. I wonder if he even realizes what he has done.”

  “He damn well better.” Miss Kendall’s use of profanity shocked Darcy. The more time he spent with Lawrence Kendall’s daughter, the more he thought Parrish got the better end of the deal when he instead married Caroline Bingley—mad or not.

  Parrish turned back toward the room, meeting each of their gazes. “Bingley, Darcy—Miss Kendall, you most of all—I’m sorry. This is my fault. I brought Randolph among you.”

  “No man is responsible for the actions of another,” Bingley said. “Especially actions so unpredictable.”

  Parrish released a heavy sigh. “Nevertheless, in trying to help my wife I brought harm to others. What kind of madness has gained hold of Randolph’s reason, and how long has it gripped him? What dark gods does he think he serves? The carriage accident, the fire—I now wonder how many of our recent misfortunes can be laid at Randolph’s feet?”

  He left to check on his wife, leaving the others in contemplative silence.

  Madness. Darcy had ascribed that possible motive to Caroline Parrish, but had not truly considered it where Randolph was concerned. Elizabeth, however, had—she’d suspected the professor of fanaticism. Though she thought he’d used supernatural means to aid his crime, a hypothesis Darcy still could not seriously entertain, a misguided attempt to appease imaginary powers could explain actions that reason could not. Perhaps the connection between Randolph and Kendall amounted to no more than Kendall presenting himself as a convenient victim for some dark rite.

  Were that the case, Randolph was a very dangerous man—unpredictable and violent. Though they must initiate pursuit to save others from his demented zeal, Darcy was glad the madman no longer roamed Netherfield’s environs freely.

  At least, he hoped the lunatic had indeed fled.

  Suddenly, he needed to assure himself of Elizabeth’s whereabouts.

  “Mrs. Nicholls, fire me if you want, but I won’t do it! I won’t be in there with her by myself—not with her cutting up her own husband with that ring he give her! Her sister sat with us yesterday while I did her toilette, but I can’t find her today and I’m not walking in there alone! Not with all the goings-on round here and her acting so crazy!”

  Elizabeth paused at the head of the stairs, surprised to find the housekeeper and Caroline’s maid openly arguing in a public part of the house. They stood in the corridor that led to the new family q
uarters. Though they did not shout, their voices carried in the empty hallway.

  “Nan, I can’t spare anyone else right now just to—” Mrs. Nicholls broke off as she spotted their audience. She colored. “Mrs. Darcy. Excuse us, ma’am. We should be holding this discussion elsewhere.”

  Elizabeth sympathized with the maid. A murder in the house, Mr. Parrish attacked, Caroline sinking into madness, Randolph doing God-knows-what . . . the carriage accident, the fire . . . Netherfield was hardly an ideal place to be employed at present. “Perhaps I can help. You seek Mrs. Hurst?”

  “She kept Mrs. Parrish company while Nan attended her yesterday.” Mrs. Nicholls crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the maid. “But she hardly need be troubled again—”

  “I can come.” Elizabeth had been seeking something to occupy herself anyway, and had been avoiding Darcy since their argument the night before. She was also anxious to see whether Caroline’s condition had improved—or worsened—since Randolph was relieved of his pocketwatch.

  “Ma’am, please don’t inconvenience yourself. Nan can—”

  “It’s no bother.” She walked to the Parrishes’ door and knocked softly. “Mrs. Parrish? It’s Mrs. Darcy. Your maid is here to attend you, and I wondered if I might come in?”

  She heard movement within. A minute later, Caroline answered the door in an extreme state of dishabille. Her hair had come loose from its braid overnight; long strands stuck out from her head in all directions, while what remained of the plait hung lopsided behind her left shoulder. Her dressing gown was tied haphazardly and parted to reveal an unevenly buttoned nightdress. She wore no slippers to protect her feet from the cold wood floor.

  Mrs. Parrish seemed, however, oblivious to the appearance she presented. She stared through the servant, but blinked as her gaze drifted to Elizabeth. “Come in,” she said. She pushed the door open farther and ambled to her vanity, leaving Elizabeth and the maid to enter and close the door themselves.

  Caroline sat down and stared at her reflection. She fingered a tortoiseshell comb but didn’t lift it. Her burned left hand continued to mend, the swelling having subsided, but still glowed an angry red. The bright pink scars on her wrists offered a hideous counterpoint.

  Elizabeth drew a chair near the dressing table and sat beside her. “How are you this morning?”

  She made no answer. Nan stepped behind her, removed the tie that had so poorly secured her braid, and reached for the comb. Caroline seized it and handed it to her, causing the maid to flinch at the unexpected movement. Nan stepped back and accepted the comb with a pincer grasp, eyeing Caroline’s wedding ring cautiously.

  “I thought I might take a walk in the gallery today,” Elizabeth continued as the maid combed Caroline’s hair and swept it into a chignon. “Would you care to join me?”

  “Perhaps.” The word seemed almost a heavy sigh, as if it had required great effort to utter.

  Nan picked up several hairpins and started to secure the knot. When she ran out, Caroline handed her three more. Once again, the maid flinched as the oversize ring neared her.

  Elizabeth took pity on the maid. “Mrs. Parrish, that heavy ring cannot feel good on your injured finger,” she said. “Shall we remove it while your hand heals? We can give it to your husband for safekeeping.”

  Caroline’s half-focused gaze met Elizabeth’s in the mirror. She nodded her assent. With slow, deliberate movements, so as not to startle or threaten her, Elizabeth reached for her hand. Her skin was cool, except for the injured area around the ring, which emitted heat. How agonizing the burn must be still! No wonder Caroline seemed preoccupied—in constant pain, she probably could not think of much else.

  Elizabeth gently tugged on the ring. She expected the gold to also be very warm, having absorbed the skin’s heat. To her surprise, she found the band ice-cold. Unfortunately, it resisted removal.

  Elizabeth hesitated to apply more force, but Caroline nodded again. She pulled more firmly. This time the ring loosened, but the movement made Caroline wince in obvious suffering.

  “I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll stop—”

  “No,” she whispered hoarsely. She extended her arm fully, spread her fingers wide, and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Sorry she ever suggested this, for it troubled her to see even Caroline Bingley in such distress, Elizabeth grasped the ring tightly. She pulled once more, rotating the band in hopes it would slide more easily. Mercifully, the ring at last slipped off.

  She found the ring no more attractive up close than she had when viewing it on Caroline’s finger. She noticed an inscription on the inside: Deux coeurs, une pensée. Two hearts, one thought. A pretty sentiment, but Elizabeth still preferred her own, simpler, wedding band.

  “There.” She set it on the vanity. “Maybe now your burn will heal more—”

  Caroline seized her hand. Gripping hard—surely a painful effort given her injury—she met Elizabeth’s gaze directly. Her eyes had lost their cloudiness; indeed, she regarded Elizabeth fiercely. “He—”

  “Darling! I’m so relieved to see you safe!” Mr. Parrish came bounding into the room. Startled by the sudden intrusion, Caroline dropped Elizabeth’s hand and jerked back. “You, too, Mrs. Darcy,” Parrish continued. “Have you heard the news? Randolph has disappeared! Heaven only knows where he is or what he might—”

  He spotted the ring. “What’s this?” He grabbed Caroline’s wrist and, in one swift movement, swept the ring from the vanity top and back onto her finger. “My dear wife, I understand you have been a little forgetful of late, but your wedding ring isn’t something that ought to be left lying around.”

  Pain flashed across Caroline’s face—from the haste with which Parrish had restored the ring or the humiliation of being reprimanded before others, Elizabeth could not tell. The maid scurried out. Elizabeth wished she could escape the embarrassing scene as easily.

  Caroline said nothing in her own defense. She stood still, her gaze on her husband, the distracted look back in her eyes. Elizabeth wondered if she’d only imagined the fleeting moment of lucidity.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Parrish,” Elizabeth said. “Removing the ring was my idea. It seemed to make the maid nervous. Every time Mrs. Parrish moved her hand—” She stopped, not wanting to add further tension by reminding him of his own injuries inflicted by the ring. The scarcely healed cuts lent his handsome countenance a piratical aspect.

  Too late. “What, the little baggage thought her face would end up looking like mine? Caroline is so mad the servants fear her?” His jaw muscles flexed in anger. “She may be ill but she is still my wife! I gave her that ring—I alone have the right to remove it.”

  She bowed her head. “I apologize. I should not have presumed—”

  Mr. Parrish took a deep breath and slowly released it. “No, Mrs. Darcy. It is I who should apologize. Pray forgive my outburst just now. It is only that . . .” He seemed to search for words. “The ring symbolizes the promise I made to Caroline on our wedding day.”

  With the thumb and fingers of his right hand, he absently stroked his own ring, the companion to Caroline’s. “Perhaps it is foolish of me to place such heavy significance on so small and light an object. But so long as she has the ring with her, I am with her, and in this difficult time, it’s important to us both to remember that.”

  “I am lucky to have you, Frederick,” Caroline said softly.

  He stroked her cheek. “And I, you, dearest.” He turned back to Elizabeth and shrugged. “You have been more fortunate than us in the early days of your marriage. Perhaps you cannot understand.”

  Pity moved her. He was right—she and Darcy were fortunate. Their little quarrel the night before amounted to nothing when compared with the trials the Parrishes faced. “I do understand,” she said.

  Caroline sank back to the vanity bench. Parrish sat down next to her and drew her to his side. She leaned into him.

  Elizabeth left in search of her own husband.

  Twenty-e
ight

  “There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others.”

  Elizabeth to Darcy, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 31

  Elizabeth sent her maid for Darcy, with the message that she awaited him in their chamber. She regretted their fight and wanted to smooth things out, but in a place where they were assured of privacy. No one else need inadvertently learn they’d quarreled, let alone over what.

  Professor Randolph and his powers—real or not—continued to occupy her thoughts. That watch was more than a simple timepiece, of this she was certain. He’d used it somehow with Mrs. Parrish, and again with Mr. Kendall. She recalled the image of Randolph standing over Caroline, pressing it into her hand, and shuddered. Would Caroline have met the same fate as Kendall if Elizabeth hadn’t happened to walk in?

  She glanced to the highboy. Did the watch yet rest in the top drawer, or had Darcy removed it that morning? Something told her it remained there, and she crossed the room to confirm her intuition. Sure enough, it lay right where she’d dropped it the night before. Apparently, Darcy thought it impotent enough to leave unattended.

  She wanted to touch it—to pick it up, to feel its weight in her palm again. Why? Every reasonable thought told her to leave it alone. It was dangerous. Cursed. Why not just stick your hand in the fire while you’re at it? Yet instinct urged her to reach for it.

  She did.

  The silver again felt warm to her touch but did not sear her this time. Again, she wondered if she’d only imagined the previous sensation. She pushed the drawer closed and carried the watch to the window, to better study it.

  She popped open the case to examine the characters inscribed within. Randolph had said the strange symbols belonged to an ancient alphabet, but they bore little resemblance to English words. Opposite, the clock face was intriguingly designed. The hands were, quite literally, hands—shaped to resemble slender arms with pointing index fingers. The numbers were absent, replaced by images of the moon in successive phases, with the full moon at twelve.