Pride and Prescience (5 page)

In the back of the gallery, they’d discovered a display of
items marked “Mysterious Articles.” The beam lay among a dozen or so objects believed to have been used for mystical purposes. She found the assortment particularly intriguing. The shaman’s drum, dreamcatcher, totem mask,
vodun
doll, and other eclectic offerings reminded her of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels—symbols of a world in which the supernatural exists alongside the mundane. The fanciful elements appealed to her imagination.

She pointed to another item, a circlet of braided plant roots. “This was believed to ward off illness. Does one wear it, do you suppose? Sleep with it under the pillow? Hang it on the door?”

“Does it matter?” Darcy shrugged. “Superstitious people have all sorts of ridiculous rituals to keep bad luck away. It is not as if the thing actually holds power.”

She cocked her head and gave him a wry smile. “Are you sure?”

“I am.”

Her lighthearted mood ebbed. He might be certain, but she wasn’t. She considered herself a rational woman, one who valued sense above sensibility. She read gothic tales for entertainment not verisimilitude, and believed more strongly in what she could observe than what she couldn’t. Yet a part of her occasionally wondered if there wasn’t something else out there, forces just beyond conscious perception. Not enchantments, or illusions—the sorcery of Merlin or
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. But a quieter kind of magic, the power that fuels intuition and enables one to take leaps of faith to places reason cannot go.

At her silence, Darcy’s expression grew more serious. “Come now, Elizabeth. Do not tell me you believe in fairies and hocuspocus?”

Reluctantly, she withdrew from her reverie. “I believe warm weather spoils more milk than elves do, and you’ll never catch me whistling into the wind to keep witches away.”

“Thank goodness.”

“But”—she swept her arm toward the display—“does that mean none of this is real? What was it Hamlet said onstage last night? ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Do you believe only in what you can see?”

“Excepting God, yes.”

“Perhaps I take a broader view.”

He raised one dark brow. “Explain.”

How to explain what she couldn’t quite articulate in her own mind? He’d enjoyed the play last night, told her it was one of his favorites—maybe she should draw an analogy from it. “Have you ever felt your late father’s presence at Pemberley?”

“His ghost has never informed me that he was poisoned in the garden,” he replied stiffly.

Perhaps referring to
Hamlet
had been a bad idea. She searched her mind for another example. “Do you ever make decisions based solely on intuition?”

“Never.”

Exasperating man! And yet she knew him to be telling the truth. Even his first marriage proposal to her—as badly worded and poorly tendered as it had been—revealed the extensive deliberation he’d done before allowing his feelings to override material considerations in choosing a wife. Her husband was a man guided by reason. Rational judgment formed the core of his character, whether or not she agreed with all the conclusions to which it led him.

“I’m only saying that I believe—no, that I acknowledge the
possibility
—that there are elements of this world beyond mankind’s ability to comprehend them. Perhaps the people who created these ‘mysterious articles’ had a better understanding of them than do you or I.”

“Elizabeth, look at those items again. They are nothing
more than ordinary objects created by ordinary people in futile attempts to control things about their lives that no one can control. That so-called dreamcatcher is a web of twigs with no more ability to prevent bad dreams than a child’s doll; the circlet holds less medicinal value than a good posset. And, far from demonstrating power, the pentagram thing on that beam probably got its owner hanged.” He gestured toward another item. “What is that, resting on the end?”

She looked at the object, a long wooden staff with a fork at one end. The richly hued, flawless oak was so highly polished that she could almost see her reflection in the wood. She glanced at the display card. “A canceling rod,” she read, then winced. “Used by village cunning men to nullify spells.” She felt foolish speaking the words aloud.

“It’s a stick.”

She stared at the rod. Intellectually, she knew Darcy was right about it. She no more believed that stick could ward off spells—or believed in spells, for that matter—than she believed in Father Christmas. Incantations were a far cry from the kind of intuitive perception she struggled to define. Besides, she didn’t want to quarrel with her husband any longer, particularly on a subject so wholly unconnected with their daily lives.

She cast him a smile. “But you must admit, it’s a really shiny stick.”

His sober expression lifted and he returned her smile. “That, I will grant you.” The tension had passed. As if to physically close the breach between them, he lifted a hand and reached toward her cheek. He stopped himself before actually touching her face—propriety, as always, restraining sentiment in public. But he completed the caress with his eyes. “I do love you,” he murmured.

“And I, you.” She took his hand in hers. “Though tell me, husband,” she said, her spirits once more rising to playfulness,
“if you don’t believe the slightest bit in magic, how then do you explain love?”

Despite her teasing tone, he regarded her in all seriousness. “Elizabeth, if it is possible that you fell in love with me, married me, will spend the rest of your life with me, then I believe nearly anything is possible.”

His hand at her back guided her from the room. “But not magic.”

“I think it no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all.”

Mary Bennet,
Pride and Prejudice,
Chapter 17

A
t 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?”