Pride and Prescience (12 page)

“You are pensive this afternoon.”

Jane’s gentle chide drew her from her reverie. She smiled apologetically, realizing she’d given up all pretense of listening to Jane’s discourse. “My thoughts keep straying to your sister-in-law.”

“As do mine. I pray this visit to Netherfield proves beneficial for Caroline.”

“And short?”

Now it was Jane’s turn to look guilty. “I am certain we all wish for a swift recovery.”

Elizabeth would have laughed at her sister’s equivocation had the subject not been so serious. “She’s friend to neither you nor I, but I do believe Darcy gave Bingley sound advice. She’s better off here than traveling to America. Such a trip seems imprudent for many reasons, not the least of which are Caroline’s own inclinations. I did not want to injure Mr. Parrish’s feelings by saying so, but his wife never appeared interested in Mont Joyau even before all this started.”

“Those were my impressions as well. And the mere trip here wore her out so—Mr. Parrish says she’s been sleeping since we arrived. Poor man! He looks exhausted himself.”

They reached a fork in the path and decided upon the branch leading back to the house. “Perhaps Mrs. Parrish will feel up to joining us for dinner, or at least having visitors to her room,” Elizabeth said. “I would like to hear her explanation of what happened, though I doubt she’d confide the details to us.”

“She won’t talk to Charles or Mrs. Hurst about it. Only Mr. Parrish. Who can blame her? How mortifying to have so many people know that one’s nerves have frayed to the point of—to . . . to
that
point. It feels indecent even for you and I to discuss it between ourselves.”

“Well, someone ought to discuss it, if we are to learn what really happened.” Since the family council at the Parrish townhouse, no one had said a word about the suicide attempt. The
subject was like an elephant in the middle of the parlor; its presence dominated the room but nobody would acknowledge it.

Jane regarded her quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Has Caroline ever impressed you as a woman with fragile nerves?”

“No. Quite the opposite. But I suppose anyone’s inner fortitude can fail under stressful circumstances.”

“Yes—circumstances like the death of someone close, or the loss of a family fortune, or some other calamity. But marrying a kind, handsome, rich man at a wedding designed to be the social event of the season? Unless her nerves broke because all her dreams have been realized and she has nothing left to which to aspire, I fail to see a convincing cause for such an extreme action as attempting to take her own life.”

“But she was holding the knife when their cook found her in the kitchen.”

“All the more reason to question. Would she choose such a painful, violent method of death? Or one so untidy? She would be too conscious of the fact that her body would be found in a stained gown. And to perform the act in the kitchen? I doubt Caroline Bingley Parrish had ever entered a kitchen before in her life. Would she end her existence in one? In a place where she would be discovered not by her husband or even her lady’s maid, but one of the lower servants?”

Jane stopped and looked her full in the face. “What are you saying, Lizzy? That both the constable and the surgeon are wrong?”

She had no real answer for Jane. What
was
she saying, after all? Only that the explanations they’d been offered seemed too facile given Caroline’s character and her own half-realized perceptions. But of what value were indistinct apprehensions?

“I don’t know. Just that it’s all very puzzling.” The sound of
horses drew her attention toward the house. A familiar carriage approached the front gate.

“Lizzy! Jane!” cried the well-known voice from within. “I came as soon as I heard you were here!”

Elizabeth sighed. There would be no enticing Caroline Parrish out of her chamber today. She and Jane fixed smiles on their faces and went to meet the latest arrival.

“Mama!”

“Now, Lizzy, explain this to me again. Why are you and Mr. Darcy not at Pemberley?”

Elizabeth shifted in her chair, unwilling to lie to her mother outright but unable to prevaricate much longer in the interest of saving Caroline Parrish from becoming the subject of what would surely develop into the most rapidly circulating local gossip since Lydia’s elopement. Why she cared about Caroline’s reputation in the neighborhood, she couldn’t say; the new Mrs. Parrish certainly didn’t deserve protection among people she’d openly disdained time and again. Perhaps Elizabeth shielded her for Jane and Bingley’s sake. Or Mr. Parrish’s. She met the gaze of the latter gentleman across the drawing room, where he sat between the Hursts and Professor Randolph. His eyes pleaded for discretion.

Darcy, apparently sensing her discomfort, intervened. “Coming here was my idea. Elizabeth and I will be off to Pemberley soon enough. My sister, in fact, waits for us there.”

“Oh, I see.” Mrs. Bennet nodded knowingly. “Of course.” Darcy’s statement had clarified nothing, but her mother held him in such awe that she either didn’t notice or didn’t dare voice the question a fourth time. “Well, I’m sure you will be quite comfortable here. Netherfield may not be as grand as your own estate, but it is a fine house. And Jane, you are now mistress of it! I’m so happy for you, darling—mistress of
Netherfield! What a fine situation for my daughter!”

Jane smiled self-consciously, clearly embarrassed by her mother’s effusions before her new family. “Yes, Mama. But we won’t be here forever, remember.”

“I know, I know. But that will be still better—an estate of your own! Mr. Bingley, when are you going to stop sitting on your inheritance and purchase a home for my daughter to live in?”

“Quite soon, madam. As soon as we find one we like well enough.”

“The Gouldings just quit Haye Park. How perfect that would be, Jane—having you continue to live so close! And in such a large house! You would need a steward for certain. Pemberley has a steward, does it not, Mr. Darcy?”

“It does.”

“Mr. Bingley, you must promise to hire a steward for your new estate.”

“If it’s big enough to warrant one, I will.”

“Then you must buy one big enough. You can afford it on your income.”

Louisa Hurst muffled a snicker and scanned the room for someone to temporarily fill Caroline’s place in the catty coterie they formed whenever Mrs. Bennet was present. Finding no one to share her amusement, she had to settle for playing with her bracelets to demonstrate her superiority above the older woman’s conversation. Mr. Hurst, apparently bored, rose and headed for the sherry decanter.

Mr. Parrish, however, was all politeness, listening to Mrs. Bennet with either real or well-feigned interest. “Why, Charles, I thought your talk of purchasing an estate was just a longcherished dream, not something you intended to act upon presently,” Parrish said. “Perhaps we should tour some prospects together . . . once other affairs are settled. Mrs. Bennet, do keep us informed of other houses that become available.
Your knowledge on these matters can aid our search tremendously.”

Mrs. Bennet glowed at the compliment. “I will indeed, sir. One hears of so many country houses changing hands these days. It’s a sad business—all these reckless gentlemen losing their fortunes by gambling.”

The rattle of the sherry decanter drew Elizabeth’s notice away from her mother’s penetrating social insights. Mr. Hurst had dropped the stopper on the floor. As he stooped to pick it up, his hand shook. She observed him with disgust. Were he not a gentleman, he would be considered a drunkard.

Her mother continued her discourse unabated. “I’m so glad my three married daughters have sensible, respectable husbands. Well, Lydia’s husband, Wickham, was perhaps a bit wild before their marriage. But such an agreeable young man, and so handsome! He’s in the militia, you know, up in Newcastle, so I haven’t seen my Lydia for months now. Lizzy, you should invite them to visit you when you get to Derbyshire.”

Elizabeth didn’t know which topic of her mother’s conversation was more indecorous: the references to Bingley’s income or the praise of Lydia’s scapegrace spouse. To relieve her own humiliation, she changed the subject entirely. “I believe Papa aspires to come peruse Pemberley’s library. How is my father?”

“Oh, the same as ever. I tried to persuade him to come with me today but he would be obstinate and refuse. Said I should give you a few hours at least to get settled before calling. The very idea! That your own mother should have to stand on ceremony when it comes to waiting upon her daughters. He says such things just to vex me, I’m certain. What that man does to my poor nerves! So you and Jane will have to come to Longbourn tomorrow to see your father if you don’t want to wait for him to get round to calling here.
Bring your husbands, and we’ll have a family dinner. Oh—I suppose we’re all family now, aren’t we? Why don’t you all come? Mrs. Parrish, too. Where is she, by the way? I want to wish her joy.”

“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?”