Pride and Prescience

Five

At precisely seven o’clock Saturday evening, the Darcys arrived at the home of Lord and Lady Chatfield. The butler led them up a grand staircase to the drawing room, where their hostess greeted them and introduced their fellow guests. Darcy had told Elizabeth to expect a diverse assembly, and she was not disappointed. The company included an elderly botanist and his wife, a physicist, an American archeology professor, a poet, a middle-aged gentleman and his daughter, and the countess’s mother, the Dowager Duchess Beaumont.

The gentleman, she learned, was Mr. Lawrence Kendall. About fifty years old, he practiced the peculiar habit of some balding men who think to cleverly disguise their condition by combing their remaining three strands of hair over the tops of their scalps. The beefy man made up for his lack of locks with large jowls that seemed permanently frozen in a scowl. He nodded at Darcy and acknowledged his introduction to Elizabeth with minimal civility.

His daughter, as Lady Chatfield soon revealed in a whisper, was the very Miss Kendall whose name had once been linked with that of Mr. Parrish. Juliet Kendall was as thin as her father was fat; high cheekbones fought sharp eyes for prominence in her white face. At perhaps twenty, her countenance had not yet settled into the sourness of her sire’s, though her current morose expression indicated that resisting heredity could prove a lifelong battle.

Elizabeth scarcely had time to observe the other guests before the formal promenade to the dining room commenced. As a new bride, Mrs. Darcy was offered the honor of taking Lord Chatfield’s arm. Once downstairs, she found herself seated between the earl and Professor Julian Randolph, the archeologist.

She enjoyed the opportunity to converse with Lord Chatfield. When she remarked upon the varied company, he confessed that he liked to invite markedly different individuals to his home to encourage lively exchanges. “Some of the parties we attend are so tedious,” he said between spoonfuls of turtle soup from a gold-rimmed bowl. His eyes were merry. “I like to mix things up a bit — seat my mother-in-law next to a naval officer and watch what happens.”

Coming from a less affable man, the comment might have made her feel like an actress put onstage solely for the earl’s amusement. But he seemed motivated by the desire for all his guests to enjoy the social experiment.

“I see, however, that you have no officers tonight,” she observed.

“No, several men of learning instead. Always must have at least one — I discover so many interesting things that way.” He gestured toward Professor Randolph, who was fulfilling his conversational obligation to the woman on his right, the botanist’s wife. “Randolph is new to my table. Fascinating chap — you must ask him about his specialty.”

“I will be sure to enquire. Meanwhile, tell me more of the other guests. I can see how Mr. Quigley, a man of letters, adds interest to the evening — what of Mr. Kendall and his daughter?”

“That was my wife’s idea.” His voice lowered to a discreet level. “Miss Kendall has been down in spirits since — well, since last month. The countess thought to introduce her to Quigley, though I fear the effort futile. Kendall is wealthy enough that his only child can marry comfortably where she chooses — I understand she has a dowry of forty thousand pounds, and will inherit her father’s entire estate upon his death — but I suspect he intends to solidify his social position through his daughter’s alliance with a man of higher rank and fortune than a poet can offer.”

Forty thousand pounds! — and the remaining Kendall estate not entailed away on some distant male heir, as Longbourn was. Elizabeth could scarcely comprehend the ability to bring that kind of fortune to a marriage. Yet it hadn’t aided Miss Kendall’s courtship with Frederick Parrish; Miss Bingley’s settlement was half that sum, and carried no promise of future inheritance. With such wealth at stake, what had led Parrish to abruptly drop his addresses to Juliet? Had the charms of his “dear Caroline” distracted him entirely from worldly gain? If so, his devotion to Miss Bingley must be great indeed.

The soup course was nearing its end; Elizabeth would soon be obliged to direct her attention toward Professor Randolph. “And what of my husband and me?” she asked Lord Chatfield as the footmen removed their bowls. “What ingredient do we add to your conversational stew?”

“My dear lady, you were invited simply because we enjoy Darcy’s company and wanted to become better acquainted with his wife.”

The fish course was served. Elizabeth tasted the whitebait à la diable, wondered hopefully whether her mother was correct in her conjecture that Darcy employed French cooks at Pemberley, and turned to Professor Randolph. He looked young for a scholar, perhaps three-and-thirty, and in robust health. For some reason Elizabeth always pictured academic men as old and doddering, with mortarboards permanently affixed to their heads.

“I went my whole life without encountering an American, and now you’re the second I’ve met this week,” she said. “I hope we haven’t suffered an invasion while my attention was focused on more domestic matters?”

The archeologist adjusted his spectacles. “No invasion,” he responded, “but the state of war between our countries has certainly made it harder for those of us in England to travel home. British seas are no place to speak with an American accent right now.”

She regretted having spoken so lightly on such a serious matter. “I imagine not,” she said more soberly. “Have you been here long?”

Fortunately, he did not appear to have taken her previous tone amiss. “About a year,” he said. “I’d originally planned to stay only through summer, but that, of course, is when the declaration of war came. So here I remain.”

“I hope your extended visit hasn’t proven too inconvenient. What brought you to England in the first place?”

Randolph withdrew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped a smudge off his spectacles. In the drawing room, Elizabeth had noted that his clothes, though not shabby, betrayed signs of wear and were several years out of fashion. But upon closer view, she believed they had never been in fashion — at least, not on this side of the Atlantic. The professor’s costume included an extraordinary number of pockets. It was not unusual for gentlemen to have breast or tail pockets in their coats, or fob pockets in their waistcoats. But in addition to these, Randolph’s loose-fitting trousers appeared to have at least two pockets of their own, and the unusual cut of his waistcoat hinted at another two pockets on his shirtfront. She wondered if all the pockets reflected American style, his own taste, or an overzealous tailor.

“I accompanied a friend who sought a traveling companion.” He replaced both spectacles and handkerchief. “I’ve also been conducting business of my own — seeking a new post and offering a series of lectures related to a display at the British Museum. It contains numerous artifacts from my private collection.”

Elizabeth recalled the gallery she and Darcy had had to themselves the afternoon before. “Just yesterday my husband and I saw a collection of New World antiquities there. Is that the one?”

“Indeed, it is.” His face brightened. “The museum curator told me they might close the display due to lack of interest. I’m delighted that you saw it. Did you find it worthwhile?”

She nodded. “Highly intriguing, particularly the ‘mysterious articles.’ Are those yours, too?”

“Yes. In fact, I specialize in the study of supernatural objects.”

Though she’d found their conversation pleasant to this point, she now regarded him with heightened interest. Perhaps this man could answer some of the questions her quarrel with Darcy had raised. “There are enough such things in the world to make a specialty of analyzing them?”

“Mrs. Darcy, every culture in history has believed in some sort of magic. Rain dances, ghosts, second sight, miracles. How many tales of enchantment and wondrous items appear in your English literature and folklore, let alone throughout the world? I but follow the tradition of Arthur’s knights, searching the earth for holy grails.”

“Do you believe these items truly hold power, or do you study them only as curiosities?”

He sipped a long draught of wine and set the glass down slowly. “In itself, the fact that their creators and owners believed in their power makes them worthy of study,” he said at last. “Familiarity with a culture’s beliefs enables historians to better understand the people as a whole.”

Randolph hadn’t really answered her question. But she hesitated to press the subject, afraid of sounding naïve to the scholar.

He withdrew his pocketwatch to check the hour. The silver timepiece was round and perhaps two and a half inches in diameter. An engraved star adorned the front of the case; a circle connected its five points. As he clicked open the case, she noted some strange characters inscribed inside. They resembled letters, but not from any alphabet she’d ever seen.

“Runes,” he said, noting her curious expression. “Characters from ancient times.”

The watch reminded her of some of the items she’d seen that morning. “Is that one of your archeological finds?”

“No.” He flipped the case shut and returned the watch to his fob pocket. “Nothing so valuable. Merely something I had commissioned for myself.”

She wanted to ask what the runes meant, but sensed he preferred to end the subject. “I confess, I’ve never heard of your pursuit as an academic discipline,” she said instead. “Is it a common field of study?”

“Unfortunately, the universities at which I’ve taught regard my focus as eccentric at best. In fact, one of them even housed me with physicians studying madness instead of with other historians or scientists.” He chuckled. “Perhaps someone thought I needed their services.”

“You’ve taught at more than one university?”

“The strength of my more mundane scholarship persuades institutions to hire me on and finance my expeditions, which turn up more ordinary treasures than mystical items. But in the long term, conservative governing boards are reluctant to grant permanent positions to someone with ‘strange’ interests. So I seem to have fallen into a cycle of joining a new faculty, lecturing for a time, embarking on a university-sponsored expedition, and returning to find that the school wants only the artifacts I’ve unearthed — not me. While here, I’d hoped Oxford or Cambridge might offer me a post, but so far my work has been greeted with the usual skepticism.”

She glanced down the long table to Darcy, who appeared trapped with the duchess in the polite but empty small talk he dreaded. Remembering her husband’s response to the museum display, Elizabeth could hardly be surprised that stately academic institutions placed Randolph’s studies on the fringes of respectability. Yet surely she was not the only person in all England to find his field of study intriguing. “Have you considered soliciting private patronage?”

He nodded. “I find, however, that without the association of a college to lend my work legitimacy, many potential patrons are more interested in speculation than in scientific inquiry. They seek financial gain, not enlightenment, and expect me to unearth some magical treasure that will make them rich. One exception has been Mr. Frederick Parrish, who sponsored my trip to London purely out of friendship.”

Elizabeth was beginning to feel that, in never having heard of Mr. Parrish before this week, she’d been living under a rock. Was there a soul in London unacquainted with him? “I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Parrish recently. He is a generous man?”

“I have hopes that he will finance my next archeological dig.” She could guess what Miss Bingley would have to say about that.

After dessert, the ladies departed to take tea in the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to talk and smoke in private. Darcy, as usual, declined to partake of tobacco, but the scientists and the earl lit pipes. The pungent scent drifted into the air, carrying with it a light haze. Lord Chatfield leaned back in his chair, drew a long draught from his pipe, and asked the physicist about an experiment he planned to conduct.

The topic appealed to Darcy after the lightweight conversation of those nearest him at dinner. He rose and stretched, intending to exchange his seat for the one beside Chatfield that Elizabeth had vacated. Kendall’s hand, however, closed about his wrist as he tried to pass. The corpulent man had an exceptionally strong grip.

“How is your friend Bingley?” Kendall’s low voice carried a belligerent tone; his face appeared flushed. Darcy would have suspected the man had imbibed too much claret, but he knew better. This show was merely the latest display of his congenial personality.

He stared at Kendall’s fleshy fingers until they dropped their grasp. “I left him in good health,” he said finally.

“I understand he’s newly married.”

He did not bother answering, nor did a response appear expected.

“Tell me,” Kendall continued, “has he learned to think for himself yet, or do you still make all his decisions for him?”

Though tempted to walk away, Darcy forbore. The man obviously intended to speak his mind; to deprive him of the opportunity might provoke a scene right here in the earl’s dining room. Of all things, Darcy loathed scenes. “I offer him advice when asked.” He spoke in clipped tones.

“And did he ask your advice about his sister’s forthcoming marriage?” Kendall snorted. “He probably thinks she made quite a catch in Frederick Parrish.”

“I have not concerned myself in the matter.”

“Too engrossed in your own affairs for a change? Well, tell little Caroline I rejoice in her nuptials. She and Parrish deserve each other.”

As Kendall at last seemed satisfied, Darcy moved away, into the chair he’d sought near the earl. But he found himself unable to focus on the scientific discussion. Instead, he seethed in silence at Kendall’s unprovoked diatribe. What had been the man’s purpose?

Darcy rarely had occasion to interact with Lawrence Kendall. Though they belonged to the same clubs and knew many of the same people, the difference in their ages and dispositions generally prevented their paths from intersecting. When they did encounter each other socially, as tonight, they had very little to say to one another — which was why this evening’s show of spleen on the older man’s part had left him baffled.

His knowledge of Kendall came mostly from the gentleman’s association with the Bingley family. Charles Bingley’s late father had been in business with Kendall; together the two had built a fortune through trade. Near the end of the elder Bingley’s life, the relationship had soured. The two men dissolved their partnership, dividing the assets fairly, at least in the eyes of the Bingley family and their solicitors. Kendall, however, unjustly claimed that he had been cheated of his full share — this, after cheating Mr. Bingley through creative accounting for years.

Kendall first came forward with the assertion of fraud shortly after the senior Mr. Bingley’s death, and renewed the claim last winter. That second time, Kendall had argued with Charles Bingley so long and so aggressively that Darcy’s friend had almost surrendered the assets in question despite his solicitors’ advice. Bingley, inclined to assume the best of everyone, began to believe that perhaps an error had indeed been made. Darcy also suspected Bingley’s wavering to have been motivated by a desire simply to end the unpleasant conflict. He had urged his friend to stand firm.

That was the last he had heard on the subject, until now. It seemed Kendall yet harbored antagonism toward Bingley. And had broadened its scope to include him as well.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, found herself confronted by the other Kendall of the party. Juliet seemed a pleasant enough young woman as the general conversation drifted among such weighty topics as Lady Edith Carrington’s recent presentation at court, and the addition of second flounces to hemlines this season. But no sooner did Miss Kendall learn that the new Mrs. Darcy was sister-in-law to Caroline Bingley, than she maneuvered to sit beside Elizabeth on the sofa for a private tête-à-tête.

“I hear they are to be married Wednesday,” she said without preamble, apparently so focused in her own mind on Mr. Parrish’s plans that she presumed everyone around her to hold the same individual foremost in their thoughts. She smoothed her skirts, not looking at Elizabeth as she spoke. “It will be a very grand affair, I suppose?”

Elizabeth resolved to say as little as possible on the subject. Even had she possessed the information Miss Kendall sought, she had no wish to inflict additional pain on Parrish’s former inamorata by feeding her details she thought she wanted to hear. “I’m afraid I have not been privy to their plans.” Across the room, Lady Chatfield began to pour tea, a distraction for which Elizabeth was grateful. She rose, stating her intention to head for the tea table.

Miss Kendall, however, would not be dissuaded from her subject as she accompanied her. “The wedding will be the talk of the ton, I have no doubt.” Juliet accepted a steaming cup from the countess, added a lump of sugar, and stirred absently. “Miss Bingley will want the most lavish affair her brother can afford, and Freder—” She closed her eyes and swallowed. “Mr. Parrish — will acquiesce in every particular.” She added more sugar to her tea.

Elizabeth injected a note of levity into her voice. “By the following week, something else will seize society’s attention.” She sipped from her own cup, seeking a moment’s reprieve behind its rim. The earl had indicated Miss Kendall suffered from melancholy in the wake of Parrish’s rejection, but Elizabeth thought her eyes seemed unnaturally bright for someone mired in sadness. She attempted to change the subject. “Have you any special plans for Christmas?”

“We played together as girls, you know. Caroline Bingley and me. Dressed our dolls together. Rode horses together.” Miss Kendall added another lump of sugar and continued stirring. The silver demitasse spoon clattered against the delicate porcelain. “We haven’t spoken in years. Our fathers — well, never mind that. But this is a triumph for her, stealing Mr. Parrish from me. That woman set her cap for him and caught him before I knew what was happening.”

Had Miss Bingley actively interfered with the courtship? Given her calculated efforts to discourage her brother’s attraction to Jane, Elizabeth couldn’t put it past her to have aggressively worked to turn the admiration of a wealthy and not-quite-betrothed bachelor toward herself — especially right after the announcement of Darcy’s engagement and the disappointed hopes it represented. If so, Mr. Parrish likely would have been a target regardless of which lady he’d been wooing. Surely Caroline hadn’t pursued him solely out of malice toward Miss Kendall?

“That’s why she’s scheduled the wedding so soon — to spite me.” Juliet dissolved a fourth lump in the china cup. The more sweetener she added to her untasted tea, the more bitter her voice became. Her volume, however, remained low enough that only Elizabeth could hear. “She’s snickering at me right now, isn’t she? Congratulating herself on securing her own happiness and ruining mine all at once.” She expelled a short, unconvincing laugh that sounded more like a horse’s sneeze than an unaffected expression of mirth. “Well, tell her she failed. After they wed, I will see her unhappy.”

Miss Kendall thrust her full teacup onto the table with enough force to topple it off its saucer. Brown rivulets streamed across Lady Chatfield’s snow-white tablecloth, rapidly soaking into the fabric and leaving behind a gloppy trail of half-dissolved sugar crystals.

The expanding stain appeared to wrench Juliet from her fixation on Caroline Bingley. Horror spread across her face as quickly as the tea on the tablecloth, and she immediately stammered an apology to their hostess. The countess gently dismissed the accident and summoned a servant to replace the covering.

Elizabeth hoped the disturbance might offer an opportunity for her to slip away from Miss Kendall and into another conversation, but the footman proved too efficient in performing his duty. When the mess had been whisked away, Juliet turned to Elizabeth once more. “I have been standing here realizing I owe you an apology as well,” she said, her manner again relaxed as it had been earlier in the evening. “I did not mean to monopolize your attention, nor to speak so warmly on a subject best left undiscussed.”

“Think no more of it,” Elizabeth said. Though she referred to their conversation, privately she hoped Miss Kendall would also think no more about the forthcoming marriage. By whatever means Parrish’s sudden engagement had come about, it had clearly left wounds that would take a long time to heal.

As they walked home, Elizabeth relayed the conversation to Darcy. “Caroline Bingley has cultivated a fervent enemy,” she observed.

“Miss Kendall will attract a new suitor before long.” He grasped her arm firmly as they passed over an icy spot on the pavement. “Or her dowry will, if she cannot. Once she has the attention of another gentleman, she will forget all about Miss Bingley.”

“Let us hope so, before her injured vanity claims another victim. The lady is terribly hard on tablecloths.”