Mr and Mrs Darcy 02 Suspense & Sensibility (29 page)

The
housekeeper kept them standing outside while she ascertained whether the master
was at home. Knowing quite well was within, the ladies wondered whether he
might refuse them entry following his row with Lucy But the servant returned
and admitted them.

There,
resting in the last place Elizabeth expected to see it, was the mirror. Mr
Dashwood had indeed left it lying about the front hall--at least, temporarily.
It leaned against the wall, still wrapped in the heavy blankets that had
protected it during its journey from Norland. The blankets prevented Elizabeth
from examining its detail, but given its size and dimensions, the object could
be none other than Harry's antique looking glass. Three footmen, the same three
who had struggled with it the last time Elizabeth called, prepared to move it
once more. They looked for all the world as if they would be overjoyed to never
lay eyes on the massive thing again.

Wineglass
in one hand and pipe in the other, Mr Dashwood directed their efforts from the
landing above. "Simply stash it somewhere convenient for now--one of the
spare bedchambers, perhaps. Lord Phillip says he will come retrieve it on the morrow"

"Yes, sir." replied one of the men,
who appeared of the opinion that lifting the mirror up two flights of stairs
for a single day's residence did not constitute his definition of convenience!

Elizabeth
caught Mr. Dashwood's last statement with interest. Why was Lord Phillip taking
possession of the looking glass? Had he, like Albert Dashwood, been asked to
"keep it for a little while"?

"Mrs.
Darcy, you and your friend may join me in the drawing room."
Without waiting for Elizabeth and
Elinor, he turned round and entered that room himself.

The
ladies climbed the staircase before it became occupied by the looking glass.
Elizabeth had hoped to observe the mirror's relocation so as to determine the
exact chamber to which it was being consigned, but she would have to settle for
listening to the movers' weighted footfalls from the drawing room and making
her best guess.

As
they entered, Mr. Dashwood refilled his glass with amber liquid that smelled of
sulfur. He poured two more and held them toward the women.
"Care to join me in a glass of brimstone."

Elizabeth
could scarcely stomach the odor of it. The thought of swallowing the vile brew
made her nauseated. She declined, as did Elinor.

He
laughed. "Probably too strong for your delicate palates anyway." He
drained one of the glasses, then the other, and set them on the table beside
the empty bottle. He took his own glass in hand once more and came toward them.

Elinor
gaped at Mr Dashwood as he neared, causing Elizabeth to assess his person anew.
Weeks of heavy drinking, all-night gambling, and God knew what else had
corrupted his form into that of a man over twice his age. Grey touched his
hairline, and cheeks had developed into jowls. Wrinkles framed his blood-shot eyes,
and a slight tremor in his hand threatened the security of the glass he held.
For Elizabeth, who had witnessed his deterioration gradually, his appearance
was distressing enough, she could only imagine Elinor's shock at seeing it all
at once. Colonel Brandon, at more than fifty, appeared in better health than
her nephew. And the impression did not even take into account Harry's moral
corruption. She was reminded of Milton's Satan, whose outward appearance
declined in pace with his spiritual fall until the former angel Lucifer was as
ugly without as within.
This was no
epic poem; this was real life. Yet Harry, too, had made a
hell of heaven and a heaven of hell, pushing away the fiancee, friends and family
who loved him to rule over his own profane domain.

Mr
Dashwood assessed them both with a lascivious gaze. Mrs Darcy, your visit today
renders me all curiosity--particularly since Mr. Darcy does not accompany you
Tell me, does your husband know you are here?"

"Of
course' The lie came out smoothly.

"Truly?"
He smirked. "I would have guessed him ignorant on the subject of your
coming."

"Mr
Darcy knows me well."

"I'd
like to know you well."

Her
pulse quickened, like that of prey realizing a predator lurks. Mr Dashwood made
no move toward her, but she nevertheless retreated a step.

He
laughed, a scornful sound that went straight to her spine.
"Is it I who threatens you.
Mrs. Darcy? Or your own repressed desires?"

"Harry
Dashwood!" Elinor exclaimed. "I rejoice that my father cannot hear
your wicked address!"

"And who is he to
me?"

"You
may not have inherited your grandfathers noble character, but you do bear his
name. Perhaps you could cease dragging it through the sewers of London."

He
appraised her for a minute before finally saying, "Can I anticipate any
more aunts arriving to lecture me today, or shall you be the last?"

"You
should be ashamed of your behavior to Mrs Darcy."

He
mocked them both with a bow. "I beg your pardon. Mrs Darcy." He
gestured at his glass. "That which makes others drunk hath made me bold'."

She
acknowledged his apology with a curt nod, but every muscle remained tense She
wanted to get away from him.

"--'and
hath given me fire'. . which I would be most obliged if you would quench."

An
audible gasp escaped her She thought she'd previously borne witness to
objectionable behavior in him, but his conduct in her home had been nothing
compared to what he now displayed in his own. She could not even formulate a
reply sufficient to express her revulsion. Still nauseated, she now believed it
was not the smell of his brimstone concoction but Mr
Dashwood himself making her sick.

"Mrs.
Ferrars," she said, "if you do not object. I think I would be more
comfortable waiting in the hall whilst you visit with your nephew."

"I
understand," Elinor replied. "I shan't be long."

"Take
as much time as you need. I shall be quite all right "

A
sardonic smile contorted Mr Dashwood's lips "I hope it wasn't something I
said. Mrs Darcy?"

She
left the room, shut the door, and leaned against it. She'd hoped the nausea
would abate once she was outside Mr Dashwood's presence, but it did not. Her
heart, however, stopped pounding in her ears enough that she could think
clearly. Conscience pricked her for leaving Elinor alone with Harry, but she
thought Mrs. Ferrars would be fine. As Elinor was his aunt, Elizabeth doubted
she would suffer anything worse than incivility from Harry--certainly nothing
approaching the insult she herself had just endured. Besides, if Elinor's
mission were going to succeed at all, it was probably best attempted without a
third party present.

Her
withdrawal, meanwhile, presented an ideal opportunity to obtain a glimpse of
the mirror. While Mr. Dashwood's inappropriate ovenures in the drawing room had
diminished her motivation to try to help him, her own curiosity over whether he
indeed possessed the Mirror of Narcissus--combined with a lack of anyplace
better to go for the next few minutes--proved sufficient incentive to climb the
stairs.

She
found the looking glass in the bedchamber most proximate to the staircase, its
bearers evidently having determined it most convenient to their interests. She
shut the door behind her, in case any servants wandered past, and went about unveiling
the mirror.

The
process involved a good deal of exertion. Removing the coverings required her
to lift the heavy frame away from the wall and support it with one hand while
tugging the blankets with her other. Fortunately, the mirror had been
positioned so that when the wrap at last pooled on the floor, the glass faced
outward.

She
stepped round the front of the mirror. Keeping Professor Randolph's caution in
mind, she diverted her gaze from the glass and focused on the frame.
Exquisitely sculpted ancient athletes stood out in relief from a background of
intertwined laurel leaves. Each champion, whether gripping a javelin, launching
a discus, or racing on foot, was as flawlessly formed
as the last. Elizabeth's eye roamed from one to the next, awed by the display
of physical perfection, until her gaze reached the top of the frame.
There, at the mirror's crown, she
beheld the most ideal male visage she'd ever seen. It was the face of youthful
vigor, its noble cheekbones, strong jaw, and expressive eyes enhanced by Apollonian
curls. The beauty of it overwhelmed her. Surely this was the image of Narcissus.

She
looked upon the mythical youth she knew not how long, unable, like he himself
in legend, to tear her gaze away.
The mirror itself possessed a quality
of timelessness, creating the sense that it was not the product of any one age
but of eternity, and Elizabeth could well have spent eternity studying it had
not a sudden noise in the hall wrenched her attention toward the door. She held
her breath in anticipation of discovery, but released it when no one entered.
The sounds must have
come from a passing servant.

She
turned back to the mirror, but the interruption had distracted her. She forgot,
just for a moment. Professor Randolph's warning.

It
was a moment too long. She looked full into the glass.
'Twas not her own reflection it
returned. It was Harry Dashwood's.

Twenty Five

No time was to be lost in undeceiving her, to make her
acquainted with the real truth.

Sense and Sensibility,
Chapter37

Elizabeth
whirled around to confront Mr. Dashwood. She fought down panic at having been
caught prowling where she did not belong. How had he sneaked in without her
awareness?

He
hadn't.

She
was alone in the room. The door remained shut. Nothing had been
disturbed--except her ease of mind.

Had
the vision been only her own projection? She spun back around.

"Oh!"
She caught her breath.

Again,
Harry Dashwood gazed back at her.

Repeated
glances over her shoulder confirmed that he was not behind her. She stepped
back, struggling to make sense of what she saw.

He
stood slumped, dejected, watching her with a resigned air. Though his gaze
followed her, it was detached, as if he observed a stage actor delivering a
performance in which he did not take part. Despite the events of recent weeks,
somehow this sight of him caused an overpowering wave of sadness to engulf her.

Why
she should experience pity for a man who had behaved so reprehensibly toward
her sister, herself, and everyone else who cared about him, she could not
comprehend. Then she realized that this image of Mr Dashwood was not that of
the degenerate rake she'd left downstairs with Elinor, the man suffering
disfigurement wrought by his own dissipation. It was that of the earnest young
man who had wooed Kitty, the handsome gentleman who'd earned the respect and
admiration of them all. Erased were the effects of excess. In his mirror image,
Harry was restored to health, vigor, and--from outward appearance, at
least--himself.

How
was this possible? If Mr. Dashwood was not present in the room, whom--what--did
she behold?
"Mr--Mr Dashwood?"

His
eyes widened. He stood up straight and moved toward her, stopping when he
reached the glass barrier between them. He regarded her eagerly

Mrs. Darcy
, he mouthed.
Mrs. Darcy, can you hear me
?

His
expression implored her to say yes. But she could not. The only sound she could
hear was the pounding of her own heart.

She
shook her head. "Can you hear me?'
He nodded vigorously

She
had no idea what to say. Or to whom she would be saying it. Was this Harry
Dashwood? A devil in his guise? A figment of her imagination?

"Mr
Dashwood, what--" She gestured toward the empty chamber. "You are not
present in the room with me. How is it that I can see you in the mirror?"

He
started talking, but she could not hear a syllable.

"I
cannot comprehend you. More slowly, Mr. Dashwood."

He
nodded and took a deep breath, then tried again. Though he moved his lips with
deliberate slowness, she still could not make out his words.

She
shook her head helplessly "Mr. Dashwood, I'm afraid I cannot understand
you."

He
ran his hands through his hair, even more disheartened than she at their
inability to communicate. She wanted to know what was transpiring, and he
clearly wanted to tell her. She searched her mind for some means by which he
could make himself heard, but turned up naught.

She
glanced at the door. Could someone else help them? She doubted Elinor could,
and even so, how would she ever get Harry's aunt to this chamber without the
knowledge of--
She froze.

Of
whom? If Harry Dashwood was in the mirror, whom had she left downstairs? And if
Harry Dashwood was downstairs, who or what was in the mirror? She didn't know
which thought disturbed her more. Of only one thing was she certain: The Mirror
of Narcissus was indeed cursed. She needed to find Professor Randolph. If
anyone could explain this extraordinary situanon,
he could.