Pride and Prescience (20 page)

“No—I didn’t dream about us discovering it. I saw it happening. I kept seeing a bolt or something fall to the ground, and then the wheel flying off. Are you quite sure it came loose by itself?”

“Not having inspected the coach before it left, I cannot tell you anything with certainty. But the vehicle could have been left vulnerable by negligent maintenance.”

“Or sabotage.”

“You suspect the accident was no accident?”

“It’s possible, is it not?”

He considered a moment. Possible, yes. But probable? “Who would do such a thing? Who would have anything to gain?”

“Mr. Kendall. You told me he threatened Bingley yesterday with court action. If Bingley had perished in the mishap, could not Kendall file his claim against the estate? He then goes to Chancery with his false accounting records, and without Bingley there to refute them—”

“But Kendall did not arrive here until after we all departed for Longbourn.”

“So it appeared. But we know the man prowled around Netherfield House for no good purpose last night. Could he not have done the same in Netherfield’s outbuildings the night before, then timed his ‘arrival’ after seeing us all depart?”

He conceded the plausibility. Kendall could well have been in the area long before they would have been aware of him. Darcy already believed him capable of starting a fire to destroy the audit evidence and make good on his threat. Had he tampered with Bingley’s carriage?

It was Darcy’s experience that while many men might bluster out dire warnings, especially in the heat of an argument,
most of them possessed enough conscience to stay on the decent side of the line between threat and action. Only a small number possessed the black state of mind and heart that enables one to commit wickedness against fellow human beings to advance one’s own interests. Fortunately, Darcy had encountered few of them in his personal dealings—his rakehell brother-in-law Wickham was one of them—but they seemed to share a common pattern of behavior. They began with minor transgressions and escalated their misdeeds, each one making the next acceptable in their own minds until they arrive at a destination so foreign to civilized men that their broken moral compass can no longer lead them home.

Kendall, in his affairs with the Bingleys, had marked just such a course. Greed to larceny, larceny to extortion . . . extortion to attempted murder was not too great a leap. “If Kendall is capable of having set the fire,” Darcy said, “he is capable of causing the carriage accident.”

Their supper over, she rose and gathered their dishes back onto the tray. “You know . . . this would not mark the first time a Kendall was in the vicinity of a Bingley family misadventure involving horses.”

“You believe the two episodes are related?”

“I didn’t until just now. Think about it, though—we said from the start how curious it was that Caroline’s riding incident lacked an obvious cause, and odd that Juliet Kendall invited her out to ride in the first place. The two had been estranged for a long time, and now Miss Kendall is frightfully angry at Caroline for ‘stealing’ Mr. Parrish from her.”

“The servants said Miss Kendall never went near Mrs. Parrish’s mare.”

“It just seems rather convenient that the Kendalls have been in proximity of a good many recent Bingley catastrophes.”

“I will grant you that. But I saw them nowhere in view when Mrs. Parrish was strolling down Bow Street, nor do I
think Miss Kendall broke into the townhouse in a jealous pique to stab her with a carving knife.”

“Mr. Kendall could have orchestrated those events. Mrs. Parrish was on some sort of mysterious business with that overstuffed reticule—who is to say that her errand did not involve him? Perhaps he sought to extort the money from her that he could not legally get from her brother.”

“And when her mission failed, she tried to take her own life?” He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead to soften his words. “My dear wife, I have long admired the liveliness of your mind, but I think it reaches too far this time. Logic does not support the connections you are trying to draw. Moreover, Mrs. Parrish’s altered demeanor since the wedding presents a much stronger case for herself as the catalyst of her own misfortunes.”

Elizabeth’s expression grew troubled. “That supports a darker possibility.”

“What might that be?”

“Mr. Parrish suspects his wife may have set the fire.”

His brows rose. “He said so outright?”

“Indirectly. But his meaning was clear. He fears she is a danger to herself and others.”

“Her injury upholds his misgivings. But the conflagration originated in Bingley’s chamber, not hers. How could she have accidentally started it there?”

Elizabeth made no answer, only met his gaze. Her eyes held sadness, pity, resignation.

Darcy shook his head. “I cannot believe Caroline Parrish would deliberately harm her brother, even in . . . an altered condition of mind.”

“Perhaps Bingley was not her target.”

“I cannot believe she would harm your sister, either.”

“She has never cared for Jane.”

The assertion was true—as Caroline Bingley’s unwilling
confidante when they first met the Bennets, Darcy knew only too well her opinions about every member of the family. Miss Bingley had never considered Jane Bennet good enough for her brother. Yet Darcy could not see supercilious snipes leading to such extreme physical expression. Mrs. Parrish was far more likely to assassinate another woman’s reputation than her person.

“Perhaps she did not care for the dress.”

“Sneaking into someone else’s room in the middle of the night to destroy an unbecoming gown seems rather excessive fashion monitoring,” she said. “I think even Beau Brummell would draw the line at that.”

“Brummell would impale the wearer with his wit.”

“So would the Miss Bingley we once knew.”

He was forced to concur, not liking the unpleasant possibilities he was starting to entertain. While he doubted Caroline Parrish capable of deliberately trying to injure others, he could envision a scenario in which madness led her to damage property—and in which carelessness led to casualty. That potential made her more dangerous than Lawrence Kendall, for one could not anticipate her behavior.

“Mr. Parrish is wise to raise his vigilance,” he said at last. “We should as well.”

“Agreed. We shall keep a close eye on Mrs. Parrish when she returns.” She released a sigh. “I suppose that happy task will fall largely to me, as I seem to encounter her more often than anybody.”

“You
are
her most particular friend these days. Will you walk arm-in-arm during your next moonlight promenade?”

With a saucy look, she returned his impudence in equal measure. “Just to be safe, darling, I shouldn’t wear the olive morning coat in her presence anymore if I were you. It is your least flattering.”

“I was never more annoyed!”

Caroline Bingley to Darcy
, Pride and Prejudice,
Chapter 6

V
ulgar woman. Insipid girls. Deadly conversation. It is good to be home.”

Elizabeth overheard Caroline’s voice as she passed the music room. After four days at Longbourn, the family party had returned to Netherfield about an hour ago. Jane reported that upon hearing Netherfield was once again ready to receive them, the Bingley sisters had ordered their coaches with alacrity. Elizabeth wondered that Mrs. Hurst hadn’t campaigned for a temporary return to the house in Grosvenor Street rather than stay with the Bennets, but Jane said the townhouse had been shut up when the Hursts left for Netherfield.

Major repairs to Netherfield’s east wing were under way and would continue for a long time to come. But the staff, aided by every servant who could be spared from regular duties in houses throughout the neighborhood, had worked tirelessly to restore the rest of the home to a habitable state so that their mistress and the others could return. Elizabeth and her sister were grateful for the generosity of so many nearby
families, especially since results varied according to who had performed which tasks. Those undertaken by Jane and Bingley’s newest employees exhibited more zeal than skill: Smoky rugs looked like they’d been flogged rather than merely beaten; soot-stained walls had been scrubbed hard enough to reveal plaster beneath the paint.

“Thank heaven for Frederick and Louisa,” Caroline continued. “I should have suffocated otherwise. And to be indebted to Mary Bennet for the clothes on my back until new ones can be made—it is simply mortifying! Why must she alone among my acquaintance approach my height?”

Elizabeth steeled herself against the insults to her family. In a way, she welcomed them—Caroline sounded more like herself than she had in weeks. If her visit with the Bennets had somehow provided the push she needed toward recovery, perhaps they would all be able to return to their own lives before too much longer. Provided, of course, that no more “accidents” befell anyone.

A series of notes issued from the pianoforte, an étude she recognized as a right-handed exercise. Mrs. Parrish yet wore a bandage on her left hand; her husband said the burn was healing slowly.

“I can’t think how Charles and Darcy tolerate their new connections. They make the dullness of Mr. Hurst positively alluring.”

Elizabeth chuckled softly. She’d no idea Caroline shared her opinion of Louisa’s husband. But to whom was Mrs. Parrish speaking so candidly?

She ducked her head through the doorway, her mind rapidly assembling some excuse for the intrusion. But instead she found herself masking the surprise that had surely flashed across her face upon discovering the room’s occupant.

Caroline Parrish was alone.

_______

“Mrs. Darcy, would you be so kind as to join me and Mrs. Parrish in the drawing room?”

At Professor Randolph’s request, Elizabeth slid a bookmark into the second volume of
The Italian
and rose from her seat in the conservatory. “Is something amiss?”

“Nothing of great consequence. It’s only that this is the time of afternoon when I always meet with Mrs. Parrish to take notes for Dr. Lancaster. Usually Mr. Parrish joins us, but I can’t find him, and I thought there should be a third person present for the sake of propriety. I’d ask Mrs. Hurst but I’m told she’s napping, and Mrs. Bingley—”

“I’m happy to help you, Professor.”

A smile conveyed his gratitude. “I’m sorry to disturb your reading. By all means, bring the book with you.”

“You needn’t apologize. I was beginning to think a warm fire preferable to views of the bleak landscape outside.” Indeed, the only things green or cheerful about the conservatory today came from within the room. On the other side of the glass, thick grey clouds hung low in the sky, and the temperature had plummeted since morning.

They found Caroline pacing in the drawing room. She greeted Elizabeth’s entrance with a look of uncertainty. “My husband is not coming?”

“I could not locate him.” Randolph ushered her to the sofa. “Mrs. Darcy has consented to play chaperone.”

Elizabeth held up her novel. “I will just sit in the corner with my book so as not to intrude on your privacy.” She settled into a wing-backed chair and opened the volume.

“Mrs. Parrish, how are you feeling today?” Professor Randolph sat at the desk and withdrew a small notebook from one of his breast pockets.

“My hand hurts.” She pulled at the bandage. “This is wound too tight.”

“I’m sure Mr. Jones applied it properly when he saw you
this morning.” Randolph dipped a quill into the inkpot and jotted a few words. “How are your spirits?”

“How should my spirits be? I have just spent two days with the—” She caught herself. “Away from here. All my clothes were destroyed in the fire. I am reduced to wearing borrowed cast-offs from Jane’s sister until my London
modiste
can produce new gowns. And everywhere I go, the staff whispers about me. How would
your
spirits be?”

Elizabeth read the same paragraph for the third time and still comprehended none of it. She gave up trying to fool herself into thinking she would attend Mrs. Radcliffe’s words instead of Mrs. Parrish’s, but upheld the pretense of reading for Caroline’s benefit.

“Have you suffered any headaches today?”

“None but this interview.”

“That’s a good sign—the spearmint leaves must be helping.” Randolph entered a few notes.

“What is it you’re writing about me?”

“Only what you’ve just told me.”

She stomped over to him and seized the notebook. “ ‘Headaches improved, but out of sorts,’ ” she read. “Really? Is that your impression?” She transferred the notebook to her left hand and snatched the pen with her right. She dipped it into the ink hastily, scattering drops of ink onto the desk as she withdrew it. Then she scrawled something onto the page.

“There—” She shoved the notebook and quill back at Professor Randolph. “Forward
that
observation to your colleague!”

As Caroline abandoned him to pace around the room, Randolph read the words. He colored, cleared his throat, and turned to a fresh page in the notebook.

She picked at her bandage again, this time unraveling the gauze. She then tossed the dressing into the fire. “I am taking off this bloody thing!”

“Mrs. Parrish—”

“Shocked you, did I? Well, I will say it again. Bloody! Bloody-bloody-bloody-bloody-bloody-bloody-bloody! I’m bloody tired of everyone in this bloody house treating me like a bloody invalid!” She tugged on her wedding ring but could not slide it off her still-swollen finger. “My hand hurts. But that is all. I am fine. I am fine!” She burst into tears, great gulping sobs that wracked her whole frame. “I am fine. . . .”

Professor Randolph returned the quill to its stand and closed his notebook. He met Elizabeth’s troubled gaze and released a sigh. “Of course you are, Mrs. Parrish.”

He withdrew his pocketwatch, muttered something under his breath, and glanced at Mrs. Parrish. He stared at her a long moment, then returned the watch to his waistcoat without opening it. Indeed, there seemed little point in consulting the time—Elizabeth doubted the interview had lasted five minutes.