Suspense and Sensibility Or, First Impressions Revisited: A Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mystery (4 page)

Kitty’s whole posture deflated as she absorbed the import of his words. "I am not Miss Darcy," she said in a small voice.

Now it was Mr. Dashwood’s turn to look confused. "But when Lady Middleton introduced us – "

"Nor do I have thirty thousand pounds."

Mr. Dashwood stared at Kitty. "Then who – "

Kitty swallowed hard and opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

Elizabeth interceded. "It was not the clearest introduction. We were all distracted by Marguerite," she said. "Mr. Dash-wood, may I present to you Miss Catherine Bennet? She is not Mr. Darcy’s sister, but mine."

Mr. Dashwood continued to regard her in stupefaction. Kitty looked away, struggling to contain deep disappointment and retain her composure with so many eyes upon her.

Elizabeth’s heart broke for her sister. To learn that the attention she’d been enjoying was intended for another! And to know that her own meager dowry was so paltry in comparison to Georgiana’s that she couldn’t possibly hold the fashionable Mr. Dashwood’s interest. It was all so mortifying that Kitty would probably want to leave as soon as Mr. Dashwood stammered out whatever excuse he could quickly invent to flee her company.

In the ballroom, the music drew to a conclusion. Kitty met Mr. Dashwood’s gaze once more. "Georgiana’s set with Mr. Middleton is ended," she said. "I believe you wanted to dance the next with Miss Darcy."

Mr. Dashwood at last recovered himself. "No, I wanted to stand up with you."

"But I’m not the person you thought you were conversing with. Doesn’t that change things?"

"It certainly does."

Kitty drew a shaky breath. Elizabeth could tell she fought back tears.

"I shall now enjoy the distinction of being the first gentleman here to dance with Miss Catherine Bennet." He held out his hand to her. "If she will so honor me."

Three

To wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect.

 – Sense and Sensibility,
Chapter 4

The expectation of one thousand pounds was all Elizabeth had brought to her marriage, all Jane had brought to hers, and all Mr. Bennet could afford to dower upon each of his remaining two unwed daughters. Elizabeth and Jane had made such advantageous matches that they had been willing to give up their shares to improve their sisters’ chances, but their father had checked their generosity. "You are marrying good men whom I trust to take proper care of you," he had said. "But I want you to have something of your own." Lydia’s scandalous elopement had required a larger settlement – to which Darcy had contributed considerably – to buy back her respectability. Fortunately, Kitty and Mary were not inclined to increase their dowries at such cost to themselves. Unfortunately, that left Kitty with a settlement one-thirtieth the size of Georgiana’s.

As gentlemen’s calling cards piled up in the silver tray on the hall table the day after the Middletons’ ball, Elizabeth couldn’t help but wish that at least one of them had been left for Kitty "There are some here for you," Elizabeth told Darcy as she fanned the cards out to examine the names. "Including one from Lord Hartford."

Darcy grimaced. "An hour proved insufficient for him to complete his foxhunting saga. He promised to call upon me to share the remainder."

"What a pity you were out. Now you shall have to hear it during the shooting party"

"I have no doubt of the full version being repeated then, too."

Elizabeth set his cards aside and glanced at the others. The one she most sought was not among them.

Mr. Dashwood had promised to call that afternoon. After the revelation of Kitty’s true identity, he had spent the remainder of the evening proving himself as attentive a gentleman as propriety allowed. He danced two sets with Kitty and had no other partners save his cousin Regina, with whom a promise to his aunt had obliged him to dance one set. Elizabeth had no idea what Kitty and Mr. Dashwood talked of while on the dance floor, but she could see that he drew many smiles and occasional laughter from her sister. When he was not dancing, his conduct toward both Kitty and Elizabeth had been utterly charming.

For her part, Kitty had spoken of nothing but Mr. Dashwood for the entire carnage ride home, and she seemed to have risen from her bed with his name on her lips. Breakfast had been spent recalling his every look and gesture. That Kitty had danced with two other gentlemen, she seemed to have forgotten, though she did pause often enough in her adulation of Mr. Dashwood to compliment Georgiana on the handsome looks and manners of Miss Darcy’s many partners. Miss Darcy, however, had not been taken with any one of them to the extent that Mr. Dashwood had captivated Kitty.

Yet Georgiana’s entourage had found their way to the town-house this afternoon, while Mr. Dashwood had not. And Elizabeth could not help but reflect on why.

She sighed. "The rest of the cards are for Georgiana."

Darcy, who waited for a servant to bring his greatcoat, picked up the stack of cards left for Georgiana and shuffled through them.

"Do any of those names meet your approval?" Elizabeth asked.

He frowned at two cards. "Mr. Sutton and Sir Harvey are ridiculous coxcombs." He tossed their cards aside and looked at the next. "St. Germain is a hothead – he has been in two duels this year alone." The next card also fell to the pile. "Wybourn drinks too much."

Dairy’s man appeared with his coat. She took the remaining cards from her husband while he slipped his arms into its sleeves. "Sir Reginald Pemngdale. Who is he?"

"A widower with seven children looking for a third wife."

"So much for him." She moved to the next. "Lord Tyndale seemed nice."

"He is indeed quite pleasant. He is also up to his neckcloth in debt."

"Lord Highcroft?"

"A notorious rake."

"Lord Ashton?"

"A worse rake."

"What about Mr. Fillmore?"

"Too old."

"Mr. Sinclair?"

"Too young."

"The Marquess of Avonbury?"

"I am told he snores."

"Darcy! Can any gentleman who wants to court your sister possibly win your approbation?"

"No."

Although she detected a flash of humor in his eye as he made the declaration, she knew he only half jested. Any suitor of Georgiana’s would have to prove himself a man of flawless character, spotless reputation, and substantial fortune just to win permission to cross their threshold.

Darcy took his hat from the valet, who then disappeared as discreetly as he’d arrived. She handed the cards back to her husband, who pocketed them.

"Are you even going to show those cards to Georgiana?" she asked.

"Yes. She will want something to read after I lock her in the tower you seem to think I am building."

"So that is why you agreed to a London season for Kitty – so that you could dispatch masons to Pemberley in our absence."

"You have found me out. They are constructing a turret with a winding, rickety stair as we speak."

The repartee softened her mood, and she allowed a smile to reach her lips. "Will the moat be finished by the time we return?"

"It is under way. I am having difficulty, however, locating a troll to guard the entrance."

"I thought you would entrust that duty to no one but yourself."

"They must pass by me to reach the troll."

"Then he will soon become a very lazy troll, for he shall have nothing to do."

The sound of a carriage pulling up indicated that Darcy’s driver waited. Darcy bade her farewell and started to go, but turned round before he reached the door.

"Do you truly believe I am unreasonable concerning Georgiana?"

She paused a moment before replying. "I believe you will not allow her to settle for anything less than a man whose conduct and sense of honor equal your own, and I admire your determination to protect your sister from choosing poorly." She walked to him, to better hold his gaze. "I hope, however, that when the time comes, you will allow her to have a voice in the matter of her own marriage."

"Of course I shall."

She heard restless footsteps above – no doubt Kitty, crossing to the front window yet again only to discover that the carriage below belonged to the Darcys, not to Mr. Dashwood. In a way, Kitty kept watch from her own tower.

"Will you hold Kitty’s suitors to the same standards?" she asked.

"Your father’s authority supersedes mine in that matter, but I hope you know I will guard her interests as vigilantly as if she were my own sister."

"I do know." She looked toward the door, wishing a caller for Kitty would suddenly materialize on the opposite side of it. "I only hope she will have someone for you to be vigilant
about."

"I thought you expected Mr. Dashwood to call?"

"Last night I was certain of it. He seemed so sincere in his attentions, even after he found out Kitty was not Georgiana. But each hour’s delay makes me fear that either his intentions were never as serious as he led Kitty to hope, or – "

"Or that in the bright light of morning, he more fully considered the implications
oi
marrying a young lady with no fortune."

"Any sensible man would. You did."

She knew Darcy had weighed his love for her against the financial and social benefits of marrying more advantageously. She had no fortune, no title, no connections; in fact, in wedding her he had allied himself with a family of compromised reputation following her sister’s elopement. The very notion of an engagement between them had brought the wrath of his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, down upon them both.

"Yet despite worldly considerations, I chose you."

That he, whose every action was dictated by reason, had done so remained a source of wonder to Elizabeth. "Not every man has the ability or the willingness to disregard all that you did."

"If Mr. Dashwood cannot, then his absence today is for the best. Better he lets reason cool his romantic impulses now than rue them later."

Had Darcy ever regretted his decision? She was not a vain, insecure girl, but neither was she insensible of the sacrifices he’d made on her behalf. She busied herself in straightening his lapels. "Marry in haste, repent in leisure?" She attempted to adopt a light tone, but her voice sounded unnaturally high to her ears.

"Mrs. Darcy, what I feel for you in my leisure hours strays far indeed from repentance."

After a parting kiss, Darcy left for his appointment. Elizabeth went to the drawing room, where she found Kitty hovering by the window. In constant anticipation of Mr. Dashwood’s arrival, she had turned down the opportunity to join Georgiana shopping in Bond Street, or do anything else that would take her out of the house. She had instead spent the day fluttering aimlessly from one room to the next, unable to focus on a single occupation for more than a few minutes. If Mr. Dashwood did not call soon, she would surely drive Elizabeth to distraction.

"Kitty, do sit down. Watching the street will not make him come."

Kitty reluctantly perched on the edge of the sofa, where she twisted a button on her skirt until Elizabeth thought it would fall off. "He said he would call. What can be keeping him?"

The sound of a hackney coach pulling up signaled the arrival of a visitor. Kitty rushed to the window.

"Oh! It is only that odd scholar fellow you know."

"Professor Randolph?"

"Yes, him. I needn’t stay, Lizzy, must I?"

Elizabeth dismissed her, as interested in a private conversation with Julian Randolph as Kitty was in granting one. She had not seen the archaeologist since just before Christmas, when he’d helped the Darcys rescue the Bingley family from a murderous houseguest. Randolph’s professional knowledge of mysterious antiquities had proven critical in apprehending the villain, who had been using a centuries-old artifact with unusual properties to enact his scheme.

From the safety of Pemberley, and now their London town-house, Elizabeth sometimes still could not quite believe that the eerie events they’d experienced at Netherfield had not been simply a midwinter night’s dream brought on by reading too many gothic novels. But she had only to pull out the protective amulet Randolph had given her to remind herself that not everything in this world – or the next – could be rationally explained. Darcy, on the other hand, had gone back to dismissing the professor’s supernatural studies as nonsense almost as soon as they’d been proven otherwise. There was little room in his world for things from beyond it. In logic he trusted.

She rose to greet her visitor. "Professor Randolph, what a lovely surprise!"

"I heard you and Mr. Darcy were in town." He looked the same as she remembered, from his slender build to the spectacles that had a habit of sliding down his nose. He wore a new suit, a consequence, she presumed, of the poor scholar having at last found steady employment. Like his other clothing, the suit exhibited an unusual number of pockets. She’d seen him pull everything from pocketknives to candles from his costume.

"How do you like your new post?" she asked. Under the patronage of Darcy’s friend Lord Chatfield, Professor Randolph had recently secured a position as the British Museum’s resident archaeologist.

"] could not be happier. I have just returned from-examining a formation of standing stones in the North Country, and there is talk of sending me to the Continent as soon as the war is over. I would love the opportunity to return to Athens and Rome."

"Return? I know you came here from America, but I did not realize you were so well traveled." Upon reflection, there was much she didn’t know about Professor Randolph.

"This would mark my third expedition to the sites of those ancient civilizations."

She rang for tea. As they waited for the refreshments, he enquired after her and Darcy. She reported that they’d enjoyed a quiet sojourn at Pemberley since the archaeologist had last seen them.

"You appear happy," he said, "which I am glad to witness after the troubling events that transpired right after your marriage. Do you still have the amulet?"

"Indeed, yes. I would not part with such a generous present." When she’d first met the professor, he’d carried a silver pocket-watch with ancient protective symbols he’d specially commissioned engraved upon it. Following their ordeal at Netherfield, he’d given it to her.

"Do you carry it on you?"

She felt a pang of conscience. "No," she confessed. "But please don’t think it goes unvalued. I keep it safely in a drawer. I am afraid my husband does not care for the sight of it."

Randolph chuckled. "I am little surprised. He does not seem to be a man who possesses much tolerance for things he does not himself believe in."

"Either that, or he prefers gold timepieces to silver." They shared a smile. Then she added, "Mr. Darcy, like many people, trusts only what he can observe with his own five senses."

"And you?"

The arrival of tea prevented immediate reply. She was more willing than her husband to accept the inexplicable, to concede that science had limitations and that sometimes the ability to see a thing had nothing to do with eyesight. She had long relied on instinct in addition to reason when forming judgments and making decisions. In her experience, an impression unsupported by objective evidence could nevertheless be accurate. But she’d also seen some of her impressions proven false in the end, and so hesitated to place all her faith in them.

"I believe in intuition," she said when the servant withdrew, "but I know it is not infallible."

"Many people – women especially – are perceptive," the professor said. "But you seem unusually so. It may merely be that your acknowledgment of the unknown makes you more aware of subtleties that
can
be observed but that go unnoticed by those who do not look. In any event, don’t be afraid to trust your intuition. Or to carry the amulet, if it won’t cause trouble with Mr. Darcy. You never know when it might come in handy – if only to keep track of the hour."