Pride and Prescience

Twenty

The snow everyone anticipated did not come. Instead it rained: huge, angry drops that froze as soon as they reached the ground. Elizabeth woke to a world encased in ice. Sunlight glinted off the crystals, lending an ethereal sparkle to the landscape that would have been beautiful had it not also provided Mr. Kendall an excuse to trespass upon Netherfield’s hospitality and patience still longer.

“There will be no traveling today, I fear. For Mr. Kendall or anyone else.” Elizabeth left the window but did not succumb to the temptation of crawling back into her snug bed. Instead, she padded across the cold oak floor to the armoire and selected her warmest gown from among those Lucy had laundered after the fire.

“Can we not find him a pair of ice skates and send him off?” Darcy fastened his shirt and sat to pull on his boots. “I do not think I can tolerate his company at one more meal without developing indigestion.”

“He was insufferable at dinner, was he not? Spewing venom at everybody. I thought Mrs. Parrish might be reduced to tears for the second time in a day.”

“He seemed to be seeking a fight from any quarter. Had I my fencing gear handy, I might have obliged him.”

“I would like to watch you fence sometime, but against a more worthy opponent. Let Mr. Kendall exhaust his quarrelsomeness on lesser men — Mr. Hurst, perhaps. He seemed to pay that gentleman extra attention last night.”

“Yes. I do not think Hurst saw it coming.” He approached the mirror to fold his cravat.

“His invitation to wager struck me as odd.” So had Hurst’s reaction to it — the suggestion seemed to have made him nervous. “It reminded me of Lord Chatfield’s remark about Mr. Hurst. What was it the earl said?”

“That Hurst’s name appears often in White’s betting book.”

“He also mentioned losses at cards. Yet Mr. Hurst asserted that he wasn’t much of a gambler.”

“Elizabeth, I have seen you lose at cards in your own mother’s drawing room. Does that mean I married a gamester?”

“My surrender of a few shillings has never become an item of public conversation.”

“Idle gossip.”

“The earl hardly impresses me as a scandalmonger. Does he you?”

He met her gaze in the mirror, then returned his attention to the cravat. “No,” he admitted.

“Then perhaps the rumors have substance after all.” Though if they did, what would it matter? So Mr. Hurst wasted his money on speculation. He could afford it, could he not?

Perhaps he could not.

Elizabeth’s mind leapt. When the Hursts had first entered Hertfordshire, general knowledge had set their income at two thousand a year, derived from his own inheritance and Louisa’s settlement invested in the five percents. If he had lost more than his finances could bear, how would he pay off his creditors? What did indolent gentlemen do to generate income, other than sit around waiting for some wealthy relative to—

She caught her breath. No. Surely her imagination ran wild.

Didn’t it?

It must.

Maybe not?

Darcy’s question about Jane and Bingley’s recent “accidents” came back to her. Who would have anything to gain? Her pulse quickened. “What would happen to Bingley’s fortune if he and Jane died without heirs?”

“According to the will he drew up upon his inheritance, it would be divided evenly between his sisters. Though, of course, as they are married women, that money would fall under their husbands’ control,” Darcy said. “Now that he has wed Jane, he might change the terms to provide for your sisters as well, but to my knowledge he has not done so yet.”

“And if Caroline also met an untimely, childless end along with them?”

“Then the Hursts would—” He regarded her incredulously. “Surely you do not suggest that Hurst is behind the Bingley family’s recent troubles?”

“If he is hurting for money—”

“Elizabeth—”

“—an ‘unexpected’ inheritance would solve his financial problems.”

“Elizabeth!” He regarded her in horror. “Consider what you are saying! To accuse a respectable gentleman, without anything remotely resembling evidence—”

“Now that I think about it, he did answer his door awfully fast the night of the fire. Especially for a man who never moves quickly for anything except the sherry decanter. He could not have been sleeping when I knocked.” Not wanting to wait for Lucy to help her dress, she slipped into her gown and slid her arms into the sleeves. She was suddenly impatient to begin her day.

“This is absurd. I refuse to participate in this conversation further.” He put on his coat.

“If Jane and Bingley are in danger, we must consider all the possibilities.”

“All the reasonable ones.”

She crossed to him for aid in buttoning the back of her dress, lifting her braid to grant him better access. “At least let us learn more about Hurst’s finances. If you could write to Lord Chatfield—”

“You wish me to what?”

“There can be no harm in a discreet enquiry.”

“No harm except destroying a man’s reputation.”

“Mr. Hurst is managing that well enough on his own if rumors are already circulating.”

“Then we should not make matters worse.” He fumbled with the small buttonholes. “How many buttons does one dress need?”

“Explain to the earl that it’s precisely out of concern for Hurst’s reputation that you wish to know specifically what is being said about him. That you worry your friend is the victim of unsubstantiated gossip.”

“This pursuit is a waste of time.”

He reached the top button. She turned and caught his hands in hers. “Darcy,” she said softly, “I fear for my sister’s life. Please — indulge me in this.”

He looked away and uttered a sound of exasperation. She brought one of his hands to her face and cupped it against her cheek. His fingers were stiff at first, but she leaned into his palm, and eventually the muscles relaxed.

He once more met her gaze, his reflecting resignation. “You know I can deny you nothing.”

_______

“Ouch!”

Elizabeth dropped her embroidery hoop and sucked a small drop of blood from the finger she had just pricked. The stitchery had been going poorly, even for her, whose skill with needle and thread was passable but far from extraordinary. She had not the patience of Jane, the discipline of Mary, or the compulsive ostentation of the Bingley sisters that enabled them to devote endless hours to producing elaborate designs that garnered praise from even casual observers. While she admired their efforts, Elizabeth took a utilitarian approach to her own needlework, preferring to spend her leisure hours reading, in conversation with others, or outside enjoying fresh air and exercise.

Today, however, the weather kept her indoors, her housemates had scattered to engage in other pursuits, and nothing in Netherfield’s library could hold the interest of a mind preoccupied with recent events. Too preoccupied, apparently, for she had carelessly stuck herself while sewing a simple backstitch.

She looked at her finger. The tiny wound was barely visible but still stung, encouraging her to indulge in the already-existent inclination to abandon the project and find something else to do. When she went to secure the needle, however, she discovered that it had slipped off the floss. A scan of her empty lap revealed that it had fallen farther afield.

“God bless it!” She rose and examined the sofa. No luck. She dropped to her hands and knees. Where was the troublesome thing?

While she thus pawed the carpet, inevitably someone entered the drawing room. “Mrs. Darcy, might I be of service?”

She recognized the voice even before glancing up, thankful to see Mr. Parrish’s amiable face. If she had to be caught in such an undignified position, she would rather have it witnessed by him than Mr. Kendall or one of the Bingley sisters. “I’ve lost my needle.”

“It can’t have strayed far.” He knelt and ran his fingers over the rug. “I’m amazed you women keep track of these things as well as you do. I’m sure I’d lose them left and right, only to locate them in some unpleasant manner hours later.”

“I hope to spare anyone in our acquaintance such a pointed discovery.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Perhaps we should invite Mr. Kendall to join us. In his stocking feet, of course.”

She returned his grin. “Of course.”

His smile faded. “I hope I don’t misrepresent myself, Mrs. Darcy. It is not in my nature to wish ill on anyone. At least, not any decent person.”

“I understand. Mr. Kendall was most ungentlemanly last night.”

“Caroline was beside herself after dinner. It nearly broke my heart, for I knew myself to be Kendall’s true target. Why could he not confine his attacks to me? I can ignore them.” He returned his attention to the rug. “I bear him no real animosity. I know he lashes out at a woman I love, to defend a woman he loves. He wants to punish me for a perceived slight to his daughter. I just wish he would finish his business with Bingley and depart.”

You and everyone else, she wanted to say. “I have not yet seen Mrs. Parrish this morning. I hope she is better?”

“Sadly, no. She had seemed to be improving since the fire, hadn’t she? At least, I thought so — though maybe I saw what I longed to see. But Kendall’s offense last night has set her back again.”

“Temporarily, I am sure.”

“I’m not so certain. She remains distraught. His observations struck a heavy blow to her vanity at a time when she’s already so fragile.” He studied her as if trying to decide upon some matter. Then he cleared his throat. “Mrs. Darcy, I would do anything to restore my wife to herself. I–I wonder if you might help me.”

“I will do what I can.”

He relaxed and ventured a half smile. “I hoped you would say as much. I have, well, a rather bold request. Might I be so forward as to ask for a lock of your hair?”

The petition rendered her momentarily speechless. She knew not what to think. Even Darcy had never solicited a lock of her hair. “My — my hair?”

“Oh — not for myself,” he said hurriedly. “I wish to place it in a locket to give to Caroline.”

Necklaces, rings, even embroidery made of hair were common enough gifts between loved ones. When Elizabeth was ten, she and her sisters had given their mother a bracelet fashioned from their locks for her birthday. She was not, however, close enough to Caroline Parrish to feel moved to bestow a similar present upon her. Indeed, something within her rebelled at the very idea.

“I’m asking her family as well,” Parrish continued. “Some of them have already agreed.”

The inclusion of others made the entreaty less strange but brought her no closer to acquiescence. “Forgive me, Mr. Parrish, but I fail to comprehend how such an ornament can heal what ails her.”

His face reddened. He looked apologetic. “You’ll probably consider this balderdash. But I’ve become desperate enough to try a custom I once overhead a woman describe as I walked in the French Quarter. She was telling her friend that a goodluck charm created from the hair of someone dear can ward off harm by encircling the wearer with the protection of friends. I don’t necessarily believe there’s any truth in it, but I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

Elizabeth had never heard of the superstition but esteemed Mr. Parrish for his willingness to try a foreign practice if it meant helping his wife. She doubted Darcy would display so broad a mind. “I don’t find it silly at all,” she said.

His features relaxed. “You agree, then?”

She hesitated. Admire him she might, but if Parrish sought to include her in the experiment, he mistook the intimacy of her acquaintance with his wife. They were not friends; indeed, before her engagement to Parrish, Miss Bingley had been her open antagonist. Despite present circumstances, Elizabeth doubted anything of hers would hold value for Caroline.

“I’m afraid I must decline,” she said.

His face fell in disappointment. “Won’t you reconsider?”

She almost assented rather than subject herself to his despondent aspect a moment longer. But she listened to instinct. “I want very much for Mrs. Parrish to enjoy the protection you describe. Fill the locket with strands from her family — they will hold more meaning for her than any I can offer.”

He turned away from her, busying himself with the carpet once more. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Darcy. You’ve been generosity itself since this ordeal began. I see that in this I’ve asked too much.”

Guilt gripped her. “Mr. Parrish, I—”

“Look! Here it is — your needle.” He handed her the instrument. “Now at least one crisis is ended.” She immediately withdrew the housewife she kept in her sash pocket and inserted the needle into the small notions case for safekeeping.

As she watched him leave, she nearly called him back. Was she being selfish? What harm would it do to accede? Yet cooperating felt wrong somehow, as if contributing her hair to the locket would not help Caroline’s recovery but hinder it. Moreover, she knew Darcy would not approve. He would dismiss the custom as nonsense and consider it an affront that Parrish had requested so personal a token from his wife, even on another’s behalf.

No, ’twas better not to participate. But the part of her that wanted to believe in simple superstitions and Professor Randolph’s mysterious articles truly hoped the charm would work.